My first choice would have been an uneventful trip home, in direct contrast to yesterday’s grand tour of Boston. But, of course, I rarely get my first choice.
It started out well enough, with that super-delicious instant coffee provided for my convenience in the room. I certainly wasn’t hungry after last night’s beef and tater fest. In fact, I couldn’t imagine eating anything until I got home this evening, or maybe whatever snacks they might serve us on the plane. Even a bag of toffee peanuts and a Coke would probably hold me over.
The cab ride to Logan went smoothly, and by the time I got my bag checked and had my boarding pass with 15 minutes to spare for the 9:30 a.m. flight, my suspicion gland was active. Too many things went so easily this morning. Some little black cloud is waiting just over the horizon for me, I’m sure of it.
Not that I’m superstitious or anything, but I prefer the aisle seat. Maybe it has to do with being able to get out first in case of an emergency or something. I’m not sure. Windows on an airplane scare me, for some reason. Even when the pilot announces, “If you look out the right side of the plane, you can see the entire Grand Canyon in one view!” I don’t make a move; I just concentrate on devouring the in-flight magazine.
When they started boarding, I got in line and handed my boarding pass to a rather handsome young lad in a flight crew uniform. His eyes gave off a certain sparkle when he looked at me. That’s nice, but I just want to get on the plane and go home now, thank you very much.
I’ve never been in an Airbus before. I guess it’s kind of nice. Doesn’t look too different from American-made planes.
The seat was easy to locate and I looked around one more time to set my bearings. Then, as if planned, once I got settled snugly in my aisle seat with two empty ones to my right, I heard the words I feared, “Excuse me, I’ve got the window.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Wait a second! This guy is gorgeous. I don’t easily get worked up like this over other men, but he is definitely a looker. Probably in his late twenties, short brush-cut blonde hair, dazzling blue eyes, a torso sculptured by Michelangelo and tanned under Mother Nature. I momentarily lost my balance as I tried to stand up. Maybe my shoes caught each other or I kicked the seat mounting by accident, but I ended up in his Davidian arms.
“Easy, there, pops,” he coos at me.
So, he’s standing there, keeping me from melting into the carpeting, and all I can think of is, “Sorry.” I’m sure that really impressed him. I struggled to regain my fly-away composure and eventually managed to upright myself. I stepped, cautiously, into the aisle to allow Adonis to pass through. It was difficult to keep my eyes off his backside; however, my consciousness jumped out of my bones when I heard a familiar voice, once again.
“Hello, Stone. I see you’ve met Agent Hank.” The smirk on his pudgy face urged me to punch him in the mouth right then and there, but I figured I’d rather complete my life without any blotches on my escutcheon. Top Dog slid into the middle seat and the whole picture came into view.
Agent Hunk stabbed his right hand in my direction as Top Dog completed the introductions. “Hank, this is Stone. He used to work for me, years ago.”
“Hey, Stone.”
Oh, now I have to talk to him without drooling all over myself. “How’s it going?” We shook the regulation handshake, and then we all sat down.
How did the bastard manage to get seats, and right next to me, on a flight that was sold-out? I’m beginning to think there’s nothing he can’t get away with. That’s kind of scary.
“What a coincidence,” I whispered in Top Dog’s left ear.
His face screwed up before he responded, “How so?”
I considered a few nasty retorts, but settled on, “It’s a nice surprise to see you again so soon, that’s all.”
“There are no coincidences,” he jabbed a finger at me, “Remember that.” He then deliberately turned his attention (affection) to the Hunk.
Well, here’s that dark cloud I had been anticipating. With its own silver lining, to boot. I wonder if Top Dog just drools over him, similar to the way I would guess he fawned over me, or if they’ve consummated their relationship. You never can tell with Top Dog.
The plane took off without a hitch and we were on the way home, well, at least I was. I couldn’t imagine where agent Hunk lives. Probably West Hollywood or Palm Desert. He looks like that trendy, circuit party, bunny boy type that Henry told me about who can do X and Schnapps shots until dawn. Oh, what I’ve been missing.
The rather attractive flight attendant wheeled the cart up to our row and asked me, “What can I get you, Gorgeous?”
When I turned my head to face his smiling puss, he then whispered, “I’ll give you a premium beverage, comp.” Sounds good. I’ll have to start learning how to use this power I seem to have acquired. “What’ll you have?”
I can’t resist a freebie. “Something stout.”
“Anchor Steam okay?”
I had never tried that before. I think it’s from San Francisco. “Sure.”
