Chapter 8 #2
The first is a young man we’ll call Brent. It’s not his real name and even though his relationship with Kade was more than ten years ago, he says he still fears the man and was desperate that I assure him I’d shield his identity as much as possible.
I’m not using his voice and, even with a pseudonym, I pray I’m not putting Brent at risk. I realize these measures are far from adequate, but it’s important people hear his tale.
For Brent, Joshua Kade had seemed at first like Prince Charming, Mr. Right, Call-Me-Irresistible, and Answered-Prayers, all rolled into one.
Kade was charming, solicitous, and always said and did just the right thing, having an almost telepathic awareness of Brent’s wants and needs.
They dated for a mere month before making the leap to cohabitation. Brent wasn’t worried—he’d fallen hard for this man and everything his heart told him was positive. This was no mistake. This was “the one” and the relationship that would last a lifetime.
That was in the summer. In the fall, Brent casually mentioned he was part of a gay men’s bowling league. He’d be rejoining his team in late September every Tuesday night. “No biggie. One night a week is all.”
Josh didn’t like the idea. At first, Brent thought he was kidding.
After all, the team and the league were both a simple and fun outlet—even wholesome.
Of course, since it was all gay men, there was dating and hooking up.
But for the most part, Brent told me, Tuesday night bowling was about getting together for a friendly outing, a few beers, and a tiny bit of competition.
As soon as he was aware of the league, Josh began to interrogate Brent.
Had he dated anyone on the team or in the league?
Did he hook up with teammates?
How late would he get home from these outings?
How much drinking went on? Was it more than drinking?
Was their drug use?
Brent was puzzled by the reaction. He tried to reassure him that the bowling league was about as above board of an evening dozens of gay men could have together.
And, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted Kade along with him, he invited him anyway, just to prove to him that all he was interested in was seeing old friends and engaging in a bit of friendly sport.
He’d been part of the league for more than five years.
When Josh came to the first league night, though, he’d already had his mind made up.
He was sullen and unfriendly toward Brent’s teammates.
If he saw anyone hug or kiss Brent, even on the cheek, he’d glower at the person, even though physical affection and even a little flirting were commonplace at the bowling alley.
It was all harmless, or so Brent thought.
Kade’s reaction was so bad that Brent quit the team after only two nights. “It just wasn’t worth the questions and the suspicions.”
But quitting wasn’t enough.
Suddenly, a different side of Josh came out—a deeply suspicious one who followed every move Brent made.
Kade needed to know where Brent was every hour or every day.
If Brent tarried too long at, say, the supermarket, Josh would bombard him with questions, requiring Brent to account for every minute Josh determined was “too long.”
Kade demanded access to all of Brent’s passwords and, even though Brent grudgingly gave them, he grew further apart from Josh with each query about a suspect email or an interaction on social media. Brent felt he couldn’t do or say anything without being eyed and judged.
Brent realized as quickly as he’d fallen in love that he’d made a mistake and that just as much as this was a relationship, it was also a prison.
He tried to leave. And Josh let him.
But things weren’t over.
Far from it.
Once Brent settled in a new apartment in the Ravenswood neighborhood, he noticed Josh’s car parked outside at all hours.
There was never a figure inside the car, but Brent figured Josh could have just been keeping his head down.
Why was he in this neighborhood, anyway?
Josh had found his own new place several miles to the east, near Loyola University.
And then Brent began to notice subtle things when he came home from work—a book he’d read before falling asleep the previous night and that he was certain he’d left on the nightstand was now on his coffee table.
There were dishes in the sink he couldn’t remember using.
A turd in the toilet. Strange mail began coming—pornographic magazines and sex toys.
And then, one night, after meeting up with an old friend from college who was in town on business, Brent walked up Lincoln Avenue to his new apartment.
When he turned on Wilson Avenue, he stopped.
So did the footfalls behind. He peered over his shoulder and thought he saw a hooded figure duck into the shrubbery in front of a courtyard apartment building.
Incidents like this continued to occur on a regular basis. There was always just enough to let Brent know someone—guess who—was messing with him, but too little to do anything proactive about it like call the police or pursue getting a restraining order.
Brent began going out less and less. He convinced his boss to let him work from home the majority of the time.
Today, Brent lives in fear in a prison of his own making. His therapist diagnosed him with PTSD and mild agoraphobia.
*
I was getting too cold to continue to sit here and listen. Besides, I needed to get home, shower, and get ready for work. I ran back the way I’d come, despite my stomach churning.
I don’t know if it was just me or the actual weather, but the clouds seemed darker, the wind unmercifully cruel, and the temperature at least ten degrees lower than when I had started off.
I resumed the podcast once I’d settled into a seat on the L downtown. I had to know who the other person was, praying it wasn’t me.
*
Bailey Anderson: And then there was Richard Blake. Richard was an older guy, a veteran of at least three broken relationships, and that was only when you didn’t count the dating and the hookups.
Richard is an attorney in downtown Chicago, a successful, self-made man who graduated from DePaul’s law school. He had his own home in the Andersonville neighborhood and drove a Jeep and a Mazda two-seater.
