Bad Stereotypes - 8. Tuesday 18th June 2013

I spent Monday holed up in the flat, trying not the think of anything at all. I caught up on a few games, steered clear of all my internet-based gamer-friends who would want to know why I had been so absent of late, and generally moped about like most eighteen year old boys di from time to time. Which meant that Tuesday morning I woke up unspeakably early with a feeling in my mouth like a dead rat and decided to kill my gloom with a shower, incorporating a little fantasy time for my crotch, and running. It was going to be hot, and I decided to make up for my miserable Monday with a decent run, so I threw on my best running gear (black lycra shorts worn under satiny blue basketball style shorts, my favourite trainers and a gold running tee) and headed out with my music to the big bad world. I had discovered that the run from the promenade n the other direction was longer, so that was the way I turned, heading towards the posher end of the city, lots more lawns, shinier cars, less litter. Green space began to open up between myself and the road, so it was just myself, the sea and the grass, pocked with lonely dog walkers.

All other sounds faded to the music in my ears, hard drums and fast guitar that helped to set the beat of my feet and heart. I ran like the asphalt was the only thing in the universe, concentrating on my breathing, pushing the muscles in my legs to do their jobs, shaking out the stiffness in my arms, setting my shoulders for the long run. I barely noticed when the city began to drop away, leaving me in running in sparsely populated roads where big rich houses faced the sea. It wasn’t far to the next town, they almost linked, with just this sparse patch between the two, a field and a kids park.

There was a figure sitting on the bench. I’s jogged past him before my brain had managed to work around my concentration enough to tell me that I recognised him. I whipped my head round to see the end of a wave, and I managed to shout a greeting of some sort back, but my feet were already taking me onwards, and I couldn’t stop them. It was the man I’d seen at the sports centre. The tall one with the brown hair. This time I’d managed to notice that his eyes were a sort of mossy sea-glass green colour, and that I liked his smile. He’d been wearing jogging gear which I thought it was a bit hot for, sweats and a t-shirt, and had obviously been running, hair damp and finger-ruffled in a way I thought was cute. I wondered what his name was.

I reached the next town to find an open convenience store, bought a bottle of water and swallowed the whole thing in ten seconds, then jogged back towards home. Unsurprisingly my mystery man wasn’t there. When I got home I had another shower, and decided to take my first weeks wages and my shattered nerves shopping. I needed food. Having spent the last week subsiding on the things Dale had left in the fridge for me and fried-shit from the kitchen in the bar, I was desperately in need of some actual food. Wandering around the supermarket held no joy for me, and I ticked off a list in my head; peppers, onions, potatoes, rice, some green vegetable, toothpaste, new razors, bacon, sausage, no sausage, pork chops instead, a chicken, some herbs I wasn’t sure about and a few boxes of passata. On a spur I got something called gnocchi which looked fun and carried the lot back to the flat. Unpacking seemed to take forever.

As it was a Tuesday, the club at the South Alaska was shut, so it was just me and the part time cocktail barman, James’s less hot but much more friendly replacement Darren. Darren was an OK guy, he liked the slightly more punk side of rock, and we had quickly agreed to share the playlists and combine our music, making sure we didn’t put on anything too heavy or too eclectic for our relaxed evening drinkers. Dale had come in at opening time to check that I was OK, and then left me in charge-ish. The short order cook Barry started at six, but I steered clear of fries and onions rings.

It was not quiet, but not overly busy, and there were a steady stream of orders from about five onwards, and I took my break at seven thirty. Upstairs in the flat that was starting to feel like mine I ate a quick bacon and pasta dinner thrown together with a carrot (undercooked) and tomato (flavourless), I was too scared to use the herbs. Dale had left me a text sending love and support, letting me know that I was in charge, to call the shots and give the guys a boost at the end of the night. I slapped out some stretches, rolled my shoulders and checked the mirror.

I had dressed up a bit for the bar, since the likelihood of getting covered with beer was much lower. My only pair of good shoes, leather brogues, black straight leg jeans and a white, black and blue lumberjack style shirt over a YES tour t-shirt. I liked the way I looked. I ruffled my fringe, rocked it back away from my face and sighed. As if there was anyone to impress anyway.

Back downstairs I found Zoltan and his brother sitting at a corner booth with a couple of sexy-slutty girls in tiny shorts and ripped up Chaos t-shirts, both wearing way to much eyeliner. Zupan pushed the slinky thing off his lap and rolled towards the bar.

“Hey… Bay,” he said my name carefully, making it obvious that he wanted to say something else instead, “Two Stowford Press and two white wines for the girls, ya?”

“Sure.” I didn’t look at him as I started to grab glasses and pour the first pint. That at least I had mastered on the first night, getting the angle right on the glass and the perfect level of head. The only head I was going to be giving.

“Day dreaming are we pretty boy?” I ignored him as I set down the drinks. “What’s the matter Bay, you don’t like queers or cripples now is it?”

I snapped up to look at him, wanting nothing more than to throw the pint in his face.

“Zol told me. You should be embarrassed dude.”

“It’s none of your fucking business Zupan.” It was the longest thing I’d ever said to the big, wheelchair bound man, “You’re the one shooting your mouth off about shit.”

“Have it your way kid.” Zupan reached up to take the drinks, balancing a tray on his lap, “Have it your way.”

