Blink (23 page)

I follow his instructions and head for the door. The staircase outside it has none of the elegance of Fremont’s condo or the lobby. It’s just gray-painted concrete with an iron handrail. Other residents have stored boxes, brooms, and mops outside their doors. One of them has a needlepointed sign affixed to their door.
Born in Sin? Come on in!

I hurry down the stairs and am grateful as I push the door open and emerge onto an empty beach, silent.

An enormous sense of relief washes over me as I step out onto the sand. The wash of the waves, rhythmic and soft, on the beach’s edge is soothing, even though I can still distantly hear the revelers at Fremont’s party. I feel liberated from them out here. I breathe in the air, damp and now cool, filling my lungs with not only its marine essence but also with serenity.

It’s taken me many years to realize that my own company is something I prize. Loneliness is for losers.

I take a few steps out onto the sand and then sit down on it to pull off my cowboy boots and roll up the legs of my jeans. I pad barefoot to the water’s edge, and a wave rushes up to meet me. I give a little gasp as the icy water covers my toes and insteps and jump back. No matter how many years I’ve lived here, the shock of these freezing waters never fails to startle.

I start walking south along the beachfront with the city lights to act as a sort of guide and beacon. It isn’t long before I come to a low wall, whitewashed, that must be the dividing line between Fremont’s private beach and the one just over it, which belongs to all of us. Indeed, I can see, off in the distance, a cluster of people sitting near the water’s edge. They are little more than shadows, but their laughter and murmurs of conversation reach me almost like snatches of a dream.

I turn and head back. There’s a bench near the exit door, and I plop down on it, grateful for many things—to be off my feet, to have this nighttime view, with its dim illumination yet fierce unspoiled beauty, and to allow myself a few moments just to think.

Of course I think of him. Andy. And I remember. That time in my life when we first met was such a good one. Life was a road untraveled, almost all of it still before me. I had yet to see its tragedies and heartaches, yet to experience the inevitable decline that comes to all of us as we grow older. I was full of hope and promise. Anything could happen. Anything was possible.

That beautiful boy on the ‘L’ could be mine. I knew it from the moment our gazes locked on that crowded train. I was still young enough, naïve enough, and romantic enough to think it was possible. In that brief connection of our eyes, I read a whole novel, an epic poem to love, unfettered by reality.

That’s why it was such a cold and harsh slap in the face when real life intruded just when I thought I was making my romantic vision come true. When Andy put a stop to our lovemaking, because, if I remember right, it was interrupted by a call from his mother, cold hard facts intruded on the little island of fantasy upon which we had moored ourselves.

Everything changed after that phone call. I could see the guilt and shame stamped on Andy’s features as plainly as his nose. It was obvious he was sickened by what we had done so far and resolved not to let it go any further.

I remember my disappointment. But who I am now thinks I accepted everything too readily. I was a product of those times, so long ago and yet not, when being gay was something you kept hidden. If you let it show, or were unable to
not
let it show, you opened yourself up to, at best, ridicule and snickering behind your back and, at worst, rejection and the threat of both physical and emotional pain and trauma. Both those things could leave deep scars.

Back then I thought—we all did—we deserved that treatment. Maybe
deserved
is not exactly the right word. Perhaps it was more the fact that we accepted such treatment as our lot in life. If we were gay, we had to accept all that came with it—and most of it, not so long ago, was bad.

The kids who come into Angels these days are different. They don’t have quite the same issues I did when I was their age. Oh sure, bullying and hate still exist, but not in as full a measure. And their reaction to it is different—they no longer accept it as a rite of passage for being different, but as something to be outraged about, something they are justified in calling out and fighting back against.

Yet what I wouldn’t give to relive that charged moment on the ‘L’ with Andy all over again.

I stand and walk over to where I left my cowboy boots in the sand. I struggle into them and roll my jeans back down over their worn leather. I get back up, brush my ass free from sand, and head back to the door.

I’ve made a decision.

