Page 10 of The Silent Night Stalker
Itakethe‘L’toward Logan Square, which is an up-and-coming neighborhood. The area is gentrified, but the community has been fighting it. Still, it’s a good place for me to scope. It’s far enough from my home, taking me nearly an hour to get there, so no one knows me. Regardless, I have my beard and mustache properly groomed and dyed in a dark brown color. Usually, I wear contacts to see, but tonight, I wore one of several pairs of glasses I own. To add to my disguise, I wear contacts that color my eyes from my usual gray-blue to dark brown. The final touch is a liquid latex prosthetic for my nose, which changes its shape.
The transition is subtle, but enough that no one would off-handedly recognize me. Change up your hair, and shift things around a little, and people forget you. It helps to look as basic as you can.
The only things that will give me away are my tattoos. I have them all over my arms, chest, and neck, and I’ve recently started to expand them onto my thighs. Eventually, I want my entire body covered, except for my face. I have to cover up the ones on my neck with a turtleneck sweater, and my arms are easy to hide by simply keeping the sleeves pulled down.
Confident no one will remember me, I step inside Frank’s Bar, a local joint that’s managed to hang on through the gentrification. It’s a local favorite, apparently. The place is dark, smells of old beer, and the heaters are running at full blast, hot enough to make me sweat, and I tug at the collar of my turtleneck. It’s filled with old wood that’s been painted one too many times, and black-and-white photographs of a bygone era hang along with neon beer signs. Classic rock from the 1970s filters through old speakers.
I never hit the same place twice. Chicago is big enough for me to spread out. My selections are random, so there are no recognizable patterns.
After removing my coat, I hang it on one of several hooks, then sit down on a wooden stool that wobbles a bit. I make sure to sit at the other end of the bar, facing the door, so I can watch who comes in. Plus, I never put my back to the door. Ever. I learned that quickly as a kid.
A fit man in his forties steps up to me. He has blond hair, combed away from his pale face with rosy cheeks, and wears a longer beard than I do. He’s built like a lumberjack, and he looks like one, too, wearing a plaid shirt in red and black.
“What can I getcha?” he asks me, his hands resting on the scarred wooden bar, staring hard at me, though I think that’s his personality. Still, it makes me nervous.
“Do you haveGoose Island 312?” I don’t drink much at all, but I like to pretend I know my beers and drinks. It’s all part of the act.
“I got it in bottle only.”
“I’ll have that, please.”
He sets the chilled beer bottle down on the counter in front of me and walks off after I pay him in cash, leaving enough of a tip to please him, but not enough to give me too much attention.
As I sip the hoppy wheat beer, I scan the crowd looking for that one person who calls to me. Someone who’s crying out for help. It’s hard not to worry. I’m running out of time. Usually, I would’ve found someone by now.
I’ve gotten good at reading people’s pain and suffering. It’s all about body language and facial expressions. Some try to hide it, especially the men, but I see it anyway, like a subtle clenching of the jaw, hard swallows of the throat, and their bodies are almost folded into themselves. I do that too, like if I don’t hold it all inwardly, I’ll explode outwardly.
The bar is filled with twinkling lights and tinsel, which, strangely, doesn’t trigger me as much. Growing up, we had a decorated tree, but that was it. Mom would play Christmas music for two weeks straight until I couldn’t take it anymore. Regardless, I can sense the creeping anxiety and agitation with the holiday decorations. Even if I didn’t have them growing up, theystillrepresent Christmas.
I take another sip, my eyes dragging over all the people in the bar without being obvious. It’s mostly filled with men, but there are a few women, too. Shoved in the far corner is a pool table where two men are having a friendly competition. In another section, there are two dartboards with several players. Most of the crowd seems to be happily drinking and chatting. My focus isn’t on them, but on those who tuck themselves away—people who hide in corners or sit at the bar, drowning their pain away.
I sigh and pick at the label on my beer bottle. Maybe tonight isn’t my night. Everyone seems fine. Happy even. Those who are alone at the bar, drinking like me, are just watching football on the multiple televisions hanging from the ceiling with the sound turned off, popping peanuts into their mouths. Then again, it’s still early. I have time.It’s hard, though, because I need the time to track and learn who they are.
Patience, Constantine.
With a deep breath, I drink the last of my beer and order another, trying not to stress out that I won’t find someone this year. The panic attempts to settle in my mind and gut, threatening to take control, but I won’t let it. I need to trust the process. I get like this every year.
You’ll find someone. It always works out, I remind myself.
And then sometimes fate is a funny thing. Just when I’m really starting to fret, the most perfect person walks in. Pain and suffering are a black aura surrounding him. He radiates it. It’s not the obvious swelling and bruising on his face that stands out, but how he carries himself. You can practically taste his pain. It’s palpable.
Finally.
I try not to sit up straighter and watch his every move. It’s hard when he completely sucks me in and makes my heart race, but Ihaveto be careful not to give anything away. He cannot see me staring.
Be nonchalant, Constantine. Nonchalant.
Even with a beat-up face, you can tell he’s attractive. Too bad he wants to die because I’m instantly drawn to him, more than wanting to ease his pain. Through the years, I’ve been taken with people. I prefer men because I want to be controlled and dominated. Women can do that, but men would be more forceful about it, at least, from what I’ve seen watching porn. Regardless, the years of abuse made me awkward and have kept me from socializing. The fear of rejection runs deep.
He removes his coat and drapes it over his barstool. He’s wearing only a graphic T-shirt, which exposes tanned skin that’s smooth and free of ink except on one arm, which has a tattoo sleeve. He keeps his black hair cropped with longer tousled bangs that sit just abovethick black eyebrows. He has a chiseled face and a strong jaw. And he wears an unattached goatee, which is just a simple mustache with some hair on his chin. I bet he’s gorgeous underneath all those bruises and swelling.
Fuck, he calls to me like no one else has before. This man is special. I justknowit. He’s beautifully sad. And there’s definitely a beauty in that. It’s why I’m so drawn to those who suffer. All who have been hurt for most of their lives have changed. We are all precious. I try to remind myself of that whenever I spiral inward with insecurity.
The beautiful man talks to the bartender, but I can’t hear them over the music. Both look sad for a moment before the bartender hands him a tumbler of liquor. I watch as he throws back the drink, and the bartender pours another. He tosses that back, too, and asks for more.
Yes, the need to get drunk quickly is usually another sign of suffering. Sometimes it’s for fun, I’ve noticed, but not in his case. He’s hunched over as if he wants to swallow up all his pain within himself.
The man glances my way with eyes that are nearly as black as his hair and gives me a quick nod in greeting. My heart stops for a second, and I desperately try not to swallow as my face ignites. He noticed me.Me. How? No one here has except the bartender, and that’s how I intend it to be. Hell, no oneevernotices me anyway. After he quickly looks away to watch one of the games on the television, I’m left rattled and struggling for breath. He actually took the time to greet me, even through his suffering.
