Blink (15 page)

She answers on the first ring.

“Guess what I’m doing?” I ask after she coos “Andy” as her way of saying hello. It’s the way she always takes my calls. I can’t remember what she said before the advent of caller ID. Did I even know her before caller ID?

She pauses for a moment, presumably to think, and responds, “Leaving the scene of a crime? Off-track betting? Getting extensions put in your hair? Oh wait, you don’t have any hair.”

“Bitch.”

“So what are you doing? Heading off to the tattoo parlor? The bathhouse?”

“My, you’re feisty tonight. Have we been drinking? And no to all of the above.”

She ignores me. “I’m bored tonight. What
are
you doing? And more importantly, can I come with?”

I imagine walking in with Jules on my arm. That would make a good impression. One of Chicago’s finest rushes west below me, its siren blaring. I wait for it to get out of range before I respond, “I’ve got a date.”

“With a man?” Jules gasps.

“No, with a Venus flytrap!” I snap and roll my eyes.

“You never date. Is this with your long-lost love? Did you track him down?”

Her question sends a sharp pang of sadness through me. “Nah. I did a little looking but came up with nothin’.” I decide now is not the time to tell Jules that Carlos has joined the ranks of the dearly departed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it’s okay. He probably wouldn’t be half the man my memory and imagination built him up to be. So it’s most likely for the best.” I glumly think how I’ll never know. I imagine Jules’s relief when I
do
tell her that Mr. Castillo is out of the picture for good.

“Still, I know you had your hopes up.”

I don’t say anything for a couple of seconds, thinking of Carlos and how, in a way, he’s responsible for the date or not-date I’m heading off to tonight, filled with equal parts optimism and dread. “You know, my little online search for him is what prompted me to check out OkCupid, which led me to tonight’s upcoming escapade.” I try to inject a bit of excitement into my voice.

“What’s OkCupid?”

“It’s a dating site.”

“Oh no! The guy could be a serial killer.” Jules has never been fond of online dating, in case you didn’t notice. She hasn’t yet gotten the memo that it’s what passes for courtship in the twenty-first century.

“If he looks like Ted Bundy, I’m okay with that. You know I like ’em dark and handsome.”

“You’re sick.”

I glance to my north and spy a train approaching. I can feel it in my feet as well as hear its rumble. “One of my many charms. I need to get going. ‘L’s coming.”

Jules shouts into the phone, “Call me when you get home! I want to know you’re still alive.”

“Full report later.” I press the screen to disconnect the call, the train’s thunder drowning out anything Jules might have said.

The doors yawn open before me. The train idles in a way that seems impatient.

I get on, find a seat, and think of my future waiting for me somewhere out there. I also think of
Cabaret
and the song “Maybe This Time.”
Yeah, look at how things worked out for Sally Bowles
.

I stare out the window as the train jerks out of the station, looking at the backs of apartment buildings. Lights have come on, warm yellow, in all the windows as dusk encroaches. I imagine the lives inside—people eating dinner, some settling down in front of the TV, others fighting, making love, laughing, and crying. Only after a few minutes does it occur to me that I think of no one like myself. No one alone. Somehow my worldview puts people in some kind of family unit, whether blood ties them together or not.

I see a man, his elbows on the windowsill, head sticking out of his window as the train passes by. He’s Hispanic, probably about my age, wearing the kind of sleeveless T-shirt politically incorrectly called a wifebeater. I don’t get much more than a glimpse, but I imagine he looks like Carlos.

Will this never end?

The man is dead. You need to let it go. The name Carlos should not be part of your mental vocabulary any longer, unless you meet a subsequent Carlos. Move on
.

I close my eyes for a moment, hoping tonight life will toss me a bone. Fate will conspire to give me a little happiness for a change. Chet will be charming. He’ll make me laugh. He’ll be sexy, and we’ll have an instant rapport. There will be no first-meeting awkwardness, a happenstance we’ll both remark on because it’s so unusual. We’ll sit at one of the high tables along the wall, our heads close together, and we’ll talk and talk and talk. Neither of us will realize that hours have passed.

