It's All Relative

Chapter 8: Rainbow Joan’s

Chapter 8: Rainbow Joan’s

When we hit the Capital beltway, I’m tempted to ask Dan to stop by the townhouse anyway. Grab our pillows, maybe a few more clothes—something black because I don’t think I have anything to wear to the funeral—maybe call the firm and my professors, since I might not be back before my vacation’s over and I know I’ll miss class Tuesday night. But we’re making good time, the interstate’s mostly clear this early on a Sunday, and without a word, I watch the last exit into D.C. pass us by. Dan still holds onto my hand, and I’ve turned the radio back on so that it plays softly between us, so low that I can’t make out the songs. They’re like music from a dream, a tune on the tip of your tongue that you can almost remember after awakening. In the back seat Caitlin is stretched out, one foot tapping the door in time with the music in her headphones as she leafs through a tattoo magazine. She hasn’t spoken to me since we got on the road.

Absently, I open Dan’s hand in my lap and stroke his fingers from tip to base, each one. He has long fingers, graceful and slim, like an artist or musician. Beautiful hands that the Army hasn’t managed to destroy. I can’t imagine these hands holding a gun or a knife in combat—I’ve seen these fingers unbutton shirts, I’ve felt them on my flesh. I remember Aunt Evie once said that you can tell how well a man makes love just by looking at his hands. We were in Union City for the day to do some shopping, my mom and Ray and Evie and me, and we ate lunch outside of a classy Grecian restaurant. Nik’s, I believe it was called.

Our waiter was a young man whose flirtatious comments made Evie blush. Part of his job, I’m sure, complement the ladies for good tips. It worked, though Evie was a big tipper by nature, very easy with money. I don’t know how often I heard her say, “Keep the change.” That day at Nik’s, she and my mom giggled over the waiter, and after he brought our food, Evie leaned across the table and lowered her voice to tell us, “Look at his hands next time, Laura. You can always tell a good lover by the shape of his hands.”

If that’s the case, Evie would have taken one look at Dan’s large, supple hands and told me, “Michael, keep him. Only a gentle lover has hands like that.” My eyes sting with tears because I can almost hear the words in her voice—I see her in my mind, one hand on her hip as she nods sagely. And she’d be right. Dan’s the gentlest man I know. Quiet, soft-spoken, and so damn attentive in bed. I can’t imagine ever letting him go.

I trace the love line along his palm below his fingers to where it meets his life line. I follow that down to his wrist, then trace the faint blue vein that leads to the crook of his elbow, then back again. When I work into the center of his palm, he closes his fingers around mine and I glance up to find him smiling at me. “Hey,” he says. He jerks his head back to indicate Caitlin.

Turning, I find my sister asleep, her arm curled beneath her head like a pillow, the magazine fallen to the floor. The noise from her headphones has stopped. “Figures,” I say, keeping my voice low. With any luck, she’ll sleep the rest of the trip.

Dan laces his fingers through mine and concentrates on the road ahead. We sit in an easy silence that somehow says more than anything we could hope to convey with words alone. I love this quiet surrounding us, I love how comfortable we are together.

A little while later when we pass beneath a green road sign for Baltimore, he asks me, “Are you getting hungry?”

I shrug. “A little,” I admit. Then I look at the dashboard and notice the time, almost one in the afternoon, and as if that’s a catalyst, my stomach rumbles. I press the back of Dan’s hand to my belly and he laughs. “I guess so,” I say, grinning. “What do you have in mind?”

He gives me an amused glance from the corner of his eye and I know what he’s thinking. We’re coming up on Baltimore, so that means…“Rainbow Joan’s?” I suggest.

“How’d you guess?” he wants to know.

It’s one of his favorite places to eat, that’s how. I introduced him to Joan’s shortly after we started dating—back at the beginning of February, actually. Super Bowl Sunday, and he didn’t want to stay in the barracks so he called me up, asked if I was doing anything special. I wasn’t, but I could think of a few ways I’d like to spend the evening, and all of them included him. We had known each other for just three weeks at that point but I was already falling hard.

