Blink (14 page)

He raises his eyebrows at me as though I’ve said something suggestive and then recites, “We got Leinies, Old Style, Bud Light, and Blue Moon.”

Since I only come into a bar once in a blue moon, I opt for the latter. He returns with it in a minute, a slice of orange floating refreshingly on top of the beer’s foam.

“You want to run a tab?” He sets the glass—an actual schooner—before me.

I don’t know that I’ll be staying that long. I’ll probably down this quick and run back to my little warren. “That’s okay.”

He tells me what I owe, and I throw a bill on the bar. “Keep the change.” I wait a moment, then add, “Handsome.”

He doesn’t respond. Perhaps my tip wasn’t big enough.

I nurse the beer and decide I like the taste. I stare up at the screen, watching Maude and Walter argue, and remember watching the show in my living room in Miami, lying on the floor with a box of powdered sugar doughnuts and a big glass of milk. Back then I was chubby, and TV offered me refuge from the teasing I used to endure about my weight. TV and food were my go-to comforts—which was ironic, since the latter was the source of the teasing.

A deep voice yanks me right out of my reverie and nostalgia. “You look like you’re old enough to remember when that show ran in prime time.”

I look up from my beer, vaguely offended, to see a man who puts me in mind of the singer Seal, with his ebony skin and large expressive eyes. Sexy. He grins to show me he’s only teasing, and the smile is melt-inducing. Besides, it’s okay to say what he did, because I realize immediately we’re about the same age. “I could say the same for you, mister.”

“Oh yeah, I used to watch that show as a kid. I’ll prove my point.” And he does, belting out the
Maude
theme song in a rich baritone. I laugh, and a couple of patrons applaud. He turns to them and gives a small bow.

He turns back to me. “If I wasn’t so black, you’d see me blushing.”

I snicker and shake my head. I do something I don’t expect, motion to the stool next to me. “Wanna sit?”

“Why, thank you. Don’t mind if I do. Just let me go grab my drink.” He hurries down to the opposite end of the bar and grabs what looks like a cosmo from his former place and hurries to settle beside me. He extends a hand. “Fremont St. George, at your service.”

I tell him my name and take the hand. It’s like being pulled into an embrace—encompassing, strong, and warmth-imparting. I already like this guy. There’s something about him that immediately puts me at ease.

He asks, “So what brings you into Schooners? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” He gives me that winning smile again, and my heart speeds up a bit. “I’d have noticed.”

Oh my God. Is he flirting with me
? I feel like a teenager. I also don’t know if I’m ready for such a thing. I answer, “My own two feet. That, and a desire
not
to go home, where it’s gotten way too comfortable for my own good.”

He cocks his head. “What’s that mean?”

I shrug and take another sip of my beer. “It means that I’ve made my little condo over in Ravenswood Manor a kind of hideout, a place I escape from the world.”

He chuckles. “Seems to me that’s what a home should be.”

“You’re right. You’re right. It only gets to be a problem when you use it as an excuse to hide yourself away.” I let out a little sigh. “Which is kind of what I’ve been doing, if that’s not TMI.”

“Not at all. And I get you.” He raises his eyebrow. “Been a while since you’ve been out? Don’t tell me. You’ve recently broken up with someone.”

“I guess you could say that. But it wasn’t my choice.”

“He dumped you?”

“He dumped life.” I look into Fremont’s eyes. “Cancer.”

He looks a bit taken aback and doesn’t say anything. I figure I’ve ruined our little connection by being Debbie Downer right off the bat. But as I said, I have little memory of how to behave in bars.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a while. I should be over him.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You don’t get over losing someone you love. It gets more bearable, trust me, but you don’t ever get over it.”

We say nothing for a while, staring into our drinks and taking the occasional sip. I fully expect him to say something like he needs to get back to his friend or wants to use the men’s room. Anything to get away from me….

But he smiles again and says, “I was relieved to see you in here.”

“Really? Why? You don’t even know me.”

“Because you remember Maude, back from when she was on Tuesday nights. At least I think it was Tuesdays.”

I snicker. It was. I lean close to Fremont. “Honey, I remember her when she was on
All in the Family
.”

He chuckles. “Me too.”

