Lion's Lair - 2. What the Hell Am I Thinking?

Now back in the bar, the hot tingle of Ryan's kiss lingers on my lips. Surprisingly, my place at the bar is still open, even though my drink has disappeared. Oh well.

Barry comes up, my drink in hand, heavily frosted. “Saved your drink in the cooler, and don't think it's watered down too badly—or would you prefer a fresh one, Clayton? After all, you were outside for a little while … ” His twinkling eyes and impish smile let me know he's gently kidding me about the drink—and about my outdoor excursion.

“No, I'm sure it'll be fine, Barry. And no, I wasn't gone that long. Just long enough … ” I'm whispering now as he leans in to hear, “... to get a dinner date for the weekend.”

Barry beams. “Good for you! Ryan seems like a good guy, and God knows, he's certainly attractive. You'll hafta keep me posted on how it goes.” Barry winks as he moves away to serve another customer, leaving me with my thoughts.

I've lots to think about; my behavior tonight has been so totally out of character. Stick out my hand and introduce myself to a new guy? Not me—I'm far more socially reserved. Get caught up in the looks and intelligence of a much younger guy? Never happens—even if it is a man as impressive as Ryan. And I've never been attracted to a younger guy, at least not until Ben came along last year and we started occasionally hooking up. But certainly not swept-away in the first meeting! Ask for a date and initiate a kiss with a relative stranger?

Definitely not me!

So unlike me. I've always maintained an ordered life. Structured. Comfortable with my mechanical-engineering-world of numbers, fluid flow rates, pressure variables. Always kept things nice and neat. Hell, even in high school years ago, I carried a briefcase—hated the unorganized, things-thrown-in-the-backpack approach. My locker had shelves I'd built in shop class, just to keep things organized.

And now ….

My thoughts are interrupted by a blonde twink, maybe 21 or 22, shirt half-open to his waist. He's leaning into me, slurring hello.

Barry's immediately across the bar from him. “Can I help you?”

“Nah, I'm just talking with Daddy here. Thought he might wanna buy me a drink, maybe sing a karaoke song to me now that his freakazoid boyfriend has gone....” The twink is a little glassy-eyed, weaving on his feet a little; more stoned than drunk, but obnoxious regardless.

Barry's response was instantaneous and almost like what you'd see in old cartoons when the character would get mad. I've never seen anything like it in real life. His face went from open/friendly to scowl in a second, with a solid line of red rising like a waterline up his face. The color drained out to white, then back to red in that rising-line effect, all in just moments. His eyes narrow with cold anger as he stares at the kid.

He can move fast, too. Just in the three or four seconds it took to watch his face change so dramatically, he'd reached across the bar by me, grabbed the twink by the collar, and pulled him halfway across the bar—right up into his face.

He stared the young guy in the eyes with a look that would have killed a lion in its tracks at twenty paces and said in a very quiet, totally measured tone, “that 'freakazoid' as you call him is one of the nicest men you'll never get to meet. That Marine put everything on the line serving this country, lost his legs in the process—all so you could choose to be the punk-ass Quarter rat you are; nothing more than a two-bit stoned fuckin' hustler.” His word emphasis only strengthened the intensity of the almost-whispered chewing out he was giving the kid. Of course, the bar had stopped and everyone heard every word.

Barry shoved the kid back as the entire bar watched. “You're nothing but trash, and this isn't one of the bars that'd put up with your shit.” Louder now. “Your stupidity embarrasses all of us … now get the fuck out of my bar.”

The kid tugs at his shirt, and attempts to smooth it out as he heads back to the table where he and a handful of friends were sitting—but they're now standing, they've grabbed his cigarettes and they're all moving toward the door, with him in tow.

The bar breaks out in applause, the karaoke DJ starts up the music, and the party is back on.

“Sorry, Clayton, but I'd been watching that kid all night, bothering everyone. Just flat-out being a spoiled jerk, and when I heard him call Ryan a 'freakazoid', well … guess I just lost it. Again, sorry to put ya in the middle of that. And your next drink is on me.” Barry's got a bashful smile that both apologizes and has a little pride in it for handling the guy.