Of course the door to the beach has locked behind me. I chuckle and shake my head. I walk to the side of the building, which will put me in the courtyard once more, where hopefully I can grab hold of the door as one or more of the partygoers make their way out. Otherwise I will have to go back out the gate and use the intercom to regain entry.

I realize that if it weren’t for wanting to talk to Andy’s son, I would probably just head west, to the ‘L’ stop, and go home.

But there have been too many missed connections. That’s something this night has reminded me.

I eventually have to do the whole go-outside-and-get-buzzed-in-again routine, but I hope it’ll be worth it.

I find Andy’s son inside, on a couch. I have to smile as I observe him. He’s very much in the first throes of love or lust. He and a guy with red hair and a beard are practically on each other’s laps. Big Red has his arm around Andy’s son—I wish I could remember his name, but I can’t—and they’re also holding hands. They gaze into one another’s eyes, grinning like idiots. I have to wonder why they’re even still here.

I almost hate to approach. They’ve practically sealed out the party in their bubble of infatuation.

It’s sweet and harkens back to a time of life when I had such feelings myself.

It’s a big circle, isn’t it?

I stand near them, quietly at first. It’s not as easy as you might think to make eye contact. Finally, Big Red notices me standing there, like the wallflower I am.

“Hey,” he says.

Andy’s son turns to look up at me. “Oh, hi! You’re my dad’s friend. Carlos, right?”

I nod. “And, um, remind me of your name.”

“Tate.” He disengages himself a bit from the redhead. “This is Kelly.”

We stare at each other for a moment. I break the silence. “Tate, your dad kind of left suddenly—”

Tate snorts. “Tell me about it!”

“And I didn’t get a chance to get his number.”

Tate nods, and I can see a little suspicion creep into his face.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to give it to me. I want to talk to him some more. We’re old friends. It would be nice to catch up.”

Tate gives me an awkward smile. “I hope you understand, but I don’t really know you, and I don’t know if my dad would appreciate me giving out his number. I hope that’s okay.”

I don’t want to argue with him or plead. And he has a point. But I’m sure the disappointment shows on my face.

“Hey, how about this?” Tate offers. “I’ll send him a text and ask him if it’s okay.”

I visualize waiting around here all night for a text or call that might never come. Andy could already be home and in bed by now. “Could you give him my number too? That way if you don’t hear back right away, he can at least call me.”

“Good idea.” Tate pulls his iPhone out of his pocket, and his fingers get busy flying over the tiny screen. Like so many of his peers, he’s adept at texting, the motions coming to him as naturally as speech.

I cannot say the same.

“What’s your number?”

I tell him. Tate finishes up with his text and, I presume, hits Send.

I stand awkwardly for a few moments and try to make a little conversation. Are they enjoying the party? Did they arrive together? Fortunately, Tate’s phone gives a little chime. He still holds it and looks down at the screen. “It’s my dad.” He looks up at me. “He sent his number.” He smiles, and I do too—like a teenager whose most-hoped-for date to the prom just accepted.

I turn. “Let me go see if I can find a pen and something to write on.”

“Don’t you have a smart phone?” Tate asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I can just send you his number. That way it’ll be in your phone.”

Why didn’t I think of that?
Because you’re beyond these technologies. They’re not second nature to you as they are to Tate
. “Of course,” I say.

He sends the number, and I get the confirmation of his text almost immediately as a vibration in my pocket. I thank him and let him get back to Big Red.

Now I need only say my good-byes and head outside. Should I call Andy tonight or be more reasonable and wait?

What do you think?

“E
ZRA
,
SHALL
we retire to the bedroom?”

The green-eyed cat looks up at me with what I perceive as understanding, even though logic tells me I’m probably speaking gibberish to his feline ears. Nonetheless he gets up from his place on the back of the couch, hops down, does an elaborate stretch, and follows me into the bedroom. I pull back the duvet and watch as Ezra jumps up on the bed. He settles into his favorite spot—the left corner at the foot.

