Lion's Lair - 1. Recon--and a date?

It's all a standard mission: Standard security escort of fellow Marines from our base to Kandishar. Nothing special. All loaded up, on the road. Maybe 3 or 4 klicks out from our destination and all I remember is Sammy, my driver yelling, “Hold on!”. A fireball engulfs the front of our Humvee, flames surrounding the glass in soundless fury, reaching for the guys in the back, then total blackness.

* * * *

Parked at the front of the bar, it's a nice-looking place. Almost like a little Acadian cottage, porch across the front, big windows showing the shadowed bar and a few chairs—after all, the place hasn't opened yet. Hell, might as well get out, take a look around. A little reconnaissance is a good thing, right?

I'm getting out of my XTS, levering into my spot in the wheelchair when a big navy Chrysler 300 pulls in. Just starting to roll to the steps leading up to the front door when the Chrysler's driver walks up, smiling. “I'm Barry Evans, I work here; can I help you with something?” Sticks out his hand, we shake. Firm handshake; he's certainly friendly enough.

“Hi, I'm Ryan Gregory. Know I'm early, since the bar doesn't open until 5pm, but wanted to check out the place before the crowd arrives. And trying to figure out how to get up to the door.”

“Glad you're here, Ryan. You're gonna have a challenge getting up to the porch since there's three steps, and no ramp. How about I take ya in back, you can come in through the office, and I can do what I need to do to have the bar open for 5pm.”

"You the bartender tonight?” I'm looking at the guy; doesn't look like the typical bartender. He's a big guy, maybe 6'1” or 6'2”, 210 or so. Dark skin, almost Italian or Greek looking, with strong facial features; blocky jaw, squared chin, high cheeks. Dark brown hair, a little grey coming in here and there. He's also older than the guys I'd seen tending bar in the French Quarter; maybe early- to mid-40's, compared to the more typically seen mid--to-upper-20's. “Barry, don't wanna slow you down.”

He laughs an easy laugh. “Yeah, I'm tending bar tonight, and no, you won't slow me down, only a couple or three things to be done. Besides, I'm not gonna turn away the first customer of the day!” There's that laugh again. He's a good-natured, easy-going guy.

I'm following him around to the side of the building. There's a car parked in the shade of a big oak. “Looks like I'm not your first customer, Barry, Guess I need to go back and wait for you to open.” I grin at him and act as though I'm wheeling the chair around, but he waves me off.

“You're welcome to wait up front if ya want, but that guy is doing a hookup with someone out in the woods; he's not here to drink. I've learned this place is something of a rendezvous spot. So yeah, you're still the first customer of the day. And coming in this way will be a little easier than navigating the stairs in front.” He's grinning himself; the bastard picked up on my attempt at comedy, and rolled with it. Good man.

We get to a door, Barry unlocks it, and he's right; as we've moved around the side of the building, the ground has risen slightly, and my chair is now maybe 6 or 8 inches below the threshold. Easy enough. Barry has me wait while he kills the burglar alarm, then holds the door open, motioning me through. Using a little bit of momentum, the chair leaps the threshold casually. Barry's already in front, looking over his shoulder. “Follow me to the bar; cold drinks await!”

Passing through a dressing area with multiple mirrors on two large banquet tables, we move into a stockroom area, then get into the bar itself, I'm at the “little” side of an “L”-shaped bar. There's a pool table off to the left, a small stage dead ahead with tables and chairs in front of it and to the right. There's a door on the far wall that apparently opens to a patio; the privacy fence and some plants through the glass insert of the door are visible.

“Give me a few minutes, lemme get setup, and I can mix ya a drink. Or, would you prefer a cold beer?” Barry's accommodating, but focused; he's already scooping out ice to go into a well behind the bar, and putting away glasses that were washed and allowed to dry from last night's business.

“A Coors Light would be great, thanks.” Lights come on, pop-tune music whispers softly in the background. I roll over to a table, grab an ashtray, and light up just as Barry brings my beer, and a Bud Light for him after unlocking the front and deck doors.

“Told ya the setup would be fast. So … what's your story, Marine?” Damn; the man's already read me?

“Easy enough; lost my legs when an I.E.D. exploded while we were on a security mission. I'd ….” Barry's waving his hand before I can finish.