“Not an issue, Barry. He deserved it. And, you told me some things I didn't know—that Ryan was a Marine, that he lost his legs in service. So you did well on both counts; certainly nothing to apologize for.”

Barry looks at me dumbfounded. “As long as you talked, and you didn't find out he was a Marine or how he lost his legs?”

“No. It just never came up.”

Barry put his hands palm down on the bar, looked at me and rolled his eyes. “So tell me you found out where he's from, where he works, where he lives. How old is he? What does he do for fun? Tell me you got his phone number.” He’s incredulous that I've missed out on these obvious data bits; what can I say? The conversation just seemed to flow.

“Yes, I found out where he works—the Cadillac dealership. Yes, I found out where he lives—at the Lakeshore apartments overlooking the lake, on the other side of town off I-10. No, I've no idea where he's from or how old he is or what he does for fun. And, of course, I got his phone number, and he, mine.”

“Uh oh … you've got it bad. You've talked half the night and only have three basic questions covered.” Barry rolls his eyes again, and raises his hands in surrender.

“But, you used an expression I've never heard before: "Quarter rat". What's that?”

The happy Barry is back, and he chuckles as he explains. “They're the scum of the French Quarter, running like gutter rats from bar to bar, hustling everyone around for cigarettes, drinks, or just flat-ass hustling. They never think anything beyond how they're gonna get their next drink, or next high. And yeah, he's one—found out he'd come up from the Quarter to join friends here, and probably pick up his next drug package from a supplier here on the Northshore. Damn glad he's gone.” He's openly laughing now. “At least I put on a good show for the bar!” And that thought makes him laugh longer and louder.

“Well, thanks for the drink offer, Barry, but I need to head home. I'm meeting with a client tomorrow for a lunch presentation, and don't need to stay out late. Thanks for taking care of that Quarter rat, too.” I grin and wave goodbye.

It's late enough, the traffic is light, the car is quiet—I've got time to think. Need to get the brain calmed down before hitting the sack.

Everything tonight with Ryan is just totally beyond anything I've done, and so far past my basic nature I'm somewhat rattled. I've never been socially aggressive like that—at all. Not even with Alex, not even after the years we were together.

It was right after Stanford I'd met Alex. I'd played with guys while in both boarding school and at college, so I'd gotten comfortable with my gayness. Alex and I met at a hole-in-the-wall gay bar thirty miles away from campus, and he was immediately smitten with me. He pursued me calmly, but relentlessly, and my feelings developed for him quickly. After we'd been together for a year, I finally told him my secrets and explained my deceptions. He handled it well, understanding it all. My feelings for him stayed strong up until his unexpected death twelve years ago of a heart attack at 49. We'd been together 24 years.

I'm reminded of Alex every time I pull into the neighborhood. This neighborhood—Olympus--and our home here is a pleasant reminder of him.

Alex had signed on with a major Chicago architectural firm with offices in Los Angeles after college, and his design won a competition for a couple of buildings used in the 1984 World's Fair in New Orleans. We moved here, he supervising construction on his building and me working for a small NASA subcontractor. He eventually changed jobs, joining the company that was the lead firm for the Fair.

While at his firm's New Orleans office, a contractor/developer on Lake Pontchartrain's Northshore approached the firm's partners, offering a stipend/commission for the development of a new concept in a master planned community.

Instead of the traditional formality of most Tudor-inspired ritzy neighborhoods, Olympus would be built recognizing the importance of fitting in with the topography and native surroundings while impacting the environment as little as possible--quite a concept for the early '80's. It would emphasize sustainability, reserving over a third of the subdivision's three thousand acres in its natural, heavily wooded state. Bike/hike trails, dredging of canals crisscrossing the property following the land's lay, building a boat repair/dry dock with scuba shop for the residents were all part of the plan. And a federal wildlife preserve abutted the development, ensuring wildlife would roam through the neighborhood with ease.

Jack Adams, and his wife Amy, were fans of Frank Lloyd Wright, and wanted contemporary design using natural materials as much as possible to be a signature of the neighborhood. Alex submitted the winning design for their house--the first to be built in the area--and a friendship developed. And, in addition to the stipend, Jack and Amy were so happy with the way their home turned out, as a bonus they let Alex and me pick out the land to build our own place anywhere in the neighborhood we wanted. We’d already talked about a lot we’d select if we’d been able to afford it, so before we knew it, we were neighborhood property owners.

