About Carl - 1. At the Chestnut Inn

I heard that song Goodbye on the car radio yesterday. It was the song I listened to after I saw Carl for the last time. Almost eight years have gone by, and now I don't think about him very often, about how he's moving down a separate path from me, without me. But every now and then a smell or a photograph or a song triggers something in me and the memories come flooding back.

Yesterday was cold and grey, a typical January day. It was Friday and I was heading home from school, looking forward to the weekend. My students were restless and bored from being cooped up indoors, and I was short-tempered and irritable. I had to break up a fight in the cafeteria at lunch, an event that led to lots of paperwork and a long pointless conference with the Vice Principal. There was a staff meeting after school that ran late, so the daylight had faded by the time I made it out to the parking lot, lugging my briefcase full of student papers to be graded. I was looking forward to relaxing at home with a glass of wine, curled up on the sofa with the dog, watching something mindless on TV.

As I drove my pickup truck along the country road, the snow began to drift across the pavement from the surrounding fields. I turned on the satellite radio and scanned the channels, looking for something to take my mind off the lousy day I'd had. I stopped when I heard a song by Emmylou Harris; she had just released a new album and the station was playing a retrospective of her work. I had a real affection for her music; her ethereal voice always seems to me to be the perfect distillation of longing and regret, always tinged with a little sadness. I turned the volume up. And then they played that song – the one that reminded me of Carl.

I remember holdin' on to you,

All them long and lonely nights I put you through,

Somewhere in there I'm sure I made you cry,

But I can't remember if we said goodbye.

My mind flashed back to a similar winter night eight years ago, when I was driving home after my last meeting with him. I had been listening to Emmylou Harris then too.

The car headlights formed cones of light in the dark blowing snow. Tears were welling up in my eyes, and as my vision blurred I had trouble seeing the road clearly. I pulled over to the gravel shoulder, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I sat in the parked car, listening, thinking about Carl.

I can't remember if we said goodbye.

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Carl and I became friends in the summer of 1979. I was twenty years old and had come back from university to live with my parents, like I did every summer. We lived in a split-level ranch-style bungalow in a small unremarkable subdivision, in a small unremarkable southern Ontario town near the American border. I had landed a job that year at a big tourist theme park in a nearby town. The wages were good and the work, although not very challenging, was mostly outdoors. At the very least I'd have some decent money and a great tan at the end of the summer.

During employee orientation on the first day, I was introduced to my new boss, Carl. We knew each other slightly because we lived in the same neighbourhood, and had attended the same high school. I was a friend of his older brother Steve; we played on the same football team and took a few classes together. Carl was two years behind me in school, so we had a nodding acquaintance, but our paths rarely crossed and we didn't move much in the same circles. Carl had worked at the park the year before, and had been promoted to supervisor of the group of rookies to which I was assigned.

We shook hands and made small talk for a few minutes before Carl took charge of the group and began our training. At lunch we sat together in the cafeteria and he introduced me to some of the other summer students.

“This is Mark Nielsen,” he said. “We went to high school together. He's a friend of my idiot brother, but don't hold that against him.”

The people at the table laughed and greeted me warmly. Carl was a popular guy and lunch was constantly interrupted by reunions with friends he hadn't seen since the previous summer. At the end of the break he suggested that we start carpooling to work, since we lived a few blocks from each other. I readily agreed.

Carl showed up the next morning to pick me up in his father's old Ford Fairlane, a big boat of a car. My Sharona was blaring from the AM radio and his arm was draped over the door through the open window. He flashed his white perfect teeth at me as I tossed my knapsack into the back and hopped into the passenger seat. He wore his sunglasses low down on his nose and as he looked at me over the dark lenses he said “Morning, Mark.”

“Morning, Carl,” I said, as I buckled my seatbelt and settled in.

