Chapter One

Cover Design by Jeffrey L. Linthicum

It occurs to me that I am being silly, but I continue to lay almost flatly reclined in the driver's seat of my white 1984 Chevrolet Caprice Classic - a hand-me-down from my mother. It is raining. It is cold. It is February, 1991.

   As cars approach, I can hear the hiss of radial tires on wet asphalt, sending a chill of fear and anticipation through me that feels not unlike that wonderful shiver that comes during a long overdue piss. Some puzzling combination of the rain-slicked street, the angled, rearview mirror and the passing headlights creates a three-inch wide strip of light, reaching from door to door. As cars pass, this band of light slowly sweeps across the ceiling of the car from the windshield to the rear window before it quickly snaps back to the windshield and then slowly fades away. I lay there staring at the ceiling of the car watching this trick of light and am amused by the sudden notion that I am laying inside of a giant Xerox copy machine.

   I am 24 years old, but I look 19. I have already decided to split the difference in my favor and claim to have just turned 21. This is just another of the long string of untruths that I have prepared in the unlikely event that I actually screw up the courage to go inside the only gay bar in the small town where I have just taken a job as an art teacher at a small, liberal arts college. I have been laying here in the car for well over an hour.

   I pull the handle that releases the seat back, quickly bolt upright and meet my own gaze in the rearview mirror. My eyes are probably my only noteworthy physicality. They are almond-shaped and peridot green with long, dark, chestnut brown lashes. On me, they are a pleasant discovery among a collection of average features: short barber-cut brown hair, freckly skin that tends to burn in Summer and a slightly doughy physique supported by a 6-foot frame.

   A rapid tapping on the passenger-side window nearly sends me through roof of the car.

   "Hey! Is that you Sammy?!"

   I squint to try and bring into focus the dark figure on the other side of the watery window.

"Hey!"

More tapping.

I turn the ignition switch and begin to lower the power window just as the door opens and a soaking wet stranger gets in and slams the door too hard. A surge of panic and fear is colored by excitement when the stranger slides back the hood of his jacket and reveals his face. He is only slightly older than me with shoulder length black hair, loosely tied into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Wet hunks of it hang across his dark eyes and stick to his full, pink lips. A smile breaks out across his handsome face and seems to illuminate the car even after the interior light snaps off.

"Did I spook you?!" He says too loudly, laughs and then belches.

The smell of thick, dark liquor finds its way across the front seat and assaults my nose. I wince as if I've done a shot. He adjusts himself and tries to wipe the rain from his face. Each movement is slow and deliberate, as if he were being controlled remotely by a novice puppeteer.

"Did you get a new car?" he asks, petting the cracked dashboard and worn upholstery. "Business must be bad!" He laughs and belches again. When he finally makes an attempt to look directly at me, I notice that his eyes are red and watery and small globs of white goo coat the corners of his mouth. The realization that I am not Sammy washes slowly across his drunken face.

"Shit dude! Sorry! I thought you was Sammy!" he gushes. After a brief struggle with the hardware and a slurred series of barely audible curse words, he opens the car door and steps back out into the rain. He stops the door before it closes completely and pokes his head back in. "You comin' inside? I'll buy you a drink. Sorry man!" He slams the door too hard again.

I stare at the passenger seat vacated by the stranger and am compelled to touch the burgandy velour upholstery there. It is damp and slightly warm. Tangible confirmation of the odd exchange makes it seem even more surreal.

Pulling my jacket over my head, I step out into the icy rain just in time to watch as the stranger opens the passenger door of another white car just across the street. I hear the relief in his voice as he confirms that the driver is, in fact, the Sammy in question. As he prepares to climb into the car, he pauses, smiles at me and points to the bar.

"Meet me in there!" he yells across the roof of the car and disappears into the passenger seat. The solid vault-like sound of the door shutting makes me take stock of Sammy's car. It is a white 7-series BMW sedan.

"Business must be good," I think to myself.

As I cross the street and head toward the bar, I begin to consider the limited number of legal 'business transactions' that could possibly take place on a Friday night, in the front seat of an idling car that costs more than my yearly salary. I falter for a second. Everything about this feels wrong. But the brilliant smile of the stranger and the excitment of his invitation proves too strong to resist and I run across the street, dodging puddles and smiling like an idiot the whole way.