Читать книгу Some Go Hungry - J. Patrick Redmond - Страница 14

Chapter Six

December

Dad was feeling better and he was ready to get out of the house, so he agreed to watch the restaurant on this Friday night before Christmas Sunday. I had called him after my encounter with Old Man Atkinson, not so much to tell Dad the story, but to get the old man’s cynicism out of my system. Old Man Atkinson had rattled me. “I’d like to have the evening off, maybe head to Evansville and meet up with some friends,” I said. “I know a lot of people will be out tonight, given it’s Christmas weekend and all.”

“We got a full staff tonight?” Dad asked.

“Yes. All but Trace. He found someone to work for him. He’s got a holiday thing at church. I’ll have everything ready to go for you,” I said.

“I need to get out of this house anyway. I’m going stir crazy. Get the second shift going, and then you can leave. Tell them I’ll be in around four-thirty p.m.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, my voice hollow.

“I’ll open tomorrow too. You can come later in the afternoon. If you’re going to Evansville, I know you’ll be out late,” Dad said.

“Damn, I caught you at the right time. Can I have a raise too?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” I said with a giggle. I always knew what buttons to punch with Dad. Money was always a button with him.

“Enjoy yourself. Have fun. And for God’s sake, don’t drink and drive.”

“I’ll probably just stay the night somewhere. See you tomorrow.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

After I got the second-shift kitchen staff settled and the servers and bussers lined out for the night, I took off. It would be a busy night, but not a typical Friday rush. Christmas weekend business was always a little off since so many families were either traveling or gathering at home. In larger cities like Indianapolis—or even Evansville, for that matter—restaurants were packed, people went out. But in Fort Sackville, Christmas was still a celebration to be held at home.

After I puttered about my house for a bit and fixed myself an early dinner, I picked out my clothes for the evening. I was happy I had decided to be around some gay people. My life in Fort Sackville was riddled with heterosexuals, and at times it got the best of me. I didn’t feel free to be myself. In Evansville, at Teana Faye’s—the gay bar—I could be me. It was my Indiana version of Miami Beach. Plus, there was always the possibility I’d meet someone—a guy to dance with, ask on a date. There was possibility in Evansville. Fort Sackville was impossibility.

After showering and getting dressed, it was almost ten p.m. The nice thing about going out in Evansville was the time change—they were an hour behind Fort Sackville, so I could leave my house at ten p.m. and arrive at Teana Faye’s at ten p.m.—just before the place got busy. Of course, the drive home wasn’t as nice.

Looking and feeling even better, I jumped in my Infiniti G-35—my snazzy sports-car, as Rosabelle called it—and made my way through Fort Sackville to Highway 41 South. Highway 41 was my lifeblood. On more occasions than I could count, it had been my means to escape, my getaway north to Terre Haute, or south to Evansville. From those neighboring municipalities I could make my way to even bigger cities, like Indianapolis or Louisville. I tried to get out of Fort Sackville, away from my life there, every chance I got.

One particular Friday night fourteen years prior changed the trajectory of my life, a time when I was desperately seeking some sign of a gay community before I knew where one might exist. I met Chad Sowers.

I was sitting in the lounge at Chi Chi’s, a Mexican restaurant near the Evansville shopping mall, during an afternoon off. A man in his midtwenties, about a year or two older than I, approached. He had spiky blond hair, sea green eyes, and a crooked smile that invited trouble. His Nordic looks and lean five-foot-eight frame were quite noticeable in the brightly colored bar. He greeted me with chips and salsa and flashed his smile when I ordered a Corona with lime. After he took my order I watched him walk away. I liked his walk.

I felt a tingle in the pit of my torso during those first moments after, a tingle similar to the ones I’d felt as a child during recess at LaSalle Elementary—laboring and pumping my legs, straining to fly higher and higher on the playground swings.

When he returned with the beer, he asked, “So, what’s your name?”

“Grey.”

“Chad. Are you from here?”

“No. Fort Sackville.”

“Fort Sackville! Wow, small town. I’ve driven through it on my way to Indianapolis. Seems kind of redneck.”

