A Time for Secrets (6 page)

The park is pretty, like one big green lawn with narrow trunked trees placed randomly about. I knew the park contained several cruising areas for guys looking to trick. I was pretty sure there was one up this way, though it was hard to see how that was possible. As I walked along the concrete path they’d made for joggers and bike riders, there wasn’t a lot of cover.

I was probably in the wrong place, I told myself. I’d staked out a spot above Belmont with some success the year before. There were a lot of parking lots down there, and the whole thing was more about cruising from your car or getting out of your car to be cruised by the other cars. I thought about going back to get my car, then driving down and finding that spot, but the itch was strong. The word now kept popping up in my head like a mantra.

I walked a little further and noticed a clump of bushes, almost a hedgerow, that looked innocuous from where I stood. But maybe it wasn’t so innocent. I wondered what might go on behind those bushes. For that matter, what might be going on behind them right that minute? I meandered over, glancing at the sky and the flat horizon of the lake, as though I was out to experience nature. When I was even with the bushes, I casually glanced over.

Nothing was going on. There was a small clearing of about six or eight feet where the ground had been trampled down to hard clay. That told me that things did sometimes happen there, probably after dark.

As I walked back down to the concrete walking-path, I noticed a guy on a ten-speed coming toward me. He was in his twenties, dark-haired, thin, and looked to be near six feet tall. He wore a pair of white gym shorts with a blue stripe that cut up his thigh and flapped a little in the wind, a new pair of Nikes, and tube socks with a thick blue stripe. He also wore a navy blue mesh T-shirt. It was a hot, humid day, that was true, but I figured there was more to the T-shirt than comfort. He zipped by me and continued north. I turned and watched him go. Glancing over his shoulder, he slowed a moment, gave me a good stare, and then moved on.

I meandered for a bit and then began to walk. I couldn’t say I was all that good at cruising; opportunities just seem to, well, arise for me. The most effort I’d ever put into getting laid was picking out which bar to go to. Actually looking for sex wasn’t something I was all that familiar with.

To be honest, most of my ideas about cruising came from the movie,
Cruising
, with a brush up when I hunted down a teenage hustler the year before. When that movie came out, there were protests, which made me want to see it even more. I remember going to a matinee at the Chicago Theater on State Street one slow afternoon. The theater was empty, except for the rat that ran across my foot during the opening credits, but the movie turned out to be pretty informative. I couldn’t tell what it was about
,
it didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but the bits where Pacino cruised Central Park were enlightening. Almost instructive.

I stopped, lit a cigarette, and looked around as though I was enjoying the day. The park was practically empty; a woman pushing a stroller, an old man taking a walk with a heavy cane. Somebody would come by soon. I was in the right place.

Enjoying my cigarette, I wondered if the gay activists who protested
Cruising
for its negative stereotypes really knew how helpful the movie could be to the average gay guy. Sure, the movie made us look like we were all into wearing leather outfits and doing violent things like killing each other, but I would have given up and walked out of the park if it weren’t for Al Pacino’s performance.

I noticed a guy in a Cubs jacket lingering by a bench about a hundred feet away from me. He was good-looking enough, but he had a stiffness about him that made me wonder if he was a cop. No, I thought, if he was a cop looking to bust fags for soliciting sex he’d be looking me up and down and he wasn’t. Every time I looked at him he turned his eyes away. He was out in the park looking, for sure, but apparently I wasn’t his type.

Something moved in my peripheral vision, and I turned to see the bicyclist heading back my way. Bingo. I began to walk toward him, tossing my cigarette to the ground and stomping it out. I wondered what he’d say to me? What I’d say? Could I say, “Hey, you wanna go behind that bush and mess around?” with a straight face? Or would he maybe invite me to his place? That would be bet—

He rode by me. Shit. Maybe he was actually out trying to get exercise. I watched him ride away. He glanced over his shoulder again. Then he slowed the bike down and stopped. I wasn’t sure whether to walk over or not. He got off his bike and made a big show out of re-tying his sneakers. When he glanced back at me, I tipped my head toward the bushes and then walked over to them.

