Long Way Out, page 12
Russell felt the shift, too. But a more urgent concern was occupying his mind. For the next hour, he lay awake, rewinding and replaying the previous afternoon’s conversation — or confrontation, depending on how one chooses to frame it — with Bryan. The interchange got off to a contentious start, with Russell castigating Bryan for yanking his son out of Little League. “Do you really think that was fair to Carter?”
“Look, Man,” Bryan stammered, “you know I had no choice in the matter.”
While Russell wasn’t surprised by Bryan’s spineless passing of the buck, he recognized an opening, jumped on it, and came out firing with both barrels. “Well, you certainly had a choice when it came to telling Diane how you contracted herpes. And, when it comes right down to it, you also had a choice not to go out and catch that nasty virus in the first place.”
“You’re right,” Bryan conceded. “I’ve made some really shitty decisions.”
While this was exactly what Russell wanted to hear, he was taken off guard by Bryan’s easy acquiescence. “Too late now!” spat Russell.
“And I’ve hurt some folks.” The contriteness of Bryan’s tone had blunted the sharp edge of Russell’s rage. “I’m sorry,” Bryan continued. “I really am... to you and my kid and the team and... Dammit! I don’t know what to do.” By this point, Bryan’s baby-blues were pooling with tears. “She’s got me by the short hairs,” he shared. “If I don’t play my cards exactly the way she wants, she’s gonna take me for everything I’ got.”
“So that’s all you care about, your precious, fucking money?” Russell was now teetering dangerously on the edge of exhibiting the character trait he despised most: self-righteousness.
“What? Really?” Bryan seemed authentically hurt. “Is that all you think of me?”
“What else am I supposed to think, Man?” Russell demanded. “I mean, you’ve always had this, like hedonistic... no, what’s the word... nihilistic attitude.”
“I know that’s how I come off.” Bryan placed his hand on Russell’s chest, partly to steady himself, but also to emphasize his sincerity. “But, inside, I’m... I’m a disaster. I’m losing my mind.” Russell found it unsettling to hear another man reveal this level of fragility. But Bryan wasn’t finished. He ripped open his chest cavity and yanked out his own beating heart. “I’m gay,” Bryan confessed. “You’re the only fucking person in my life who knows. I can’t have you, of all people, hating me. Please, please, Coach. I know I’ve been a selfish asshole. But I’m begging for your forgiveness. Please. I could really, really use a friend right now.”
Bryan had just done what Russell had dreaded doing for years. While he was moved, honored even, to be the first recipient of such a personal revelation, Russell was determined to remain stern and resolute. Too, he was surprised by how much he relished being in the driver’s seat. To a certain degree, he held this gorgeous faker’s fate in his hands. “I’ll think about it,” Russell replied. Then, remembering how untrustworthy Bryan had proven himself to be, he quickly tacked on an addendum: “No guarantees.”
“Thanks, Buddy,” Bryan said, as he withdrew his hand from Russell’s chest. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“Better get back to the party.” Russell was eager to escape the extreme discomfort of this exchange and return to the solace of celebratory bedlam.
Two vulnerable men were lumbering back in the direction of their sons on four heavy feet when Bryan blurted, “Love you, man.”
Russell responded with two caustic words: “Fuck off.” That’s how he remembered it anyway.
≈ ≈ ≈
The climate in the kitchen the following morning was unseasonable chilly. That Tess had already made coffee by the time Russell descended the stairs made a statement in and of itself. He had long claimed java as his exclusive domain, from the selection, purchase, and grinding of the beans through the pouring of the perfect blend. Thus, his choosing to not make an issue out of this was equivalent to a white flag of surrender.
“Hmmm. Smells good, Babe,” Russell remarked, going for a peck on the cheek, which Tess evaded, simultaneously avoiding eye contact.
“I’m off to yoga,” she informed him, while securing the lid on her travel cup.
“On Sunday?” he queried.
“There’s a new instructor,” she responded, curtly. “I’m gonna check it out.”
“I see,” Russell responded. He watched his better half scoot through the doorway to the garage and kick the door shut behind her with a heel. Hearing the dull thump of a slamming car door, he uttered the following words to no one: “Guess we’ll see you whenever you get home.”