“It can be, I suppose. Evansville is the big city.”

Chad grinned. “That’s funny. I never thought of Evansville as a city.”

I squeezed the lime into my Corona and took a sip.

“So, are you in school?” Chad asked. “I had friends that went to Fort Sackville Community College.” He wrapped my spent lime in a cocktail napkin.

“No, my family owns a restaurant. I manage it.”

“That’s cool. What’s it called?”

“Daniels’ Family Buffet.”

“Oh. Lots of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, I bet?

“You got it.”

“Must be nice to have your own restaurant. I’d rather own one than work in one. I’d be out of here if tips weren’t so good.” Chad scanned the lounge.

“This seems to be a happening place,” I said.

Two tables away, a lady who was sitting with her husband was trying to get Chad’s attention, waving her thumb and forefinger, pressed together as if holding a pen, signaling she wanted her check.

“Listen, I’ve got to check my other tables. I’ll put in another Corona for you.”

“Thanks.”

I sipped my beer as Chad dropped a check at the woman’s table, then cleared cocktail glasses from another. The way he moved from table to table told the tale—he was a seasoned server. On his way to the bar, he sailed past the big-screen TV and switched the channel to In Living Color. The skit, with Damon Wayans and David Alan Grier, was a repeat in which their characters—parodies of movie critics—gave two snaps up for a film they were reviewing. Chad mimicked the zigzag motion of the effeminate characters with one hand while balancing his serving tray in the other. I giggled. When Chad reached the bar and dropped off the empty cocktail glasses, he turned and looked in my direction. Again, he flashed that smile. It seemed he somehow knew I was watching him. My face warmed when I realized he was flirting with me.

Thank God I have another beer coming.

Chad returned with the fresh beer and a ramekin of salsa. Retrieving my empty Corona and placing it on his serving tray, he pulled out a chair to sit down, placing his tray on my table.

“Do you think she wanted her check?” he said sarcastically. “Glad she’s gone. She and her husband are regulars. Good tippers, but they run my ass off. They must think this is the River House or something. I hate to tell them, but this isn’t fine dining. They never order food, just fill up on chips and salsa.” He watched the couple disappear behind saloon-style doors.

“I guess I’m kind of doing the same,” I said.

“No, you’re cute. It’s okay.”

I smiled, not knowing how to accept the compliment but enjoying it just the same. I had never experienced a situation like this, open flirting from a guy. I had fantasized the scenario, but never until this moment had it happened. As a small boy—long before I knew about sex—I remember seeing a teenage grill cook in our restaurant who had a protruding Adam’s apple. I thought it made the young man look tough; I knew then that when I got older, I wanted an Adam’s apple like his. From that moment I felt different. My interests had never been like my cousins’, and at the time I felt I couldn’t ask my dad. Although he loved me and never laid a hand on me—unlike the welts and bruises he’d received from Grandpa Collin growing up—he was quick-tempered and easy to anger. On more than one occasion I found myself ducking a hammer or tool-turned-missile during home repairs or restaurant renovations. And I clearly remember the horrible death our plastic outdoor Santa suffered at his hands when it wouldn’t light up one Christmas. Always self-aware, I worked hard at trying to do or be what others expected, so the schoolyard bully wouldn’t beat me up like Dad had done to poor Santa.

But being in a supervisory position at the restaurant gave me some feeling of freedom and independence; I’d begun—subconsciously, perhaps—to seek avenues in which I could explore my feelings. Here I was in Evansville, being served by a cute guy obviously interested in me. I enjoyed the feeling and the attention.

What’s wrong with that?

“So, are you staying in town tonight?” Chad asked.

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“I’m going out with friends after work. You should join us.”

“Where are you going?”

“To a dance club. Come along. You’ll like it.”

“What time are you meeting?”

“Probably ten thirty or so. I’ll need to swing by home to shower and change. Don’t want to go out smelling like burritos.”