He uncapped a bottle and placed it on a napkin in front of me on the tray. Then he handed me a few foil packets, “Here, this is in case you get hungry later.” He smiled that secret smile and then turned his attention to Top Dog. “And you, sir,” all business now, “what can I get you?”
My old boss spat out his commands to the attendant, “Gin and Tonic for me, headphones and a Mountain Dew for my friend, here.” He stabbed his right thumb in the direction of his traveling companion.
“Yes, sir,” the attendant replied snappily. I’m thinking he’s done a few years in the military, or maybe a few men from the military. He expertly popped open the can of tonic, scooped some ice into the cup, filled it almost all the way with the tonic, fished a pre-sliced lime from another cup, squeezed it over the tonic water, dropped it in and then filled the rest of the cup from a miniature bottle of Bombay. Perfect. The fat old queen on the bottle goes to the fat old queen sitting next to me.
The attendant placed the requisite napkin on Top Dog’s tray and bent over to place it with military fastidiousness. He seemed to linger there just a moment too long, but it gave me a chance to sample his cologne. Paco Rabanne. It suits him. Then he stood up, resuming his regal bearing once more.
A plastic bag with headphones appeared from a secret drawer, and we passed these over to Hank Hunk. In the meantime, our private bartender poured a toxic-looking, pale green soda over some ice cubes. He then handed the cup, on the required napkin, to Top Dog to pass on. As he unlocked the wheels of his cart, the attendant tossed a pack of Goldfish on each of the other two guys’ trays. Top Dog produced a crumpled ten out of his pocket and stuffed it into the vest of our flight attendant, as if he were a Chippendale dancer or something. “Keep the change, son.” Oh, brother.
“Thank you, sir!” he responded in obedient fashion.
“Thank you,” I murmured with a small smile.
“No, thank you!” and he was off on his merry way to make other passengers happy, but not as happy as he had made me.
Expectedly, Top Dog broke into my momentary tranquility. “Good. Now we can talk.”
I shuffled in my seat so that I could face him better. “What about Agent Boy Toy?” By this time Hank had wrestled the packaged headphones out of their cocoon and was shaking rhythmically from side to side, presumably listening to the piped-in sound tracks, but who can tell.
“Nah, he’s off in music land,” Top Dog waved his hand dismissively.
“Does he know?”
“Know what?” he asked playfully.
“You know what.” I was not in a mood to play games.
He turned serious quickly. “No, it’s still just you and me, kid.”
I guess he’s about the only one I know who can get away with calling me “kid.”
“Didja get it?” Persistent, inquisitive bastard.
A memory from a few days ago popped into my consciousness. “Let me ask you something first. Did Ted You-Know-Who really know what happened?”
His eyebrows shot up, “What do you mean?”
I searched for a way to describe my niggling thought. “It seemed a bit odd that he knew about the you-know-what and forgot, yet he remembered my name without prompting.”
“You’re so hard to forget,” and he casually placed his left hand on my right arm as though we were intimates. In his wicked wet dreams, maybe.
I shook my arm to get him to let go. He took the hint, after a second too long. “And he said something like, ‘You’re the man. I’m counting on you.’ It really creeped me out. Of course, with all the beer that I had, it’s difficult to remember almost anything.”
Top Dog chuckled and shook his head in a wig-wag. “Oh, Stone, Stone, Stone,” he was really beginning to remind me of Muriel Humphrey now. Talk about being creeped out. “When I was inside with Teddy, he saw you getting out of the helicopter and asked who the supermodel was. Meaning you, of course.” I rolled my eyes without anyone seeing it. “I merely reminded him who you were. He remembered instantly. Guess you left a lasting impression, boy,” and he gave a little wink in my direction. Barf. How much gin did flyboy put in that tonic? There couldn’t have been that much room left after all that ice, tonic and lime. “He started telling me about the pranks he used to play on you back at the Castle. Sounds like you’re an easy chump. So suspicious, yet so gullible at times.” He laughed a private laugh. “So I told him if he wanted to pull a good one on you, go up and say, ‘You’re the man. I’m counting on you.’” Oh, cripes. “He asked me what that meant, and I told him not to worry about it because you,” indicating me with a pointed finger, “would understand. That’s all I told him. I’m surprised he had the guts to pull it off.” He laughed to himself again, wiping his eyes with his cuffs.
The bastard.
“So, what’d you bring me?” Back to business.
My diplomacy circuit kicked in. “First, let me thank you for the new passport. I was worried how I was going to pull this off with ID from 1964.”
Again, he placed his hand on my arm. “Poppa thinks of everything for his special boys.” The sappy grin on his face made the whole thing even more unbearable.