And when the time comes for us to say our good-byes, we will debate whether we should go home together. There’s a lot of physical chemistry between us. Neither can deny it. Just the touch of his knee pressed against mine will make me hard.

And we’ll agree to wait. He’ll say something corny like “It’s always better when there’s time to anticipate. Our first time will be all the sweeter because we waited for it.” And I’ll agree, staring soulfully into his warm brown eyes.

And I imagine that first time. Romantic, at his place. He’ll light dozens of candles around the bedroom and, magically, thoughts of lube and rubbers won’t even arise. There will be no trouble undressing. We’ll fall into one another’s arms, knowing instinctively what the other likes and doesn’t like.

We’ll come together.

I snort softly at my flight of fancy.

I’ve been so engrossed in my fantasy of my perfect future that I don’t even notice the train stopping at a couple more stations. We’re heading toward Belmont, where I get off. Potent Potables is a couple of blocks west of the ‘L’ stop and then a few blocks north. It’s a nice night to walk.

My fantasy has calmed me, in its own way. I know in my cynical yet rational heart that the best-case scenario for Chet is that we won’t be too awkward around each other. We’re gay men, so the expectation will be that, even if there’s just the tiniest bit of chemistry, we’ll head off to his or my bed. It’s not like we’re virgins anymore! I long ago lost count of the number of men I’ve been with, and I’m not nearly as bad as many of my gay brethren, especially the ones with the Grindr app on their phones.

The sex may or may not be good, but later, when one of us is leaving, and it will most assuredly not be in the morning—one of us will claim having to get up early; see, I know how this song goes—we’ll both promise to call soon.

If that promise is not followed up, right then and there, with an exhortation to name a specific time or place, then I know neither of us will call the other.

I shake my head. I’m becoming a curmudgeon, dour. Then I excuse myself because I’ve had enough real world experience to know the fairy—you should pardon the pun—tale doesn’t exist.

Still, maybe this time I’ll be lucky.

The train pulls into Belmont, and I stand, looking around myself for any belongings from habit, even though I didn’t bring anything along with me. I glance over at the platform, and it’s got a fairly good crowd, but not nearly as many as I’m sure there were a few hours ago, at rush hour.

The mechanical voice bursts to static-filled life, telling me which side the doors will open on, and I move over toward them. People on the platform are already milling around, impatient to get on the southbound train. There’s a punk-looking girl, with fuchsia hair that sticks up in spikes, black elbow gloves, and a tattered dress that looks like something Betty Draper would have worn in 1958; a harried-looking guy in a suit and briefcase on his way home from a late day at the office; a couple of other people, nondescript. I glance down at the floor, waiting for the train to come to a full stop and the doors to open.

He comes in after the punk girl. I see him immediately. Our eyes meet.

I feel something akin to a jolt of electricity pass through me. I get weak in the knees and grab the bar for support. My breath is snatched away.

“C’mon, man, you gettin’ off the train or what?” I turn and see an old man wearing a dirty windbreaker, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, glaring.

I move forward and out of his way but turn to look again. It can’t be.

But it is. One constant I know is that when we recognize someone and there’s absolutely no doubt, our recognition is right. And even though the years have made their relentless march across our faces and bodies, I know in an instant it’s him.

Carlos
.

He looks back at me quizzically. Those deep brown eyes! They’re still the same, even though his hair is cut shorter, the moustache is gone, and he’s put on a few pounds. He’s still handsome, alarmingly so.

I’m sure I’m standing there on the platform with my mouth hanging open, staring.

He grins at me and winks. I laugh. Just as I’m reaching my hand up, the name Carlos on my lips, the doors close, and the train lurches out of the station.

Carlos
. Alive.

I want to dash down the platform, like the guy in some 1940s romantic movie, chasing after the train. I wish there was a way I could hail a cab and shout “Follow that train!” The absurdity of it causes a hysterical giggle to erupt out of me.

The platform is quickly almost deserted, and I’m so stunned I fear I may literally fall down the stairs leading to street level if I attempt them in my current state.

I plop down on a bench and stare after the departing train, watching as it grows smaller in the distance on its journey to Fullerton Avenue. Afterward, it will plunge underground into the subway.