“No. That wouldn’t be good,” I replied. “I don’t know if I can sit here for five hours though. If I keep drinking, I’ll be blasted before you get off work.” I scrambled for an excuse to stay. I really wanted to. “I do have friends who live east of here. I suppose I could pop by their place and visit them.”

“It’s a plan,” he replied. “Be back about ten, and we’ll go from here.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Want another beer?”

“Just one, then I ought to go.”

“Okay, one more. After that you’re cut off—until later.” Chad winked.

I smiled. There was no way I was going to visit my friends. They would wonder whom I was meeting and what I was doing. I would drive the hour home, clean up, then return to Evansville before ten p.m.

When I returned to Chi Chi’s that first Friday night, after having driven the hour back to Fort Sackville, after showering and changing clothes, the anticipation was like stepping outdoors into the charged air of a spring thunderstorm riddled with lightening. It had been a long time since I’d felt excited about meeting someone and going out, and even then it was never like this. I’d dated girls in high school. Even as recently as six months ago I’d had one in my bed. It was never thrilling. I usually got drunk, and sex was about the mechanics—void of feeling and emotion, as if I were following the instructions of the mysterious narrator’s baritone voice in the black-and-white health and safety films I’d watched in high school. Tonight, however, I felt what I supposed my straight guy-friends felt when they were meeting a girl.

Having arrived on time and surprised by how busy the lounge was, I found a seat at the bar and ordered a Corona. The earlier beers had worn off hours ago. Chad was not working the lounge, the bartender said—he had a section in the dining room and was about to get cut for the night. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” he said.

Not long after, just as I finished my second beer, Chad came into the bar and sat on the stool beside me, his black apron rolled tight and bulging with the busy night’s tips.

“I just cashed out. What a night! This place is crazy. The first semiwarm day so far, and the whole town decided to celebrate.” He placed his apron on the bar and swiveled in his stool to face me. “Should we have a drink here, or do you want to have one at my house while I get ready?”

“We can have one at your place.”

“I don’t have Corona, only Bud Light. That okay with you?”

“Bud Light is fine.”

Partially unrolling his apron, Chad pulled out a roll of ones, paid my tab, and then leaped down from the stool. I followed him out of the lounge, watching his walk.

“My friends are going to meet us there. They’re not off yet,” he said as we strolled out the front door of Chi Chi’s, the sound of salsa music dancing into the clear night air.

“That’s cool. It’ll be nice to meet some new people.”

I followed Chad’s Honda closely in my convertible as we maneuvered beneath the orange sodium-vapor streetlights to his neighborhood on the northwest side of Evansville. I only knew certain parts of the city: the mall, Chi Chi’s, the downtown area on the banks of the Ohio. He was definitely taking me into foreign territory.

We entered into the living room of the tri-level ranch house, and I sat on the sofa near the large picture window. “I’ll get you that beer,” he said, disappearing from the adjoining dining room into the kitchen. Returning, he handed me the ice-cold beer. “One for you and one for me.” He popped his open. “Help yourself if you want another, they’re in the fridge. I won’t be long.”

“Thanks.”

I sipped my beer and watched Chad slip down the hall toward the bathroom; soon after, I heard him turn on the shower. I fantasized about joining him, but instead I chugged my beer and grabbed another from the refrigerator.

We decided to take my car. Chad directed us to a neighborhood tavern on Franklin Street, and after a few games of pool, which he won, and a couple of beers, we sat down in a booth and ordered another round.

“So are your friends meeting us here?” I asked.

“No. They’re going to the Sho-Bar around midnight. Ever been?”

“Nope. This and Chi Chi’s are pretty much it.”

“It’s a gay bar down the street. They have a drag show on Fridays starting at eleven thirty. I guess you’ve never been to one of those before.”

“No. I haven’t.” I could feel a tinge of unease rising in my chest. “I mean, I have no problem going. I just didn’t know there was a gay bar in Evansville.”

