David Alan Dedin
Things Can Only Get Better
Thirty-Four
Things Can Only Get Better
2016
PISS dripped from her ruined computer as Sharon threw it across the room in frustration. Cats weren’t allowed at the Elysian Fields, but that didn’t stop her from feeding a stray she’d found outside. She had snuck it into her apartment after Patrick & Stephanie left yesterday, and the little shit had peed on everything – slippers, dentures, and now, her Chromebook. Right now, the stray was hiding in her closet, probably urinating on her vast collection of blazers. The only way to truly deal with this problem was a gun.
There was a knock at her door.
She wheeled over to open it.
“Good morning, Sharon,” Patrick said when he entered. He was followed by Stephanie, who held a box of donuts. Both friends wrinkled their noses the moment they entered the flat. It smelled like pee. “How are you today?” Patrick asked.
Sharon, unable to communicate without her laptop, flailed her arms in an aggravated pantomime, an act that made her wig move slightly. She pointed to the closet, where a pair of glowing red eyes glared from a dark corner – Rowwwwer!
Everyone took a collective step backwards when the stray cat growled.
Patrick cleared his throat – “We went to Alan’s work, but he wasn’t there. We’re going to go back later on this morning. We were wondering if you’d like to come.”
Sharon narrowed her eyes. Reaching into a cat-shaped basket, she produced a knitting needle, which she held like a knife. Her face nodded up and down – Hell yes.
“Err…that’s great,” Patrick said. “We thought we’d keep you company for a few hours, until the restaurant opens? Maybe talk a little more than we did yesterday?”
“Before we go too far, we should order an UberWAV,” Stephanie told them. Sharon’s wheelchair won’t fit in a normal car.”
Sharon waved her hands and shook her head. Snapping her fingers, she pointed at a cat-shaped bowl on the end table. It was filled with butterscotch candies and an old set of car keys, which Stephanie picked up. The sunlight caught the twinkle of a mid-80s Chrysler key. Sharon nodded her head at the ring.
“You have a car?” Patrick seemed surprised.
“And you can still drive?” Steph asked, equally surprised.
Sharon shot both of them a dirty look. She instinctively reached for her computer to type, but irritably remembered it was no longer there. It would be months before she could afford a new one. Her frustration was rapidly turning into anger.
“Well, since we have a car, how about if we get out of the apartment for a bit?” Stephanie asked, covering her nose. “Maybe get a little fresh air?”
“That’s a good idea, Steph.” Patrick looked at Sharon. “You up for a drive?”
The remains of her computer crunched under her chair as Sharon wheeled herself to her closet, ignoring the cat’s hisses when she picked out a blazer to wear.
Today was definitely a raspberry day.
* * * * *
Re-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eer!
Re-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eer!
The 85’ New Yorker struggled to start after having sat in the garage for months. It was the exact same car that Sharon had driven at Checker’s, a sad reflection that her life hadn’t changed much over the last twenty-five years.
Re-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eer!
Seated in the driver’s seat, Sharon could barely see over the wheel. Patrick had offered to drive, but she had slapped him away when he tried to take her keys. The car was large enough to fit everyone nicely, with the wheelchair safely in the spacious trunk. Patrick sat in the front, Stephanie in back; both waited patiently for the old engine to turn over.
Re-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eer!
“Sharon, are you sure I can’t help you start the car?” Patrick asked. “I actually know a thing or two about engines.”
Shaking her head, Sharon stared straight forward and pumped the gas pedal hard. The engine ROARED to life with the ear-piercing whine of a bad serpentine belt. Both Patrick and Stephanie could smell exhaust in the cabin. Sharon turned on the air-conditioning, which blew hot for sixty seconds before softening into something balmy and musty. She gestured for everyone to put their seatbelts on before she jerked the car into drive. The transmission engaged with a THUNK. The power steering screeched when the car left The Elysian Fields and turned on to the main road.
“How OLD is this car?” Stephanie asked from the back seat. Sharon held up her bony fingers in a “2,” then “6.”
“Twenty-six years is a good run for a car,” Patrick said. “They definitely built them to last, that’s for sure.”