I tried to shake his hand off, but this time he had a tighter grip. “Now, tell Poppa everything he wants to hear.” At this point he increased his grip, as though I was an uncooperative informant.
I really hate it when he calls himself “Poppa.” It sounds so… incestuous.
After swallowing hard and making one last vain attempt to wrestle my arm free, I relaxed in order to get through the next few minutes. A swig of the beer first. Oooh, this is nasty, bitter putrid stuff. I think I could get comfortable with it pretty fast. An uncontrollable shudder from the bitterness rocks me for a moment. Well, just one more quick pull; it’s going to be a long flight and I might as well soften up the bumpy parts.
“Okay,” I finally start to answer. His impatient glare tells me I’d better get on with it. “I got the parents’ names, but the address and phone number are very out of date.”
“To be expected.” He eased up a bit on his grip, now that I’m talking.
“But the father’s name is fairly unusual and I’m hoping it won’t be too difficult to track him down.”
He gently squeezed my arm. “How can I help?”
Oh, time for some more diplomacy, “Thanks. I think I can take it from here.” This last attempt of snapping my arm from his grasp finally worked. Probably caught him off guard while he was machinating.
“Good work, son. Good work.” He dashed off the dregs of his drink. “I want a detailed report, weekly, preferably by e-mail. Understood?”
Okay, that’s it. I’m retired. I’m not in anyone’s servitude. Especially this overstuffed pederastic megalomaniac. I took a big swig of the Anchor Steam to soften the edge. “Look, you’re not my boss anymore.”
“But, but…” I wasn’t going to allow him to spoil my long overdue soliloquy.
“I am retired! I was a goddamned fucking chief of police. I’m doing you a goddamned favor out of the goodness of my tender fucking heart. If you want me to just hand over everything I’ve got right now and let you finish it up. Fine. You just say the word. Otherwise, get your nasty, bloated red nose out of my tight little ass and leave me the hell alone! I’ll tell you what I find when I find it. Because I’m going to be on my time. My schedule. If you want Stone to be your man, then back the hell off and give me the same goddamned respect that you give your twinky little play toys!” Damn, this beer is good!
Luckily Agent Play Toy had drifted off to la-la land and was oblivious to my tirade. Unfortunately, some of the people in the surrounding seats couldn’t avoid hearing me, and I swear a few of them actually applauded. With all that beer, it was getting tough to tell fiction from fantasy.
Top Dog slumped back into his chair with a simple smile on his face. He sniffled then cleared his throat. “You got balls, boy. I hoped you would eventually figure that out for yourself.” He gently patted the back of my hand and turned toward the window, jostling the sleeping beauty.
There was one more mouthful in the bottle and it went down sour, burning and acid. God. I love this stuff!
Just as I put the empty bottle back on the tray, the friendly flight attendant swooped down to replace it with a fresh, cold one. “You go, girl,” he said with a knowing wink which I had no idea what it meant. It was the first time anyone had referred to me in the feminine. I didn’t like the sound or the feel of it at all. The remnants of the last beer welled up at the back of my throat and I briefly considered handing the new bottle back to him for making such a rude, insulting remark, but as soon as I lifted it up and felt the cool, sweaty glass in my hand, I changed my mind and took a big gulp instead.
The in-flight movie looked like some stupid romantic comedy with that little gook, Leonardo Di Caprio, and some indistinguishable ingénue. Not what I’m in the mood for right now. As I took another swig of brew, I turned to see Top Dog and his little boy chatting intimately. That was the last image I remember before gently drifting off to la-la land myself.
– ♦ –
When I regained consciousness, two hours had passed and my head hurt a little. Top Dog sat staring at Hank, while Hank stared at Di Caprio’s bare chest on the screen.
The flight was scheduled to land at 11:15, Central Time, but the captain announced that we had hit unexpected headwinds and would most likely be landing closer to 11:30. Well, that’s not too bad. It just means 15 more minutes of Top Dog.
“Well, look who’s joined the land of the living.” He still has that punch in the mouth coming his way.
“I shouldn’t have had that second beer.”
“Your personal flight attendant seems to be taking very good care of you,” spoken with a slightly envious note to it.
“Yeah, whatever.” Hank was laughing at something happening in the movie. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle whenever he smiled. I could see the movie credits rolling, and Agent Adonis started making silent little applause gestures without actually bringing his hands together. Guess he really enjoyed the show. A few million dollars for Leonardo, ninety minutes of enjoyment for the Hunk.
As the plane landed at O’Hare and we taxied to the gate, Top Dog shared some relevant information with me. “Hank and I won’t be getting off the plane with you.” I’m certainly glad to hear that. “We’re continuing on to Tokyo.”