I told him to give me a half hour and I’d pick him up. He was waiting at the front gate when I drove onto post, barely let me stop before he was in my car. The minute Fort Myer faded in the rearview mirror, he had a hand on my knee. At the first stoplight that caught us, he leaned across the gear shaft and whispered, “Come here.” Then he kissed me.

When we drove past D.C., he asked what I had in mind. “A little place I think you’ll like,” I told him. Rainbow Joan’s is one of the only gay-owned restaurants I know of that isn’t flamboyant about it. I mean, it’s not a bar or club or coffee shop, and there are no drag nights or pride events—it’s just a good place to eat. They have thick burgers, hoagies stacked high, specialty sandwiches and homemade lemonade, fresh baked desserts, daily specials, you name it, chances are it’s on the menu at Joan’s. If not, they’ll try to make it. Outside there’s a covered deck with a small bar and wrought-iron chairs and tables, and the booths inside have wooden tables shellacked with magazine ads, Guess and Versace and other designer names. There’s a small riser by the kitchen door where local bands play on the weekends, and it’s open mic Thursday nights for karaoke. At lunch time, Joan’s fills up quickly, mostly with people from nearby offices. Dinnertime, though, the place is alive with college students and young people my age, mostly the gay scene in Baltimore. Joan’s is the place to be, a jukebox in one corner, a large screen TV in the other, and the bar hopping until well after midnight.

We got to Joan’s before the second quarter of the game and there was hardly any place to sit. People everywhere, laughing and calling to one another. Music from the jukebox rivaled the sounds of the TV, and outside on the deck, a college band called Black Tie Affair tried to drown out the noise with heavy guitar riffs and a steady drumbeat. I had to shout in Dan’s ear just to be heard, and before a waitress came to seat us, he eased an arm around my waist to keep me close. I felt his hand fist at the small of my back. “We can go somewhere else,” I yelled at him. “If you want.”

He shook his head no. Joan’s is far enough away from Fort Myer that he feels safe there—he won’t run into anyone he knows from base. And there’s no need to hide our relationship, either, not when the place is crawling with gay and lesbian couples, holding hands and sharing drinks and making out in the back booths. We’re tame compared to some.

And on Super Bowl Sunday, we weren’t quite the couple we are now. When the waitress asked how many, I held up two fingers, and Dan kept his hand on my waist as I followed the woman through the crowd to an empty booth near the front windows. As Dan slid into the booth across from me, he stared around with wide eyes, trying to take in everything at once. “Rainbow Joan’s,” he said, bemused. I could tell he liked the place.

We ate dinner, ordered drinks, watched the game, leaned across the table when we talked so we could hear each other over the surrounding din. After halftime, the crowd thinned out a bit, but when the game was over and large groups of people started to leave, our ears rang so badly that we still shouted to be heard. By his third Lynchburg Lemonade, Dan’s hands were on my thighs beneath the table, and a thin blush colored his cheeks every time I made him laugh. We only left when a very tired waiter came by our table and told us everyone else was going home. “Unless you want to stay the night,” he added, joking, as I helped Dan from the booth.

Outside, the night air was brisk on my heated face, and I imagined I could feel snow in my bones. Or maybe it was the alcohol, I don’t know. My car was the only one in the parking lot, and Dan stumbled behind me, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of my pants as he searched for my car keys. “I can drive,” he told me, his breath hot in my ear.

I felt his thick erection press against my buttocks. “You’re drunk,” I told him. “I’ll drive.”

He laughed at that, and in my pockets, his hands closed over my own d**k, squeezing playfully. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Not the keys,” I replied. I turned in his embrace and leaned back against the side of my car, wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him to me for a hungry kiss. “Stay with me,” I sighed.