The rusty Chrysler picked up speed, merging right as it approached the 408. The faster it went, the more it shook, and Patrick sounded like he was having an anxiety attack when he next spoke: “Sh-sh-sh-Sharon, w-w-w-why have you b-b-b-been so n-n-n-nice to me, consid-d-d-dering what we d-d-d-did to you at Ch-ch-ch-checker’s?”
Her eyes locked on the road, Sharon flipped him off.
“F-f-f-fair enoug-g-g-g-gh.”
“Sh-sh-sh-sharon,” Stephanie said from the back, “W-w-w-what are you going to s-s-s-s-say to Alan, when you f-f-f-f-f-finally see him?”
This time Sharon raised both middle fingers, causing the car to veer suddenly left. Instinctively, Patrick grabbed the steering wheel and yanked the old Chrysler back into the correct lane of traffic. Sharon swatted back his hand for interfering.
“W-w-w-why don’t we just focus on d-d-d-driving?” Patrick suggested.
“Good-d-d-d idea-a-a-a-a,” Stephanie said.
Belching exhaust, the rickety Chrysler joined the traffic on the 408, heading west in a cloud of blue smoke.
* * * * *
“Libby? It’s Frankie. Hey – I’m not feeling well today. Can you please tell Chad and Twig that I’m taking a sick day,” Alan said on the phone. “I might be gone tomorrow, too.”
“No problem, boss,” the old woman said, looking up when the trio of customers came in. She hung up the phone.
“Back again?” Libby recognized Patrick and Stephanie from the previous night. “Not surprising cuz’ our prime rib’s like crack. And I see you’ve brought a friend.”
Sharon scowled at the old woman.
“Well, you know the routine,” Libby told them. “Get your plates, get your food, and get your ass to a table! Marla will seat you after you’ve gone through the line.”
“I don’t want to eat here again,” Steph whispered to Patrick as Sharon started down the Heritage House buffet line.
“Would you rather get take out to her apartment?” he whispered back. “Besides, we’re here to see Alan, remember.”
“They said his name was Frankie,” Steph said.
“Alan, Frankie, whatever,” Patrick told her.
“Are you looking for Frankie again?” Libby asked, overhearing. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He just called in sick.”
“You don’t know where he lives, by chance?” Steph asked.
Libby thought about this question. “Actually no, I don’t.” She looked up to Chad, who was filling the three-bean salad. “Hey Chaddy-O! Do you know where Frankie lives?”
“No clue,” he said. “But I’ve got his number, if you want to call him.”
“Want his number?” Libby asked Stephanie.
“Yes please.”
“Here you go.” Chad handed her a scrap of paper.
“Well, this sucks,” Steph told Patrick, hesitant to begin down the buffet line again. “The only reason for coming here was to find Alan.”
“He knows we’re here,” Patrick realized. “That’s not good. He might skip town.”
“I told you he probably doesn’t have enough money,” she reminded him. “And at the very least, he’s not going to leave right away. If he does know we’re here, I think I know where to find him.”
“Where’s that?” Patrick asked.
“Does Orlando have a leather bar?” she asked.
THWAK! THWAK! THWAK! went Sharon on the buffet line. She was slamming down a serving spoon to both put potato salad on her plate AND to get the two’s attention.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Patrick told Steph. “But for right now, grab a tray, a plate and suck it up” –
“Besides, I noticed last night they have desserts in every color.”
* * * * *
Standing alone in his apartment bathroom, Alan stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror. Patrick and Stephanie have found me, he realized, and his very first instinct was to run. But where could he go? He was a man pushing 50. When he was younger, it was easy to flee, but as old age approached, with all its illness and isolation, his options were quickly dwindling. He thought that he was safe in Orlando, and for a solid decade, he was. But the past had a way of catching up to people, and Alan’s past was definitely no exception.
Leaving the tiny bathroom, Alan looked at his sad apartment. It was almost exactly the same as when he first rented it ten years ago, and the place felt transient. It was clean, yes, Alan always kept things clean. But it lacked anything that made it personal – no pictures, no mementos, not even a comforter of his choosing. His only true possessions were his clothes and leather gear, which emphasized the fact that rather than “living,” Alan was barely existing.
