WHERE WASLacy?
Jasper leaned against a barstool, one cheek on it, one cheek off, swaying softly to the music in Carlton’s, the newest gay bar in Andersonville. The music was something vintage he knew Lacy would love, something she’d introduced him to, an eighties band called ABC. Right now, they were singing a tune called “The Look of Love.” Through the haze of his vodka-addled brain, one of the lyrics came through to him and made him shiver a little—the one about true love being the one thing he couldn’t find. He closed his eyes.Don’t be maudlin. Don’t feel sorry for yourself. You’re young yet. You’ll get that look one day.
Lacy was nowhere around. Jasper took another sip of his cosmo, and the supersweet drink caused a little frisson of nausea to pass through him. He needed to get home to his bed with its flannel sheet and old, worn quilt.
Hadn’t Lacy said something about an hour ago about being tired herself? About grabbing a cab on Clark Street? Jasper nodded in agreement with himself. And as always, she’d wanted Jasper to come home with her, although she’d never, ever say it. For the two of them to go home, kick off their shoes, have a nightcap, and maybe watch a littleGolden Girlson Hulu. Maybe it would be one of those nights when one or the other would sneak into the other’s bed, and they’d hold each other until dawn crept in, two bugs in a rug, as Lacy would put it.
But Jasper had sent her away, his need for male companionship too great. There’d been a beefy redhead with a beard eyeing him. Going home with Lacy would have felt too much like failure. And yet, the redhead had disappeared.
And herehewas, still drunk and empty-handed. The bar was due to close in a few minutes. The bartender had already brought up the lights and made the now-familiar call, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
Maybe this moment, right here and right now, was the true failure.
He swiveled in the stool, appraising himself in the mirror behind the bar. In the wan light, he looked older than his years, tired. The fresh look he’d had when they’d left the apartment was gone, swallowed up by too much booze and fatigue. He thought of himself as Neely O’Hara from another of the favorite classic movies he shared with Lacy,Valley of the Dolls.
The music stopped, and another song didn’t follow. Jasper pulled his phone out and saw that it was only a couple of minutes before two. There were four messages from Lacy. He supposed they were all missives designed to make him feel guilty, despite her encouraging him to have a good time and not worry about her when she left a while back. “I won’t wait up,” she’d said with a wink as she took her departure. Yet he knew that she’d lie in bed, listening for the sound of his key in the lock.
The bartender, a guy who called himself Luc but whom Jasper knew for a fact was really named George, leaned over the bar. “We’re closing up in a few, bro. If you want to come back to my place after we close, it’s cool. I got some weed….”
Jasper eyed the guy, who was probably a good ten years older than Jasper. He mulled over the offer but with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He’d taken guys like Luc up too many times. “Better than nothing,” he was learning, was a lie. In spite of the tight wifebeater tank, the tiger tattoo around his pumped-up left bicep, and the thick shock of bedhead platinum blond, George looked worn out, the crow’s-feet around his bloodshot eyes prominent, the sagging of his cheeks bearing testimony to his excesses. A phrase Lacy used came to mind: “Mutton dressed as lamb.”
The saddest thing? Jasperhad gone home with him before. He knew the weed was just the start. That would be followed by a shot of G, maybe a pipeful of meth, both of which Jasper would politely refuse with an “I’m good.” Even at his young age, he’d seen too many lives destroyed by those drugs.
Jasper didn’t need that stuff, especially not if it made you look like old George here. And it would, Jasper knew, because he’d seen that story played out far too many times. Sad.
“Ah, I think I’m gonna just head home and crash.”
Luc/George frowned, rubbing at a sticky spot on the bar with a rag. “If you change your mind, the offer’s always good. And you know where I live. It’s walking distance, over on Argyle.” He winked, grinned, and walked away to do whatever he needed to do to finalize another night at the bar.
Jasper wondered how many other guys he’d invited over. Another thing he knew about George/Luc—he was a proponent of the old saw “the more the merrier.” He also wasn’t picky.
With the lights on, Carlton’s was revealed for the sad little room it really was. Jasper said, “I’m beat. Gonna head up north—home.” He hoisted himself the rest of the way off the barstool and headed out into the night.
Clark Street, at this hour, was deserted. Even the traffic had slowed to a car or two every few minutes. Jasper had a couple of choices. He could hoof it over to the L stop at Foster, a few blocks south and east, or he could wait for a bus to come along. A number 22 could roll up within five minutes—or an hour. This late, the buses were unpredictable. Two could show up, one behind the other, and then there wouldn’t be another for over an hour.
What the hell? He had his phone and could peruse Instagram or Twitter while he waited for the bus. He had a Gregg Olsen true-crime book on his Kindle app. He was too tired to walk the half dozen or more blocks to the L. Besides, who knew how long he might have to wait for a train once he got to the station anyway? It would all balance out, right?
Even though it was late March and Chicago could be brutal at this time of year, the evening was actually sort of pleasant. Jasper had worn his biker jacket and had sensibly brought along a stocking cap and gloves, which he now donned. The air was crisp, yet a little damp from the piles of dirty melting snow in the gutter. The moon above was a wisp of a crescent, silver. Jasper knew there were stars up there, but light pollution hid them from his view. Louise, the next-door neighbor who had pretty much raised him, had once told him, “The stars are always there, honey. You might not be able to see ’em, but they’re there, just waiting for you to bask in their brilliance. You remember that.” Jasper smiled.
He was about to post a selfie he’d just taken, his cheeks high with winter color, when a black car guided to the curb. It was a Lexus, and the windows were tinted.
Jasper took a cautious step back as the window on the passenger side descended.
“You need a lift?” a gruff voice floated out from the car’s interior, one that sounded scarred by too many cigarettes.
Jasper stooped down a little to peer inside. It was too dark to see much, but the dashboard light illuminated enough to reveal a pot-bellied guy behind the driver’s wheel. He had a head of thick, short salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee, almost all white. He was smiling, but as Jasper moved a little closer to the car, he could see the smile didn’t reach the guy’s dark eyes.
Jasper shivered. “I’m okay. The bus should be along any minute.” Jasper peered south on Clark, which was woefully empty.
Way down, he spied a taxi pulling over to pick up a fare. He wished he had enough money to afford a cab.
“The bus? C’mon, man! You’ll freeze your ass off. Where you goin’?”
The guy had his car radio tuned to some easy-listening station. Elevator music floated out. Jasper glanced behind himself, wishing someone else would emerge from the bar.
“Just up north a bit. Rogers Park.”
“It’s on my way. Hop in.” The guy leaned across the seat to open the door.
