Lion's Lair - 3. Shooting ... Stars

A serpent rises from the right, cutting through the flames engulfing the front of the Humvee, wrapping around the fender and striking through the windshield. It's a two-stage pipe bomb, with the first stage blowing up beneath the armored floor plates, then the second stage exploding on the end of the pipe. It bends the pipe as it curls through the windshield, exploding into shrapnel as I watch the dash collapse on my legs. I'm trapped, can't move, my hand feels something hard and metallic in my cheek as the flames get closer...I grab the flak jacket of the guy behind me and throw him out the now open back door behind me, then shove the other guy out of his back door before my memory stops—guess I passed out.

I awake with a start, in cool clammy sheets--a cold sweat covers me, my hand feeling the rough scar on my cheek, and my shins hurt. It takes a minute to realize I don't have shins anymore. Phantom pain they call it, when your mind is convinced the missing limb is there. Takes a minute to fully wake up, clear the head.

Thankfully, those nightmares don't happen much anymore. No PTSD--the base docs confirmed that before my discharge--just the brain still working through those events from now almost two years ago. Sometimes, I even get bits and pieces of memories I’ve apparently blocked out. But still, ready for 'em to be gone. Really no purpose reliving that horror--but guess my damn psyche needs to get it out.

I swing over, grab my wheelchair after pulling on a pair of gym shorts, roll to the bathroom for a morning piss. Roll to the kitchen to get coffee started, and after a few minutes, pour a cup, grab my cigs from the end of the bar and roll out on the balcony. It's always great to start the morning looking over the water--peaceful and a great way to ease into the day. And today is gonna be an interesting day.

Clayton called last night at the dealership, just before I started the technology training class for new Cadillac owners. We didn't get to chat long, but that's ok--it'll give us more to talk about during the dinner date tonight.

God, a Friday night dinner date? Makes me feel like I'm a nervous high schooler. Haven't been this nervous/excited/looking forward to a date since ... well, since I don't remember when. I just need to figure out what's going on; this guy gives me butterflies, and both intrigues me as well as makes me horny.

How can he do that after only a first meeting and a phone call?

Taking another sip of coffee and a drag from my smoke, the gears are still turning.

Shit, he's probably twenty-five years older than I am. What's the attraction?

Well, no doubt, he's a good-looking guy, in that distinguished quiet way that commands attention above and beyond mere physical appearance. His solid body looks almost lean, almost like a runner's body even though he's bulkier, and his tailored clothes emphasize his sleek lines. He's certainly intelligent; we talked about a whole bunch of topics the other night, and he always knew a little something about whatever we talked about.

And, amazingly, even though he was always focused on me, I always had the feeling he was aware of everything and everyone around us--almost like a cat who's focused on a moving toy but still knowing what's going on around him.

So what's the attraction? Is it just physical? Is it his mental prowess? Maybe it's just the fact he's so comfortable with himself, comfortable in his own skin without the drama so many guys I've seen seem to attract--or in some cases, create. Is that a function of his age? Maybe.

Oh, well, enough of this, time to start the day. We'll see how the date goes. I'm just going to play it by ear.

And it winds up being a busy day at the Cadillac store. The morning was a flurry of routine stuff: Contacting sales I'd made a week ago, a month ago, three months ago, eleven months ago, just to check in. No hard sales pitch--just planting seeds for future business, asking about family, business, etc. Reviewing changes to the cars' infotainment systems that were coming up, and would be automatically downloaded for owners that'd linked their cars to their home Wi-Fi systems or by OnStar. Included that information in the class for next week, since it'd be downloaded at the end of the month. Took a few troubleshooting/question calls from customers. Grabbed a sandwich from Subway for a late lunch.

Ended up with a walk-in customer just as I finished lunch, took him and his wife out after answering a few questions about the cars. She fell in love with the CTS sedan, and since she was going to be the primary driver, it was her call. The lease was up on their BMW so no worries with a trade. The finance guy got the lease details worked out, got a quick prep on the car; they were gone, and I had another sales point for the month.