I’m telling you all this because I realized, and Richard confirmed it, that he was not your run-of-the-mill wide-eyed na?f, ever hopeful for a fairy tale romance—white picket fences and all that.
“I admit it. I was jaded.” Richard Blake’s raspy voice says. “I’d been through the wringer with a lot of different guys. Kissed a lot of frogs and never found Prince Charming. But I was always hopeful, even if I had grown cynical and pessimistic over the years.
“Then I met Josh. And the scales fell from my pessimistic eyes. He was what I’d dreamed of, but had grudgingly concluded wasn’t in the cards—at least not for me.
Josh was articulate, charming, sweet, generous, and kind.
Handsome. Sexy. He supported himself well.
We had common interests—hiking, travel, photography, and old screwball comedies from back in the day.
We were quite compatible in the bedroom.
“We went out for three months and, for most of that time, he was a real sweetheart. I started to think maybe, just maybe, I’d been wrong about never finding my forever man. Perhaps what I’d heard, that love comes along when you least expect it, was true.
“I was singing that tune from Cabaret, ‘Maybe This Time.’
“We moved in together, sharing his apartment near Loyola University. We had a view of the lake. The express bus downtown was just a block away, over on Sheridan Road. Or I could hop on the L at Granville, just around the corner. It seemed like everything would be perfect.
“And then I fucked up. I have no excuse other than I’d gone out with colleagues from work to Rush Street for happy hour. I had one too many martinis. After the gang dispersed, I decided I’d had my fill of straight people and thought I’d stop off for one more at one of the gay bars along Halsted.
“My judgment was compromised and, when a cute younger guy began flirting with me, flirted back. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
“Long story short. I went home with the guy who lived in the neighborhood, just a few blocks west of Wrigley Field.
“The encounter was nothing special. To put it bluntly, I was too drunk to get it up and so was he. We cuddled and made a good effort for maybe twenty minutes, when remorse and shame got hold of me, even in my drunken state.
“I made my excuses and left.
“And then I got a shock.
“Josh waited for me outside the guy’s apartment building. His presence stunned me into a kind of sobriety.
“But I didn’t feel too bad. I mean, when he came toward me, he was all smiles.
And I began to reassure myself that maybe this was simply a coincidence.
I could compound the bad I’d did by lying, but I was relieved I could probably wriggle out of this.
And I promised myself, as sinners often do, that I’d never let this happen again.
“But his smile was a false front. As he neared me, I could sense the rage. Very softly he asked me who I was with. I told him something I made up on the spot—I stopped by at a work friend’s place to pick up a thumb drive that had case information on it.
“Josh asked to see the drive. I patted my pockets, grinning sheepishly, and told him I must have left it upstairs.
“I was caught and I knew it. I didn’t like the feeling. So I owned up to what I thought of as my minor transgression. After all, beyond a little groping and a couple kisses, nothing had happened. And, I told Josh, that I’d never done anything like this before. It was true—at least with him.
“He said, ‘Let’s get home.’ We started walking, silent, toward the L stop at Addison.
“We were almost there when he stopped, smiled again. ‘I really need to take a piss. Can we just duck down this alley?’
“I didn’t argue, even though I was aching to get home and resolve things. I made a gesture for him to go ahead.
“He paused at the mouth of the alley and turned back to me, looking embarrassed. ‘Would you mind standing guard?’
“I moved into the alley. I didn’t think the standing guard was necessary because, for one, we were in a gay neighborhood—a lot worse took place in these alleys than a solo guy taking a piss, and two—it was late. The whole ‘hood was relatively quiet.
“He struggled with his jeans, his back to me. Struggled enough that I joked, ‘need some help with that?’
“He said nothing. So I moved closer and, when I saw the front of him, I gasped. I swear my heart stopped beating.”
Bailey Anderson: Blake told me that Joshua Kade held a large knife in his hands. Blake didn’t scream or question the weapon—he simply turned tail and ran, which may have saved his life. There were still some late-night revelers just around the corner.
The incident was a couple of years ago and Blake says he’s never recovered. He still has nightmares, but is grateful that he’s never seen Joshua Kade again. He stayed with a friend that night, and the next morning, he got up, quit his job, and made arrangements to leave Chicago.
He felt he was escaping with his life, even if he did have to leave most of his belongings in Josh’s apartment.
I can’t disclose where he is now. I can say that his fear and recurring nightmares have placed him in a kind of self-made witness protection program. And I have not used his real name. I commend him for having the courage to speak out in his own voice.
Richard Blake says, “I should feel safe. I mean, it’s been a long time.
I’ve covered my tracks well. Even though I’ve changed my name and my looks and I’m very much off-the-grid—no social media, no nothing that might cause me to be found—I still worry he’ll find a way through.
He’s evil. The proverbial green-eyed monster Shakespeare once wrote about.
“I still dream of that night—the knife he had ready, the deadness in his eyes. He would’ve killed me. I have no doubt.”
*
The train lurched to a stop and I looked around, disoriented. I was at my stop downtown. It was time to go to work.
I was shaking as I exited. I wondered how I’d manage to make it through even a half day.
I needed to call Karl.
I needed to get out.