Chapter 11 #3
I paced my living room, the conversation with Stephen running in loops.
Who had talked? Tyler or Addison? Paul? And what else had they said?
Gossip at Sawyer was resilient. In that shuttered environment, people latched onto anything with a whiff of the unseemly; they enlivened their tiresome days by relishing the suffering of others.
And my absence from campus had left a vacuum for these stories to fill.
Had I been showing up and playing my part, I could have countered the rumors, in deeds if not words, demonstrating my upstanding nature.
Was everyone talking about this? I wished I had questioned Stephen, getting some sense of the rumor’s reach.
I was too caught off guard to think clearly, and now I’d blown my chance to figure out what was going on.
And Safie. I had thought of Safie every day, bargaining with myself to make contact.
But the only way to explain my horrendous behavior would be to confess everything.
I couldn’t bear it, the thought of her seeing how pathetic and foolish I’d been.
Losing my shit over a student. I didn’t want to show her what I’d known all along: that I was undeserving of her friendship.
And now, I’d lost her, and she’d know everything anyway.
I could call Tyler, to find out what he’d said, what he knew. Just one conversation—
I needed to get out of the apartment. Go somewhere else. Anywhere.
Just as I pulled to the off-ramp I realized—it was one exit too soon.
I landed in a broad intersection. I crept along the frontage road, scanning for signs.
In all directions, Cleveland sprawled, flat and endless.
I had been up a number of times over the years, but still, the blocks of vacant and burned-out buildings surprised.
These stretches of Cleveland contained the destitution of Detroit but without the folklore of apocalyptic glamour.
This was just collapse. Every few blocks, some solitary structure showed signs of habitation—a single yellow light in an upstairs window, a couple sitting close on a porch.
It took me half an hour to get oriented and find my way.
I’d chosen a club over a bar, thinking it would be easier to lose myself in the noise and crowds.
The club was on a wide commercial road, a light industrial area; these outskirts of cities that harbor gay histories.
Pockets of young people hung out on the corner, underdressed, calling out bawdy provocations to cars slowly cruising by.
I paid the cover and went in. I hadn’t been out to a gay club in years.
It was a cavernous space. Shiny black surfaces and mirrored walls volleyed the flashing strobes back and forth.
On a dance floor a few steps down from the bar level, an already dense crowd moved to a remix of a top forty song, high-pitched and frenetic.
“What are we drinking tonight?” The bartender, a thick butch with close-cropped silver hair, cleared some empties and wiped at the bar top.
“I’m not sure.” While I hadn’t exactly given up alcohol, I hadn’t had a drink since Columbus. I couldn’t afford any foggy, hungover days: Getting my book together and getting out of Sawyer was too important.
The music swelled and the crowd called out. “A little something to wet your whistle?” she said.
I’d come all this way. Why not? It would help take the edge off.
Behind railings, two raised walkways ran along either side of the dance floor.
I stationed myself in a corner, watching the activity just below.
In New York, each subgenre of homosexual has its own bars and parties, even a slice of a borough.
Here, the crowd varied in every possible way, nothing in common except being queer.
As if gathering together mattered and could be enough.
I’d been there a few songs when I noticed a guy, dancing in a small pack of friends.
He was in conversation with his group but kept lifting his head, eyes in my direction.
Finally, he smiled and waved at me to join.
I shook my head no. He motioned again, mouthing C’mon.
I shook my head again, more forcefully this time.
Something in his insistence irritated me, like it underscored how out of place I was.
How alone. I threw back the rest of my drink. Coming here had been a mistake.
I pushed through the crowd, looking for the exit.
The layout felt obvious when I arrived but now the music seemed to grow louder with every beat and I felt disoriented, as if the sound were fucking with my sense of space.
Just ahead, a sign pointed to the exit. The corridor was jammed with people coming in; I tried to maneuver through.
Behind me, I heard a voice—“Relax, I’m just trying to catch up to my friend.” I felt a hand on my arm and turned. It was the guy from the dance floor. He was sweaty, soft cheeks rosy red.
“I’m sorry if that was obnoxious. I didn’t mean to be annoying.”
“No, you were fine.”
“My friend told me—you just drove another man away.” He laughed. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I have an early day.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer? Let me buy you a drink.”
“Sorry—” I felt suddenly light-headed. The crowds, or the noise, or the liquor. “I think I need some air.”
“I’ll get my jacket from coat check. I’ll join you. I’m Andres!” He laughed again. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I stepped outside, the cold air calming my nerves. Some moments later, Andres appeared, bundled in a thick parka. “Where’s your coat? You must be freezing.”