“No, no, lemme try that again. Maybe I’d better put my beer away until I can speak a little more clearly.” He’s smiling an unassuming smile. He looks me directly in the eyes; he’s not embarrassed by my response, just frustrated that he wasn’t clear in his question. “What gets you to the bar? How’d ya find us? I’ve not seen ya here before, and I'm always curious about folks who stop in. And, by the way, if you do wanna talk about your legs—or anything else—I'm a damn good listener. Now, back to my question: What gets you to this bar?'”

Gotta give the guy credit; been a long damn time since I've been as comfortable with someone, especially someone I've just met. And yet, this guy radiates a sense of familiarity, and the quiet depth of someone who's lived full and hard. Definitely a survivor. Self-assuredly relaxed. But I'm not gonna tell him this is my shot to rebuild the pieces of my life back into a complete picture.

“Before I answer that, lemme ask: How'd you know I'm a Marine?”

He chuckles, then does a slug of beer before answering. “My other half is a Marine—you never become an 'ex-Marine'--and he's a lot like you. Precise. Never flustered. You handled the navigation from our first meeting till now skillfully, aware of your surroundings although you've never been here before. You're far better dressed, far better put together than most car salesmen. Plus, you've still got the high-and-tight haircut that's always a little more than any other service branch's requirements for appearance. So how'd I do?” Barry's smiling.

My turn to laugh—this guy nailed me. “Ok, ok, I surrender. Right, on all counts. But how'd you know I sell cars?”

Barry's got a gleeful twinkle in his eyes. “Yes! And the car thing? Easy; you're driving a car with dealer tags. It's unlikely that'd be a loaner since it's the top of the line twin-turbo V-sport Cadillac. So, it's your work car, you'll keep it a few months, sell it, then get something else.”

Shit, this guy doesn't miss a thing. Damned impressive. “Ok, Barry, anything else you wanna tell me about me?” I'm laughing as I say it, and he starts, too.

“Nah, that'll wait till later. I'll hafta use my spidey sense on ya to get more.” He's wiggling his fingers in front of his grinning face like he's casting a spell. “But, you will end up spilling everything to me. Now, third time's the charm; how'd ya find this place?”

“Finding the place was just a matter of looking up Slidell gay bars. This is the only name that popped up. Since I'm new here—only been in town a little over a month—had to use GPS to find it. And since my wheels are fairly new,” I pat the wheels of my chair, “I wanted to check out the place to see how easily I could navigate once I got here.”

Barry just nods at the chair in acknowledgment. 'You navigated just fine. And looks like your chair is every bit as much of a high-performance model as your car.”

“It is. It's made of ultra-high-strength, light weight steel with carbon fiber thrown in at spots for reinforcement or additional weight savings. Hell, even the wheels are specially canted and the seat is placed so I can use the angles and leverage of my arms to greatest advantage. But, hoping it'll be a demo like my car until I can get my legs fitted.”

Barry does a “stop” motion with his hand as a guy comes in the front door. “Lemme take care of this guy; I'll be right back.” After serving a beer to the guy and exchanging quiet conversation, Barry's back as the guy leaves, taking his beer with him. Barry brings us fresh beers.

“Funny; he saw the sign about the drag show on Saturday, and wanted to ask where the cars would be parked, and why the races were going to be so late. Had to explain to the guy there'd be no drag race cars here, only drag queens at 10:30pm. You should have seen his face once he understood. Guess he decided he didn't wanna hang around a gay bar.” Barry shrugs his shoulders as he speaks. “Oh well; one of the joys of a rural bar. So it's safe to assume you're gay or bi—or at least comfortable in a gay/bi environment? And you're getting legs?”

“I'm gay. And yeah, hoping to get my legs maybe next month. Moved here since the new VA hospital in New Orleans is state of the art, and they'll now have some of the best docs and facilities in the country. Had some problems getting fitted with the legs initially, but my doc thinks enough time has passed it'll go without issues this time.”

“Great. Glad you're here.” Barry's sincerity comes through. “And I hope you'll think of this as your home bar. You'll find some great folks here. Everyone's friendly, everyone gets along. But lemme be direct. I take care of my folks here; and if you're in a situation that gets uncomfortable—because of questions they ask or someone tries to pick you up that you aren't interested in or just because they're obnoxiously drunk—just get my attention. I'll step in, handle it discretely and diplomatically.” I nod, appreciating his no-nonsense approach. “I'm sure you can handle any situation, so just think of me as your wingman.” He's smiling.

I smile back. “Yeah, I can pretty much handle myself, but think I'm totally safe about getting picked up; just don't think that'll happen.” Look down at the stumps of what used to be my legs. Really trying to not sound bitter, but almost used to guys who'll see me seated and start to approach only to spot the wheels on my chair and run for the door.

