Blink

Chapter 3: Andy-1

Chapter 3: Andy

It wasn’t until spring that I saw Carlos again. It was May, and my wedding was only a couple of months away. My family’s flights had been booked, flowers, catering, and band arranged, my tuxedo picked out and rented, and the excitement was beginning to build among family and friends.

At the catalog house, we were busy preparing for the big Christmas book, which seemed weird, and I was thinking about the spread of Fisher-Price toys I would do and how I would direct the photographer to take one big shot that would splash across two pages with all the toys gathered under a Christmas tree. This was quite a step away from the usual individual blocks of copy and photographs we commonly did, and I was excited.

Carlos was but a dim memory in my head that morning. I think, after that one time when he smiled (laughed?) at me, I’d had my eyes peeled for him for days, maybe weeks, dread and desire commingling. But when I hadn’t seen him in a couple of months, my breathing grew easier on the train, even though my heart felt a little darker.

What I felt was like that strange creature I had seen in the movie Doctor Dolittle, the pushmi-pullyu. The animal was sort of a cross between a gazelle and a unicorn and had heads positioned on either end of its body, so they were constantly trying to go in opposite directions. Yeah, the pushmi-pullyu definitely summed up how I felt about seeing or not seeing Carlos. Part of me desperately wanted to, because to gaze on masculine beauty like that was, truly, rare and wondrous. And the other part was relieved, because if I didn’t see him, it didn’t stir up all sorts of feelings that disrupted my own personal world order.

But even those emotions faded after a couple three months had passed of not seeing him. If I thought of him at all, it was to think that maybe his schedule had changed. Or that coincidence simply had not thrown us together again. Sure, he could have boarded the same train but was in another car. How many cars did an ‘L’ train have, anyway? Ten? A dozen? More at rush hour? When I thought of it that way, it was amazing that we happened to be across from each other even more than once.

When I wasn’t reading or thinking about my workday or listening to Joan Jett, I would have to admit I liked to look around and study people. It was one of the things I did that reflected the real writer I longed to be someday. I hadn’t really ever dreamed of being an advertising copywriter, after all. But it paid the bills on my studio in Evanston better than a wannabe horror novelist.

And that’s what I was doing that day when I spotted him again. This time he wasn’t leaning against the closed doors of the car. He was up ahead, crowded into the space where the conductor might have sat had this been the first car. It was one of those blessed crazy-warm first days of spring, and even my lightweight windbreaker felt too hot.

The warmth and pulse of the day, the birds singing, all contributed to an electricity in the air that made the day feel special, especially after the brutal Chicago winter we had just survived.

In memory, it was almost like he had an aura that made him stand out from other passengers in the crowded car. I guess I would assign it something warm, a soft buttery yellow.

You know how you might read in poetry or hear in a song that someone took one’s breath away? The concept sounds silly, and we may accept it as metaphor. But the fact is, it’s real. When I saw him standing there, leaning over a woman in a bright red suit so he could surreptitiously read the magazine open on her lap, I caught my breath. I could hear the blood begin to thud, a dull roar, in my ears.

And I had the old pushmi-pullyu reaction—the wanting to look away, the desire to eat him up with my eyes. He was looking no less hot this morning in a plaid shirt, open enough to reveal the silkiness of his smooth brown chest, perhaps just a little of the cleft between his pecs. He wore a faded denim jacket that made him seem a bit of the bad boy. Pressed khakis and loafers contradicted this impression.

With my gaze still on him and probably communicating the million different thoughts racing through my head, he looked up.

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t look away. I told you about those eyes, how they were like magnets. They caught and held me, helpless. I wanted to turn my gaze toward the window or anywhere but at him, but he compelled me not to with those damn dark eyes, so probing—and yes, so sexy.

He smiled, and this time I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his expression was not one of ridicule but one of recognition. It said “I’m happy to see you again.” My heart fluttered with relief, with a building current of desire. I hadn’t spoken even one word to him, but I felt like I had just reunited with a long-lost love.

I smiled back.

What am I doing? the reasonable, wannabe straight boy inside asked me. I’d fought so hard against my feelings, even feeling ashamed when I awakened one morning with the insides of my briefs damp from scattered images of hairy chests, erect c***s, come spurting, deep tongue kisses pressed against faces that felt, even in dream, like sandpaper.

But I returned his grin, and our gazes held for a record amount of time. I heard, vaguely, the conductor announce the stop for Racine was coming up. Our gaze broke as Carlos sidled between two people and began moving toward the doors. Racine. That was his stop.

What would I do? Would I sit and watch him vanish into the sunny day? Would I ride this same train again and again, perhaps never seeing him? Could I allow that to happen?

Forces pulled at me. Sensible ones told me to stay put, to resume reading whatever book I had in my lap that day. Was it some potboiler horror novel that I’d favored back in the day? Dean Koontz, maybe? Other forces, though, drew me irresistibly toward the broad back and the high ass of Carlos as he prepared to exit the train.

I got up, my heart pounding at what must have been three times its normal rate. I stood on shaky legs to take a few steps and stand behind him. I could see him turn his head slightly and regard me out of the corner of his eye.

And God help me, I followed him off the train. The air outside was sweet, despite the exhaust from cars speeding by on the Eisenhower. He stopped. I stopped. We waited for the rush of passengers heading for the station’s exit to thin.

And he smiled again, a big joyous grin that crinkled his eyes and lit up his face. I will never forget that expression.

It was joy.

And it was because of me.

He spoke first. “I’ve been hoping this would happen.”

Now, confronted with having to talk, I didn’t know what to say. Not only that, it was as though the power of speech had deserted me. I could only helplessly and, I was sure, stupidly grin at him.

“I wanted to meet you so much,” Carlos said.

His words were like a warm embrace. I wish I could recall what I finally said. But I can’t. I can only recall what my words led to—I invited him over that night. “Meet me at the South Boulevard ‘L’ stop in Evanston at seven,” I said and walked away before I could change my mind.