I took a close look at him for the first time. Had he always been this good-looking? Even now I can conjure up an image of him from that day. I see him clad in cut-off shorts and a tight Bruce Springsteen Darkness on the Edge of Town T shirt, his bare feet slipped into a pair of worn Topsiders. The phrase “tall, dark, and handsome”, that clichéd description of a Harlequin Romance hero, fit him. He was a talented athlete who played football and hockey and rowed on his university's team, and he had the beefy muscular body to show for it. His hair was black and his olive skin made him look vaguely Spanish or Italian, which seemed incongruous, given that his last name was Lockhart. There was a dimple in his chin and his dark brown eyes always gave you the impression that he was amused about something.

During the half-hour drive we talked about what we both had been doing since high school. He had just finished the first year of a degree in political science at the University of Western Ontario, while I was halfway through a degree in physics at Waterloo, about an hour away. We talked about his brother and gossiped about people from our high school. He peppered his conversations with corny double-entendres that made me groan.

“I used to play squash at school but I couldn't control my balls,” he said.

“This is taking forever,” I said, as we sat at a stoplight that took a long time to turn green.

“That's what your mom said last night,” he replied.

“You should take your act on the road,” I said. He laughed.

The day went by quickly. I was on my feet the whole time, and getting used to my new duties required my full attention. At the end of the shift I was tired and looking forward to going home after a hot shower. I ran into Carl in the employee locker room. He and I had taken adjacent lockers and he was already there, changing out of his uniform.

“Well, how did it go today?” he asked.

“I have information overload,” I said. “I'm not sure I'm going to remember all the policies and procedures.”

“You'll catch on pretty quick,” he said, trying to reassure me.

I was having trouble concentrating on the conversation because, while he continued to talk, he stripped off his clothes until he stood in front of me naked. I felt a little awkward with this big handsome man standing nude right in front of me. He noticed me looking at him and smiled; I blushed and looked away. I took off my own clothes, a little self-consciously. He waited there while I changed, watching me, appraising me. I stood beside him naked, feeling like I was on display. He laughed, playfully punched my shoulder, and said, “Come on, let's hit the showers.” I grabbed my towel and followed him to the big communal shower room.

At that time in my life I was struggling with my growing attraction to men. I wanted to be straight, and I dated girls at school, but every now and then a glimpse or an image of a sexy man would set my pulse racing. These feelings got more frequent as time went by, and I tried hard to fight them. I became adept at keeping things under control, and even the thought of sharing a shower with Carl didn't worry me too much. I was usually pretty good at keeping embarrassing physical reactions at bay.

In the shower we kept up our friendly chatter. Out of the corner of my eye I watched him soap himself up, bend over to wash his legs, and stand under the falling water with his eyes closed, shampoo cascading down over his tanned, café-au-lait skin.

Carl and I must have made a striking pair. We were both tall, but while he was dark and muscular I was fair and lean, built more like a swimmer compared to his linebacker physique. We physically complemented each other, like flip sides of a coin. I noticed that he stole a few glances at me when he thought I wasn't looking. We finished up, got changed and headed out to the parking lot.

On the way home he asked me if I had any plans for the night. I never had plans for any night since I'd been home from school, so I quickly said “No.”

“There's a bar my girlfriend and I go to on the American side that has great chicken wings and cheap beer – you wanna go grab a pitcher?” he said.

“I'd like that,” I replied. “I'll just have to go home and let my parents know.”

I took note of the reference to his girlfriend. So he was straight. I felt a little disappointed, then quickly banished the thought from my head. I was straight too after all, wasn't I?

Carl picked me up that night and we headed off in the big Fairlane to the bridge that took us to the United States. For most young people in my home town it was common practice to cross the border for a night out. The Canadian dollar, officially worth much less than its U.S. counterpart, was accepted at par in the border towns and there were lots of lively bars stateside. It seemed like Las Vegas compared to the staid, conservative town we lived in. Bars in Ontario closed not long after midnight, but on the American side the party went on until 3:00 a.m. The Customs & Immigration people at the border were used to hordes of Canadians crossing over at night and usually just waved them through. You didn't even need a passport then like you do now. The legal drinking age was eighteen, but no-one on the American side ever asked for I.D.

