Blink

Chapter 3: Andy-2

When I got to my little cubicle that I shared with Doreen, my cowriter, and my boss, Sheryl, I was shaking. Not just in the melodramatic sense of novels, but literally trembling.

I sat down at my green Formica-topped desk and took in my surroundings as though seeing them for the first time. There was the H. R. Giger insectoid monster drawing I had cut from Fangoria magazine and pushpinned to my wall. There was my antique-even-for-the-80s manual typewriter, also a sick shade of industrial green. Here were the various schedules we needed to adhere to to get each catalog out on time.

Fortunately I was the first one in that morning, and there was nobody, at least up close, to witness my tremors and my breathlessness. I remember actually letting out a burst of laughter, but there was no mirth in it, only a touch of hysteria.

What had I done? Back then it wasn’t like I could text him and cancel or drop him an e-mail and say that the idea of us getting together was not only ludicrous but also impossible. The image I had of myself, a young man poised on the brink of marriage to his college sweetheart, could not, would not, tolerate the idea of this gorgeous hunk being in my apartment that night. The two images collided with one another, battling righteously. The juxtaposition of the two made me squeamish, made me either want to tip over in my rolling office chair, laughing like a loon, or run to the bathroom and throw up the Froot Loops I had eaten for breakfast that morning.

The phone rang and I gave out a gasp, startled. It rang again and I stared at the black instrument on my desk, as if I wasn’t sure what it expected of me.

If there had been voice mail back then, I would have let that particular stroke of electronic genius handle the call for me. But in 1982 one picked up the phone when it rang.

I silenced it in the middle of its third ring. “Andy Slater, Advertising.”

“Where were you last night?” It was Alison. Her voice was like honey, sweet. It caused a burst of heat to ignite and to rise up to scald my cheeks. It was as though she knew what had just transpired, this pact I had made with a devil whose name I did not yet even know.

Wait! You don’t know his name and you’re thinking of inviting him over? To your home? Are you nuts? My heart skipped a beat.

“Honey? I asked you a question.” Even this early in the morning, Alison sounded a little peeved. “Where were you? I called and called. Mom and I were addressing invitations, and we needed some addresses for your side, but you never answered.”

And a new guilt, along with a recent memory, rose up.

I am alone at a little bar on Granville Avenue called Embers. Scared out of my wits, I had paced for almost a half hour in front of the place before going in. I knew it was that forbidden fruit—a gay bar—from reading a carefully hidden copy of Gay Times, a local weekly.

But I got up my courage and now sit, a stranger in a strange land, at the bar, a bottle of sweating Miller beer in front of me.

I look around at the other patrons and am amazed none of them look in the least effeminate. One guy, with a handlebar moustache, tight Levi’s, faded flannel shirt, and work boots, looks, in all honesty, hypermasculine. He both scares and attracts me, one of my fantasies come to life. When he catches me sneaking a look at him, he smiles and tips his bottle of beer to me in a kind of salute.

I look away.

There are another couple of guys, about my own age, looking like they could have come from a meeting at the old fraternity house in their Izod polos and khakis, drinking martinis (I guess).

The bartender, a spiky-haired blond wearing a T-shirt that has been shredded almost to a single thread to show off his muscles and tan, is all bluster as he washes glasses, wipes down the bar, and takes drink orders. He never stops moving.

Does everyone know how out of place I feel being here?

But I needed to see! I wanted to know what it was like. Did I fit in?

Right now, the answer is no.

Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right” is playing on the jukebox. It’s dark. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke that makes my eyes water.

I want to leave, but somehow I stay rooted to my barstool for four hours, at last forcing myself to exit on unsteady legs and head for the ‘L’ station just west of the bar.

I didn’t speak a word to anyone.

“Andy?” I was jolted out of my reverie by Alison’s voice and the shame that rose up to make me feel sick.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I was distracted by…” I searched desperately on my desk for an excuse, some reason for my silence as I took my little twisted trip down memory lane. There was a note from my boss, Sheryl, letting me know we would be looking at the film from our photography studio in the Loop at ten o’clock that morning. “By a note from Sheryl. She wants to meet with me.” I sighed. “I don’t know what it’s about.”

“Is everything okay?” In Alison’s world everything revolved around terms like “socially acceptable,” “job security,” “home,” and “hearth.” She lived with her family in a big house on the affluent North Shore.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it is.” I closed my eyes. I needed to get off the phone. I felt like my innards were having a race to see which would burst first, my heart or my stomach.

“Are you gonna answer me?” Alison laughed.

“About what?”

I heard Alison blow out an exasperated breath. “About where you were last night. You didn’t tell me you had plans.”

What could I say? And then the answer came to me. It could still be embarrassing, but I could admit I went to a bar. Alison wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t have to tell her it was a gay bar. “Don’t be mad.”

“What?”

“I went out for a walk last night and ended up on Howard Street.”