But, shit, it's now 6:30pm, and I'm supposed to meet Clayton at my apartment at 7pm. No way I can make it there, shower, change, and be set by 7pm. Maybe I can call him, push dinner back to 7:30pm?

Reaching for my cell, the receptionist's page whispers throughout the building from each phone's speaker. "Ryan Gregory, Line 4, please. Ryan Gregory, line 4." Hit the call button on my phone and picked up.

"This is Ryan Gregory, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Ryan, it's Clayton. Did I catch you in the middle of something?"

"Not at all, Clayton, glad you called. I'm just finishing up here, and I'm running late. I'm not sure I can get home, cleaned up, and be ready to meet you by 7pm. Do you mind if we ....."

"Ryan, lemme make a suggestion: Rather than cancel out tonight, how about I just swing by the dealership and pick you up? I was calling because I'm running late, too. I'm maybe twenty-five minute out, still on the interstate coming back in from Stennis Space Center. Before I go any further, let me ask: what are you wearing?"

"Why, Clayton, I didn't know it was going to be that kind of call!"

I hear a small chuckle on the other end of the line. Good. He's clued in to my off-beat sense of humor.

"No, no, Ryan, I'm serious ... what are you wearing? I've got an ulterior motive I'll explain in a minute."

"I'm in khakis, white dress shirt with tie, blue blazer. Why?"

"I'm still in suit and tie. I've got an alternate restaurant we can go to, and since we're both dressed for it, how about you take a chance, let me take you there. No clothes change required, and we can still be pretty much on time for our date. What do you say? Sound like plan to you?"

"Sounds great, Clayton, that'll work. And, just so you know I wasn't cancelling the date; maybe pushing it back a little, but not cancelling. I'm looking forward to getting to know you."

"Oh ...well ... thanks!" There's momentary awkward silence. 'I'll see you about seven at the dealership. Bye."

Why’d he assume I'd cancel the date?

Just moments after 7pm, he pulls into the lot, parks in front of the building, and walks up to the door. Since I've seen him, I'm already rolling there. Like a true gentleman, he holds one of the glass double doors open and waves me through.

"Hungry?"

"You bet, Clayton. Been a long time since lunch. Let’s see the surprise place you've got for me. Sure we aren't overdressed?"

He laughs. "No, we'll be just fine," as he opens the door, I lever myself into the passenger seat of the big Mercedes, and he rolls my chair back, then folds it, and puts it in the trunk.

We head back across town, with casual, relaxed small talk about each of our days. At one point, I've got my left hand on the center armrest, and he overlaps my arm with his. He doesn't grab my hand and hold it, but instead puts his fingertips up against mine--a surprisingly intimate touch. His light touch is both reassuring and erotic.

We drive across town, going past Barry's bar, and a few miles later, pull in front of what appears to be a single-level Antebellum home, with square columns and a wide veranda across the front. A hand-carved sign outside at the base of the steps says "Welcome" "Donna Sam's". The parking lot in front and on the side of the building is filled with cars. Guess I should have expected a restaurant to be busy on a Friday night. And there's a ramp off to one side, so Clay and I use that.

Guess there's gonna be a wait--the foyer is packed. And damn if I wasn't wrong--this crowd is well dressed. I'm checking 'em out while Clayton goes to the Maître d'. All the men are in sport coats at a minimum, a lot of suits, and a few tuxes around. The women are in varieties of the perfect little black dresses perfect for them, with a few matrons in carefully tailored suits. Nice but understated jewelry abounds.

"Gentlemen, your table is this way. If you'll follow me ...." No waiting for us. Our host parts the crowd waiting in the entry, takes us past tables filled with small arrangements of fresh flowers with embedded lit candles on white linen tablecloths. There’s simply-lined china atop chargers, and heavy-looking flatware. The look of crystal glassware flashes sparkles among the capacity crowd of energetically relaxed people. And a variety of spicy aromas have my stomach growling before we reach the table in a quiet corner of the main dining room. They'd even removed a chair so I easily rolled into place.