“I left it in my car. I parked just across the street.”
“You parked on the street? In this neighborhood?” He made a sound of disbelief.
“Where do you live?”
“Tremont.”
I’d been to that neighborhood once. Old Polish restaurants, some new cafés. A park. Before I could think it through I blurted out—“Let’s go.”
“Now?” His eyebrow shot up. “To my place?”
“Yes.”
“Alright then.” He smiled. “We’re going.”
We waited for the attendant to bring his car from the lot.
Andres asked where I lived; I explained I was up from Sawyer.
He had been born and raised in Cleveland.
His parents came to the US from Guatemala, landing in Queens but then moving to Ohio to join his mother’s cousin.
“She married a white guy with a construction company, so they got my dad a job.” Andres had no plans to leave Cleveland.
He liked his work, he liked his friends.
He’d bought a house last year. “Why not be happy?” A million reasons, I thought. “And what do you do down in Sawyer?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“So cool. What grade? My sister teaches middle school.”
“I’m at the college.”
Andres whistled through his teeth.
“I could not handle if you were my professor. All your students must have crushes on you.”
I followed Andres in my car. We left the industrial neighborhood and entered neat, dense blocks of modest Victorians. He pulled into the driveway of one and I parked at the curb.
“Please excuse this mess,” he said, waving at the house.
One side was blocked in small squares in different shades of blue.
“I’m painting it myself. I started in September but couldn’t make up my mind, and then it got too cold.
I don’t know what my problem is.” He laughed.
We went in and he showed me around, explaining the process for refinishing the woodwork, the story of the kitchen tiles. He was doing everything himself.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said. And it really was.
“You’re gorgeous.” He laughed. “Sorry, I’m so cheesy.” He took my face and pulled it to his, kissing me, quick flicks of his tongue. I pulled back. “You alright?” he asked.
He had a lovely face, open eyes framed in a thick curtain of lashes, neat mustache cut to a perfect line.
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry. Let’s go to the bedroom.”
I followed him up the stairs. He undressed all at once, so I did the same. “So beautiful,” he kept repeating. “So handsome.” He asked me to fuck him.
“Maybe we can just keep it simple tonight?”
“Simple is great,” he said. “Whatever you want.”
He got down on his knees, cupping me in his hands, mouth all over me. I looked up at the ceiling and closed my eyes and felt the part of me in the room with him split from myself and separate, like a sheet of ice.
It was the first sex I’d had since Tyler, and I thought of nothing but Tyler on the drive home.
Back inside, I went right for my computer.
I had been good—no snooping at all. I had even deactivated my Facebook account to make it harder.
I tried to reopen the account but my password wouldn’t work. I was prompted to reset it.
I opened my email to get the password link.
There was an unread message, from a Gabrielle Lopez.
The subject said, interested to talk? I couldn’t place the name but as I clicked open the message, I remembered—from NYU, she was some years ahead of me.
There’d been a drinks thing when she defended her dissertation.
She’d landed a job, somewhere in the south.
Hi Mark, this is Gabrielle. I hope you’re doing well! First of all, I want to say that I love your article from SAQ last year. I taught it in my Gothic Fictions seminar and the students went crazy for it. I hope you’re expanding this with a book!
I heard from Peter Fleiss (who says hello by the way) that you were looking to move schools.
We’ve had a last-minute opening in my department for the fall (long story, a forced retirement of a colleague who’s been sexually harassing literally all of us for years, a battle to keep the line—the bureaucrats who run this place don’t want to put money into anything except STEM and the business school, same story as everywhere).
Anyway, we are looking for someone in contemporary American lit, with a preference for work in gender and sexuality—so, of course, you came to mind.
Despite everything I just said, the department is lovely.
We’ve done a bunch of new hires in the past few years, lots of smart and ambitious junior folks but no backstabbers.
And I don’t know if you’ve spent time in New Orleans, but it’s magical.
I cannot believe what we put up with in New York!
I would love to talk. Our timeline for reviewing applications is tight because the search has been underway for a bit, and I’m sure you’re buried in your semester, but do let me know if the position sounds interesting to you. I sincerely hope it might.
Cheers,
Gabrielle
I read through the email again, looking for something I’d missed.
It was far from a job offer, but it was a chance.
It would mean getting out of Sawyer without having to slog through another year, without being consumed with anxiety about the rumors of Tyler catching up to me.
I started to reply but then saw the time—almost two.
I would write back first thing in the morning.
Just before I shut the computer, I noticed at the top of my inbox, the link to reopen my Facebook account. I checked the little box beside it and hit DELETE.