Blink Read Free Page B

Slater, Advertising.”
    “Where were you last night?” It was Alison. Her voice was like honey, sweet. It caused a burst of heat to ignite and to rise up to scald my cheeks. It was as though she knew what had just transpired, this pact I had made with a devil whose name I did not yet even know.
    Wait! You don’t know his name and you’re thinking of inviting him over? To your home? Are you nuts ? My heart skipped a beat.
    “Honey? I asked you a question.” Even this early in the morning, Alison sounded a little peeved. “Where were you? I called and called. Mom and I were addressing invitations, and we needed some addresses for your side, but you never answered.”
    And a new guilt, along with a recent memory, rose up.
     
     
    I AM alone at a little bar on Granville Avenue called Embers. Scared out of my wits, I had paced for almost a half hour in front of the place before going in. I knew it was that forbidden fruit—a gay bar—from reading a carefully hidden copy of Gay Times , a local weekly.
    But I got up my courage and now sit, a stranger in a strange land, at the bar, a bottle of sweating Miller beer in front of me.
    I look around at the other patrons and am amazed none of them look in the least effeminate. One guy, with a handlebar moustache, tight Levi’s, faded flannel shirt, and work boots, looks, in all honesty, hypermasculine. He both scares and attracts me, one of my fantasies come to life. When he catches me sneaking a look at him, he smiles and tips his bottle of beer to me in a kind of salute.
    I look away.
    There are another couple of guys, about my own age, looking like they could have come from a meeting at the old fraternity house in their Izod polos and khakis, drinking martinis (I guess).
    The bartender, a spiky-haired blond wearing a T-shirt that has been shredded almost to a single thread to show off his muscles and tan, is all bluster as he washes glasses, wipes down the bar, and takes drink orders. He never stops moving.
    Does everyone know how out of place I feel being here?
    But I needed to see! I wanted to know what it was like. Did I fit in?
    Right now, the answer is no.
    Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right” is playing on the jukebox. It’s dark. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke that makes my eyes water.
    I want to leave, but somehow I stay rooted to my barstool for four hours, at last forcing myself to exit on unsteady legs and head for the ‘L’ station just west of the bar.
    I didn’t speak a word to anyone .
     
     
    “A NDY ?” I was jolted out of my reverie by Alison’s voice and the shame that rose up to make me feel sick.
    “I-I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I was distracted by….” I searched desperately on my desk for an excuse, some reason for my silence as I took my little twisted trip down memory lane. There was a note from my boss, Sheryl, letting me know we would be looking at the film from our photography studio in the Loop at ten o’clock that morning. “By a note from Sheryl. She wants to meet with me.” I sighed. “I don’t know what it’s about.”
    “Is everything okay?” In Alison’s world everything revolved around terms like “socially acceptable,” “job security,” “home,” and “hearth.” She lived with her family in a big house on the affluent North Shore.
    “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it is.” I closed my eyes. I needed to get off the phone. I felt like my innards were having a race to see which would burst first, my heart or my stomach.
    “Are you gonna answer me?” Alison laughed.
    “About what?”
    I heard Alison blow out an exasperated breath. “About where you were last night. You didn’t tell me you had plans.”
    What could I say? And then the answer came to me. It could still be embarrassing, but I could admit I went to a bar. Alison wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t have to tell her it was a gay bar. “Don’t be mad.”
    “What?”
    “I went out for a walk last night and ended up on Howard