It was him. Even though I know he’s supposed to be dead, I know it with a certainty as sure as I know I am me. It was Carlos, on the ‘L’ once more. I lean forward and peer at the lights of the train, now stopped at the next station south, wishing there was a way I could teleport myself there.

How will I ever find him? Should I go looking? I’ve searched and searched for him. I thought I’d found him, but that Carlos could not have been
my
Carlos. Some other Carlos died in a car accident, leaving his partner, Evan, alone. It’s sad, but the fact that I now know Carlos is alive gives me hope.

For what?
the pessimist in me asks.
Chicago is a city of millions. The odds of you finding him are infinitesimal. And maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe this is nothing more than tilting at windmills. You have a real man to meet.
I glance down at my watch and see that if I don’t get moving, I’ll be late for Chet. I draw in a deep breath and wonder if I shouldn’t just text him, say I’m sick or something. How can I go to the bar and act normal when I’ve just run into Carlos after thirty years?

Couldn’t this happenstance be considered fate? I wonder if this is really the first time we’ve been in the same place at the same time during the last three decades. If so, then maybe there is something fateful about our meeting tonight. But why make the meeting so doomed to failure?
And if we have crossed paths over the years without realizing
, my sensible inner voice says,
then this is nothing more than coincidence
. Move along. There’s nothing to see here.

I stand and look south. The train that carried Carlos is gone, now deep in a tunnel beneath the city. I wonder where he was off to and what he was doing. What’s his life like now?

Did he recognize me?

He did smile. He even winked!

I hang my head, letting my very real disappointment settle over me like a heavy cloak. I have to let it go. I won’t find him. I can’t. It’s impossible. The odds are one in a million. Actually, closer to three million.

I blow out a heavy breath of discontent and disappointment and then square my shoulders. I have a man to meet, a good-looking man who seemed very nice in my limited contact with him. I am not the kind of person to stand someone up—that’s something I’ve always considered one of the worst etiquette mistakes one could ever make. Having been on the receiving end of such behavior a couple of times over the years, I know how awful it feels.

I won’t do that to Chet.

I pick up my pace and head for the stairs. I won’t stand Chet up, but I wonder how I’ll be able to make intelligent conversation with him, given the fact that I can’t stop my mind from reeling.

Carlos
.

I’
M
TEN
minutes late when I get to Sevilla, the Spanish restaurant where I agreed to meet Fremont St. George. The little place, brightly lit, is just beneath the ‘L’ tracks at Fullerton. It’s simple, with Granny Smith apple green walls and dark cherry tables, terrazzo tile on the floor, and a small bar to the right of the door. My train rumbles overhead, and I spy Fremont. He’s already seated at a table in the back corner. He doesn’t see me, and I think how good he looks in a form-fitting clingy orange short-sleeved V-neck that not only contrasts gorgeously with his skin but also shows off his bulging biceps and broad chest. If he’s not on the menu, I’m not sure what I’ll be having.

I watch him sip at a glass of red wine and think that tonight seems to be my lucky night for men. I just saw an adorable guy getting off the train at Belmont. If I can allow myself a minute of vanity here, I would say the guy was simply staring at me. I mean
gawking
, as in “shut your mouth, honey, before I put something in it.” And he was so cute—fit, lean, with the most amazing green eyes that bored right into my own like lasers.

I shake my head. It’s nice to still get looks like that when you’ve crossed over into fifty-plus territory. The guy seemed vaguely familiar too, but this old brain is too far gone to place him. We probably crossed paths at Angels or something—he was a volunteer or a donor or maybe even a client. These days, having HIV doesn’t always show on a man’s face the way it did once upon a time.

I shrug. Fremont looks up and spots me. He gives me a welcoming smile and waves. I head in, glad we’re getting together.

I wasn’t so thrilled on the way over. I’d even considered backing out. The lure of my condo, chock-full of its memories and comforts, pulled at me like some kind of gravitational force. That, combined with nervousness at being out on one of the very, very few dates I’ve had since Harry passed away, had me eyeing the exit doors on the train. In fact, by the time the train stopped at Belmont, I had made up my mind. I would go home.