Halloweiner

Visiting Saint Louis was never a great life ambition, but finding myself there, being driven around by my host, the gregarious red-headed Chuck, I decided to give in and try to enjoy myself.

I’d seen the arch on the way in. I’d seen the enormous Anheuser-Busch plant. I’d seen what there was to see in the way of a skyline. And now Chuck was driving me along a street lined with oaks and hickories and a row of huge old ivy-covered houses.

“Million and a half, that one went for,” he drawled. He had a rich baritone that sometimes skittered up to a tenor when he got excited. “Can’t believe they got a buyer to go that high in this part of town.”

He bounced a few times in the driver’s seat. He was ludicrously tall, at least 6 foot 3, and his orange weather man-style hair crinkled on the ceiling of his SUV. There was a precise air about him; his seersucker suit was crisp and pressed, and he wore clear shiny polish on his clean square nails.

“That won’t impress a New Yorker like yourself, but this area’s really coming up,” he said. Then, in the giggly whisper of a much smaller man, “This area used to be a real shit hole.”

“Really,” I said. We’d been driving in a fairly aimless way for about forty five minutes, and I was anxious to get to my hotel. We passed a huge mansion that looked a bit like a wedding cake sitting proudly behind a wrought iron fence. “That one’s pretty,” I offered.

“Well, they spend a lot of money here in town. Not much isn’t named after them around here,” he said with a weird mix of pride and shame. “But all this real estate stuff must be boring for you. Why don’t I show you where the gay bars are?”

It was a blindside. He’d been sniffing me out since he picked me up at the train station and now here it was.

“Sure,” I said.

He bounced a few more times and got very chirpy. “Well, then. Here we go,” and we zoomed off across town. “We’ve got more here than you might think,” he beamed. “We’ve got Rainbo’s End, The Complex, Spanky’s. Something for everyone. Oh, look! There’s Novak’s. And a little further up there is Freddy’s.”

Suddenly, I spotted my hotel. He noticed me noticing.

“Oh, I’m just being a big silly. Why don’t I drop you off so you can freshen up.”

“Thanks,” I said. As we went around the corner towards the entrance, I noticed a little brick building with tinted windows. In the windows were neon hoops in rainbow colors. “What’s that one?”

“Oh. Ha-ha. That’s Attitudes,” he said. “They usually attract a younger crowd.” Chuck was in his mid forties. I was early thirties. “You know, the twenty-somethings. The university crowd.”

He dropped me at the hotel and we said our goodbyes, planning to get together later on. I knew already that I would probably skip it, and go out on my own. Chuck seemed like he also knew, but was the type of guy who wasn’t about to get too bothered.

I laid my things out in my hotel room – it was nice in a generic and anonymous sort of way – and realized that I should at least try to do something fun. It was Halloween, and I was on my own in a strange city. I went for a walk.

The air was crisp, and if one concentrated, one could smell something of the Anheuser-Busch plant in the background. There were a surprising number of trees for a metropolitan area and the leaves were red and yellow and orange. Some leaves had fallen already, and there was a pleasant crunchiness underfoot.

As evening fell, a handful of solitary grownups walked past, each with two or three little kids in costumes. A chick. A robot. A fairy. A bee. Each kid with a bag full of loot. Each grownup with a weary expression of forced cheer. I went into a restaurant and had a solitary dinner.

The restaurant was totally empty, save for me and two incredibly old women. They sat in silence, their heads bowed towards their plates, staring at their food, not moving. I ate mechanically, wishing I had something to read, or someone to talk to. It was oppressive and silent.

It felt like hours had passed by the time I paid my bill and walked back out into the chilly night, crunching away at the dried leaves underfoot.

I walked, somewhat inexorably I suppose, towards Attitudes.

I was amazed by the silence in this city, and by its emptiness and chill. The only sound was the leaves; then, as I approached, the buzz of the neon rainbow lights in the window of the bar. I couldn’t see in. I couldn’t tell if there was anybody looking out. I saw my own reflection, and didn’t like seeing myself that way. I went in.