The main dining room is cozy despite its size. One wall is filled from side to side and floor to the 20-foot-high ceiling with birch shelves filled with books and an occasional small keepsake token. The other walls are in heavy cherry-finish paneling with ornate moldings and original art works hanging under overhead spotlights. The main walkways through the room are some kind of dark hardwood, with tables clustered on top of gigantic Oriental rugs. Overhead, three antique brass chandeliers with "candles" clustered in groups of three cast a flickering glow over the room.

It's like dining in a mansion's private library.

What the fuck is a struggling Marine amputee from Nebraska doing in a place like this?

A waiter appears with menus and a request for our drinks. I order a Jack and Coke, Clay gets an extra-dry martini with Bombay Sapphire gin. Our menus are printed in French, Spanish, and English. A basic entree costs maybe half of my last week's salary, and they go up from there. And I'm feeling both overwhelmed and incredibly intimidated by the easy wealth shown here.

If I had legs, I'd be running ....

Clayton's hand reaches out and touches my wrist, then gives it a gentle squeeze. "I'm really proud to be here with you," as he smiles at me while he slips his hand in mine. Again, another gentle squeeze.

And just like that--it's like there's no one else in the restaurant with us. I'm comfortable and laid-back with this genuinely nice man.

How the hell did Clayton do that? Reassure me so quickly?

Clayton recommended, and I ordered, a veal roll stuffed with a shrimp and crab dressing, topped with some type of herbed cream sauce. He ordered a butter-lemon-dill grilled flounder. Of course, side dishes were provided, and fresh hot bread with honeyed butter was constantly provided. And he asked, then ordered a bottle of wine that he thought I'd like--and it was delicious.

During the meal, I noticed the sheer number of waiters. I swear they were waiting on just us. One waiter making sure our water glasses stayed full. Another making sure the wine glasses were filled. A bevy of wait staff delivering and removing plates, bringing hot bread, etc. And at one point, one of the owners, Sam, stopped by, said hello to Clayton and introduced himself to me as he asked how we liked the meal. Found out later, he and his wife Donna are neighbors of Clayton's. Great guy, very personal--and he made a point to ask Clayton how the service was going that night.

During dinner, we filled each other in on our pasts. I told him about my family in Nebraska on a farm, my growing up, the moves I'd made between bases while in the Corps. Told him about my casual dating, and even more casual sex, and he just smiled. "One of the joys of being gay is that we all have a past," he laughed.

He told me about his having upper Midwest roots in Ohio, Chicago, and Detroit, but how he'd more or less adopted southern California as home during college. Told me about his job as a consultant working on the next generation of moon rockets. Told me about his late lover and a house they'd built somewhere near the restaurant in a subdivision on the lake.

All in all, a totally relaxed conversation ... but despite the fact of Clayton's easy responses, I get the feeling there's more than what he's told of his story. Nothing bad, but still ....

"If you're up for it, I've got an adventure for us after dinner. Are you game?" He's grinning as he asks, so it's gotta be something different.

"Sure! You lead the way, I'll be merrily rolling along behind you." I start to chuckle and he joins in. Really glad my sense of humor doesn't scare him.

Just as Clayton is about to get our check from the waiter, another server brings a covered dish to the table and with a flourish removes the copper lid to display gently flaming Bananas Foster, with a side bowl of homemade ice-cream.

"The dessert is compliments of the gentlemen over there."

Our waiter motions our view across the room--toward a couple of nicely-dressed men in dark suits who wave back. Clayton motions them over, and they start working their way across the room, speaking and glad-handing people as they go. Hell, they seem to know most of the folks here; they're stopping to say brief “hellos” at almost all the tables.

Clayton stands as they arrive at the table and greets each man with a handshake that turns into a bear hug. "Rex ... Joe, great to see you! Thanks for the dessert. What gets you here tonight? Oh, wait; let me introduce you to Ryan Gregory. Ryan, this is ...." The taller of the two men is already turning, hand extended to shake.

"Hi, I'm Robert Rex, but please, call me Rex." We shake hands, while a small tingle runs through my fingers. "It's really a pleasure to meet you! This is my better half, Joe Miller." Rex has an infectious smile and twinkling eyes as Joe leans around, gives a firm handshake and says hello.