Been so fuckin' long ….

“Bullshit. You're a damn fine looking man. Your proportions sound wrong if you run an ad on Grindr: 'Copper/bronze hair, green-eyed Marine, 4'10” and 190 seeks ...' will get ya attention for all the wrong reasons—after all, they aren't noticing that it's your seated height--but with that face, chest, and arms, sure you get plenty of looks. Wear a tank top or go shirtless, they'll be drooling.” He's smiling as he says it, and his relentlessly positive approach is both refreshing and appreciated.

“We'll see.” I just smile and shrug.

“Now, lemme take care of some housekeeping for ya. Until I can get a ramp built in the front, feel free to use the side door I brought you through this afternoon. I've owned this place for almost year, and quite frankly, a ramp has been lower priority. You can also use the side gate entrance on the patio.” He points toward the door going to the patio. “Normally, it's an emergency exit only, but it's at ground level on that side of the building, so feel free to come in or leave through there--it's always unlocked during business hours. If that side of the parking lot is full, use the side door we just came in. You'll need to call into the bar, and the bartender—whoever's working—will meet ya there and let you in since that door stays locked during business hours. Use either until we get the ramp done up front.

“The men's room is over there,” he's pointing to the far corner of the building, “and it's got a urinal there, plus a stall. Don't know how well you're hung,” he's grinning now, “but don't think you wanna use the urinal right now, unless you’re big enough to stay seated and still reach it without splashing—at least not until you get your legs in, and get out of the chair. The stall should be big enough you can navigate your chair there without issues, but please do check it out, and let me know. I can get the mods done there when I get the front ramp built.” He looks at me expectantly, and I nod agreement.

“And, I saw you head to the table when I was opening up; you're welcome to sit anywhere you want here in the bar. Know the height of the bar might be a challenge, but you may wanna consider sitting near the two service areas at the bar. With rails on either side of the space, you can use 'em to hoist yourself up to the barstool. Just pull your wheelchair in close so drunk patrons don't trip over it.” Barry's smiling that infectious smile again; shows off his strong facial features and the cleft in his chin. “Or, if you've got other navigational tricks up your sleeve, pick any other seat you want—it's your call. Just want you to be comfortable here at your second home.”

We sat in relaxed silence for a minute or so. Barry's been gracious, friendly, direct. He's never once made me feel uncomfortable, yet dealt with my mobility issues directly, without the not-so-subtle pity or awkwardness most people have. And never made an effort to “try to help” even if it was needed—always watching but waiting for my request. If everyone here's like this, I may have found a home.

Our quiet is broken by a handful of patrons coming in. “Nose around the bar all you want, make yourself comfortable. And when you're ready for another beer, lemme know.” Barry stands as he speaks and moves behind the bar to serve the folks just arriving.

I roll out, check out the patio. Multiple level decks with most of 'em covered, a fountain, heavy landscaping with vines running along the privacy fence in addition to planters everywhere and indirect lighting highlighting it all. Easily find the gate, open it, and see a great spot I can park my car. Yup, it's a good setup, and the small steps of the decks won't be any issue when I get my legs. And there's plenty of space on the entrance deck coming out from the bar for me to be comfortable getting in and out of here until then.

Back inside, more folks have arrived. Swing by the john, take a nice piss—yeah, the stall works fine—then take my place at the same table I'd left. Within minutes, a group of folks have joined me.

“Barry sent over this beer for ya, figured you needed a refresh. I'm Jennay.” Fresh-faced, all-American girl, friendly, low key. We chat for a few minutes, find out she works at a big-box retailer, just married her girlfriend Dixie, and has a ready smile. Maybe in her mid-20's.

Within an hour, I've met most of the bar—and the crowd is building, getting ready for Karaoke Night. Between Barry nudging a few folk my way, and the natural tendency for friends to clump together, it's been a fun evening, with me being treated like a celebrity. And no one's said a thing about my legs—or lack of. Just a normal guy out drinking with new buddies.

So different from back in Nebraska. No one there could look at me like they used to.

There is one guy I haven't met yet—and he stands out only because he's noticing me, smiling, nodding occasionally, yet firmly planted on his barstool at the bar. He's spoken to everyone, but they've all moved on to others. Older guy—maybe late 50's, early 60's. Polished, still in dress shirt and loosened tie, dress slacks, well-shined shoes. Slightly receding hairline, still thick head of hair flecked with grey, blocky but well-proportioned body. He's nursing a frosted drink, leaned back, surveying the bar in between casual chats with Barry.

