“The tenure stuff?” I had been wondering about it, but I’d cut myself off so completely from Sawyer, I had no way of finding out.
“Well, that. And then this student complaint.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t heard anything?” I shook my head. “A student from last semester filed a formal complaint against her. I don’t think it has any teeth, but you know how schools are about these things. Theyset some whole process in motion at any peep of bias. Trying to protect themselves from a lawsuit.”
“Bias?”
He grimaced. “A student claims Safie is unfair in her treatment of white students. White, heterosexual, female students, in particular.”
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“I wish I were,” he said. “You should call her.”
I paced my living room, the conversation with Stephen running in loops. Who had talked? Tyler or Addison? Paul? And what else had they said? Gossip at Sawyer was resilient. In that shuttered environment, people latched onto anything with a whiff of the unseemly; they enlivened their tiresome days by relishing the suffering of others. And my absence from campus had left a vacuum for these stories to fill. Had I been showing up and playing my part, I could have countered the rumors, in deeds if not words, demonstrating my upstanding nature. Was everyone talking about this? I wished I had questioned Stephen, getting some sense of the rumor’s reach. I was too caught off guard to think clearly, and now I’d blown my chance to figure out what was going on.
And Safie. I had thought of Safie every day, bargaining with myself to make contact. But the only way to explain my horrendous behavior would be to confess everything. I couldn’t bear it, the thought of her seeing how pathetic and foolish I’d been. Losing my shit over a student. I didn’t want to show her what I’d known all along: that I was undeserving of her friendship. And now, I’d lost her, and she’d know everything anyway.
I could call Tyler, to find out what he’d said, what he knew. Just one conversation—
I needed to get out of the apartment. Go somewhere else. Anywhere.
Just as I pulled to the off-ramp I realized—it was one exit too soon. I landed in a broad intersection. I crept along the frontage road, scanning for signs. In all directions, Cleveland sprawled, flat and endless. I had been up a number of times over the years, but still, the blocks of vacant and burned-out buildings surprised. These stretches of Cleveland contained the destitution of Detroit but without the folklore of apocalyptic glamour. This was just collapse. Every few blocks, some solitary structure showed signs of habitation—a single yellow light in an upstairs window, a couple sitting close on a porch.
It took me half an hour to get oriented and find my way. I’d chosen a club over a bar, thinking it would be easier to lose myself in the noise and crowds. The club was on a wide commercial road, a light industrial area; these outskirts of cities that harbor gay histories. Pockets of young people hung out on the corner, underdressed, calling out bawdy provocations to cars slowly cruising by.
I paid the cover and went in. I hadn’t been out to a gay club in years. It was a cavernous space. Shiny black surfaces and mirrored walls volleyed the flashing strobes back and forth. On a dance floor a few steps down from the bar level, an already dense crowd moved to a remix of a top forty song, high-pitched and frenetic.
“What are we drinking tonight?” The bartender, a thick butch with close-cropped silver hair, cleared some empties and wiped at the bar top.
“I’m not sure.” While I hadn’t exactly given up alcohol, I hadn’t had a drink since Columbus. I couldn’t afford any foggy, hungoverdays: Getting my book together and getting out of Sawyer was too important.
The music swelled and the crowd called out. “A little something to wet your whistle?” she said.
I’d come all this way. Why not? It would help take the edge off.
Behind railings, two raised walkways ran along either side of the dance floor. I stationed myself in a corner, watching the activity just below. In New York, each subgenre of homosexual has its own bars and parties, even a slice of a borough. Here, the crowd varied in every possible way, nothing in common except being queer. As if gathering together mattered and could be enough. I’d been there a few songs when I noticed a guy, dancing in a small pack of friends. He was in conversation with his group but kept lifting his head, eyes in my direction. Finally, he smiled and waved at me to join. I shook my head no. He motioned again, mouthingC’mon. I shook my head again, more forcefully this time. Something in his insistence irritated me, like it underscored how out of place I was. How alone. I threw back the rest of my drink. Coming here had been a mistake.
I pushed through the crowd, looking for the exit. The layout felt obvious when I arrived but now the music seemed to grow louder with every beat and I felt disoriented, as if the sound were fucking with my sense of space. Just ahead, a sign pointed to the exit. The corridor was jammed with people coming in; I tried to maneuver through.
Behind me, I heard a voice—“Relax, I’m just trying to catch up to my friend.” I felt a hand on my arm and turned. It was the guy from the dance floor. He was sweaty, soft cheeks rosy red.
“I’m sorry if that was obnoxious. I didn’t mean to be annoying.”
“No, you were fine.”
“My friend told me—you just drove another man away.” He laughed. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I have an early day.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer? Let me buy you a drink.”
“Sorry—” I felt suddenly light-headed. The crowds, or the noise, or the liquor. “I think I need some air.”
“I’ll get my jacket from coat check. I’ll join you. I’m Andres!” He laughed again. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I stepped outside, the cold air calming my nerves. Some moments later, Andres appeared, bundled in a thick parka. “Where’s your coat? You must be freezing.”