Rex looks over to Clayton. "Today's the third anniversary of when we first met. We'd come out to celebrate, and had just ordered desert when Mrs. Sheldon called. She's watching our kids while we're on our 'date night'. The boys were wrestling around, and the youngest got a cut over his eye--and she thinks it may need a few stitches, so we're heading home. Since we've got to leave, and we saw you here, we thought you'd enjoy the dessert." Rex smiles as he says it.

"Yeah, boys will be boys," Joe chimes in. "The only good thing is that I'll get home and out of this suit and tie. I much prefer something a little less dressy." He chuckling as he says it, even as he tugs at the buttoned shirt collar. "Rex, we probably need to head on out. Mrs. Sheldon is waiting for us ....." He's being casual, but he's obviously concerned, nervously shifting sideways from one foot to the other.

"Well, there ya go--I've got my running orders. Clayton, good to see ya. And Ryan," he turns and grabs my hand for another tingly handshake, "I'm certain I'll see you again, and very soon, too. Y'all enjoy the dessert." He waves goodbye, smiling that million-dollar smile, and walks to the door.

"Great guy and nice of them to send us dessert. Is Rex always like that?"

"What do you mean?" Clayton cocks an eyebrow as he questions me.

"Always that ... uh ... energetic, enthusiastic. Hell, it's like he talks in italics." My emphasis on the word make Clayton chuckle.

"That's as good a description of Rex as I've heard. He's always upbeat, always moving, seems to be able to read damn near everyone, and everyone likes the guy. He's a Realtor here in town. I met him just before he and Joe started dating. They'd only been seeing each other a few months when Joe was almost killed in an attempted murder by car accident--it was big news locally. Rex never left Joe's side, and after he'd recovered they moved in together in a big old restored house in the historic district. That's when they got the kids.

"Joe's every bit as nice a guy, just quieter. He's a welding supervisor in a metal fabrication shop not far from here. He adopted a relative's kids--apparently a nasty family situation, since the kids' dad is the one that tried to kill Joe. And this is the first time I've seen him in something other than a t-shirt or Izod-type shirt; I'm sure he wasn't joking about wanting to be more casual."

We'd finished the simple but rich bonus end to the meal when Clayton looks at me and smiles. "Ready for tonight’s next adventure?"

"Lead the way, Kimosabe." The waiter appears with our check. Clayton pulls out a black American Express and hands it to the waiter while checking his watch.

"Sir, can we take care of that up front? We're running a moment late for another appointment. Oh, and would you have that package I'd requested up front for us as well?" Clayton turns to me. "Ready, Tonto?" He's smiling as he says it.

We head out, Clayton leading the way, stopping at the front desk to retrieve his credit card, sign the tab, and pick up something bulky in a big brown paper bag he puts under one arm. Thank God, I didn't see the total check--I'd have probably fainted. He never mentions it, but leans down and whispers in my ear, "Hiyo, Silver! Let's go!" Bastard manages to get another smile from me as we roll out.

Damn, my face is gonna hurt tomorrow--don't think I've ever smiled as much in one night as tonight.

Get in the car, Clayton puts the chair and the bag in the trunk and we leave. We drive for a few minutes on the highway before turning onto a broad paved road. A rough-cut marble slab with the word "Olympus" softly floodlit stands watch.

"This is something a little different for a first date. I hope you don't mind." There's a shyness in his voice as he says it. "This will let us continue to talk and get to know each other better. I think it's far better than going to the movies."

"Clay, the movies would have been fine with me, you wouldn't have spent so ....?" Clayton's dismissive wave stops me in mid-sentence.

"Ryan, first of all, it's my pleasure. I do ok, so don't think anything about it. Secondly, although I like movies; concerts, too--why anyone would go on a first date, when the goal is to get to know your date better--and be put in a situation where you've got to be quiet for several hours? Besides, the dinner was a great investment--I got to know you better, and it's well worth it." He reaches over and puts my hand in his on the armrest.

Thank God he can't see me blush.