“It’s cool. You’ll like it. I mean, it’s mostly gay, but there are straight people too. Did you see A League of Their Own? You know they filmed most of it here, right? The baseball field and the play-off scenes? The little kid, Stillwell, he’s from here. They had casting calls for extras and he got the part. Tom Hanks and Madonna rented houses out near McCutchanville. Anyway, some of the cast hung out there. I saw Penny Marshall and Rosie O’Donnell a couple times. Lori Petty and Madonna spray-painted their names on the wall. I got to meet Lori. She’s pretty cool.”

“Wow, I’d love to meet Madonna or Rosie. That’s awesome. My dad told me when he was younger that Joan Crawford ate in my grandfather’s diner. She was on a press tour; the train stopped in town. Our restaurant was across from the depot.”

“Tina! Bring me the ax!” Chad said, parodying Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. “Seriously, I promise you’ll like it. The dance music is great, and the queens are a riot. I know a couple of them.” Chad picked up his beer. “Here, a toast.” I lifted mine, and we bumped the longneck bottles together with a clink.

“To your first gay bar.”

“To my first gay bar.”

Sipping my beer, I tried to mask my apprehension. My mind was racing. What if someone from Fort Sackville is there? After a couple more beers, Chad once again paid our tab, and we made our way to the gay bar.

* * *

Walking across the street from the poorly lit gravel lot to the Sho-Bar, my anxiety began to rise. The building, a grubby white two-story shotgun clapboard with a lean-to on its right side, had clearly been neglected among the post–World War homes-turned-apartments and abandoned warehouses. The neighborhood seemed to have been forgotten decades ago. A freight train rumbled through the neighborhood, seemingly anxious to leave.

It never occurred to me that other people might be fearful of recognition. Of course, I hadn’t completely made up my mind I was gay. I’d been living as I thought others expected for so long that I didn’t know how to be myself. For years I’d been a skilled chameleon. It seemed tonight, though, my courage was breaking through. I felt like I was sitting in the last car of a roller coaster, waiting to crest and begin the descent. It seemed I’d always been following the steep incline of the cars ahead. But now I was peaking; I was at the precipice.

I followed Chad to the front door and silently commanded myself to stop being so worried, to continue enjoying the evening. I could walk into a gay bar. If someone I knew saw me, I would deal with it. I was having fun with Chad; I liked him. And Chad was having fun also. It seemed he liked me too.

As we sat in a booth to the left of the dance floor, under Madonna’s fluorescent orange autograph, my attention was focused on the people in the bar. There were so many people my age and older. On Friday nights the Sho-Bar’s cheap draft beer and shot specials attracted a large college crowd. Tonight was no exception. I simultaneously felt both a sense of fear and adventure—perhaps the same adrenaline rush a soldier might feel entrenched behind enemy lines, trying to comprehend his position.

Chad was concerned. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just trying to take it all in.”

“You seem nervous. We can leave if you want.”

“No. It’s all right. I’m all right. I just didn’t expect so many people.”

“Friday nights are busy. Plus it’s the weather,” Chad said. “Everybody’s ready to get out and have some fun.”

“God knows I’m ready to have some fun,” I said.

“So you think you’ll come back here, then?” Chad asked.

“Absolutely. I have to admit, I didn’t realize there were so many gay people. I only know a few at home. They’re not open about it. Not like this,” I said.

“Probably not,” Chad replied hollowly. “I’ve met some people from Fort Sackville here. Not many though. Of course, not everybody here is gay.”

* * *

Now, tonight, driving south on Highway 41 I entered the city limits of Evansville. Local folks often referred to it at Stoplight City. I had made the trip so many times over the years I knew how to catch the lights and exactly what speed to maintain in order to make all the greens before the downtown exit to Teana Faye’s. My thoughts about Chad made the drive fly by. More than a decade had passed since that first night in my first gay bar. It seemed a whole life had been lived. Yet I still found it thrilling to drive into Evansville and spend my time with my community.

* * *

I arrived in downtown Evansville to all kinds of car and foot traffic. Some sort of holiday festival was taking place. Teana Faye’s was located on Riverside Drive, near the old Atkinson Hotel, on the banks of the Ohio River. Atkinson, I thought. I can’t get away from that goddamned name. I wondered if this Atkinson was some relation to Old Man Atkinson in Fort Sackville. He’d blow a carotid artery if he knew of my past overnight escapades at the Atkinson Hotel. It was often where I landed after a night of partying across the street at the gay bar. It was most likely where I’d end up tonight. I usually just left my car in Teana Faye’s lot and walked across to the hotel.

