The Bottle Ghosts (12 page)

Nice gesture
, I thought. I just nodded.

“No one has ever treated me better than Dick. I was hustling and he took me off the streets and…and I
do
want to stop drinking, but he just doesn't know how hard it is.”

Oaks looked at me.

“And do you feel the same, Dick?”

“Of course! But this drinking thing is just…” I left the sentence unfinished and we all sat in silence for a few moments.

“Well,” Oaks said, “let me tell you from the offset that there is no cure for alcoholism. Jonathan probably knows this already. This group can't make your problems go away. But what it can do is to make each of you understand where the other is coming from, to realize that you're certainly not alone, and to help you work together toward Jonathan's sobriety. And by talking about what bothers you in a group setting, and hearing what the others have to say, you might get a different perspective on how to better deal with your problems. Is that what you'd like to do?”

We both nodded.

“Yes!” Jonathan said. “I'll do anything!”

“Except stop drinking,” I muttered.

Oaks looked at me, expressionless. “That's the kind of issues we deal with in the group,” he said calmly; “learning what
not
to say as well as what
to
say.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. If you would like to join the group, we'd be happy to have you. It's a pretty casual bunch, but we do have a few unwritten guidelines you'll be expected to follow. First, group counseling sessions fall under the laws of confidentiality: what's said there stays there. We touch on some pretty personal and private issues, so we try to protect individual privacy as much as we can. Since this is pretty hard to guarantee, we don't use last names, and we prefer that the group's members don't socialize outside of the meetings—that also prevents any risk of factions developing within the group. Things get a little heated every now and then, but we don't allow personal attacks. It's the issues we address, not individuals. My job is to stay as much on the sidelines as I can, and interfere in the meeting as little as possible; I'm not there to play Moses. But if I step in and say a subject's gone far enough, that's it. It's dropped. Agreed?”

We nodded in unison, and Oaks, apparently satisfied, echoed our nod.

“Good. We meet from seven to nine fifteen every Thursday night, Room 119 in this building.”

He got up from his chair and we followed suit. We shook hands as he said: “If you could, try to come a little early next Thursday. The receptionist will have some papers for you to fill out. We'll see you then.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan and I chorused as we turned to head for the door.

As we were leaving the building, we passed and exchanged Hi's with two guys—obviously a couple—coming in. I wondered if they might be part of Oaks' group. Well, we'd see the following Thursday.

*

Kind of an odd feeling, riding up the Montero's elevator to Chris and Max's room. I was standing there with my new partner, about ready to see my ex-partner and
his
“new”—though they'd been together quite a while now—partner. While time and physical distance had sort of put things on a back burner, Chris and I had never stopped loving one another, I knew. I wasn't quite sure what sort of games this reunion might play with my head—not to mention my crotch. Well, I could handle it, and I would. I could tell Jonathan was just a bit nervous, too: he'd been very curious about Chris and my relationship and I suspect he might worry about not “measuring up” in some way.

We got off the elevator, found Room 2218, and knocked.

*

The reunion was great! Chris had put on a little weight, but otherwise looked exactly as I remembered him. And a large part of me was very glad Jonathan was with me: I suspect my reactions might have been quite different had I been seeing Chris again while I was single. Max, with whom I'd talked many times on the phone, was something of a surprise in that I'd never really gotten a mental picture of him, for some reason. In person he was about my build and height, just a little older, I'd guess, and I guess a pretty good looking guy. Not my type, but I could see where Chris might find him attractive. Jonathan was favorably impressed with both of them, I could tell, and kept looking back and forth between Max and me.

We called for reservations at Rasputin's, which used to be one of Chris' and my favorite restaurants. Since Chris, Jonathan, and I had to get up early on Friday, we didn't have as much time as we'd have liked, but we managed to do a lot of catching up. Both Chris and I tried hard not to monopolize the conversation, but fortunately Max and Jonathan seem to find a lot to talk about, which made it easier.

Max asked Jonathan to go to an A.A. meeting with him on Friday night, and they arranged to go to an early meeting at the M.C.C., then we'd have dinner and do a little bar hopping. Max had been sober since before he'd met Chris but, like Jonathan, never fooled himself into thinking that just one or two drinks would be okay, and attended A.A. regularly in New York. That would give Chris and me a couple of hours by ourselves, and we all seemed to feel comfortable with that idea. I was pretty relieved to find that while I did indeed still love Chris, my crotch kept fairly well out of it. I wasn't about to risk my current relationship over it, and I could tell he felt the same.

*

We dropped Chris and Max off at the Montero at around 10:30, with the agreement that we'd pick them up around 6:00 the next night so Jonathan and Max could make the 6:30 meeting at the M.C.C.

We exchanged waves as Chris and Max walked into the hotel, and headed home.

“I like them,” Jonathan volunteered.

I grinned. “Me, too.”

“I didn't know you had a twin brother, though.”

“Excuse me? I don't have a twin brother.”

He reached over and punched my shoulder lightly, grinning. “Yes, you do! Max! You two could be twins. Didn't you catch that right away?”

No, as a matter of fact, I
hadn't
caught that right away, and I didn't catch it now.

“We don't look anything at all alike. And he's a lot better looking.”

“Uh huh. Same height, same build, same hair color, same colored eyes. Wonder how I could ever have thought that?” The grin turned devilish. “I'll bet you've got other…similarities…too. I'll have to ask Chris.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

“I will!” he said, and I reached my free hand out and grabbed him lightly by the back of his neck, pretending to choke him.

“No. You won't.”

He gave a melodramatic
GA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-K!
and I released my hold.

We were silent a moment and then, apparently thinking I'd been distracted, I saw him look at me out of the corner of his eye, head down, and heard him say, softly: “Yeah, I will.”

