by Rick R. Reed
“Yeah,” he says. “There’s no pretense there.”
Really? Men standing around in biker gear trying to look butch? Okay….
“What I mean is,” Chet continues, “they don’t have game shows on the TVs, for Christ’s sake. Or run show tune videos like that joint down the street. They’re just about what we’re all here for.”
Although I know what he means by “what we’re all here for,” I ask Chet anyway. “What’s that?”
“Come on, Andy!” He rubs a hand over my chest and tweaks a nipple. I pull back. I can’t keep the scowl off my face. Undeterred, he leans forward once more to whisper throatily, “Fuckin’ and suckin’.”
I grab his hand, still on my chest, and return it to him, placing it carefully on his leg and nowhere near his crotch.
“I mean, why do gay men come out to the bars? To meet fuck buddies, right? We might as well be honest about it. I know I am. I like the leather bars because, even if I don’t meet a guy to bring home, I can always wander into the backroom and get a little somethin’-somethin’.” He laughs. “You know what I mean?”
I’ve had enough. I think I know this is going to go nowhere. Same old story. I feel a little sad. “No, I really don’t, Chet. When I go out, and it’s not that often anymore, it’s to meet up with friends, laugh, talk, have a few drinks.”
“And then go off to your bedroom and do the nasty.”
I sigh. I’m impatient now. “Well, I’d be lying if I said that never happened, but it’s usually more of a thing about circumstances turning a certain way, rather than something planned.”
“I was kind of planning on you and me getting together tonight.” He jerks his head toward the door behind him. “I live just around the corner. On Cornelia?” He says, in a softer voice, “Got the sling all set up.”
I laugh. “We have an optimist here!”
“What? You agreed to meet up with me.”
“And that means I agreed to have sex with you?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what guys go online looking for, right? I mean, what else is there?”
I wanted to answer—romance, companionship, friendship, maybe, just maybe, finding true love. But I have a feeling that our Chet here is too far gone for any of those responses to resonate. Concepts like love and friendship would be lost on him. I don’t think his thought processes go any higher than above the belly button. It’s kind of sad, really. Like his clothes, I suspect Chet is stuck in a kind of faux masculine adolescence. At the end of the night, when he’s alone and covered with sticky lube and his latest conquest is but a memory, does he ever hunger for more?
“For some, I guess, not much.” Finally I allow myself to touch him, putting a hand on his shoulder. As much as I’m a big old introvert and hate confrontation of even the mildest sort, it’s not that hard to be honest, because I know at the end of what I have to say, I’ll be free. “Listen, Chet, I think you and I are after different things.” I gulp down what remains in my glass and set it back on the bar. “I’m gonna take off. Thanks for coming out to meet me.”
He sneers. “What are you after? True love?”
I get down from the barstool and stand, facing him. “Yup,” I say and turn to walk out the door.
“Good luck with that!” he calls out behind me. “You’re gonna need it.” He pauses. “At your age.”
He laughs, and my consolation is that no one laughs with him. I slip outside into the exhaust-choked air, feeling like I can breathe again.
WHEN I get home, I’m tired, even though it’s still early. There’s just been too much disappointment shoved down my throat recently, and it’s worn me out.
I consider my options. Maybe turn on the TV? Go through my growing list of DVR’d options and winnow it down a bit? The advantage is I could lose myself in oblivion for at least a couple of hours or fall asleep on the couch. I’d get up and go to bed when my snoring woke me. It wouldn’t be the first time! The thought depresses. I can always move into the office and bring up OkCupid and try my luck again—maybe be a little more proactive this time, seek out a man whose description and picture not only seem honest but jibe with what I actually want.
Nah, not right now. The thought of doing that is even more depressing.
On a brighter note, I could take a walk down to the lakefront. It’s a nice night out, and the breezes, for the first time this spring, are actually warm. I picture the beach at the east end of Lunt, its sprawling sandy mass bordered by trees, the breakwater you can walk out on and catch a lovely view of the nighttime skyline. Yeah, I think, standing, that’s the way to go. It’ll both calm and relax me, and it’s less isolating than sitting here alone, my face illuminated by the flickering light of the television screen.