Teana Faye’s lot was packed. It was going to be a fun night. I suspected the place would be busy, but I had no idea the festival was taking place. That would draw a large crowd, and Teana Faye’s would be the place to be afterward. Well, for those that were gay or gay-friendly, at least.

* * *

Teana Faye’s was the gay bar that opened after Sho-Bar mysteriously burned to the ground. Prior to it being a gay bar, it had been the Kingfish Restaurant, a building originally designed to resemble a dual–paddle wheel riverboat—the kind found cruising the Mississippi in Mark Twain novels. Patrons walked the gangway near the starboard paddle wheel to enter its hostess area, which served as the bar’s ID checkpoint. There, a cover charge was collected for advertised events: special-guest drag performances, Christmas shows, and AIDS benefits. Its stern was the bar; its bow, formerly the restaurant’s dining room, was the dance lounge. From the steamboat’s empty pilothouse above the black-and-white checkered dance floor hung a mirrored disco ball and vibrantly colored spotlights that illuminated the drag stage and its glittering silver lamé curtain.

As I entered the bar, I spotted Rio sitting in a booth beside the dance floor. How is that possible? What is he doing here? Why didn’t he tell me he was coming to Indiana? I assumed he was visiting his mother for Christmas. Rio’s mother and father were married but lived separate lives: his corporate lawyer father in Miami, and his mother the only heir to her family’s wealth, farm, and grain mill located on the Ohio River in Mt. Vernon, Indiana, just thirty minutes west of Evansville. It was after Rio graduated law school that he decided to spend a year in southern Indiana learning the business end of his mother’s farm and grain mill. That was the year we met and began dating. Ours was a whirlwind romance, a year filled with zeal and passion. When Rio decided to follow in his father’s footsteps and practice corporate law, he asked me to move with him to Miami Beach, but I refused. I felt I couldn’t leave my family’s business. We tried to model our relationship after his parents—a long-distance love affair—but after a couple of years it cooled into an annual or sometimes semi-annual South Florida rendezvous, with permission to date other men in the interim.

After paying my cover charge at what was once the hostess desk, I had the choice to go right, onto the dance floor and toward Rio, or I could go left into the bar and get a cocktail. I chose left and a cocktail.

I stepped up to the bar and ordered my vodka and club soda, and just as the bartender placed the drink in front of me, I felt a nudge against my shoulder. It was Rio.

“Did you think I didn’t see you walk in?” he asked.

He smiled. I took a deep breath.

“It’s so good to see you, Rio.” I reached out to hug him. His body felt tight and toned. Pulling from our embrace and looking at his face, his bedroom eyes were shining and his temples wrinkled when he smiled. His coal-black hair had slight gray streaks just above his ears. That salt-and-pepper hair, I thought. That skinny, nerdy-cute guy with glasses I’d met in this same bar ten years ago had grown up. He was even sexier in Indiana.

“It’s good to see you too,” he said.

“I sure wasn’t expecting to see you here. I even thought about calling you earlier today but figured you were busy. I never would have guessed you were coming here for Christmas. Why didn’t you say something?” I said.

“Well, truth be told, I wanted to surprise you. I called the restaurant this evening to make sure you were working, and your dad answered the phone. I was going to drive up, surprise you, and have dinner. But your dad said you were heading here. So I thought I’d surprise you here!”

The bartender placed Rio’s drink in front of him.

“Here, I got this,” I said, and pulled a twenty from my wallet.

“Why thank you, sir,” Rio said. “So come on, come sit at my table. I can tell by all the activity downtown this place is going to be hopping. Well, for Evansville. They’re having a show tonight. I don’t want to lose my table.”

I picked up my cocktail and followed him. I had to admit, seeing him was an unexpected Christmas surprise. I began to feel those familiar stirrings in my stomach—butterflies, some might call them. Rio still had a way of making me all gaga on the inside.