It was a smallish place. Circular bar in the center, manned by a rail skinny punk boy with floppy blonde hair and tattoos on his arms. Above was a wooden balcony where one could look out over the crowd. Or rather, one could if there were a crowd at all. There were maybe fifteen people in clumps of two or three spread out about the place. If they were wearing costumes, they had all chosen the same one: Gay Man. Tight pants, sleeveless shirts, a couple of neck scarves, bare chests. Some of the boys looked at me, gave me the once over, and went back to gossiping about who was fucking who. I headed for the bar.

The punk boy slapped down a damp coaster in front of me. It had a Bacardi bat on it. “Happy Halloween, sweetie,” he said, looking past me at somebody else. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a pint of Bass, please,” I said.

Without another word he went to go draw my beer. I glanced around. They’d decorated for Halloween. There were black and orange streamers and balloons. A couple of identical plastic skulls with red fairy lights in their eye sockets. The stretched-out cotton of fake spider webbing in which a rubber rat was caught. I wondered if the punk boy had done this himself, and if he was disappointed that nobody had shown up for his party.

“Here you go, sweetie.” The punk boy put my beer on the coaster. He had pierced ears and was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt that said “Interpol.” His tattoos were multicolored swirls. I think I saw an ankh. “Three dollars.”

I gave him five. He vanished again, soundlessly. Time passed. Nobody came to speak to me, and I spoke to noone. A bland techno drum and bass riff pulsed along quietly. I was boring myself.

Across the bar, I spotted someone. He looked to be mid to late twenties. Short, brown, messy hair. Thick rimmed glasses. Small up-turned nose. Thin red lips, nice strong jaw. Thin and wearing a wool blazer and button down shirt. He was alone.

For a little while we stared pregnantly at and pointedly away from each other. Then I smiled. Then he smiled. He came over and stood beside me at the bar.

We had a chat. He was from Chicago. He’d come down for a couple of weeks to look at schools and to see his brother, and the brother’s wife and little girl. He showed me a picture of the little girl. He told me she had dressed as a bee for Halloween. I said that I was deathly afraid of bees. We had a laugh.

The conversation ebbed as it does from time to time. It got quiet, and I heard the pulse of the techno music again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just quiet. He seemed nice. I took a sip of beer.

He cleared his throat, and I looked over at him. He had nice eyes.

“So,” he said. “Can I touch your weiner?”

I nearly choked on my beer. I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. His nice eyes were staring into mine. I’d heard him right.

“Um,” I said, treading water. “Sure. I guess.” I figured there was no harm in that, whatever that was.

I assumed he would sort of put his hand on the front of my jeans for a moment, like a sort of handshake. Or like testing a melon you might buy.

Instead, he put his hand down my pants, past the waistband of my underwear, and sort of juggled me. His hand was cold. He’d done it so fast, I didn’t really know how to react. After a moment, he removed his hand.

“Nice,” he said.

“Um. Thanks,” I said.

It got quiet again. The pulse of the techno music again. Now it was very uncomfortable. I looked for the punk boy so I could order another beer.

The guy next to me tapped me on the shoulder. Lightly, with his index finger. I turned.

“Yes?” I said.

He looked down. I looked down, too.

He had his own penis out. It was short and thick and fully erect. He looked back up at me and smiled.

“Ah,” I said. I had no idea how to respond to this. “Yes. Very nice. Well done.”

“Do you want to meet me in the men’s room?” he said.

“Ha. Yes. Sure. I’ll be right along,” I stammered.

“Cool,” he said, zipping up and scurrying off to the men’s room.

The punk boy came over. “Another?” he said.

“No. No thanks. Happy Halloween,” I said.

“Happy Halloween, sweetie,” he said looking at somebody behind me.

I got out of there, quickly. I beat a hasty retreat to my anonymous little hotel room. I shut the door. Then locked it. Then bolted it.

The little red message light on the hotel phone was flashing. I dialed in. There were three messages from Chuck. He wanted to know where I was and why I hadn’t called him. In the third and final message he sounded hurt.

It was Halloween, and I was all alone.