Russell plopped down heavily on a patio chair beneath the multicolored awning to sample his wife’s brew. Although he felt a quick flash of resentment for being forced to suffer a weak first cup of the day, he quickly found distraction in the sound of his own slurping and swallowing, which seemed amplified, resounding inside his head like spring water in a cave. The quiet following the slurping and swallowing rumbled and shook the ground like a freight train. A heaviness welled up in his chest. His throat constricted. The simple process of breathing in and out suddenly required conscious focus and attention. He felt an overwhelming impulse to stand up and run — somewhere, anywhere else — but his lower extremities felt as if they’d been strapped down and anchored to the patio floor. Hearing the familiar burbling of youthful, fraternal banter coming from within the house, Russell glanced over his shoulder. In the kitchen, his two sons were pouring bowls of cereal. This glimmer of normalcy cleared the way for him to take a full breath. Rory, toting a bowl of Frosted Flakes in one hand, waved through the glass with the other. Russell managed a brief, mechanical grin and an almost indiscernible nod of his troubled head. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Bryan appeared to be on the verge of losing everything. The once-magnificent stallion had already been gelded — figuratively, yes, but still — by his wife. In that regard, he had no one else to blame but himself. He chose to marry the woman, after all, presumably having some hint of how superficial, judgmental, and vindictive she tended to be. Getting hitched to Diane was but one in a plethora of, as Bryan himself had characterized, shitty decisions that were now teaming up to push him out onto the plank. Bryan’s most unforgivable sin, in Russell’s estimation, was being careless and cavalier with his own health and the health of others — including his shrewish spouse. Out of expedience — cowardice, too — the blue-eyed charmer had made the conscious decision to live a lie. What he had no part in choosing, however, lay at the very root of this pattern of questionable behavior: his sexual orientation, his same-sex desires, his innate queerness.
Russell knew he had no right to pass judgment on Bryan, or to criticize any closeted queer person caught up in a similar dilemma. For years, Russell had only revealed his authentic self in furtive, meaningless moments within a shadowy parallel universe, reserving one of the most fundamental parts of his nature for total strangers. Thus far, he had only let two other people in on his secret: Bryan and David. Bryan betrayed their unspoken pact by scapegoating Russell as the source of his herpes. David had responded to Russell’s confession in a less-than-sympathetic fashion. This left Russell harboring serious doubts about the trustworthiness of both of his confidants.
Russell’s patio mulling abruptly took a paranoid left turn, skipping to that chance shoulder-to-shoulder brush with Mike Terzian at The World’s Largest Adult Book Store. How long, Russell fretted, will it take for Mike to put two and two together and come up with queer? Even a dimwitted chauvinist like Mike is capable of drawing a logical conclusion now and then, especially when such persuasive clues land in his lap. An inevitable next picture appeared on Russell’s memory screen... his own reflection in a bathroom mirror, immediately following that fluky top-of-the-stairway collision: spiked, tousled hair, blotchy complexion, disheveled, untucked shirt. But, there was something else in that reflection, something that carried with it an entirely unexpected implication: a dreamy expression of ultimate contentment. In spite of his unkempt clownishness, Russell in the mirror had truly connected with someone. He had, minutes earlier, gaped into that someone’s eyes without reservation. That someone had craved and explored Russell’s body as Russell had craved and explored his.
Russell wanted to vanish that vision from his mind. But, it couldn’t be erased. Eighteen years ago — after that premiere gay-sex lesson from David — Russell had been able to deny how truly wonderful it felt to be naked and unguarded with another kind, affectionate male human. That level of self-delusion, however, was no longer attainable. Russell’s bear encounter had infused his soul with essential nutrients. Being with that soft, furry, jumbo teddy was like a nibble from one of those biscuits the Caterpillar gave Alice in Wonderland, chased by a brimming jigger of vitamin B-12. The Russell reflected in that mirror was savoring the aftertaste of a life-giving elixir. Now, he felt starved for a bigger sip. With the bear, Russell had violated one of his own long-standing, self-imposed, personal pledges... the one prohibiting physical contact. He suspected — and worried — that it wouldn’t be long before another domino toppled. What principle would be next to fall, his policy of anonymity?