How nice. And good, he won’t be around to annoy me. “A little vacation?”
“Top secret. Government business. Need-to-know basis only.” Like I care. “Can’t discuss it with civilians who no longer have clearance privileges.” That indelible smirk is just begging to be smacked.
“I’ll let you know when I get something definite.”
“Definitely.” The cold stare of a man defeated. For now. “Keep in touch.”
As I turned and started out of the plane, I looked back over my shoulder and tossed, “Don’t hold your breath.” I turned my head to see where I was going and didn’t look his way again. I secretly hoped he would hold his breath until his beady eyes rolled up into their withered sockets and his icy heart stopped beating.
My favorite flight attendant stood near the door murmuring “Thank you,” to each departing passenger. When I got there, he grabbed my hand, shook it warmly and said, “Thanks for flying with us. I hope to see you onboard again soon,” and he flashed that certain smile. Yep, I’ve got to figure out how this thing works.
“Thank you. You’ve been most accommodating,” which made his smile widen. He eventually let go of my hand when I turned to walk onto the exit ramp.
As I walked away I could still hear his cheerful, “Thank you, thank you.” He was kind of sweet, if not a bit too effeminate for me. I hope he’s got a nice person at home waiting for him.
Finally. Back in Chicago. Only 15 minutes behind schedule. Probably another half hour until I get my bag back. This would be a good time to get rid of some of that beer.
I turned into the first men’s room outside the arrival gate. While standing at the urinal, a man in his forties stepped up to the one next to me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. The edge of his mouth turned up ever so slightly.
Okay, now that I know I’ve got this magic aura, how do I turn it off? There are some things I would rather do without being gawked at. This is one of them. As much as I would like to meet a nice fellow, I don’t consider the restroom at O’Hare Airport to be the special place for that to happen.
Unfortunately for me, I had a lot of beer to recycle. That kept me standing there longer than I would have liked. The guy didn’t move away until after I was finished. I felt so uncomfortable and icky. No wonder gays get such a bad rap. I took an extra few seconds to wash my hands thoroughly. He stood at the sink next to me and then at the electric hand drier as well. I just hope he doesn’t follow me home to Indiana. Maybe he should. That would be just punishment. They don’t tolerate his type where I come from.
Back out in the jungle of moving bodies and luggage carts, I aimed myself in the direction of the baggage claim. As I walked, I couldn’t help but think about what just happened to me in the men’s room. Are there gay men everywhere? Or am I just starting to notice them more now? It seems as though every place I’ve gone over the last two days, I have encountered some kind of special attention or other from men. I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting more paranoid. Maybe I’m just starting to notice what’s been there all the time. One thing is for certain, I’ve got to figure out how to control this whatever it is I’ve got going. I’ll have to ask my buddy Henry when I get back into town.
By the time I got down to the baggage claim area, the carousel for my flight had already begun to move. Slowly at first, one bag, then another appeared up from the mysterious depths below. Of course, with me getting checked in early, my bag will probably be one of the last ones out.
Five minutes and seventy-five pieces of luggage later, my suitcase ascended the conveyor belt. When it reached the top, it obediently fell over and took a short ride until it passed my way. I reached over and snatched it. Okay, now I’m almost home.
Outside, in the warm, humid, smoggy air, I walked over to the area where I usually wait for the shuttle to take me back to Indiana. I wonder how long it will be until one of them is headed in my direction and we can gather enough people going the same way to make it worth the driver’s while. Sometimes they wait for a half hour out of protocol, and other times they just give it a few minutes before figuring out I’m the only one headed out to the boonies.
So it’s just about noon here in Chicago. I happened to feel around in my pocket and found two foil packages of Goldfish. A little snack would be welcome right now. I chugged down the tiny cheddar crackers and then walked over to the nearest garbage can to throw the wrapper away. After making the deposit, a uniformed driver holding a clipboard approached and asked where I was headed. I told him my destination. He whistled the “Boy, that’s far” tune and then said, “Go over to shuttle three. He’ll take you,”
And he pointed off to my right.
“Thank you.” I nodded. With bag in hand, I walked over to the waiting van. The driver stood at the back with the rear doors open. He reached out to take my suitcase.
“Where you going?”
As I handed him the luggage, I said, “Fort Dyck.” The official pronunciation is “Fort Dake,” or more like “Day-ick,” but, of course, we hear everything from the obvious “Fort Dick” to the more disgusting “Fort Dyke.”
