Chapter 4
Constantine
I take the ‘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 have Goose 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, they still represent 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 I have to 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 above thick 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 just know it. 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 one ever notices 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.
What does that mean?
I suddenly want to make him mine, but I can’t. It would be selfish of me to let him linger in his pain just for myself. He wants relief. Like Eric, I must save them no matter how lonely I am.
Yes, he’s the one. Definitely.
He’s the one I’m going to set free on Christmas Eve. He’s the one I’m going to save.
The relief that washes over me is something I can practically taste, if relief even has a taste. I’ve finally found someone. Now I can breathe again.
My glasses slip off my nose, and when I shove them back up with a finger, the man looks at me again. I quickly look away and hide behind my beer bottle as I take a sip.
Ugh! He’s noticing me too much. I can’t let him recognize me. It’s time to leave. Well, at least the bar. I need to follow him to see where he lives. There’s no way I’m going to let him slip from my grasp. He’s definitely the one.
I drop a few bucks on the counter and smile shyly at the bartender, desperately trying not to look over to the other man. Soon, I’ll be his salvation—his guardian angel sent to bring him to heaven.
After I shrug on my coat and wrap my scarf around my neck, I head outside, hit with a blast of freezing air. It’s going to be cold waiting for him, but it’ll all be worth it. He’s worth it.
There aren’t many people walking outside, so I tuck myself into an alley next to the bar where it’s dark and wait.
The next step is to find out where he lives, who he is, what his hobbies are, and where he works.
Anything that brings me closer to him. The more I familiarize myself with him, the better my chances of success.
It not only protects me from the police, but from those I’ve been chosen to save.
They don’t always understand that I’m there to help them.
At first, they’re always scared, but eventually, they figure it out.
And I cannot deviate. Deviating will bring me bad luck. I must stick with the plan and the process. It doesn’t matter if I’m instantly attracted to the dark-haired man. My needs always have to be put aside.
Perhaps I should find someone else. Being attracted to him already puts me at risk.
No! He’s absolutely perfect. He needs me. But I need to hurry. The clock is ticking.
Since I don’t want to risk being seen by either the light from my watch or phone, who knows how long I’ve been sitting out here, waiting. It must be over an hour. My cold hands are shoved into my coat pockets, and I shiver as the cold penetrates the layers.
I need to be patient. I can’t rush this, no matter how uncomfortable I am.
The muffled music suddenly gets louder as someone steps outside the bar. I peek around the edge of the building, and my heart stops when I see him, the beautiful man who will soon meet his angel and eventually be greeted in heaven.
God, my heart is racing, and I hold my breath as he walks by, hunched over with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, not seeing me.
As soon as he passes, I let go of my lungs and exhale in a long, foggy stream of air.
I wait a beat before following him. Please don’t drive. Please don’t drive, I recite in my head. I have no way of checking license plates. If he walks home or takes the train, then it’ll be easy to stay close to him.
The man sways and wobbles a bit before righting himself, clearly drunk. Good. The drunker he is, the less likely he’ll notice me. Still, I’m always careful.
Every once in a while, I hide myself around a corner or alley whenever he stops for a moment.
The next time he pauses, he rests a hand on the brick building, bends over, and barfs up all that he had to drink.
Then, he rests his head on the bricks as a sob escapes him before choking it back.
After he coughs and wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, he groans and walks on again.
Poor guy.
“Soon, sweet angel. Soon,” I whisper under my breath.