We drove through an unfamiliar neighbourhood, past block after block of run-down commercial buildings and small working-class homes in various stages of dilapidation. I started to wonder if we were lost, but eventually we pulled up at a small storefront on a corner lot. The neon sign hanging out front said The Chestnut Inn, a reference to its address on Chestnut Avenue, a nondescript street of small post-war bungalows and vacant lots. I had misgivings about the place but Carl strode confidently through the door and I had no choice but to follow.

We walked into a dark restaurant with ten or fifteen formica-topped tables and vinyl-upholstered chairs. A bar lined with stools occupied by seasoned drinkers took up one of the walls, and there was a big jukebox in the corner. The long narrow room was dimly lit by dozens of neon beer signs lining the wood-panelled walls, and the air was hazy with stale cigarette smoke.

We sat down at a big round table near the jukebox. A middle-aged waitress smoking a cigarette came to take our order. “What'll ya have, kids?” she asked.

“Pitcher of Michelob and two dozen medium wings,” Carl replied, winking at the waitress.

“Gotcha, hon,” she said.

Carl said “Be right back,” and headed off to the jukebox, fumbling for quarters in his jeans pocket. Soon the sound of Cheap Trick's I Want You To Want Me competed with the background noise in the bar.

Interesting choice, I thought, as I watched Carl leaning against the jukebox, his tight Levis riding low on his hips, his T shirt riding up slightly at the back. He reminded me of Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire.

He nodded his head in time to the music. I want you to want me. I need you to need me. I'd love you to love me. I'm begging you to beg me. Jesus, he was really putting on a show.

My daydreaming was interrupted by the arrival of the food. Carl returned to the table and we sat down to an enormous platter of steaming chicken wings. They were hot and greasy and tangy with hot sauce, and we washed them down with glasses of cold beer.

We told stories about our respective schools, and soon the conversation turned to current events. We talked about the Iranian revolution, the election of Margaret Thatcher, and the nuclear accident at Three Mile Island. It became clear that we both shared a love of politics. I had taken a few politics courses as humanities electives and followed the subject closely, and since Carl was majoring in political science, it was a rich vein of common interest.

Canadians were heading to the polls in a few weeks to elect a new federal government. Joe Clark's Conservatives were trying to unseat the Liberal government of Pierre Trudeau, which had been in power for almost ten years. For both of us it was the first time we were old enough to vote. Soon we were deep into an intense conversation about the election, my brain working hard to keep up with the points he was making. It was like a verbal fencing match as we threw out ideas and probed for flaws in each other's arguments.

He leaned towards me as he talked, his face animated, his brown eyes flashing with enjoyment. “Oh for Christ's sake – Joe Clark?” he said. “If that spineless wonder gets to be Prime Minister, I'm moving to Mexico.”

“You'd rather have Trudeau again, sucking up to the Russians and the Chinese while his wife parties with the Rolling Stones at Studio 54?” I said.

He was so close I could smell his cologne over the beer and tobacco. The combination of the alcohol, the unfamiliar surroundings, and the good-looking man sitting across the table had me disoriented. Our eyes met, and a look passed between us that startled me with its intensity. I quickly looked away, laughing to cover my embarrassment. We relaxed and ordered another pitcher, trying to look casual to the other patrons who were regarding us quizzically.

We stayed late into the night talking, then reluctantly headed back to Canada. We had to work the next morning, after all. He dropped me off in my parents' driveway, waved goodbye and drove off. I watched as his tail lights disappeared down the street, reliving the day's events in my mind: the ride in to work, the passionate discussion in the bar, and especially Carl in the shower, soap running down his slick muscular body.

I had never met anyone like him. Something had clicked between Carl and me over at the Chestnut Inn. I shook my head and went into the house.