He looked at me like he wasn’t sure what I was talking about. I meant that night, I meant forever. “Michael,” he started, sobering up. “I don’t think we’re ready—”

I wasn’t talking s*x. We didn’t make love until two months after we’d been together. I didn’t want to rush anything with Dan, I wanted him too much to scare him away. So that night, out in the chilly winter air, I picked at the collar of his jacket and stared into his dark eyes, stars reflected in the inky depths like shining lights at sea. “I’m tired of looking,” I told him, forcing myself to speak low. I almost couldn’t hear my own words over the ringing in my ears. “I’m tired of playing the club scene, Dan. I’m tired of being alone. Remember when we met, and I told you I thought I liked you?”

He stared at me for so long, I felt my resolve begin to crumble. I was ready to tell him just forget it, I’d take him back to base, he obviously didn’t feel the same and I had been wrong about him, then his brow furrowed and he whispered, “I remember.”

My lower lip trembled as I kissed him tenderly. “Well,” I breathed, “I think I love you now, Dan. I’m not saying we have to do anything tonight, but I want to hold you. I want to wake up and watch you sleeping beside me. I want—” He laughed and my heart stopped in my chest. “What?”

“I’m in the Army,” he reminded me. “I get up at the crack of dawn, babe.” I didn’t get it—my mind was a fuzzy haze from the drinks, the noise, the night. “I’ll watch you sleep,” he told me. Then he kissed me, and as the neon sign above Rainbow Joan’s winked out, he whispered, “I think I love you, too.”

The restaurant has held a special place for us since that night. Dan takes the beltway around Baltimore, eases into sudden traffic, gets off at the Edmondson Avenue exit. Joan’s is on Orleans Street—when I see the sign, I turn around to wake up Caitlin. “Cat,” I call, but she’s sound asleep. Plucking off her headphones, I shake her gently. “Caitlin? Get up.”

“Wha—?” She stretches into a sitting position, blinks around like she’s not sure where she is. “We there already? Damn, that was fast.”

I wish. “We’re in Baltimore,” I tell her. With a stifled yawn, she lies back down. “We’re stopping for a bite to eat. Unless you’re not hungry?”

“I’m hungry,” she mumbles, and I have to shake her awake again when Dan pulls into Joan’s parking lot. “What?” she whines. “I’m up. Jesus.”

“Don’t call me Jesus,” I joke, climbing out of the car. I hold the door open and she stumbles out like she’s drunk, staggering into me. “You want to sleep?” I ask, but she shakes her head. “We can bring you something.”

She pushes away from me. “I’m fine. Awake, see?” To emphasize her point, she holds her eyes open wide and grins ghoulishly at me. “See?”

I give her a playful shove towards the restaurant. “I see,” I tell her. Dan takes my hand as we step around the car, the two of us gravitating together like opposing magnets. Loudly, so Caitlin will hear, I say, “We can leave her here, you know. If she starts to act up…”

“I hear you,” she growls. She pushes through the front door of the restaurant and lets it swing back at me, but Dan grabs the handle before it hits my arm. Nodding over her shoulder at us, Caitlin tells the waitress, “I’m not with them.”

Ignoring her, I say, “Three, please.” As the waitress leads us to a booth, I ask my sister, “What, you paying for yourself?”

“Are you treating?” she wants to know. She slides in one side of the booth and takes the menu from the waitress.

Dan waits for me to get in across from her before he sits beside me. “I’ll cover it,” I say. “Long as you don’t order every damn thing they have.”

Caitlin gives me a sardonic look over the top of her menu. “I’m not Ray,” she reminds me. “A Reuben’s good enough for me.” Then she folds the menu and looks around, taking in the brightly painted walls, the magazine-covered tables. Most of the booths are already filled despite the early hour, but the jukebox is off, the TV tuned to some midday movie from the late ‘80’s whose title escapes me at the moment. One of those Jon Cusak comedies that leaves no doubt in my mind as to why the guy isn’t acting anymore. “You guys come here often?” Caitlin asks. If she notices that the majority of couples around us are same-s*x, she doesn’t mention it.

