I returned my bus cart to the serving station and headed toward the office. Once inside, I locked the door behind me and sat at the desk, propped my elbows on the desktop, and rested my face in the palms of my hands. I tried rhythmic breathing. I wanted to tell the old man to fuck off. But he was a paying customer. My South Beach euphoria had dissipated weeks ago. Being back was tougher than I had imagined. All I could think was, I should have said something. I picked up the phone receiver and thought about calling Rio, but I dialed Dad instead. Maybe, I thought, Dad wants to get out of the house for the evening. Maybe he’ll cover my shift at the restaurant—if he’s having one of his good days.
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