What do I do? he thought, peering outside through the closed living room curtains. Should I stay in hiding, or should I face Patrick and Stephanie? Considering how he’d stolen Patrick’s money, Alan felt great shame for what he had done.
But Stephanie was a more complicated matter. To Alan, she represented a childhood that he’d lost, and she held a memory that he couldn’t face – the memory of what happened leading up to the dash cam photo. For the past twenty-five years, he’d buried that memory under an ocean of booze, but it was only a matter of time before alcoholism destroyed his health.
Face them or flee from them, neither prospect was good.
But even worse was the prospect of doing nothing at all, because the anxiety that doing nothing caused was killing him, and he thought about suicide almost every single day.
Every single, goddamn day…
Pouring himself a drink, Alan returned to his closet where he kept his leather gear hung and tidy. Sex was the only thing that truly gave him joy, and tonight he wanted to feel a little happiness, albeit for only a short while –
A short while, indeed.
* * * * *
SNAP! SNAP!
“HEY, I’M OVER HERE!”
“DON’T YOU LOOK AWAY,” Sharon found a way to say nonverbally, as Patrick and Stephanie whispered in the corner of her apartment, as though she wasn’t there. The two looked up. The old woman wheeled over and purposely rammed Patrick in the knee – “Ow!”
Snapping her bony fingers again, Sharon motioned for Stephanie’s iPad. Steph passed it to her and Sharon pulled up its “Notes” feature. She typed:
“are we going to go looking for alan or what i want to find him”
“Yes,” Patrick told her. “Steph and I are going to look for Alan tonight. We think we know where he might be … or at least, where he might show up.”
“what about phone number”
“We decided not to call right now because it might tip Alan off that we’re close to finding him.”
“and eating twice at the restaurant didn’t”
“Well, in hindsight that might have been a mistake.”
“Can we borrow your car?” Stephanie asked, changing the subject.
“only if I come with”
“Where we’re going is probably not the best place for you,” Patrick told her. “But if you let us borrow your car, we’ll tell you what happened tomorrow.”
Sharon shook her head firmly – no.
“Seriously?” Stephanie said, taking her iPad back. Steph had been in a mood since lunch. “Let’s just rent one and be done with this,” she told Patrick.
NO – Sharon slammed her fist on the wheelchair. She motioned with her hands, pointing to the two, then herself – You, you, and me – we’re going.
“Sharon, we’re going to a fucking leather bar,” Steph said bluntly. “I really don’t think you’ll blend in.”
“Wait,” Patrick looked at Stephanie. “Are we going inside?”
“Ehhh waaaana cummmm,” Sharon managed to croak in a slur of spit, sounding like someone with Down Syndrome.
“Again, let’s just rent a fucking car.” Steph was starting to get irritated with the whole situation, and the smell of cat piss was making her eyes water. “Can we just do that and leave?”
“Steph, wait” – Patrick pulled her aside. “Listen…Sharon’s the one who asked us to come here in the first place, and without her, we wouldn’t have found Alan.” He looked at his old boss with pity, realizing he suddenly felt sorry for her. “We need to let her come. It’s the right thing to do.”
Stephanie thought about this. Her voice grew softer – “Fine.”
“If we let you come, can we use your car?” Patrick asked Sharon, who nodded.
“Great,” Patrick said. “Then it’s settl-OW!” –
He stopped midsentence when the stray ran out of a corner and bit him in the ankle.
Not missing a beat, Sharon, with rage in her eyes, went after the cat with a knitting needle…
She had knitting needles stashed everywhere.
* * * * *
Later, as the moon rose over Lakes Ivanhoe and Rowena, Alan stepped out of his apartment building in “daddy bear leather,” and into the dark Florida night. He wore his “gear:” starched black shirt, red tie, black leather vest & pants, leather gloves and leather boots. He used to wear a hat with this ensemble, but tonight he’d chosen to spike his hair instead, an effect that was startling for a man nearing 50. As the rest of his life felt stagnant and sad, the leather scene allowed him to try something new, even if it was just his hair.