“So, you were relieved I was here because I’m old.”

“Sweetheart.” He touches my cheek, and it sends a shock of electricity through me. “You’re not old. To paraphrase the ageless Elaine Stritch, ‘you’re not old, you’re older. And we’re all getting older.’” He swivels his head to cast a gaze down the bar. “Even that little twink down at the end with the blond hair. He’d never even heard of
Maude
, although he did have some familiarity with
The Golden Girls
.” He pauses. “From YouTube! Yuck.”

“That’s a good way to look at it. Older, not old.”

“Besides, you’re a fine-looking man. I’m sure you were quite the hottie when you were in your twenties, but I’d lay odds you’re even prettier today.”

“Oh, you are a sweet talker, aren’t you? Are you trying to get into my pants?” I eye the twink at the end of the bar and wonder if Mr. St. George is making the rounds, using his retro TV line as an opener. I have to hand it to him; it’s a unique come-on.

“I’m just trying to make conversation,” he says.

Heat rises to my cheeks. Like Fremont, I’m grateful that I’m brown and I’m sure it doesn’t show. “Sorry,” I mutter. “As I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar. Back in the day, I’d probably have you pressed up against the bathroom door by now, your pants around your ankles.”

He looks shocked, and then he bursts into laughter. It’s rich, deep, and velvety. “Oh man, I remember those days. I used to go to the Loading Zone on Oak Street.” He laughs again. “I engaged in a lot of bad behavior there back in the 80s, before everything changed.”

I know what “everything” is, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to bring the mood back down. “So what other shows did you like back when you were a kid?”

He shakes his head, grinning, and I can tell he doesn’t even need to think about it. “Me? I loved
Dark Shadows
. I’d run home from school every day so I didn’t miss a minute. I had a scrapbook I made and posters on my bedroom wall of Barnabas and Quentin.”

I place a hand over my heart. “Quentin! Oh Lord, woof.”

“Woof is right. He was a werewolf.”

“A very, very hot one.” I think how I’d done the same thing, and a frisson of pleasure goes through me at the memory. Life, and pleasure, was so uncomplicated back then. Or at least I like to think so. “I loved it too. But it did give me nightmares sometimes. I used to dream Angelique was leaning over my bed.”

“Now, I bet that’s when you knew you were queer. Most little boys would have popped a boner at that.”

“Popped a boner? Seriously? I haven’t heard anyone use that term in ages.” I frown. “Haven’t seen anyone pop one in ages either.”

He pats my knee. “More’s the pity.”

I think how this could go somewhere, like straight to bed, if I let it. But I know I’m not ready for even the most casual hookup. It’s been too long and, absurd as I know it is, I wonder if it would feel like cheating.

I look down and see that I’ve drained my beer. Near the glass, my watch face looks up at me and tells me it’s after ten. I should be getting home. I turn to Fremont. “Hey, it was really nice chatting with you, but as an
older
person, I have to admit—it’s past my bedtime.”

He sticks out a lower lip, which, on him, is sexy. “Really? I was hoping we could talk more. I like you.”

“I like you too, Fremont.”

“Here’s a wild idea. You want to meet up for drinks, maybe dinner? Just to talk about vintage TV, of course.” He winks. “What do you say?” He’s already pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. He places a business card on the surface of the bar and then shoves it in front of me.

I pick it up and put it in my own wallet. “I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He casts his gaze downward.

I do remember that, in bars, that statement is often a brush-off. “No, I mean it. Just to prove my point, I’ll give you my number, so if I chicken out, you can call me.” My wallet is still in my hand, and I extract one of my Angels business cards and slide it toward him.

He takes it. “You busy this Thursday? I ask because there’s a place down near DePaul. It’s a little Spanish hole-in-the-wall, but Thursday is paella night, and they make a great one.”

I think about reiterating that I’ll call him, that I have to check my schedule, and then a voice inside admonishes me, telling me there isn’t a single viable reason I should say no. It’s only dinner, after all.

I smile. “Yeah, that sounds good. I love paella.”

“Eight? Meet there or you want me to pick you up?”

Oh boy, this sounds like a real date
. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Sounds good.” He leans in and gives me a quick kiss. He’s aiming for my lips, but at the last minute I turn my head, and it lands on my cheek.