“That's Clayton Jameson. Nice guy, an engineer with Boeing, works over at NASA. Sure you'll meet him before the evening's over.” Ron, a refrigeration/air-conditioning repair guy has leaned in to whisper in my ear. “He's not a daily regular, but comes out pretty often. Good guy. You want me to introduce ya?” Ron's smiling a wry smile, almost sounding like a matchmaker, fully prepared to drag the guy over. Like I said, friendly group—how often do ya get that kind of involvement from folks on a first-time bar visit?

“Thanks for the matchmaking service, Ron,”--I'm smirking at him--”but I think I can handle a simple introduction on my own. Just noticed him because he's alone; everyone else seems to be in a group here.”

“Yeah, he's friendly, but he's not the typical guy in a bar. He's from out West--California or Nevada--I don't remember which, makes a shit-load of money, pretty much keeps to himself. But he's definitely noticing you. Sure you don't wanna go get a beer? There's a spot open by him ….” Ron's winking and smiling at me as he nods toward the guy, still obviously in matchmaker mode.

I chuckle, then respond, “I'm sure I'll meet him at some point. But, thanks again.”

Typical of the ebb and flow in a bar, I find myself alone at the table; everyone's moved on to different groups. And my beer is empty. Roll over to the bar, hoist myself up on the barstool at the service area, Barry delivers a fresh Coors.

“Karaoke will be starting in an hour or so; you already thinking about what you're gonna sing?” Barry cocks an eyebrow at me, eyes twinkling. “You'd make a great addition to the performers tonight.”

“Don't think you want your bar emptied out, Barry. Don't ya wanna make some money from this place?” I laugh back, he nods, raises both hands in surrender. “Fair enough. Just checking.” And he's off to pour drinks for some new arrivals.

Catch movement to my left from the corner of my eye. It's Clayton, sticking out his hand. “Hi, I'm Clayton Jameson, and I don't think we've met. What gets you out tonight?”

“Hi, I'm Ryan Gregory. Good to meet ya. Had all the fun I could stand at work, and decided to reward myself with a couple of beers. How about you?”

That started a casual conversation. Learned that Clayton was scheduled to meet an attorney buddy here, but he couldn't make it at the last minute. He's got a lilting accent, a happy mix of Southern, the Cajun French, and West Coast, plus another overtone I can't quite figure out. Sharp guy. Quick-witted, with a dry sense of humor. Bright hazel eyes. And seemingly able to carry on a conversation about damn near any topic. And, for an older guy, he's attractive. Not pretty but … handsome. Incredibly distinguished. Fuckin' hot man.

Whoa—where'd that come from? Always been interested in guys about my own age. Generally jocks like me, all the way from the high school track and football buddies I'd played with to the occasional military guy I'd hooked up with; sometimes prettier boys when on leave. But me, at 34, noticing a silver daddy?

Have my tastes have changed as much as my body?

Regardless, he's an interesting package of intelligence, clean-cut looks, definite social skills. Hell, we talked about a hundred topics, and he always managed to be able to contribute information to the subject as well as turn the conversation back to me. He's treated me like a typical guy, legs or no. In fact, never mentioned it.

We talked further, told him about my role as a salesman at the Cadillac store, responsible for technology training and support for new customers. I'm officially a “Certified Technology Expert”, and teach classes at least two nights a month for new customers to help 'em learn the cars’ systems. I'm also the “go-to” guy for technology questions during dealership hours. That's in addition to my sales duties. Despite the fact that each new vehicle comes with an iPad preloaded with a copy of the car's touchscreen management system for customers to play with/learn from, there's nothing like “hands on” to help increase customer satisfaction. And customers love the personal attention in the classes, and seem to have no problems dealing with my lack of legs or the chair.

Hell, the cars can be so personalized by that touchscreen, owners are surprised and delighted at the details. Want to be comfortable in cold weather? Just set the car to turn on the seat heaters/steering wheel heat/climate control to 75 anytime the outside temp is 40 or below. Want to make the car almost drive itself? Just set the distance you want the car to maintain between itself and the vehicle ahead, it'll maintain that distance, and even automatically brake you to a stop—including if it's an emergency stop--all by just using the cruise control. It can also be set to work for stop-and-go city traffic. Move to change lanes without using your turn signal? A chime sounds, a warning signal flashes, and the side of your seat vibrates under your butt warning that there's traffic there. The damn thing will even park itself--whether parallel or angle parking.