Sitting across from him in a booth next to the dance floor was nice; conversation with Rio was always effortless.

“Doug’s here tonight,” he said.

“I thought I saw his picture on the holiday poster,” I said. Doug was my first friend at Teana Faye’s, after Chad and Sho-Bar. Unlike Chad or Rio, Doug and I were never lovers. We were drinking buddies. Doug was also a drag queen.

“Did you know he was a drag queen when you first met him?” Rio asked.

“Yes. He was in drag. Or she was in drag, I should say. His father’s boat was the inspiration for her name: Tekela Bree,” I said.

“That’s right. And Melissa was with him. That’s how you met her?”

I began to sense that maybe Rio was just as nervous as I was, that he was trying to get the conversation going by talking about a past both he and I had spoken about many times over the years.

“No. I met her a couple of weeks after Doug. We struck up a conversation when she found out I was from Fort Sackville. She’d just enrolled in Fort Sackville Community College’s law enforcement program. She wanted to know about the commute from Evansville to campus. I told her it sucked. Especially when the time changed. She asked if I thought she should move there. I said, Hell no! The commute would suck less.”

“That’s right. It’s all coming back to me now,” Rio said.

“Well, okaaay, Celine Dion,” I said, referencing her song.

“All right, smart-ass,” Rio said. We had both finished our drinks rather quickly. “You want another?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked. “It’s kind of early for that, don’t you think?”

“That’s the plan. I’ll get this round,” Rio said. “And remember, I know you. I know exactly what it takes to get you drunk. And other things,” he added.

“Oh, okay. So we’re flirting,” I said.

“No, not flirting. Just happy to see a good friend.”

“An old boyfriend, you mean.”

“That too. I’m going to get us another round.” Rio slipped from the booth and walked across the dance floor to the bar. In Rio’s wake Tekela appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, wearing her signature white leather jumpsuit with matching thigh-high stiletto boots.

“Girl! It didn’t take you long to swoop in on him,” she said.

I laughed. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“That boy is your ex. His Puerto Rican shit will get you in trouble,” Tekela said with a wink.

“Rio is not Puerto Rican; he’s half Cuban and half German. And I fell into trouble with him a long time ago. Don’t you have a show to do?” I asked with a mischievous grin.

“Those queens backstage are working my last nerve. I had to come out and get some air and a fresh cocktail, or else one of those bitches was going to get cut.”

Rio returned with our drinks.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Tekela Bree,” Rio said, hugging Tekela while giving her air kisses on each cheek.

“Your momma brought you up right—never kiss a queen with her face on,” Tekela said.

“You know she did,” Rio said. He slipped in next to me on my side of the booth. “Sit down. Let me buy you a drink.”

“No. Thank you, darling. This leather don’t stretch that well; I need to stand. Besides, I got my drink coming. I’ve got to get back there and get ready for my number, whip up my wig. It’s like my grand-momma used to say: The higher the hair, the closer to Jesus.”

“Oh, so we’re going to church tonight?” Rio asked.

“Darling, there’ll be some testifying and testimony before the night is over. Got my sights set on that little piece of chicken sitting right over there.” Tekela pointed to a barely legal frat boy wearing a University of Evansville sweatshirt. “Says his name is Klein. As if. I asked him if he wore Calvin Klein underwear. He said yes. I told him before tonight was over I would de-Klein him.”

“Where do you come up with this shit?” I asked. Looking at Rio, I continued, “I’ll never forget going with Doug . . .”

“Tekela!” Doug interjected.

“Going with Tekela to a drag pageant in Paducah one summer weekend years ago. Before I met you. He wrapped those young guys around his finger. They were falling all over him,” I said. “She called them chicken.”

“Finger-licking good! What about you?” Tekela said, pointing to me, then looking at Rio. “This bitch got us thrown out of our motel room for skinny-dipping with the sheriff’s son.”

“The sheriff’s son?” Rio asked, looking at me with a raised eyebrow.