His eyebrows kicked up a few notches and he tossed my bag into the back of the van with a pile of assorted others. He slammed the doors shut and then opened the side door for me. Inside was a family of five African-Americans. They were headed to Gary. That’s almost halfway to my destination.
I snuggled into the only available seat, last row. I thought about pulling out the other bag of crackers, but that would probably be rude to eat in front of strangers.
After the driver got us out of the O’Hare complex, he headed south on I-94. It would probably be twenty or thirty minutes to Gary, if there weren’t any unexpected traffic snarls. It was way too early for the evening rush hour, but you never know what kind of idiots are driving out there. Ever since Clinton abolished the 55-mile-an-hour national speed limit, people doing 80 or 90 weave in and out of traffic dangerously. I guess they’re in a hurry to get to an accident. Please just let me get back home without too much delay.
As we drove out of Chicago, the scenery gradually shifted from urban to suburban to industrial. Once we headed south from Gary, it would go from industrial to rural. I am so looking forward to seeing open space again. The last few days have been spent in severe civilization without much greenery. I can stand it only for so long, but I need to see trees and open fields to feel recharged, like I’m truly alive. Asphalt and concrete make me feel claustrophobic. I’m not a city boy, and I don’t plan to be one any time in the near future. When you’re raised in the wide open spaces, you just get used to that sort of thing.
– ♦ –
Once the family I shared the shuttle with departed in Gary, the driver got back on the interstate and then headed south on I-65. Since I was the only passenger at that point, I figured it would be okay to eat the other bag of Goldfish. Guess I was hungry after all. There was no place to throw the wrapper away, so I just tucked it into my pocket for later disposal.
Eventually we arrived at Exit 245 and we headed west on the state route that leads to my home. A few miles later I could see the scattered houses on the outskirts of town. We passed U.S. Route 41 and I asked the driver to turn right on Second Street. The next cross street is Grant, and my house is right around the corner, 209 East Grant Street, just a short, two-block walk to City Hall. A cozy two-bedroom, modest house built in 1880.
I handed the driver my debit card, glad that I had been able to transfer the funds by telephone this morning before leaving for the airport. Instead of including the tip on the card, I handed him the few dollars’ worth of coins I had left in my pocket, which would probably have been a nicer gesture if it hadn’t included an empty Goldfish wrapper as well. I snatched the bag back with a modicum of embarrassment, and he smiled. We finished the transaction and he opened the back doors, allowing me to retrieve my bag. I waved goodbye as he drove off, knowing he has at least an hour drive ahead of him, if he’s going directly back to O’Hare.
It is kind of amazing that I can live within an hour’s drive of such a large urban center and yet you would never know it from the beautiful lawns and trees of our little town.
I opened the front patio door and stepped onto the porch. I had to put my bag down because I couldn’t locate the key immediately. It had somehow gotten into the mischievous Goldfish wrapper and it took me a few minutes to figure that out. I felt stupid for a minute, but the lock opened with a healthy clack, and I was home at last.
The clock on the wall read 2:05, but I really wasn’t too sure. It felt like it could have just as easily been 6:00 or 7:00 in the evening, with all the activity I’ve already had today.
The phone machine light indicated I had messages waiting, the suitcase begged to be unpacked, but my tired body said, “Rest!” and I sat down in my easy chair, hit the power button on the TV remote, setting it to CNN. I pushed back in the chair, bringing up the footrest. Within minutes I was snoring away to talking heads on Crossfire.
– ♦ –
I woke up in time to hear the wimpy liberal guy whine, “And that’s why the presence of the American fleet in the Mediterranean is threatening to the Palestinians. We have to move the ships to a comfortable distance so that they’ll return to the bargaining table willingly, and not out of duress!” I switched that shit right off.
There was only one message on the machine. A reminder that the high school is having a rummage sale this weekend, and that we should call the office if we needed to have them pick up any large items we wished to donate.
The luggage still begged me to unpack, and I took most of the contents and threw them in the laundry. The rest of the non-washables I returned to their proper places. I finished at around 3:30 and I dragged the empty suitcase down to the basement where I normally keep it, even though a nagging voice in my head kept telling me I would be needing it again soon.
Even though I had been away a few days, there was relatively little e-mail waiting for me. Mostly unwanted solicitations for home mortgages, credit cards and Viagra.
I entered the URL for our special government people finder. Again, I would not trust the regular websites to have the up-to-the-minute information that I require. After three levels of login codes and passwords, I get to the main input screen.
The search for Zachary and Kathleen Walsh took a few minutes to process; the database is extensive and lists every known person in this country. The screen changed and I found three possible matches: A Zack Walsh in Morgantown, West Virginia, another Zack Walsh in Los Angeles, but the best news is that there is a listing for a Zachary and Kathleen Walsh in San Francisco.