They're almost self-driving now; the hands-on training I do makes a difference.

Wish I were as sophisticated as the cars I sell; I’m just a redneck Nebraska Marine with no legs.

We talked cars for a little while after he discovered what I do. He's driving a Mercedes S-class, kinda common among engineers, but his real love is restoring old cars. He's got a 1969 4-door Thunderbird he's restoring, doing everything but the upholstery work himself. The tools and the car take up every inch of half of his garage at his place across town from me--maybe a 15 minute drive or so. And his house is in a subdivision with canals and dredged bayous that provide access to Lake Pontchartrain.

“I spent a lot of time in Nevada and California, so love the water--it's so different from there. It's relaxing after a long day at work to just sit in back by the pool with a gin and tonic in hand, and overlook the boats going by or fish splashing, or maybe even seeing an occasional alligator.” Gotta admit he does make it sound nice.

Love being on the lake, so I understand, even if all we had on our farm was a pond for crop irrigation or the livestock to use, and me and the rest of the guys to skinny dip in after finishing farm chores on hot days. Got in plenty of pool time as a part of my therapy after the legs were gone, and the later infections, but still enjoy it.

Remarkably, after all the conversation, it still feels just as energetic and involving as it did a couple of hours ago. And Clayton always keeps his focus on me, my opinions, what do I think, and so forth. Really didn't talk that much personal stuff about himself at all.

Karaoke starts, a variety of folks hit the stage, Clayton buys another round of drinks for us. It's all fun, everyone's having a great time, the DJ is filling in the spaces with energetically cheerful banter—and I'm realizing it's late, and we've got an office sales meeting tomorrow morning.

“Well, Clayton, hate to leave, but I must. Got an office meeting first thing tomorrow morning. Thanks for the beer.”

I wave Barry over. “Need to settle up with ya, Barry. Gotta head out.”

“Hate to see ya go—but I was serious when I said I'd hoped you'd count this as your home bar. Hope you'll be back. And, you were the first customer of the day—your tab's on the house.” Clayton nods as Barry mentions being the first customer.

“Yeah, Bubba came up with that idea to help build happy hour business—first customer on Wednesday gets a free bar tab that night. You won it tonight, Ryan. Just next time, bring cash; you can only win one of those every 6 months.” Barry's smiling as he says it, and with Clayton's agreement, know he's not just taking pity on a cripple.

“Well, great—thanks, Barry. I appreciate it! And yeah, I'll be back. It's a great bar, and just as you said, great folks. Really enjoyed it, but need to head out.” Barry and I shake hands across the bar, I hoist myself down to the chair, get comfortable, and start to head out through the patio.

“May I walk you to your car?” Clayton shows a small hopeful smile as he asks before I even get moved out of my setup position. Is this a flirt? Hell, it's been so long, the gaydar is not only off but been removed.

“Sure. Gonna be a little more of a hike, since I'm going out through the patio around to my car.”

“Not a problem.” He waves to Barry. “I'll be back in a minute to finish the drink.” Barry nods and smiles a wry smile. I'd love to know what he's thinking.

We make our way out and around the building, making small talk as we go. Get to my car, open both the driver's door and back door of the sedan, and for the first time, Clayton acknowledges my lack of legs. “Anything I can do to help?” That's the only time it's been mentioned.

“I'd normally put the chair on the back seat, then walk on my stumps and pull myself into the car. If you'd like, hit those two latches on the chair. It'll fold, and just put it in back. Just give me a sec to get my ass in the driver's seat. And thanks.”

Clayton puts the chair away while I maneuver myself into the driver's seat. He moves back up front to chat with me.

“Look, I enjoyed myself a lot, and hope you don't think I'm too forward, but … how about dinner this weekend?” He looks hopeful, a little uncertain, and almost surprised at himself.

“Sure. That'd be fun. I'll hafta rely on you to pick out a place; I'm still learning my way around town.”

“That's great!” His enthusiasm is a revelation even to him. Guess he really was enjoying himself tonight, even though he appeared pretty reserved, and didn't volunteer that much about himself.

We traded phone numbers, with him promising to call tomorrow to set something up for either Friday or Saturday. Thanked him again for the beer, and said goodnight, hitting the start button on the Cadillac.

And with that, Clayton leaned in and kissed me—hard, full of fire and energy. And, damn if I didn't kiss back with equal intensity.