Fantasies Russell had, for years, purposefully put out of reach were now within his grasp. How much more wonderful, he mused, would it be to call your sex partner by his name and for him to respond with yours? A thrill chill rippled through Russell’s shoulders, as he imagined himself and the bear, in the lingering embers of passion, lying together, naked, under sheets and blankets... perhaps even falling asleep in each other’s arms.
Russell heard the patio door slide open. “Hey, Daddio. I’m gonna ride my bike over to Finn’s. Okay?”
“Okay, Dude,” Daddio responded, not making the effort to turn around. He knew his younger son’s voice. “What’s your brother up to?”
“What do you think?” Rory quipped.
“Right,” Russell said, picturing Hank, his face reflecting the glow of the video monitor, joystick in hand, firing lasers at an army of scaly, yellow-eyed monsters. The door glided closed. “Stupid question,” Russell mumbled, once again, to no one but himself.
≈ ≈ ≈
“Doc says she’s only a few weeks away from popping,” Ed shared. Russell and his bald-pated co-worker were the only passengers in the elevator, on their way up from the basement garage to their third-floor offices.
“I thought Sherry wasn’t due till November,” Russell remarked.
“You and me both,” Ed concurred. “Turns out I must-a knocked her up earlier than we thought. Either that, or the little trollop was diddling her ceramics instructor on the side.”
“Yeah,” replied Russell, as the shiny metal doors parted. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Irregardless...” — one of a dozen or more nonexistent words Ed habitually used — “I’m freakin’ pissed.” The pair stepped out of the elevator car.
“You’re ticked off because the baby is coming sooner than you thought?” Russell was genuinely puzzled. Ed might be a blowhard and a misogynist. But, there’s no question as to how much the dumb jackass adores his kids.
“Nah,” Ed explained. “I’m gonna hafta miss the big shindig in Austin.”
“Oh, right,” said Russell. Of course, Ed would be conflicted about this. Corporate conventions were custom-made for guys like him. Russell had only attended the annual gathering once over the course of his dozen years with the company. And, in that particular instance, it was an easy three-and-a-half-hour drive down Interstate 40 to Memphis for his induction into the exclusive Million Dollar Roundtable. It hadn’t even crossed Russell’s mind to register for, as Ed so crassly put it, “the big shindig in Austin.” For Russell, company-wide confabs were intolerable. So much ado with so little substance. All that ginned-up enthusiasm for the purpose of revving the sales force into a false frenzy. Russell, who didn’t think he needed additional motivation, took personal umbrage at vapid rah-rah group-think exercises aimed at building brand loyalty and comradery. In his eyes, such assemblages oozed with self-congratulation. Too, there was the inevitable excess of drunken revelry and macho backslapping, adults regressing into boneheaded, sophomoric mindsets and behaviors they should have outgrown decades ago — which explained why Ed was feeling so “freakin’ pissed” over having to bow out of next month’s affair at the Texas state capitol.
“Hey, Dude...” Russell detected the glow of the lightbulb switching on inside Ed’s smooth, shiny cranium. “How ‘bout you taking my spot?”
“Yeah...” Russell’s mouth screwed into a grimace reminiscent of a child anticipating a spoonful of Castor Oil. “I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Man!” Ed cajoled. “If somebody doesn’t take my room, I’m gonna lose my deposit. Do a pal a solid. Your buddy Ed’s about to have another mouth to feed.”
“Okay,” Russell ceded, if only to get himself off the hook for the moment. “I’ll mull it over and run it by Tess.” What he was actually planning to mull over was a convincing excuse for rejecting Ed’s plea.
Alone in his office, it didn’t take long for Russell’s mental meanderings to veer off and onto an unanticipated side path. Attending the convention, he realized, could very well open up networking opportunities of a less business-oriented, more personal, and far more intimate kind. A two-night hotel stay in a city more than 800 miles away could facilitate the sort of experience that, since his elicit bear encounter, had been invading Russell’s reveries several times per day: getting naked with another man, preferably a man with a healthy crop of chest hair and a willing disposition, a man whose name Russell could speak freely out loud and who would respond by saying Russell’s name, a man with whom he might even share a bed until the next morning.