I glared at him as he rolled away, wondering what right he had to say such things to me. The kick in the gut was that he seemed apparently correct. I hated him, but that have nothing to do with the chair and everything to do with his attitude. I let Darren serve them when Zoltan’s girl ordered more drinks and busied myself with other tasks. I helped Barry do the clean-up and he showed me how to change the oil in the fryer and showed me how the freezer system worked with the dates and stuff before he went off at ten. When I came back from that, Zoltan and Zupan’s little group had been joined by a few more guys and interchangeably pretty if insubstantial girls with big eye make-up and vacant expressions. Zoltan was walking to the bar with a guy who made my heard stop.

The man from the bench. Nice eyes, brown hair, sweaty. Smiling.

“I can’t believe you have the energy to come out on your night off dude. What are they not working you hard enough at that restaurant of yours eh?”

“Leave off Zol, at least I don’t socialise where I work. Anyway that might change, Big Mack is thinking of shutting Monday’s instead, that way we could actually have a semblance of a weekend. Same again?” And then he looked up at me. “Oh hey.”

Dazzling smile.

“Hi.”

“So this is where they keep you when you’re not pretending to be a cheetah huh?”

I barely managed to nod. Hot guy, real polite, great smile, looking at me like I was the last man alive. I had to keep my cool, not give myself away.

“You guys know each other?” Zoltan frowned, confusion flashing in his face.

“Oh, we keep running into each other.” The lovely looking man leant both arms on the bar. I’d never seen him not in sweats, and he looked good in his slightly rumpled t-shirt and fitted jeans. He offered his hand over the bar, “Issac Daneil.”

“Bay. Bayer Trewell.”

“Nice to meet you.”

I was about to say something, but Zupan’s brash tone cut me off.

“Fuck sake guys, stop flirting with the kid and get back here with drinks!”

“Fuck off and roll away Zu,” Issac turned his pretty green eyes back to me, “Three Corona’s, a bottle of white wine and you’re having a bourbon and coke with me.”

“Huh?” It took me a moment to realise that both Zoltan and I had made the same noise.

“Hell Zol, if he’s gonna have to put up with you guys he’s gonna need some ammunition,” he dropped his voice and winked at me conspiratorially, “I know all the dirty secrets.”

I fumbled with the drinks, dropped the lime wedges and had to start again. I nearly sliced my thumb off with the paring knife. I hated that Issac might be watching me, hated to find that when I turned he was chatting idly, like it didn’t matter. I managed to get the drinks order together and watched as he walked with Zoltan back to the table. I was sorting out the glasses from the washer when he returned.

“I meant what I said Bay.”

I looked up at him. Issac was a lot taller than me, had that narrow athletic figure that I wished I could get, if only my body would decide to grow another six inches. He smiled like the world was perfect.

“Umm…”

“Pour yourself a drink.”

“I can’t. I’m responsible.”

“Alright,” Issac swung himself onto a bar stool and folded his arms on the dark wooden surface of the bar, “Bourbon and coke please.”

As I poured the drink I could feel him watching me and I tried not to show that it affected me. I bit my lip, concentrated on the measure, and set the drink down in front of him.

“So how did you get here then Bay?”

Darren is chatting to customers at the other end of the bar, there was no one else who needed drinks or anything about, nothing to clear up, it was relaxed and quiet. There was nothing to stop me from chatting amicably with the beautiful man who sat opposite me. Issac looked expectant.

“I got sick of home.” I scuffed the floor with my nice shoes, not that he could see them, “And Dale is an awesome Godfather. I get to live upstairs.”

“And keep house.” Issac sipped at his drink, “Nice gig. I wish I was that set up at your age. I was still washing pots and pans and sweeping the floor at night.”

“You’re a chef?” I wanted to do something with my hands, wipe the bar or something, so I settled for picking at a free cardboard beermat.

“Yeah. I got my first head chef job last year. I run the kitchen at The Fish and Antlers. You know, the little place in the Lanes.” I looked at him blankly. “Well you’ve not been in town long right?”

“A week and a bit. I don’t exactly eat out a lot. Not a lot of street cred to eat by yourself is there?”

“People round here do date Bay.”

“Like I’m going to meet people I wanna ask out working here…” I paused. The fuck was wrong with me, I wanted to ask out the guy I was talking to. And ‘people?’ Was I back in the closet when it came to guys I liked? I wanted to run, “I’m gay.” I blurted. Great start Bay…

“Good for you. There are gay people who drink here you know.” Was that a hint? Please let that me a hint, “So do you run every morning? That’s gotta be hard when you work nights.”

“You too though right? I mean, head chefs aren’t known for knocking off early.” Issac nodded quickly, “I try to run most days. I love it.”

“Good for you.” Issac sips his drink again then reaches out and takes the beermat from me, “You’ve got customers.”

I hated to turn away from him, but it was weirdly relieving not to have to avoid staring at him. He was really cute. So I served the pair of girls at the bar with their ciders, chatted to them as one complained off the heaviness of the pint after being in the forge all day and crooned over the other’s latest tattoo designs in sketch book format. I was jealous. Now that I was eighteen and away from home, I wanted my first ink. When I turned back from the pair Issac was gone.

The beermat which I had distractedly dog-eared was sitting on top of his empty glass. I flipped it over, and on the back written in plain cursive hand writing was a telephone number, and the words ‘gay people drink here too.’

Issac Daneil had given me his number. I stuffed the beermat into my back pocket and wished that there wasn’t so long until closing time.