Adam's Place

"I'm speaking of several years back--but even now you can see what
he must have been once." -- Daphne Du Maurier, The Old Man

I was watching tv lying on my hideaway bed with two pillows tucked
under my head, a blanket over me. It was chilly but I wouldn't turn up
the heat. On the coffee table within easy reach were my cigarettes, an
ashtray, Thom Fitzgerald's rental movie The Hanging Garden (which
should have been returned four days ago), and a half bag of potato
chips. During commercials, I read John Steinbeck's East of Eden which I
had picked up at a flea market for fifty cents.

It was the first sunny day we'd had for weeks; the wind strong,
chilling. Newman, my old cat, sat on the window ledge basking in thin
April sun coming through the bachelor window caked with driveway grime.
His right ear was missing, the result of a fight with a dog several
years ago in a park. I tried to pat him during a commercial break, but
he hissed. When daylight had gone, he jumped down onto the sofa to lay
across my legs until I pushed him away to take a shower. I dressed
warmly, complete with gloves and scarf, then walked to my favorite
bar.

At Adam's Place, I sipped red wine and watched the bartender, David. He
filled the fridge with beer and cans of pop, and cleaned everything in
sight using a spray bottle of Vim and a cloth. He was a good worker,
cheerful, easygoing. In fact he worked like a dog to please the owner,
Andy, who, it was well known, screwed anything that moved. The electric
clock with big black hands against a white face that hung on the wall
above the colorful bottles of booze read ten-fifteen.

The bar was on the second floor over a shoe store, and overlooked
Spring Garden Road in Halifax. There were only two other customers, two
men sitting together at a table flapping their hands while they talked
and smoked. I had seen these two guys many times, always together,
usually playing pool.

Music came through ceiling speakers (right then Elton John's I'm Still
Standing), and dim lights reflected against the windows. I ordered
another glass of wine, then went to the washroom.

A stranger was sitting at the other end of the bar when I returned. He
was tall, dark and handsome: the sort of guy my dour aunt liked to read
about in romance novels. On the floor beside his chair sat a gym bag.
His hands were large. He appeared to be around thirty, three years
older than me. He wore his black hair short. His face was smooth, and
his eyebrows were thick. He was wearing a crisp, white shirt.

My sister used to say that I was wiry. People were surprised by my
strength. This man was my complete opposite--the kind of man who turned
my crank. David talked with him. He drew two large glasses of draft
from the tap. The stranger nodded and accepted them eagerly.

David unloaded the glistening glasses from the steaming dishwasher that
had just stopped running. Cher's song, I Found Someone, was playing. I
stared at the stranger. A little smile developed on his face, just a
hint. Perhaps he was musing over a private thought, or enjoying the
effects of his drink.

David asked if I would like another wine. I passed my empty glass over,
saying I'd have one more, and then I would definitely have to leave. I
had spoken much louder than necessary so that the stranger would take
notice. David set a fresh glass in front of me.

"He's cute, eh?" David allowed, smiling. He wiped my area of the bar
clean with his cloth and gave me a clean ashtray.

"Well, yeah, I suppose," I admitted, glancing again at the stranger.
"He's probably in town overnight on business. Or married. Doesn't
matter. He hasn't any interest in me."

"No interest? He asked if you had a tab and wants to pay it!"

"Ah! What a lovely guy!" I said cheerfully.

David turned and started to wipe the bottles of spirit. Two things were
for sure: one, Andy's Place was the cleanest bar in town, and, two, the
stranger was attracted to me. More customers arrived. The bar was
filling. Some of the customers were now playing pool.

Most guys were dressed in blue jeans and T-shirts; a few were in
leather, strutting around like peacocks. There was one drag queen,
Marsha. She was thinner than I, actually, and about twenty-two. Her
clothes were stunning; her makeup was perfect. She looked a bit like
Celine Dion. She took the seat next to mine.

"Hi, sweetie," she said. "If it wasn't so cold I'd go up around Citadel
Hill later, but my feet are killing me." She was wearing heels at least
four inches high.

"Is it cold out, Marsha?" I asked, knowing damn well the answer. Safe
subject, and I didn't want to engage in a heavy conversation. I was
afraid the stranger at the end of the bar would think I'd lost
interest, or that I was into drag queens.

She wore a backless dress that was very short and very tight. "Oh, yes.
It's really fuckin' cold out, sweetie." She shivered
dramatically.

She opened her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes. She lit one and
took a deep drag, announcing that she needed to get laid. David came
over and asked if she cared for a drink. She shook her head.

I excused myself and walked toward the washroom. I approached the
stranger and whispered in his ear that I'd be right back. My lips
touched his ear and I could smell his spicy cologne. The urge to kiss
him right then and there was powerful. However, realizing I had drunk
way too much, I moved on to stand in the washroom lineup. Normally by
now I'd have gone home, but at the moment I couldn't have cared
less.

I smiled when I returned to find his seat empty. But the stool next to
mine was also empty. I glanced around the smokey room liked a hawk. I
didn't see him, and he definitely wasn't in the washroom.

"He's gone," David declared. "I'm sorry."

I was stunned and turned to face him. "What? I don't believe it. I
thought he liked me. He took off fast! He left without saying goodbye?"
I felt both angry and sad.

"Well, he wasn't alone. He left with Marsha. You know Marsha, don't
you?" David said gently.

"Yes, of course I know Marsha!" I snapped, "That fucking tramp!"

David cringed. I immediately said I was sorry, and that I was just
disappointed. I had really liked that guy.

"It's okay. I understand. Don't worry about it," he said, giving me a
smile. "By the way, he didn't pay for your drinks either."

Automatically I said: "Figures." And I started to chuckle. David broke
into healthy laughter, flinging his always-handy cloth at me, and
calling me a silly goose.

It was nearly two when I arrived home. Newman was snoring, asleep on
the hideaway bed beside the Steinbeck book. I ate the opened canned
beans in the fridge, then poured some fresh milk in a saucer for
Newman. I was feeling exceedingly amorous, but by morning I would
welcome being alone. I'd be able to rise and shower, and make toast and
tea, and if he would allow it, I would pat Newman before I left for
work.

I crawled between the chilly sheets thinking about that stranger at the
bar. I tried to pat Newman, but he hissed. Eventually, carefully, he
cuddled under my chin. It tickled and I finally had to laugh. In no
time I was asleep.

In the morning I was having my tea and a cigarette after breakfast when
I heard the morning news. A man had been slashed to death last night in
his Southend Halifax apartment. Police said the weapon had been the
broken end of a bottle. The police have a man in custody who had been
seen leaving a gay bar with the victim.

I had hidden in the stairwell waiting for the stranger to leave
Marsha's apartment. I had watched through the slightly open stairwell
door until the stranger came out into the hallway. I heard Marsha's
voice.

"I hope to see you again, sweetie. You're a special guy. Maybe at
Adam's tonight?"

"Sure! That sounds great! Later, then."

I heard the sound of a kiss. I waited until he had gotten into the
elevator and the doors had closed before knocking on Marsha's door. She
opened the door with a big smile.

"Couldn't stay away?"

Then she'd seen the broken wine bottle in my gloved hand.