Originally, “I’ll run it by Tess” had been no more than a stall tactic, an empty, reflexive promise blurted to buy time. After a sufficient number of hours, Ed would assume that Russell had considered the proposition seriously. Office politics being what they are — so often reliant on superficial gamesmanship — allowing an obligatory grace period before begging off would avoid the likelihood of hurt feelings. In reality, Russell hadn’t planned to broach the subject with Tess at all.
Now, however, after entertaining the alternative possibilities offered by a three-day, two-night getaway, Russell was actively contemplating various ways to make his case. He spent the drive home concocting a surefire script to convince his better half that his attendance at “the big shindig in Austin” was a good idea.
≈ ≈ ≈
“I think you should go,” Tess said, as if it was no big deal. “I’m all for it.” His stomach doing flip-flops, Russell’s eyes widened, wrinkling his forehead. In preparation to make his pitch, he’d considered every imaginable challenge, much like a collegiate debater would in the days leading up to a major tournament. Tess’s immediate acceptance of the idea made those mental calisthenics seem silly. After all, Russell wasn’t a timid teenager asking for an advance on his allowance. He should have required neither permission nor justification to attend a company convention. There was nothing whatsoever unusual or conspicuous about the idea. Still, Russell found himself stunned by his wife’s response. And, although he did his best to mask his sudden excitement, he was unable to quell the blush flooding into his cheeks.
“What?” Tess asked, coyly.
“I don’t know,” Russell stammered. “I just...” He was at a loss for words.
“You didn’t think I’d let you go. Right?”
“Well,” he said, a smile of admission involuntarily blossoming on his reddening face, “it’s not... you know... I don’t usually...” At this moment, Tess seemed so much more than a wife. She was also a friend, a cohort, a loving, loyal booster. Albeit, she was also a friend who thought she knew him when, in actuality, she really didn’t. Russell’s heart overflowed with an expanding mixture of emotion: equal parts love for his supportive life partner blended with remorse for the bubble of isolation within which he’d been living for so long. It felt like a five-gallon jug was sitting on his chest. He longed to uncork the vessel, knock it over, and spill it all out, to cut loose and gush the real reason he was so eager to go to Austin... that he was hoping to have a one-night stand with someone he had yet to meet. He wished to be free to confess that, for years now, he’d been a secretive, compulsive, masturbating voyeur, but that standing on the sidelines, observing, and pleasuring himself was no longer enough.
Instead, all Russell could say was, “Thanks, Babe. Ed’s gonna be happy about this.”
FIFTEEN
“Do I smell bad? What’s the deal?” The woman’s vocal timbre — throaty and nasal in the same utterance — was a clue. Add a certain snide lilt and her identity was unmistakable. This was Russell’s fourth Mary Ann sighting of the day. And, it was only lunchtime. Sighting #1 had taken place during the pre-dawn hours, while the two convention-bound co-workers stood in the Delta Airlines check-in line at Nashville International Airport. That interaction comprised brief, obligatory half smiles of recognition. Neither barely awake party felt obliged to devote breathe to a “Hi, how ya doin’?”
The second sighting was equally inconsequential. Having just received his official convention lanyard and swag bag, he was slaloming his way through the teeming lobby outside the Brazos Ballroom. Every “excuse me” and “sorry” fell on deaf ears, as fellow conventioneers were cocooned in their own little universes and/or busy jabbering away with cronies. In the midst of this human ant hill, Russell recognized a familiar face: Mary Ann, immersed in conversation with two rather important-looking gentlemen. Russell’s snap presumption — that her acquaintances held some superior status — was based upon the fabric and tailoring of their suits and the purple color of their convention ID tags. Mary Ann appeared to be on familiar terms with them, evidenced by the ease of the trio’s ongoing verbal exchange and the manicured hand she casually placed on the forearm of the better-looking, presumably younger of the pair. As Russell drew nearer, Mary Ann sent him a coy, tip-of-the-fingers wave and a saucy grin. Suddenly wishing for invisibility, Russell pretended he hadn’t seen her and pushed on toward the entrance to the ballroom to take a seat for the welcome session.