Ezra follows me to the door, meowing. I look down at him. “You know you can’t come with me,” I say, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. I stand back up and tell him, “You think you want to go out there, but thirty seconds with the traffic and the trains and the voices and you’ll be scared out of your wits.” As though he understands, he stalks away, tail up, and hops up to occupy the spot I just sat in on the couch. It’s warm. He settles in, and before I even close the door, I can tell his eyes are about to close.
Outside, Rogers Park is alive, hopped up, especially along Clark, where bright lights from restaurants, bars, and stores staying open late have a steady stream of customers entering and exiting. There’s a street vendor at the corner, selling churros, corn on the cob, and mangos with chili powder and lime juice. Groups of teenagers, more like packs, wander up and down the street. Traffic is heavy. A big black girl in a white midriff top screams to her friend, “Oh, she think she so hot. But did you see that chipped toenail polish? She ain’t all that!” Her friends scream with laughter.
I’m relieved to get away from the hustle and bustle of the commercial avenue. Just another block or so east and it’s much quieter, the street lined with trees whispering in the wind and two- and three-flat apartment buildings. A man walks by me with a Boston terrier on a red leash.
As I near the lakefront, I can first smell the fishy yet pleasant aroma of the water and then, almost simultaneously, hear the rush of the surf as it pounds relentlessly at the beach. The soft lap of the water is immediately calming, putting all thoughts of Chet and Carlos and men in general out of my head.
I find a bench and sit down in the shadows afforded by a tree. I think how it will be great just to sit here and watch the occasional biker, runner, or walker go by and simply listen to the surf.
Clear my head. Not think.
But that’s not to be. I hear the ringtone of my iPhone in the pocket of my jeans, and I grope for it. Technology these days, I think for the thousandth time, has made us its slaves. Why can’t I just let the damn thing go to voice mail? Once that tone sounds, it’s like I’m prodded with something electric to respond.
Once I see the face on my screen, though, I’m glad I got the phone out of my pocket in time. It’s Tate. His smiling, handsome, and dark-bearded face looks up at me from the screen, and just the sight of my boy warms my heart like a balm on the soul. More than the calming lakefront, seeing my son’s face is enough to wipe away the sadness and make me realize that, in spite of it all, I do have someone in my life who loves me.
And maybe that’s all I need.
I press the screen to answer. “Hey, Tate, how are you?”
“Good, Dad. What are you up to?”
“Just sitting down here at the beach at the end of the street, taking in the night air and relaxing.”
“That sounds perfect. I envy you. I’m hyped up on coffee, trying to pull an all-nighter so I can get my final paper done for Russian lit.”
We talk for a while about the passion I helped instill in him for Russian writers like Bulgakov, Pasternak, and Nabokov. Tate is working toward a degree in English literature and hopes to be a professor one day. For a while he had writing aspirations like his dad, but I’m glad he’s taken a road that’s maybe j
ust a little less fraught with heartache, rejection, and the odds being against you.
“So what tears you away from the Russian masters? Just need a study break?”
“Actually, I was thinking about you, wondering what you’re doing this weekend. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”
I agree. It’s been at least a month. The last time we got together was when I had him and his boyfriend-of-the-moment over for dinner—ahi tuna on a bed of couscous with herbs and fresh vegetables. I think the aroma of the onions lingered longer than Tate’s boyfriend did. I can’t for the life of me even remember the young man’s name, let alone what he looked like. But Tate’s young and—God bless him—not looking to find anyone “special” at this point in his life, a viewpoint I wholeheartedly support.
“Would you believe your dad has no plans? No weekend work, Lord knows no dates, and Jules is out of town this weekend, going up to Lake Geneva to her folks’ place.”
“Good! Then you can come with me to a party.”
“Oh, Tate, wait a minute. As much as I’d love to see you, and I would, a party? Really? I think I’m a little long in the tooth for a college party. My skinny jeans are at the cleaners.” I chuckle.
