Blink

Chapter 2: Carlos

Chapter 2: Carlos

The guy obviously has a thing for me. I’ve caught him staring now a couple of times, and hey, I’m flattered. He’s cute. No, maybe that’s not a strong enough word. He’s handsome, with green eyes and dark wavy hair that clues me in to some sort of Mediterranean heritage. Italian maybe? Greek? Whatever. Maybe the word I’m looking for is hot.

I can imagine kissing him and the feel of his dark, bushy moustache against mine.

I don’t ride the train to meet men. I don’t do much to meet men, period, to be perfectly honest. I ride the train in the mornings simply to get to St. Philomena elementary school on the West Side, where I teach fourth grade.

I’m okay with being gay. I wasn’t always, hence my stint in the seminary, where I studied to be a priest. I learned pretty quickly, by the grace of God and the hands and mouth of a fellow seminarian, that the priesthood was not work I was cut out for. Not if I wanted to live my life honestly, anyway.

So I left. I had already gotten my teaching degree, concurrent with my seminarian studies, so the job at St. Phil’s, low paying as it was, was a natural fit.

But I digress. I’m trying to sort out my feelings for this sweetheart on the train. I know he’s gay too. I know he’s attracted. But I also know nothing will ever come of it.

Why? Because I can see that, when our eyes meet, he’s filled with shame and guilt. I recognize his remorse because I cloaked myself in that dark, heavy fabric for many years.

And maybe still do, a little, to this day. The Church teaches us that same-s*x feelings are to be avoided. They are not our natural order. We should turn our sights away from our own s*x and devote them instead to loving and pleasing the Lord.

Yeah, good luck with that.

The Lord created that cute guy who gives me the eye on the train, the one I feel this probably misplaced connection with. What is it about him that makes me think of him all the time? Why do I hope he’ll be in my train car every time I step onto it in the morning, even though most times he’s not? Why do I try and quickly scan the windows of the train as it rumbles into the station for a glimpse of him?

Is it just because he’s cute?

There are cute men, hunks, whatever, all around. I occasionally venture out to the intersection of Grand Avenue and Clark to the New Flight bar for happy hour and bring one of them home. Or I head up farther north to the Loading Zone on Oak, where I can watch free porn in the back or dance up front. Somebody usually brings me home.

I never make any lasting connections. I don’t even know if I want to. Shame lingers on me like the scent of cigarette smoke after leaving those places.

But there’s something about the guy on the train. He tugs at my heart as well as my loins. Even from the brief glances we exchange, he makes me think there’s the possibility of more than just s*x. He makes me think, for the first time in my life, that maybe I could love another man.

And that terrifies me.

See, I thought this thing that I say I accept, this state of being gay, was just about s*x. And s*x I can deal with, maybe even embrace. It can be taken care of and dispatched with the same routine nonchalance as any other bodily function. Despite what my Church and other naysayers contend, it’s natural.

I don’t know if I ever believed being gay was any more than that—a couple of d***s calling to each other.

But the guy on the train makes me think differently.

Today I smiled at him, thinking I could let him know I was as interested in him as he obviously is in me. I thought my smile might reassure him that our little mutual admiration society was okay and not something we had to feel bad about.

But I saw the blush rise to his cheeks the minute I grinned at him. Disheartened, I watched as he looked away. I stared and stared, trying to communicate my interest and my reassurance telepathically, just to get him to look back.

But he wouldn’t. And when my stop at Racine came up, he still wasn’t looking. He had his nose buried in his book, though his face never became quite that lovely olive tone again but stayed red.

I know he knew I was looking.

I got off at Racine, casting glances over my shoulder as other early-morning commuters struggled to get off the train all around me.

But he refused to look.

Maybe next time—if there is a next time—I can somehow make him see it’s okay that our gazes meet.

Maybe we could even talk.