I touch where his lips have been, feeling the damp and the heat, and smile. “Until then,” I say and turn to leave the bar, a little light-headed.

I don’t really think it’s from the alcohol.

I
CATCH
my reflection in the front doors of my condo building. The light’s hitting just so in the late afternoon so that the double doors morph into full-length mirrors. I pause for a minute, careful to make sure none of my neighbors are around to witness my vanity. The good I see: I’m still trim, thanks to my running regimen that’s been with me most of my adult life. My skin looks healthy and tan, even though that’s just my Italian heritage peeking through. My eyes are nice. The bad: the balding at the top of my head, the glasses that never seem to look quite right, making me appear owlish, the gray in my hair, and the little goatee on my chin, once a rich dark brown, now completely silver. I give myself a little smile and add my even white teeth to the plus column.

And then I turn away, knowing I’m nervous, scared, and more than a tad excited. While Chet, my guy from OkCupid, and I are just meeting for cocktails and it can’t properly be called a date, this is my first time out to meet a man socially in a long time. And a cute man! I hope he’s wearing the baseball cap. I hope he didn’t shave off the beard. I hope he’s nice.

I hope a lot of things as I pass through the wrought iron front gate and turn right to walk over to Clark Street on my way to the Morse Avenue ‘L’ stop. Here are just a few: that I’ll be able to think of enough to say, that I won’t sound like an idiot, that I won’t remind Chet of his dad, that I won’t seem effeminate. Even though I’m not, I grew up in an age where that was truly the stereotype, and for a long time I just had the idea in my head that all gay men were big sissies—
not that there’s anything wrong with that
. Some of the bravest, strongest guys I know have been the drag queens. It takes strength and courage to be exactly who you are.

I hope I’ll be able to convey such ideas with the same eloquence as they appear in my thoughts. Too often, the mind/mouth connection gets screwed up, which is why I like writing so much. I can kind of practice what I’m going to say first.

And I can edit.

Real life does not afford much of an opportunity for editing.

I realize my thoughts are the psychic equivalent of babbling, and I know why—I’m nervous, more than anything else. I become aware of the sweat on the back of my neck even though it’s a cool evening, probably no more than sixty-five degrees. My heart is beating a bit faster than usual. My mouth is dry.

See, I haven’t been out in so long because I sort of gave up on dating a few years ago, after my last live-in relationship imploded. He was a big party animal with a huge heart—and the huge didn’t stop at his heart, either! Tons of fun to be with, yet on a completely different level intellectually. After two years, it just seemed like he was a stranger, and it was over. Easy. We amicably went our separate ways.

It just seemed I’d never find anyone, and I’m not even talking anyone perfect, just someone compatible. I wondered if any such bird existed, rare and exotic—and extinct as the dodo.

I fear that Chet will be yet another page in my book of disappointments—those one-nighters, half-baked first dates, and online connections I’ve indulged myself with over the years—and that the excitement I feel right now pulsing through me will be nothing more than fool’s gold.

I worry about stupid stuff, like that the plaid shirt and khakis I’ve worn are too square and I’ll simply brand myself as an over-the-hill queen the minute I walk through the bar’s door. I miss the days when I could throw almost anything on and look good, when it was effortless. Of course, back then looking good involved acid-washed jeans, a tight T-shirt, and Reebok pumps. Good Lord!

I head south on Clark, past the little shops, restaurants, and Mexican street vendors selling corn on the cob and mangos, both spiced with chili powder. And I arrive in front of the ‘L’ stop just as a southbound train rumbles overhead. I glance down at my watch and see that I have a good forty-five minutes until I’m supposed to meet Chet. Maybe the extra time will allow me to down a couple of glassfuls of liquid courage before he arrives, and then I’ll be all loosey-goosey and charming. Yeah, isn’t that the self-perception, very mistaken, all drunks have?

I get up to the platform and find an empty seat on one of the benches. Morse Avenue is laid out before me in all its commercial glory, traffic busily going east and west. I sit facing west, and the sky at the horizon is tinged orange and pink, growing darker as it ascends—lavender, purple, and at last navy. I don’t hear the rumble of any approaching trains, so I pull out my phone and call Jules.