Tate doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Jump to conclusions much?”
“What?”
“I never said this was a college party. You should know better.” He laughs. “How pathetic would I look, showing up with dear old Dad to a college bash?”
“You’ve got a point. But I don’t know. Why don’t you just come over for dinner before your party? I’ll make that oven-fried chicken you like.”
“I’ll take you up on that. And then, after dinner, we’ll go to the party. It’s not far from your place. We can walk. In fact, if you’re at the beach right now, you can probably see my friend’s dad’s building, where it’s going to be. You’ve heard me mention Abra, my friend?”
“The one who also has the curse of a homosexual father?”
“That’s the one! We compare horror stories. Anyway, it’s Abra’s birthday, and her dad’s throwing a get-together for her. I thought it might be nice for you to come along.”
“And meet him? Is this a fix up?”
“There you go again, jumping to conclusions.” He sighs. “You know, it might just be I want your company. Contrary to what you might think, you make me laugh. With you, not at you.” He pauses. “Much. So say you’ll go.”
“Okay, since it’s in the ’hood, I can duck out if I’m feeling shy.”
“Deal. But I hope you’ll have a good time. Abra’s father’s a hoot.”
“Are you sure you’re not trying to fix me up?” I ask, suspicious.
“Dad, the last thing I want to do is fix you up. The very idea of you hooking up with someone is something I choose not to think about.”
I feel the very same way. Being a gay father and son does not mean we share our sexual escapades—as if I had any!—but we do share the very normal aversion to picturing either parents or their kids engaging in anything below the waist.
“All right. Come by around six? You can help me pick out what to wear to this shindig.”
“Dad? No one says shindig anymore.”
We hang up. The thing that touches my heart is that every single time we talk on the phone, Tate never fails to tell me he loves me.
I get up from the bench and realize, with a little shock, that I’m happy.
CHAPTER 17: CARLOS
I CHECK the address one more time and peer through the gates at the courtyard building at the east end of this street in Rogers Park. The building fronts Lake Michigan, and I can see a little of its wide blue expanse beyond the building. A chill wind, drawn across the water, makes me shiver. I wonder if Fremont’s building has a private beach. The building is old, white brick, with a fountain in the center of the courtyard.
I glance down at my watch and wonder if I should maybe go get a coffee from the café I saw on the corner when I was making my way here from the ‘L’ stop. I’m way too early. I’ve always had the curse of punctuality. My mother instilled it in me. She’d always tell me, “If you’re on time, chiquito, you’re late. Always be early.”
Still, it’s almost an hour before the party is set to start. Fremont might not be ready for guests yet. I grin, imagining him in his bathroom, shaving his head, a white towel around his waist. The white of the shaving cream and the towel make a brilliant—and stunning—contrast with his dark skin.
I realize I’m very much looking forward to seeing him again.
What the hell? I shrug and press the intercom button with the name “St. George” next to it. If I’m too early, I’ll tell him I can come back or, better yet, I can help. I can cut up crudités like nobody’s business.
Besides, my impatience to see Fremont again is pulling at me like some kind of tidal force.
Fremont answers immediately, his velvety voice sounding good even through the intercom’s tinny speaker. “Carlos! Come on up.”
I wonder how he knows it’s me, and then I look up and spy the camera mounted above the gates. He’s probably watching me at this very moment on some flat screen mounted on the wall. I hope I look okay. The older I get, the less I care about appearance and the more I care about comfort. Tonight it’s just a white button-down and jeans and the scuffed cowboy boots I’ve had forever. The leather in them is so worn now they’re almost as comfortable as slippers.
The buzzer sounds, and I hear a click. I push through the gate with my shoulder because I’m carrying a hydrangea plant. Its blooms are a lovely shade of pale green, and I hope Fremont will be pleased. I always like to bring people something alive as opposed to cut flowers, which last for such a short time.