My heart was pounding. I wasn’t sure he’d follow me. I hoped he would, but I was too proud to turn back and look. When I got behind the bushes, I could see that they were a good two or three feet taller than I was. They seemed to curve around the beaten-down spot; you really couldn’t see much of the buildings just a few blocks away. Behind me was the expanse of Lake Michigan, doing its impersonation of an ocean. At water’s edge were the rocks; concrete placed there in tiers to stop the lake from eroding the park out of existence.

The bicyclist rolled his bike around to the back and then leaned it up against the bush. Ten-speeds didn’t have kickstands, something that has never made sense to me. I was trying to think what I should say to the guy when he grabbed me and kissed me.

Between the bike riding and the humidity in the air, the guy was covered in a slippery layer of sweat, but he felt good—hot and damp in my arms. He dipped his tongue into my mouth. He tasted of peppermint, and I figured he must have been chewing gum while he rode his bike. I ran my hand down the crevice of his spine and then took a firm, round buttock in my hand.

Reaching into my jean jacket, he unbuttoned my shirt and slipped a hand in to feel my chest. Along the way he discovered my holstered Sig Sauer. He stood back. “Are you a cop?”

“No, I just like to carry a gun.”

A worried, weary look crossed his face. Briefly, he looked like he might bolt.

“Don’t worry. I’m not planning to shoot you.”

He watched me a moment, deciding how true a statement that might be, then reached over and unzipped my pants. He stuck his hand in and grabbed my cock. I was only semi-hard, but a little attention helped.

My jeans were quickly down around my thighs and bike boy was starting to get on his knees to suck me off. I had other ideas, though. I pulled his shorts down and then turned him around.

I noticed he had a nice, thick dick that was good and hard. It might have been fun to play with some other time. Bending him over, I slipped my hand into the crack of his ass and gave him a good feel. He was sweaty back there as well. I spit on my hand a couple of times, rubbed it around over my dick and then stuck it into him.

With a hand on each hip, I began to pump. I closed my eyes and gave myself to the movement. I could tell he wanted to make noise, a lot of noise, but he couldn’t. There might be people nearby. Instead, he kept up a soft, steady hum.

I fucked him as fast as I could, as though there were a speed I could reach where everything would be okay. Where all the things that had been flying around in my head would disappear. I might have found it, too, but it was a little much for bike boy, and he fell to the ground. I fell with him.

After only a moment’s pause, I kept fucking him, hard and fast, grinding him into the dirt. My jeans were a tangled mess around my knees, but I put them out of my mind and kept pumping. Fucking is primal. Instinctive. Necessary. It is life. Or at least, that’s what was I was thinking when I came deep inside this stranger’s ass.

As I pulled out of him, he rolled over, his prick still hard. He hadn’t come. He looked me in the eye and grabbed his cock and started to beat it. He was covered in dirt—on his cheek, where his face had rested on the ground while I fucked him; all over his chest, caught in the mesh of his shirt; even on his stiff prick.

He was close, his red cock seeming to grow just a little bit more, face twisting.

“Yeah, come for me,” I whispered.

And he did.

I pulled up my pants and zipped them. Futilely, I wiped my filthy hands on my hips. Covered in streaks of muddy dirt, the biker stood up, grabbing his shorts off the ground. Before he put them on, he searched my eyes and looked surprised to find me staring back at him.

“Oh man, I’m gonna remember you,” he said. “I sure am.”

“Yeah. See you around,” I said, already walking away.

For a couple blocks I felt like I didn’t have a care in the world. By the time I got to my car my worries were back like a dark cloud. What was I thinking having sex in the park in the middle of the day? That was crazy. I could have gotten arrested. What if the guy in the Cubs jacket had actually been a cop? Dumb. It was plain dumb.

I drove west a few blocks until I found Clark Street. Then I headed south until I got to Roscoe and began looking for a place to park. Fifteen minutes later, I let myself in to my apartment.

Walking down the hallway, the place smelled of boiled cabbage and I knew Mrs. Harker was there. Of course she was there; it was just a little after noon. I hadn’t thought about it, though. I almost turned around and left. Instead, I wound my way through the apartment until I got to the kitchen. Harker sat at the table. His mother stood by the stove wearing an apron. On the counter, next to the sink, a small portable TV played a soap opera.