Walking down the street, Alan found where he’d parked his car – a near-mint 80’ Eldorado, which he had stolen from Patrick years ago. The car was the only thing he’d allowed himself to keep from his past, and though it was dangerous to drive something so distinct, in Florida it wasn’t; this place was the epicenter of retirees with old cars. It was surprisingly easy to blend in, surprisingly easy to hide in plain sight.
Sniff ‘n’ the Tears sang “Driver’s Seat” as the old Eldorado shot down the 408 with the streetlights reflecting off its long, black hood. From the darkness above, the car looked shiny and new. Its sharp edges seemed almost regal when compared to the softer shapes of the newer cars around it.
The Caddy turned off near downtown, close to the neighborhood where the Pulse nightclub would make the news in a very bad way. Alan navigated the streets and stoplights, then found his destination. The Padlock was Orlando’s premiere gay leather bar, and at this time of night – 11:30pm – the place was packed with men of all ages. The leather community, Alan thought, was one of the few places within the gay world where age was attractive, rather than a liability.
Lighting a cigarette, Alan lingered outside the bar before going in.
* * * * *
“I think that’s him,” Stephanie said from the back seat. Sharon’s old Chrysler had been parked across the street from The Padlock for close to four hours. Patrick, Sharon, and Steph had watched every gay man who entered the leather bar. Patrick was first to spot him – That bastard is still driving my car – and the trio bickered amongst itself as to whom was going to enter the club, and confront Alan on his own private turf.
“I think you’re right,” Patrick confirmed.
“So, how are we going to do this?” Stephanie asked. “None of us really look the part tonight.”
“Well,” Patrick said, opening a Sprite. “Maybe it would be better if we waited and followed him home. That way we’d know where he lives.”
“You always play it so safe,” Stephanie said. “I’ll strip down to my T-shirt and jeans.” She looked at the various items that Sharon kept in her car: Kleenex box, plastic cup holders, pillows, blanket, a roll of paper towels. “Sharon, do you have a hat in here?”
“Steph, this isn’t a convention like IML,” Patrick told her. “This is a small, local bar…there aren’t that many people. You won’t be able to hide in the crowd.”
Steph thought about this – “I guess you’re right.”
Sharon kicked Patrick’s leg and pointed at the bar, where men were going in the alley to smoke. The alley was long and dark. Patrick got her point. “I’ll bet Alan is still a smoker.”
Cracking the window, Sharon lit her own cigarette.
“Duh,” Stephanie said. “I’ll bet he’s still a drinker, too.”
“So, it that the plan? Wait until Alan comes out of the bar to smoke and that’s where we confront him?” Patrick asked.
“Wait – ‘we?’” Stephanie clarified.
“Yes, we,” Patrick repeated. “Remember what happened when you confronted Alan in Chicago,” he reminded her. “There are certain problems that require more than one person to solve, and this is one of them. Are you okay with that?”
“Hell, yeah!”
“Good,” Patrick said, waving away Sharon’s smoke. He settled back in his seat and thought, “Now, we have to figure out what we’re going to say to him. We don’t want him to run away again.”
* * * * *
“Words like violence, break the silence, and come crashing in, into my little world…”
Finding his way to the bar, Alan ordered a double CC. He had lost his buzz some time ago, and he needed a drink in order to work the crowd – a crowd that was larger than normal due to tomorrow’s Pride parade. In the room behind his shoulders, the smell of leather, musk, and sweat filled his nose and lungs. He could hear men talking beneath Depeche Mode on the sound system. The bar felt alive, tingling on his skin.
Liquid courage.
Fifteen minutes later, he watched the room with cat’s eyes.
* * * * *
In the car, Sharon observed Padlock’s alley through a pair of binoculars. Her wig had gotten tilted again, so Patrick reached over her head to fix it, tugging from above. The trio in the car watched the unfolding events with intensity.
* * * * *
Alan had nearly forgotten what it was like to cold-cruise a bar. Over the past ten years, he’d grown so proficient with the Internet, it was hard to remember a time when he didn’t make contact online first. Sitting at the end of Padlock’s long customer bar, Alan watched in envy at all the Millennials and Gen Z’ers who had grown up with smart phones, and lived half their lives on the Internet. Their young, cute faces – and flat chests & stomachs – were illuminated by a hundred different cell phone screens, glowing blue and white within the club’s dark ambience.