Word of this new approach spread rapidly among architectural circles, and soon noted architects, like I.M. Pei, Frank Geary, architects at the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, and others were clamoring for clients who'd build in the neighborhood--even if the architects themselves had only been considered as commercial specialists before. The development quickly blossomed, won national awards, and filled in to its maximum planned density.

As I drive past the mostly-hidden homes, it feels like I'm on a deserted country road. No traffic, indirect lighting on the road minimizes light pollution. A raccoon meanders across the road as I pull in my driveway.

Alex designed our home, sleek and minimalistic, with "pods" spaced out across the property. One pod contains the three car garage with workshop. A second pod contains the great room with dining space, kitchen, utility, master bedroom and bath. A third pod has three bedrooms, each with its own bath, a common den with kitchenette, and utility room. A fourth pod is nothing more than a forty foot square screened porch with outdoor kitchen by the cantilevered dock on the bayou that runs by Frank and Amy's house.

All of the pods are of varying heights to fit into the topography, and are elevated on steel struts to fit in with the land's lay. The struts allow the soil to breathe, and the roots of the two- and three-hundred year-old oaks on the property to remain basically undisturbed. All the pods are sheathed in recycled hurricane-proof glass which reflects the park-like four acre lot. Removable glass panels enclose screened breezeways connecting the pods. And there's a saltwater pool running underneath the breezeway connecting the main living pod and the bedroom pod, accessible from both pods by giant sand-colored concrete terraces that step down like a path of overlapping leaves into the water.

Despite its sleek minimalist style, Alex was always careful in his selection of textures and colors that added personality and comfort to what would have otherwise been a cold sterile space. He'd run the selections by me, knowing full well that I'd agree with his choice--we were that much alike, at least on those matters.

Alex was the social one of us. He always had people in on the weekend, keeping the grill in the outdoor kitchen by the dock going pretty much year round. This was always such a happy place, filled with friends and neighbors, and business folks from his office--and occasionally mine, too. Always good food, good drinks, and good times.

But times change, people come and go. Just the natural circle of life I suppose. Despite the warmth Alex built into the place, it still feels empty without him. I've mostly gotten used to it, even after all these years since he died.

Jack and Amy are gone too--moved to California last year after Amy's ALS progressed to heart-breaking stage. Although I know a lot of people, they were true friends, and I'm missing them. Thankfully, the experimental ALS treatments seem to be working and she's making progress according to Jack. Of course, lost touch with virtually all of Alex's co-workers. My role as a consultant generally keeps me on the outside at work, so never really had a lot of friends there. But there are a few neighbors around that I'm friendly with--they were so great when Alex died, I couldn't walk away from those friendships.

I have made some friends at the bar, and even hosted a few of 'em in for cookouts, or to watch the Saints' football games, even if opening my home to others feels like I'm exposing too much of my private life. Barry and Dave, his partner, have been here. Rex, a Realtor, and Joe, his partner, have been out too. Ron, an A/C technician, and his other half--a sheriff's deputy, I can never remember his name; Larry? Maybe?--have been out, too. And always had a couple of neighbors in. It's just not the big events or big crowds like Alex used to have.

As I finish up my glass of milk, and crawl in bed I think of the other one that's been out: Ben. He's an attorney with a local firm, specializes in estate planning. I met him at the bar a year and a half or so ago. Nice guy, and took an immediate interest in me. We get together every week or ten days, do dinner, or just relax with drinks. He's a young guy, 35, emotionally solid, big heart, and know he'd love to be in a relationship with me. The sex is good, too. It's just unfortunate that I'm not feeling that same intensity that he does for me. It's, well ... comfortable ... just not as interesting or exciting as Ryan seems to be. I guess it's telling that I've never told Ben of my past, my secrets; never told him of the real me.

Wait a minute--I just met Ryan tonight! Exciting as Ryan? What the hell am I thinking?

As I turn off the light, and hope for sleep, the thought oozes into my slowly-shutting-down brain: What am I gonna do about Ben?