I locate which of the six entrance doors is his and go inside. The lobby is hushed and really quite palatial, with marble floors, a simple yet elegant chandelier, and tall narrow windows looking onto the lake. The sky is a mix of violet and dusty rose above the water.
I head to my left and up the plushly carpeted staircase to unit 302, which I was smart enough to take note of at the gate.
When I get to the third floor, I hear a door squeak open, and Fremont steps out into the hall to greet me. He’s not wearing a towel but looks stunning anyway in a pair of crisp khakis and a white linen shirt. He’s barefoot, and his smile is beaming.
It’s nice to be on the receiving end of someone being glad to see you. I can’t remember the last time I saw such a welcoming smile.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Fremont’s voice booms down the hallway. “Look at you, all butch in your cowboy boots. Hey, pardner!”
I laugh and am truly at a loss for words. How does one respond to a greeting like that? I hand him the plant.
“Hydrangeas? My favorite! How did you know?”
“I can read minds. Didn’t I tell you that?”
Fremont pulls me into a hug and whispers, “Then I’m surprised you’re not blushing at the filth, absolute filth, that’s running through my head at just the sight of you.” He moves his head away to give me a deep and hungry kiss.
We’re interrupted by a feminine voice. “Daddy?”
We break apart to see a young woman I assume is Fremont’s daughter. Is it she the birthday party is for? Whatever. I feel ashamed to have been caught this way with her dad. What a way to make an entrance!
Fremont, though, seems unfazed. He pulls me inside the condo and closes the door behind us. “This is Abra. Abra, meet Carlos Castillo.”
Abra smiles, and I think She’s beautiful. Long, wavy black hair, amber eyes, and a smile that even makes an old homo like myself nearly melt. She’s runway worthy, dressed in a simple fuchsia sheath and cream pumps. “I’m very happy to meet you, Mr. Castillo,” she says, extending her hand. “I’ll just shake your hand for now. I’m not as effusive of a greeter as my dad.” She winks at me as we shake.
“What?” Fremont feigns innocence, and not very well.
Abra rolls her e
yes. “You and all your men, Daddy.” She looks to me. “He’s shameless! You’ve been warned.” She walks away, over to the kitchen area, where I spot trays of hors d’oeuvres laid out.
I look around. “Wow. You’ve got a beautiful place here.”
“Finally! It’s been what seems like decades of renovation, but it’s at last where I want it to be. Come on. I’ll show you around before everyone gets here.”
The place looks like something that could have sprung to life out of the pages of Architectural Digest. It’s sleek, modern, elegant, but softened by original-building touches like crown moldings, high ceilings, and those narrow, tall windows that now look out on a dark expanse, but which I know must have astonishing views of the lakefront during the day. The floors are hardwood, glossy, and stained black. Most of the furniture is white, and the whole thing is very open, like a loft. The entire south-facing wall is exposed brick.
“I tore down a lot of walls and plaster to get the place the way I wanted,” Fremont explains.
“It looks amazing.” I really can’t imagine, though, living here. I think of my own little condo in Ravenswood Manor that has not been renovated. It’s comfy and warm is what I like to believe; others may say shabby and run-down.
But it’s home.
Here, I’d be afraid to set down a glass for fear of leaving a mark.
Once he’s showed me the place—the four bedrooms, three baths, and the terrace off the kitchen that faces south and city lights—Fremont says, “We should have some music. What do you like, Carlos?”
“Hey, isn’t it Abra’s birthday? Why don’t you let her choose?” We’re now in the kitchen, and Abra is putting the finishing touches on a tray of canapés—what appears to be melon wrapped in paper-thin slices of Sorrento ham. I wonder if we’ll be listening to Pink or maybe Alicia Keys. Who do the kids listen to today, anyway?
Abra gives me a smile that, I think, thanks me for thinking of her. “I’ll put something on.” She grabs her iPhone and hoists it up. “Daddy got it all set up for me. Even with Pandora. Let’s see.” I watch as she scrolls on the screen. “Perfect.” She docks the phone, and in minutes the strains of a lovely sonata ring out through the small and surprisingly powerful speaker.