“We like it,” I tell her. Beneath the table, Dan rests a hand on my thigh, and his hip presses against mine in the seat. “The food’s good, you’ll see.”

The waitress comes for our orders—a Reuben for my sister, two turkey and ham hoagies for myself and Dan. I want a cheesesteak but I change my mind at the last minute, because this isn’t Pennsylvania yet and I swear no one south of the Mason-Dixon line can do a cheesesteak justice. I’ll wait until we get to Sugar Creek for that. I’m sure one night we’ll call in an order to Big Al’s, the self-proclaimed Steak King. My mouth waters at the thought of one of his sandwiches. Chopped steak and melted cheese smothered in olive oil…all others pale in comparison.

While we wait for our food, I lean back in the booth and study my sister. Her eyeliner has smeared until her eyes look like bruises in her face, and her lipstick has mostly disappeared. Just the dark outline of her lips is left, making her mouth look larger than it is. Her eyelashes are clumped together into thick spikes of mascara—bedroom eyes, if I’ve ever seen them. She looks like she just woke up after a long night of partying. “You look frightful,” I tell her.

She smiles sweetly and sips at her soda. “Thank you,” she replies.

I can’t tell if she’s being facetious or not. Suddenly I realize I don’t know much about my teenaged sister—she wasn’t this Goth-girl the last time I saw her at Christmas. When did this start? Why? The whole look seems too high-maintenance for me. But she plays it off like it’s nothing to her. She ignores the stares from the people around her, unaffected by the faint whispers that her appearance and black clothing seem to invite. Since the moment I came home, she’s played at being impervious to anything that’s said or done. My announcement at dinner didn’t seem to surprise her in the least.

When Dan excuses himself and heads for the bathroom, I sit up a little and say, “Tell me something, Cat.”

I use her nickname because I want to get on her good side. Unfortunately, it just makes her suspicious. She looks at me distrustfully and asks, “What?” Before I answer, she adds, “We said no talking about our s*x lives, remember? I really wasn’t going to tell Mom you guys did it last night.”

I have to laugh. “I’m not—Caitlin, this isn’t…look, I don’t want to know, okay? You use condoms, right?” She nods, and I give her my most disarming smile. “Then okay. No more talk about s*x, I promise.” Cautiously I ask her, “I just want to know—are you cool with Dan and me?”

She shrugs. “He’s alright,” she says. “You could do worse. Nice ass, you know?” Then she laughs again. “Or wait, are we not mentioning that, either?”

Secretly, I agree with her—Dan has a fine ass, but she’s only sixteen and I’m going to pretend she’s not checking my guy out. “It’s not like I’m surprised here, Mike,” she tells me. The look she throws my way suggests that she’s known for awhile that I like boys. Counting off on her fingers, she says, “You’ve never had a girlfriend, ever. Didn’t go to prom. Didn’t date in high school.”

Well, I did, but no one I was serious with, no one I ever brought home. “You just figured it out on your own?” I ask, impressed. “So why can’t Mom see—”

“Oh,” Caitlin interrupts, flipping her hair out of her face. “And a few months ago I found some magazines in your closet that confirmed it.”

I laugh. “The Advocate,” I say. When she shakes her head, I frown and try to think what else I might have in my old room. “Gay and Lesbian Review?” Another shake. “Out? Caitlin, what?”

Dan approaches the table and she gives him a mischievous grin. “Try Freshmen.” I feel a heated blush color my cheeks, and Dan gives me a quizzical look as my little sister reels off names of gay porn mags I totally forgot about, hidden away in my closet at my parents’ house. “Men, something about twinks…”

“Okay,” I concede as Dan slides in beside me again, his hand drawn to my leg. “I get the point.”