Page 33 of Blue Umbrella Sky
A slip like his could be compared to a slip outside—on an icy sidewalk on a winter’s day. One moment you were tooling along, minding your own business and sure of your footing. The future seemed clear and certain. The next moment—boom—you were on your ass.
This one happened suddenly, with no more of a trigger than boredom. Saturday night and Billy had a gig. A gig at a small divey-type bar in Wicker Park. A gig that got cancelled because it was so frickin’ hot in Chicago that night that the bar’s AC went out and they shut down, knowing no one would want to sit around in the insufferable heat. All over the city that night were brownouts and blackouts.
Billy sat around for a while in his un-air-conditioned studio in Rogers Park, in only his boxers, with a big fan blowing more hot air on him. His body was slick with sweat. He sipped a sweaty glass of sweet tea.
Andhe was horny.
Andhe couldn’t sleep, even after a double-header movie marathon on TMC—Imitation of Lifefollowed byWritten on the Wind.
It was eleven o’clock, the temperature outside was still ninety, the humidity index almost the same, and not one leaf stirred on the big maple outside his front window. The air stunk of Lake Michigan, car exhaust, and roasted corn from the Mexican vendor cart down the street.
Billy paced the little room he called home, feeling pent-up, bored. The image of a tall glass of beer, with a head of foam just sliding over the edge and beads of condensation up and down its sides, tortured him. Had tortured him for a while. It had come into his head, unbidden, about halfway throughWritten on the Wind.
And it stayed there, even though Billy knew that by giving this TV-ad image headspace, he was conjuring it into being. Life worked that way.
He knew he should shut the TV off, dim the lights, position the fan toward the foldout bed, and crawl into it to lie naked upon the sheets, praying that by morning the air being sucked in by the fan would feel at least tepid. Praying that he would wake with dawn’s diffuse light still clean and sober….
He knew he should call his sponsor, Jon. Early on in the program, when Billy was faced with temptation, all he needed to do was to pick up the phone and call him. God bless him, Jon never failed to answer his phone, and if need be, he’d come over to Billy’s place within a few minutes. After all, they lived in the same building. Talking to Jon, or even some of the other people on his phone list, always forced away the urges. It was as though by naming the urges, he was shaming them—the desires skittered away into their dark corners.
But that cunning little demon inside wouldn’t let him pick up the phone. Why? Because Billy knew it would work. He’d call and Jon would talk him down. He’d ask him if he really wanted to throw away a whole year of sobriety. He’d remind him of how much he’d given over the past twelve months to work the steps and to build a new life for himself.
Billy knew these things already. And he didn’t want to hear them.
For to hear them would mean he’d eradicate the need. He’d go to bed. He’d be safe for another day.
And he didn’t want that.
He shut down his thoughts as he took a quick shower and dressed in a pair of camouflage cargo shorts and a wifebeater tank top. He slid into a pair of flip-flops. Taking stock of himself in the medicine cabinet mirror, he decided to run a handful of gel through his hair, giving himself what he thought of as a very fetching golden bedhead. He even winked at himself.
He laughed.
He didn’t question. He didn’t ponder. Most importantly, he didn’t slow down.
He grabbed his keys off the desk by the door and headed out into the languid night. No breeze stirred the air or the leaves on the trees. The air felt almost like glue, like he was wading through it. Thick.
His car, a beat-up Ford Pinto wagon, was over on Jarvis. It had wood paneling on the sides and was a dusky shade of harvest gold.
It was ancient. But it still ran.
As he slid into the driver’s seat, he allowed himself one thought. He’d be at Touché, the leather bar at Clark and Devon, within a few minutes.
And damn it, he could have that beer.
TOUCHÉ WAScrowded. Hot, sweat-slicked men pressed against one another, elbowing for room at the bar. In the back room, a full-scale orgy took place in the big room’s darkest corners. A boy who couldn’t have been more than legal age sat on the pool table, legs splayed apart, shorts around his ankles, as various men took turns sucking his porno-movie-sized cock while he calmly drank a Bud Light, almost as though he wasn’t aware of what was going on farther south on his anatomy.
Billy wondered if the boy was high as well.
The boy was a temptation, but not as great a one as what awaited him at the bar. As Billy approached the less-crowded bar here in the back room, he was almost trembling with need. His gut churned. He was sweating even more than the heat dictated. His eyes did a tunnel-vision sort of thing, closing in on the bear bartender in his faded Levi’s 501s, combat boots, and studded leather harness setting ’em up with a smile. He had a thick dark brown beard, hairy chest, and gorgeous dark chocolate eyes. But Billy was more interested in the taps he was effortlessly working, from which foamy magic gold poured.
Billy was grateful that things weren’t as close in the back room. He could make his heart’s desire come true that much quicker. He could barely wait for that hoppy first swallow.
He got up to the bar at last, got the bear’s attention, and smiled.
“Hey, handsome, what can I get you?”
Billy almost blurted out “beer” as they did on movies and TV, but he knew he had to be more specific. What the hell? While he was being more specific, he might as well add in a little something to jump-start the party.
In for a penny, in for a pound….The old adage had been Billy’s excuse for abuse for years.