Guessing that the folks in San Francisco are the ones I’m looking for, I figured I better call the other folks, just in case. If it’s 4:00 here, it’ll be 5:00 in West Virginia. A minute later I was speaking with Zack Walsh number one, a very nice sounding Southern boy who had never been to Boston, and he was too young to match the profile anyway.
In California it would be only 2:00, but I decided to give it a try anyway. The answering machine of Zack Walsh number two picked up, and by the sound of his youthful voice, I could safely rule him out as well.
With nervous fingers, I dialed the number in San Francisco. A woman answered. I asked to speak to Zachary Walsh. She screamed out, “Zack, it’s the phone, for you!” I just wish she had moved the receiver away from her mouth or covered it with her hand first.
In a few seconds I heard a click and a man’s voice yell, “Okay, Kat, I got it!” Another click. “This is Walsh.”
My innards shook as if they were made of jelly. I cleared my throat first, but the frog persisted. “Mr. Walsh,” I had to cough to get rid of the lump, “sorry.”
“That’s okay. What’s this about?” The remnants of a Boston twang lurked in his speech.
I swallowed nervously. “Mr. Walsh, my name is O’Hara.”
“Yes?” He started sounding impatient.
“I put a baby up for adoption in Boston in 1964.”
“Oh my god! Kat, pick up the phone! Pick up the phone!”
A click. “What?” It was the woman who had originally answered.
“It’s Chrissy’s father!” the man announced.
“No shit!”
“I think so. Is that what you’re calling about, Mr. O’Hara?”
I swallowed my uncomfortableness, “Yes, actually.”
“Oh my god!” The woman bleated.
“That’s what I said,” Zack contributed. “How did you ever find us?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy,” and I wasn’t about to launch into the whole episode, “but thank goodness you folks gave permission for the birth parents to contact you.”
“Did we do that, Zack?”
“Yeah, but we never told them we moved to San Francisco.”
“I guess you could say I was highly motivated to find you.”
The woman asked, “What about Mrs. O’Hara?”
“Oh, she’s been gone for a few years now.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” and she truly sounded sincere about it.
“Yeah, well, she was part of the reason we hadn’t attempted to contact you before. She didn’t want to know anything about the baby. It took me a while to work up the courage, but I finally did. I’m so glad I found you two.”
“Yes,” Zack agreed. “We had always hoped that the birth parents would eventually step forward. We certainly didn’t expect that it would have taken so long.”
“Well, better late than never, Mr. Walsh.”
“Call me Zack, please.”
“And I’m Kat.”
I had to open the passport to remind me, “Christopher.” That sounded stilted.
“Well, Christopher, I’m guessing you want to meet Chrissy.”
“That’s why I called.”
“Yeah, well that’s going to be a bit difficult.”
“How so?”
Kat answered, “We don’t really know where… You’re probably going to think we’re lousy parents, but Chrissy ran off to a commune years ago and we haven’t had any contact since.”
“I think it was 1982, Hon,” Zack informed us.
Oh boy, a commune. Another damned liberal, just like his parents.
“Well, Zack, Kat, I’m going to be out your way on business later this week. Perhaps I could visit with you.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Kat squealed. “You’re welcome to stay with us, if you don’t already have a place.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m all taken care of.” Lies, lies, lies. “How about if I call you when I get there.”
“Excellent!” piped up Zack. “You seem to have our number. Give us a call when you get into town. We’ll be looking forward to meeting you soon, Christopher.”
I then realized he was speaking to me, “Oh, yes, me, too. I’ll be talking to you later.”
“Okay, bye.” Click.
“Bye.” Click.
I hung up with the biggest lump in my throat. My heart pounded bombastically in my chest. I am still not used to having to keep up such subterfuge. Guess I’m going to get some practice.
– ♦ –
With my hand still shaking, I called Henry, my friend from the force. He wanted to know where I went and I suggested we meet for dinner. He thought it was a great idea. We agreed that he would pick me up at 6:00 and we would go to our favorite Italian restaurant.
I slumped back in the easy chair and fell asleep thinking about having to go to San Francisco.
Henry honking his horn woke me up. I sat upright, stood up, put a few lights on, grabbed my key and wallet, and dashed out the door.
Henry drove a beautiful silver-gray 2001 Honda Accord. Generally you don’t see many foreign cars in our parts, but he went up to Gary especially to buy this one. I opened the door and sat down on the soft gray fabric. As he pulled away I fastened the seat belt. His auburn hair reflected bits of late-in-the-day sunlight.