*

Friday, too, passed so quickly it was hard to say where it had gone. Jonathan asked to get off work about an hour early, and again I picked him up, which gave us a little more time to get ready and even a chance to work in a little of what Jonathan called “cuddle time.”

While Jonathan and Max were at the A.A. meeting, Chris and I headed over to Ramón's to see Bob Allen. I'd called Bob during the day to make sure he'd be there. Bob and his former lover, Ramón, for whom the bar was named, had lived in the same building as Chris and I, and we'd become good friends. Bob had been looking forward to Chris' visit almost as much as I.

On the way over—in fact, all the time Chris and I were alone together—we didn't discuss either Max or Jonathan. There was really no reason to. We'd always had the ability to almost read one another's mind, and each of us knew the other approved of our choice and were happy for one another. Instead, I think we both just took advantage of our time together to play the time-warp game: to pretend it was a different time and a different world that was very special to both of us.

I don't know…there's something really…what word to use?…
special
again? (weak, but it'll do)…about suddenly stepping back in time. To be sitting with Chris, chatting with Bob, was as though the days, weeks, months, and yes, years between the last time we'd done this and now simply did not exist. A very odd sensation, and an almost awesome blend of warmth and sadness.

Bob and I had talked earlier about perhaps the six of us going to the grand opening of Steamroller Junction Saturday night to see the show, headlining T/T, who was one of Chris', Bob's, and my favorite drag queens. Talk about “old home week!” Chris was sure Max would enjoy it, so Bob said he'd call to see if we needed reservations.

*

We arrived at the M.C.C. just as the A.A. meeting ended and the group was beginning to exit. Jonathan and Max were among the last to come out. Chris got out of the car to join Max in the back seat and to make room for Jonathan in front.

“Odd,” Max said as the door closed. “Even after all these years of being sober, I really always feel better when I go to a meeting.”

“Me, too,” Jonathan said. “It's been a long time, but maybe I should start going back more often.”

He turned to me.

“Remember those two guys who were going in to Mr. Oaks' building when we were coming out? The ones we said ‘Hi' to?”

“Yeah?”

“One of them was at the meeting tonight. Small world, huh?”

*

After a really nice, quiet dinner at Napoleon, we stopped by Venture so I could introduce Chris and Max to Bob's partner, Mario, who was bartending. We'd all be getting together the next night anyway, but Venture always had a friendly crowd and was a nice place to take out-of-town guests. It had opened shortly after Chris had moved to New York, so it was new to both him and, of course, Max. When I introduced them, Mario looked at Max, then at me and said: “You two related?” which prompted Jonathan to punch me in the arm and say: “See?”

“See what?” Chris asked.

“We'll talk about it sometime,” Jonathan said.

After a drink at Venture—well, alcohol for Chris and me, tonic and lime for Jonathan and Max—we headed off to Griff's to catch Guy Prentiss at the piano.

I was really getting a lot of pleasure from reliving my time with Chris, and I think he was, too. To Max, it was all new, and Jonathan, as always and to my great delight, seemed to just be happy to be wherever I was.

*

Saturday morning I went to pick Chris and Max up around 10:00 and brought them to the apartment—I'd moved since Chris and I separated, and Chris had never seen the new place. Jonathan had volunteered, unnecessarily, I thought, to stay behind and make sure that everything looked just right. This included, rather inexplicably, changing the water in Tim and Phil's fish tank. (“You want them to make a good impression, don't you?” he asked.)

We sat around talking, Chris and I with Bloody Marys, Jonathan and Max with the virgin variety. We'd planned to go out for brunch, but Jonathan said he could make eggs benedict at home, so that's what we did. It was, all in all, a really nice morning.

Shortly after noon, we headed out to give Max a guided tour of the city. We ended our tour with a walk through The Central, the city's burgeoning gay business district. Chris was duly impressed by how much it had grown: all the new shops, stores, bars, and restaurants along Beech, the area's main thoroughfare. But as we walked by the corner of Ash and Beech, he stopped short, looking at the new police substation at the southeast corner in disbelief.

“Wow! I never thought I'd live to see this! No barbed wire? No machine guns on the roof?”

“Things change,” I said.

Chris shook his head.

“Obviously.” His voice reflected his awe.

*

After a break for everyone to get ready for the evening, we teamed up again for a relaxing dinner, then headed off for the grand opening of Steamroller Junction. Located about a block off Beech on the far edge of The Central, it was the former maintenance building for a large construction firm. An ideal location, since the other buildings adjacent to it had been torn down; it sat in the middle of a large empty lot which had been paved over for parking. We'd arranged to meet Bob and Mario there at 9:30 and, as usual, we—make that “I”, since I was doing the driving—were ten minutes early. They'd even gone to the expense of hiring two huge klieg lights, whose powerful beams cut like scalpels through the night. They swept the sky randomly, as though suspecting the Luftwaffe would be showing up at any moment.

The lot was already pretty much full, and there was a line at the main entrance, waiting to get in. From the size of the building, it didn't look like there'd be much problem fitting everyone. We parked at the back of the building, near a door marked “Private Entrance: Employees Only.”

As we were getting out of the car, a taxi pulled up behind us and the rear door opened to disgorge a very large black man in an even larger blue silk shirt. Chris and I recognized him immediately as the headliner for the opening night show: Teddy Wilson, aka Tondelaya O'Tool, aka (at least to me) T/T. He struggled to retrieve a huge garment bag from the back seat while the driver got out of the cab and went to open the trunk to extract a large makeup kit and two hat boxes; I assumed they contained T/T's wigs. The driver set them on the ground and moved to stand in front of T/T, hand extended for his fare. T/T awkwardly shifted the garment bag from one hand to the other, reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, then glanced furtively around obviously wondering how he was going to manage extracting the required cash with only one hand.