After winding around on these wooded roads, occasionally passing distant houses, we pull into a gravel parking lot. A big metal building is labeled "Phil's Marina" on the side, with two small signs pointing toward "Pontchartrain Diving" and "Pier". Clayton has my chair beside the car door before I know it---he's getting fast with this.

"This gravel is pretty compressed, so you should be able to move along ok on it. If you run into issues, I'll be glad to help. Just let me know." Clayton moves back, retrieves the bag and closes the trunk lid. "We're going out to the dock."

I make it a few feet before my chair bogs down in the gravel. "Uh, Clayton...."

"I've got this, guy." He puts the mystery bag in my lap and pushes the chair toward what appears to be an asphalt-paved walkway that leads toward the pier. I reach to open the bag, but Clayton takes a hand off the chair's push handle and lightly slaps my shoulder and I hear the smile in his voice as he says, "Unh unh. No peeking, Tonto. It's a surprise."

I take my hands away. "Ok, you win."

Once we get to the blacktop walkway, Clayton says, "It's all yours," and I pick up the motivational duties until we're nearing the end of the pier. He points to some benches built into the pier's sides. "Let's sit there."

We get seated, Clayton putting the bag to his side. There's maybe eight or ten people here, mostly adults but a few high school teenage couples with arms around each other’s waists--they must be on dates as well. Is this a make-out spot? Seems a little too busy; not nearly private enough for that.

"Ok, Clayton, so what's the adventure? It's pretty out here and everything, but ... I don't know what to expect."

"Just wait a few minutes. You'll see." He's not smug as he says it, just somewhat cryptic. But even in the very dim light here at the end of the pier, there's a twinkle in his eyes.

"I think you'll enjoy this. Just take a chance on me, ok?" And with that, he leans in and takes a quick kiss.

We start talking in soft tones, I guess inspired by the quiet night beauty of the lake, its gentle waves, and sky with lots of twinkling stars. I learn a lot about his late lover and their life together. He learns about the infections and bone spurs that slowed my recovery and fitting of my legs. Guess it’s just the atmosphere, but it's almost like confessional in an outdoor church, our chat between us. Really feel like I'm seeing things about Clayton and his life that've been hidden from others. The intimacy is intense, and I'm feeling almost like I'm being let in on private shit that none of Clayton's friends know. And yet there's more there, I can feel it.

In the middle of a sentence, I notice some kind of movement from the corner of my eye. I look up, and see a shooting star. Been years since I've seen one of those--last time was as a kid in the wilds of Nebraska.

"Make a wish, buddy."

Before I can respond, there's another meteor, then another, then a couple more. Suddenly there's a flurry of falling stars. I'm blown out of the water. Totally fuckin' awesome.

Clayton had his back turned to me, and I'd heard the rustle of paper, then a soft "pop". He's turned back to me, holding a pair of crystal goblets from the restaurant in one hand. Each is filled with a clear liquid. "It's the annual Perseides Meteor shower. It's really something to watch when you can see it against the other stars. I took a chance that you'd appreciate it. And, it's given us a chance to get to know each other a little more, too. Thank you for seeing me tonight."

"Trust me, it's been a real pleasure." And I leaned in and kissed him.

With that, he passes me a glass, and raises his in a toast made with a husky voice, "To more nights ahead--together."

I tapped my glass against his. "To even more spectacular nights ahead--together."'

Where the hell did that come from? Sincere, but shit, I've never been that open with my feelings. Damn, it's just a first date; an alien has obviously taken control of my brain--and mouth.

Of course, we both leaned in and kissed--long, slow, hot.

We stayed curled against each other, his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his chest, sipping champagne, occasionally trading kisses, sometimes chatting. Mostly enjoying the time together, for the next hour, hour and a half, whatever. Before I know it, Clayton's turning to me and whispering, "It's almost two am. Let's get out of here." Another kiss.

We load up and head back to the car. Just before we get to the loose gravel parking lot, I turn my head back and look--and there's a flurry of shooting stars, maybe the final flurry of the meteor shower, visible over the end of the pier, reflected in the calm lake. Picture perfect.

I'm falling. Just like one of those meteors. FUCK!

World's. Best. Date. Ever.