His wide face held a big smile and big teeth. “Long time, no see, stranger. So where did you go?” He turned down Third Street and then made a left onto the state route.
“Well, I can’t tell you much.”
He turned left into the parking lot of Monica’s. “But you still have to tell me everything!”
As we got out of the car and walked toward the door, I thought, No, I can’t tell you anything.
Inside we sat at our usual table, and our usual server asked us what we wanted to drink. Darlene is a bouncy, blonde Midwestern girl from solid Dutch stock. Someday she’ll make one of the local boys a good wife, and mother, but for now she plays the field. And her field is rather large.
I didn’t feel like having any more alcohol today, so I just ordered a Coke. Henry had a different sort of day, and he asked for a beer.
The menu looked just the same as last time I saw it, and I decided on a small Thick Crust Healthy Heart pizza. Monica’s is famous for their Thin Crust pizza, but I’m Midwestern through and through. Give me the thickest, grainiest crust you can make. The Healthy Heart has less cheese and more leafy veggies. That’s for us health-conscious, over-50 (or 60) types.
Henry, a bit younger than me, ordered the Sicilian Sub, a pile of artery-clogging meats (ham, bacon and pepperoni) in a big greasy roll. I guess that would also qualify as very Midwestern.
Once Darlene had brought us our drinks, taken our orders and walked out of earshot, Henry started bugging me about where I had gone. I tried to think of just what I could tell him. I told him that my old Secret Service boss contacted me and requested I help with something ultra-confidential.
Henry is a staunch liberal, and probably the only person in town with a Gore/Lieberman sign still in his window. It helps when you are the Assistant Chief of Police. No one questions your political beliefs. At least not to your face. He would have exploded if I had been able to tell him what had happened and where I had been and with whom I spoke.
Darlene arrived with the food, and not a moment too soon. I had worked up quite an appetite. She set down in front of me a petite pizza with a mound of vegetables on top, and in front of Henry a large roll with vegetables falling out of it.
He looked up with alarm. “Darlene, what is this?”
Her deer-in-the-headlights expression is probably very attractive to the amorous young fellows she meets, but she’s at the wrong table for that now. “Didn’t you order the Veggie Sub?”
“No,” emphatically from the carnivore, “I asked for the Sicilian Sub.”
She slapped herself on the forehead and gawked, “What was I thinking? I ordered you what I wanted.” She reached down and picked up his plate. “I’ll go order you a fresh one. I can eat this one. Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?”
“Nah, I’ll just nibble on Stone’s pizza.” He picked up his almost-empty glass and added, “and maybe another beer, when you get a chance.”
She shot back over her shoulder as she walked toward the kitchen, “Sure, Henry.” She deposited the veggie sandwich on an empty table and then disappeared through the double doors.
While he waited for his replacement, Henry grabbed some of the vegetables falling off my pizza and gnawed unhappily. He also gave me an update about what has been happening in the Police Department. Same old stuff, different names.
Darlene returned with the correct sandwich and a fresh beer.
Henry chided, “Thanks, Darlene, but you’re not getting a tip tonight.”
“How would that be any different?” she mocked.
“Oh, go away little girl and let me eat.” He reached down to grab his steaming sub with a death grip. Our waitress minced off with a bit of a titter. She stood near the table where she had placed the other sandwich and grazed languidly.
I observed Henry demolish the oversized stack of fleshy meats. Sauce trickled down the left side of his mouth. He didn’t seem to care.
“I’m thinking about taking a trip to San Francisco.” This would be a good time for me to talk, while he fills his face.
“Oh really?” he asked gleefully through a mouthful of sandwich.
“Yeah. There’s some things I need to take care of, and I might as well make a fun trip out of it.”
“How’re you boys doing?” Darlene popped up out of nowhere.
“Fine. Now go away. Police business,” mugged Henry.
“I’ll get you another Coke, Stone,” and off she toodled, big grin and all.
He turned back to me, “Have you made your reservations yet?”
“No, this is just in the thinking, planning stage.”
He set the remnant of his sub on the plate to tell me something really important, “Then you have to stay at Beck’s Motor Lodge on Market Street.”
“Why?” I mumbled through a mouthful of spinach and broccoli.
“That’s where I stayed last time, and it had been recommended by a friend.”
Henry’s “friend” is probably an old trick. He doesn’t seem to retain real friends very easily. In fact, he’s at the limit of my tolerance. I only maintain this association because of how he helped me gain acceptance of myself. Plus, he’s the only other gay man I know in this remote village.