“That neighborhood? Honey, it’s not safe. You could have been mugged.”

“I know, I know. But I felt thirsty, like having a beer, and I passed this little Irish place called Mulligan’s and thought I’d stop in and have a cold one.”

A frosty silence met my admission. But I was relieved because it sounded believable, even though I knew my fiancée would not approve. “You were drinking alone?”

“Yeah. I know. It was stupid.”

I don’t remember what else we talked about. The fact that I was out in a bar by myself did not make Alison happy, but I also knew if she knew the real truth, she would have been far less happy.

After our conversation, during which Sheryl and Doreen had come in, hanging up jackets and tucking purses under desks, I knew there was no way I could meet Carlos that night.

The guilt I would feel would kill me.

But I was too decent a guy to just stand him up. Oh, who was I trying to kid? It wasn’t anything to do with decency. I knew once he faced me at the ‘L’ stop, there would be no turning back. I’d bring him home.

And then what would I do?

My mind conjured up a pornographic montage of fantasy images to answer that question.

I formulated a plan. I would walk up South Boulevard to where it intersected with Chicago Avenue. Across the street would be the Evanston South Boulevard ‘L’ stop. I was pretty sure Carlos would be traveling by ‘L.’ And he would be certain to pass right by me if I stood on that particular corner.

I would write him a letter, because I knew I would be unable to coherently put into words what I was feeling. I would press it on him and say I was sorry.

So that Sheryl would think I was working, I rolled a piece of the green paper we used for copy into my manual and began typing. Since I had yet to learn his name, the letter would have to just begin, without a salutation.

I’m sorry.

Sorry for so many things. Sorry I flirted with you on the ‘L’ train, sorry I invited you over, sorry I caught you up in the mess of my life. It takes a lot for me to admit these things, and I am embarrassed even as I write them.

See, I’m not who—or what—you think. I have a whole life ahead of me that does not include getting together with men in my apartment. I’m engaged to the sweetest, most wonderful girl in the world. And we’re having a big church wedding in July. My girlfriend makes me happy; she really does, in every way. I want to have a future with her, kids, a dog, white picket fence, the whole bit. Everyone else has it; why can’t I?

Seeing you, bringing you home, would not help me realize that dream. Because this is the last time we’ll ever meet, I can be honest. I think you’re really handsome. In spite of what’s happening in July, a part of me really wants to be with you, to touch you, to kiss you. More.

But I can’t. I just can’t. It’s not who I am. I know that when I stand up in front of that priest this summer, I have to be able to say my vows with a clean heart. Those will be promises I will not take lightly. And I will stick to them.

See, I believe that, in spite of the attraction I feel for you, once my girl and I are married, I’ll be okay. We’ll have regular s*x, and then when the kids and all the other stuff that goes with married life come along, I’ll be able to change.

These feelings I have will go away. I believe that. I have to.

I hope you understand and won’t hold it against me. I’m sorry you had to come from wherever it is you live to make this meeting we set up, but I hope you can see how damaging it would be to me to go through with it.

And I hope too that if you see me again on the train, you’ll discreetly move to another car next chance you get. You tempt me. Oh, how you tempt me.

I grew up Catholic and learned something as a little boy in catechism—avoid the occasion of sin. Seeing you is an occasion of sin.

I apologize if you’re disappointed. I understand if you think I’m a nutcase. Maybe I am!

And I wish only good things for you.

I wondered how I should sign the note. Best regards? Sincerely? Those seemed too formal. Love? Too romantic. Your friend? Too cold.

So I just ended it as I began it, without the usual formalities. I pulled the sheet of paper from my typewriter, read it over, folded it into quarters, and tucked it into my jacket pocket.

I felt a paradoxical mixture of relief and sadness. My head told me I was doing the right thing. All I needed to validate that was to picture Alison in my head. She was a wonderful young woman, and I would protect her from the wounds she had grown up with in a family that appeared to be the American dream but was anything but.

But my heart cried out, telling me I was making a mistake. This guy from the train wasn’t just an attraction, wasn’t just lust. Even though we had spoken barely more than a dozen words, I’d seen something in him, a certain sympathy, a gleam of kindness in his eyes that touched my heart, that made me wonder, before I quickly crushed it, if something just as beautiful as what I thought I had with Alison could bloom between us.

And my libido complained too, trying to convince me to throw away the letter and go through with tonight’s assignation. That sneaky devil on my shoulder told me to just go ahead and allow myself tonight, enjoy it as a way of saying good-bye to my feelings for my own s*x. Very reasonably, it encouraged me to let myself have this last hurrah. It was only fair.

It made sense, and I felt myself being tempted.

Alison called a second time that morning to remind me that tomorrow night she had her taxes class downtown and would be spending the night at my place. Where should we go for dinner? Or did I want to order in? Pizza?

The devil on my shoulder shut up.