I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder what Carlos saw when he got a glimpse of the face staring back at me right now. Did he see the lines around my eyes, the subtle sagging of the skin, the silver at my temples? Or did he see the younger me, with a full head of hair, bright unlined eyes, and a shy smile? Is it possible he saw both, sort of morphed through the magic of imagination? A time-lapse double exposure?

I shrug and rinse off my toothbrush. Does it really matter? I realize now I blew my chance. I made a fool of myself with him. One thing about me—my heart is worn fully on my sleeve. For better or worse, my emotions are on display.
My little jealous snit
, I think with embarrassment,
was childish.
I should have stayed at the party. Maybe if I had, another opportunity would have presented itself to talk to Carlos. Perhaps we could have found a quiet corner—
good luck with that!—
or even stepped out onto the beach I’m sure was just behind the building.

But I closed those doors and probably made a very bad, if not crazy, impression on the guy. I wonder if I would ever have the nerve to see if Tate could get some contact information for Carlos, or if I might get in touch with him through his workplace, since I now know at least that much about him.

I go back into the bedroom and settle under the sheets in my boxers. My Kindle is on the nightstand, and I pick it up and start reading
Mr. Mercedes
by Stephen King. Old habits die hard! It isn’t long before I’m immersed in King’s world, populated by a desperate retired cop and an insane mass murderer. For some, Calgon takes them away. For me, it’s Stephen King.

My phone, also on the nightstand, gives a little chirp that I recognize as an incoming text message. I figure it’s Tate. I pick up the phone, surmising that he’s probably calling to tell me he won’t be staying over and that he’ll see me in the morning. My little boy is all grown up.

I’m right. It’s Tate. But his short text shocks me.

Dad. Here with Carlos. He wants your number. Okay if I give it to him?

I look around my bedroom, making sure I’m not dreaming. I quickly text my number back and hit Send.

Well, excuse me, Mr. King, if I can’t return to your suspense-ridden world. I have better things to think about, such as will he ever call? When? What made him ask for my number when he was obviously there with Fremont St. James? Did he remember more about us?

I settle back on the pillow, feeling restless, staring at the ceiling, looking out the window. A car rumbles by, its transmission grumbling. A gaggle of what I suspect are teenage girls walk by on the sidewalk below, their high-pitched laughter and excited voices filtering up to me on the spring air.

After lying in bed, tossing and turning for what seems like hours but is, in reality, only ten minutes or so, I decide that trying to sleep is pointless. I get up and throw on a T-shirt to ward off the night chill. In the kitchen I root around in my refrigerator and grab myself a bottle of beer. It’s Stella Artois, and I shudder to think I have the same taste in beer as Fremont St. James. I open the bottle and take it out the back door to sit on the landing of the back stairs.

I’m glad none of the neighbors are out. I want to just sit and revel in what I will allow myself to think of as a victory. I couldn’t have made such an off-putting impression on Carlos if he asked Tate for my number. Which reminds me, just in case, I should have my phone out here with me.

I realize it’s too late for him to call tonight, but you never know. I set the beer down and go back inside.

The phone is ringing.
Don’t get all excited
, I tell myself.
It’s probably a wrong number.
I glance up at the clock on the microwave above the range and see that it’s a little after eleven. I’m reminded, momentarily, of late-night booty calls that once upon a time wouldn’t have been so unusual, especially on a Saturday night, but those days are long gone.

I hurry into the bedroom, praying my smartphone won’t be dumb enough to go to voice mail before I can reach it.

I snatch the phone up from the nightstand, drop it once, stoop to retrieve it, and finally push the Connect icon on its screen. I don’t recognize the number, and the pessimist in me believes that’s verification this is a wrong number.

“Hello?”

“Andy? Hey, it’s Carlos.”

I swear my heart skips a beat. I feel I’m suddenly time traveling, and I’m a fourteen-year-old boy back in my boyhood home in Ohio, and the popular Ralph Cooke has just called to see if he could copy my algebra homework.