Of course, Alan had use of such technology now, but hookups for a guy in his 20s was a far different experience for a middle-aged man. Having grown up in the 80s, Alan had witnessed the dawn of personal computers. He got his first Mac in late 1984, but it felt obsolete within months of purchase. As computers improved, Alan kept up pretty well, upgrading his iMacs, laptops, and iPhones on a fairly regular basis. But he still wondered what it must have been like to live now – to be young, thin, and to literally have the entire world at your fingertips.
Alan ordered another drink as he thought about this.
At least the leather bars haven’t changed that much…
From his vantage point at the bar, Alan observed nuances within the crowd. More than just Dom’s and subs, he could also see the subtle differences between them and what they expected from each other.
The older men had gathered together, both at the bar and in groups around the pub. They tended to dress in jeans and leather jackets, usually with white T-shirts and always with black boots. These men were the “old guard,” and they had been around for years. They were the leather bar’s “daddies,” the elite who shaped the scene since in the early 1980s.
If the club had a hierarchy, the middle-aged men came next. Ranging in age from 35 to 55, they compromised about 20% of the men who were out tonight. Like Alan himself, these men had specific roles in the fetish scene. Their expertise was reflected in their clothing; leather meant S&M, rubber was its own curiosity; uniforms meant military play, and visible handkerchiefs – depending on the color – advertised interests from fisting to watersports, and everything in between. Alan’s own hanky was gray, for bondage.
The next group – and largest percentage in the club – wasn’t as easy to categorize. It was actually a series of multiple groups ranging in age and role, and playing off each other in a way that held everything together. This group was a mixture of everything: Tops & bottoms, flabby & muscled, serious player & curious amateurs. These were the faces that changed nightly, men familiar with the Padlock’s expectations but who didn’t frequent enough to be considered regulars…
They were the wild cards, the chance bets, the unexpected.
And from Alan’s point of view, they offered the greatest possibilities, as they weren’t likely to leave a paper trail…
* * * * *
“Can you see him, yet?” Stephanie asked, watching over Patrick’s shoulder. The group of smokers had grown larger as the night went on, but Alan had yet to make an appearance.
“Yes, I think I do!” Patrick said, lowering his binoculars. He passed them to Sharon as he opened the door. “Sharon, stay here, Steph, you stay by the car. It’s my turn to go in.”
“Got it,” Stephanie said, getting out of the car with Patrick, but taking a seat on the hood as he crossed the street. “I’ll stay here in case he comes this way. You come up through the back.”
Sharon watched from the driver’s seat…
* * * * *
Having all but forgotten these last few days, Alan walked through the alley with the skill of a cat. Lighting a cigarette, he worked the space deliberately, sizing up costumes, body size and language, and overall demeanor. His eyes were careful to avoid prolonged contact. The trick was to seem approachable, but not particularly interested. Alan smiled when he thought it necessary as faces came and went. His mind recorded the whole crowd, before moving to individual close-ups:
Bear.
Boy.
Cigarette.
Master.
Chest harness.
Nipple ring.
Beard.
Blonde hair.
Blonde hair on a tall, skinny dude –
A dude who seemed to be approaching fast –
A dude that Alan recognized – Patrick!
Dropping his cigarette, Alan bolted passed Patrick, out of the back of the alley. Patrick followed in pursuit, and the two ran into the night.
With the Padlock now behind them, Patrick chased Alan down sidewalks and alleys, around corners, and through white circles of streetlights. Alan began throwing obstacles in Patrick’s way – trash cans, flower pots, anything he could get his hands on – until he doubled back, and skidded to a stop in front of his Eldorado.
Jumping into the car, Alan revved the engine and nearly hit Patrick as he peeled into the night. Stephanie appeared at Patrick’s side, and the two ran towards Sharon’s car to follow them. Sliding across its hood like a cop in a TV show, Patrick dove into the New Yorker, his head shooting towards Sharon – “HIT IT!”
She went to start the car -
Re-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eer!
Re-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eer!
But the old Chrysler refused to cooperate.
As Sharon pumped the gas, the three watched Alan’s red taillights swiftly disappear into the night.
Sadly, they had lost him.