Mrs. Harker turned around and gave me the once over, then went back to stirring whatever goulash-y thing she had on the stove.

Harker glanced at my jeans with their filthy mud stains.

“I tripped,” I said. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He nodded as though he believed me, even though I knew he didn’t. I took a quick shower, refused a bowl of whatever it was on the stove, avoided Harker’s eyes, and hurried out to catch the El downtown.

When I got to the Loop I headed over to the big granite Central Library and made my way to the reference room. Along one side of the reference desk was a long row of phone books from all over the country. I scanned the row until I found the phone book for Los Angeles. It was nearly as thick as the Chicago phone book. It was possible we were about to lose our grip as America’s second city. That or a lot of Chicagoans had opted for unlisted numbers.

Bringing the book over to a solid oak table, I quickly flipped through until I got to the Ts and scanned the page for Vernon Taber. He wasn’t there. I brought the book back to the shelf. I wondered if I should look in the cities surrounding Los Angeles, but then I realized they also had last year’s L.A. phonebook. And the year before. And the year before that.

I grabbed the 1979 phone book and flipped quickly to the Ts. There was a Vernon Taber. He lived at 1948 N. Vermont. I grabbed the 1980 book and found the listing was still there, but by 1981 it was gone. Had he died? I wondered. I stood there thinking how annoying it was going to be contacting the Los Angeles County Clerk to find out if Vernon Taber had died.

Of course, he could have just moved, but to where? San Diego? Sacramento? San Francisco? Yes, San Francisco. That made sense; everyone knew that was a pretty gay place. Why wouldn’t an older gay man move there? I dug around the reference desk for the most recent San Francisco telephone book and flipped through to the Ts. Under Taber there were no Vernons, but there were two Vs. I went out to the circulation desk and had the librarian give me change for three dollars.

The payphones were downstairs just outside the restrooms. They were housed in wooden booths with folding doors and a tiny seat in the corner. They were so old I felt lucky I didn’t have to crank the phone.

I dialed the first number I’d written down. The operator came on and told me to deposit eighty-five cents for the first three minutes. The first V. Taber answered after two rings. I asked for Vernon Taber and got a second of stony silence.

“There’s no Vernon Taber here. My name is Vivian, and you have the wrong number.”

The second V. Taber didn’t answer the phone. I thought about calling the number later from home, since that would mean I could go home right then, but what if the second V. Taber wasn’t Vernon? Then I’d have to schlep back down to the library. Instead, I decided to call around and see if I could find one of his relatives. Did he have relatives in Los Angeles, or were his relatives here in Chicago?

I went back upstairs and pulled out the most recent Chicago phone book. I was running through the Tabers, trying to decide which was most likely a relative of Vernon’s, when I saw his name at the very bottom of the list, Vernon Taber. He was back in Chicago, living on Wilton about three blocks north of where Ronald Meek lived.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Thirty minutes later, I got off the Jackson Howard B train at the Addison stop. Wilton was the first street to the east. I walked over to it then began going north. When I crossed Waveland I began looking for Vernon’s apartment building. I found it halfway up the block. It was a one-hundred-year-old clapboard house. Originally, it had been single family. Now it was a two-flat and probably had been for about fifty years. The Howard Express clanged by while I stood staring at the house. The El tracks were twenty or thirty feet out Vernon Taber’s backdoor. Sleeping in a place like this must take some getting used to, I thought. I also thought the place must be cheap. Real cheap.

The house was fronted by a wooden porch with six steps and had gingerbread molding along the railings and roof. There was a door on either side of the porch, one leading to the first floor apartment and the other to the second floor. On the left side, between the door and the bay windows, were two mailboxes. One read 3730. The other was 3730 1/2. Vernon had been listed as simply 3730, so I figured he lived on the first floor, and that made sense. An older guy, moving back to Chicago because it was cheaper than L.A., because it was familiar, because he maybe had a few relatives; a guy like that is not going to want a lot of stairs in his life.