“What’s so special about Beck’s?”
After sucking in the last bit of fallen meat and a swig of beer, “The place is always full of guys.” He busied himself wiping his greasy hands on the tattered napkin. “They leave their doors open and walk around, looking into each other’s rooms.”
That doesn’t sound appealing at all.
“It’s only a few blocks from the Castro, kind of in the heart of things.” The smile on his face suggested more-than-fond memories.
“I don’t know, Henry. I prefer quieter places usually.”
“Aww, Stone, c’mon. You’ve got to start living your life before you’re too old to enjoy it!” he clanked the empty pilsner on the wooden tabletop.
One thing I can say about Henry: he sure doesn’t hold anything back. That’s why he’s so popular. Especially because he’s usually dead-on right. It’s just his confrontational style that makes people uncomfortable.
“You know, you’re right. If I’m going to all the trouble to go to San Francisco, I might as well get my money’s worth.”
“Now you’ve got it.” He reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve his pad and pencil. “Let me write that down for you,” and he scribbled out the name of the place. “And a few more suggested stops.” He wrote, “Badlands, Does Your Mother Know, Eagle Sunday Beer Bust, Eros” before handing me the piece of paper.
“That looks like a full itinerary.”
“Just a few things you have to do before you leave San Francisco.”
It felt like a bit of a set-up, but I took the small sheet with his recommendations and studied it some more. “You’ve been to these places?” I wanted to know.
“Oh yeah,” big smile. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Stone.”
“Here’s your Coke,” Once again our blonde server magically appeared. I quickly shoved the paper into my pocket. She glared at my movement as the replaced the empty glass with a full one.
“Police business,” advised Henry.
“Monkey business, if you ask me.”
“But nobody has, darling.” Henry likes to flirt.
When I looked down, my plate had been mysteriously emptied. Guess I ate the whole pizza without much thought.
“Let me get these things out of your way,” and she quickly piled the plates, glasses and used napkins, swooping the collection up off the table in one practiced motion. “I’ll be right back with your tab.”
“Take your time,” Henry teased.
Visions of orgiastic young men slithering around a disco-ball-lit dance floor whirled in my mind. It both excited and frightened me. Henry sat across from me, concentrating on picking his teeth with his pocketknife.
When Darlene returned with the check, he snatched it out of her hand, saying, “This one’s on me, Stone. Glad to see you.”
“Henry, you still owe me a ride in a squad car, lights flashing, siren going and all.”
He handed her a twenty, “Yeah, sure. You commit the crime and I’ll supply the ride.”
She grimaced at him as she took the payment over to the register. “Will you be wanting any change back?” Even though she knew he had intended her to have the whole thing.
“No, you keep the change. Put it toward your college fund or something.”
“Thanks, big spender,” and she mocked him with a sneer. “Hey, speaking of college,” she’s yelling this across the dining room and all the other patrons have to listen, “I’m starting over at Apple Valley next semester.”
“Oh, really? They teach underwater basket weaving there?” Oh, Henry, lighten up. We stood and started moving toward the exit.
“For your information, officer,” snidely spat out, “I’m going through their two-year beauty-school program. I’ll have a beautician’s license when I’m finished.”
That’s a mighty scary thought.
“Maybe I could cut your hair, for free, as practice.”
“Maybe you could get the order right next time.” He held the door open for me. Darlene stood there with her face scrunched up, glaring at Henry. I think it’s about time to go.
We got into the car without conversation. On the way he probed, “You’re sure quiet tonight.”
I snapped my head in his direction. “Guess I’ve got a lot on my mind. And you’ve given me a few things to think about, as well.”
He pulled up in front of my house. “Well, Stone, there’s a whole world out there you’ve never seen before. I think it’s time for you to take a bite of the apple.”
Another frightening, if not biblical, image. I opened the door and got out. “I’m still pretty full from dinner,” I offered. He chuckled awkwardly. “Thanks for the food and the company. Oh, and the recommendations.”
“You’re welcome, Stone. Just have a good time, and then tell me all about it when you come back,” he said with a broad grin.
Yeah, like you’re the first person I want to tell. I guess my list of confidants is very limited. “We’ll see,” I responded as I closed the car door.
The taillights moved off into the dusk of Grant Street, and I turned to go into my house. I sure did have a lot to think about.
It has been a rather full day and I’m ready to sleep now. As I finished my nightly routine, I wondered what lay waiting for me in San Francisco.
After turning all the lights out, I climbed into bed and eased off to sleep with visions of courteous waiters, blonde hunks, helpful flight attendants and curious men at urinals dancing through my head.