stocking cap and Deerfield High School letterman jacket, too warm for the day. Daft Punk leaks from his white headphones. He, at least, ignores me, absorbed in what looks like sorting through the contacts on his iPhone.
It’s too late to get back into my book. I stare ahead, wondering if the weatherman was right in predicting we could hit eighty today.
And then I see him.
It’s funny how it can all rush back. Jesus, what’s it been? Thirty years? I haven’t thought of Carlos-from-the-train in ages. Scratch that. I do think of him from time to time, wondering where he is, if he remembers me, what he’s doing, will our paths ever cross again.
But thoughts like those are for late at night, when I’ve gotten home from yet another unsuccessful date and have a few Hendrick’s and tonics in me. A line from a Frank Sinatra song comes to me about regrets and having a few.
I stand and hurry after the man, dodging between commuters all headed toward their daily toil. He’s going up the stairs ahead, and even though I haven’t caught a good look at his face, I know it’s Carlos. His black hair is cut shorter and is flecked with gray, like mine, but something about the set of those broad shoulders, that high ass bouncing, those strong legs, put me right back to 1982 and another ‘L’ ride, when the lines were not differentiated by color but by name.
You know how you just know someone by sight? Every person has a distinctive walk, a mien unique to that person. I think sometimes we believe we see someone and we have doubts. And when we have those doubts, we should know it’s not who we think it is. Our intuition works better than our brain.
I feel like a stalker as I trail him up the steps from Grand Avenue to Michigan Avenue. My heart’s beating a little faster, both from the exertion of the stairs and more from the sighting. Just laying eyes on him reminds me of my younger self and how conflicted I was when I met this man.
I have always wondered, through my marriage, divorce, and two tragically brief live-in relationships with gay men, what might have happened had my mother not called that night when we got together. Everything could have changed. Maybe I would have called off the wedding. Perhaps I’d be living in contented bliss with the man walking briskly ahead of me. Silly notions? Maybe not.
But then I wouldn’t have my son, Tate. Lots of things wouldn’t have happened.
But I can’t pause to consider all that right now, because Carlos, or the man I believe is him, is now close enough to touch.
Without thinking, heedless, I do just that. I reach out and tap him on the shoulder as we both step onto bustling Michigan Avenue.
The man turns, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, probably thinking I’m going to ask him for spare change.
Is it him? I look into dark brown eyes, the same as Carlos’s. There’s no mustache, but the face could be the same.
“Carlos?” I wonder.
The man’s expression softens. He regards me with something like amusement playing about his lips. Doubt stabs at my heart. Could this be him, changed over the years?
I recall what I thought earlier, about the certainty when we see someone we know, and I recognize my doubt for what it is: the truth. This isn’t, can’t be, Carlos. I know it before he says anything, and my spirit, soaring, takes a quick plummet earthward.
He shakes his head. “No, you must have me confused with someone else.” His speech carries a Spanish accent, which Carlos most certainly didn’t have. He doesn’t offer his name.
I laugh. “Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen this guy. Sorry to have bothered you. You just look a lot like him.” Yet the more I peer at the stranger, the more I realize he doesn’t . His nose is too big. The jawline is subtly different.
“No worries.” He shifts his weight, as though unsure how to conclude our little encounter. His gaze shifts to over my shoulder. “Well, gotta get to work. Have a good one!” He
It’s too late to get back into my book. I stare ahead, wondering if the weatherman was right in predicting we could hit eighty today.
And then I see him.
It’s funny how it can all rush back. Jesus, what’s it been? Thirty years? I haven’t thought of Carlos-from-the-train in ages. Scratch that. I do think of him from time to time, wondering where he is, if he remembers me, what he’s doing, will our paths ever cross again.
But thoughts like those are for late at night, when I’ve gotten home from yet another unsuccessful date and have a few Hendrick’s and tonics in me. A line from a Frank Sinatra song comes to me about regrets and having a few.
I stand and hurry after the man, dodging between commuters all headed toward their daily toil. He’s going up the stairs ahead, and even though I haven’t caught a good look at his face, I know it’s Carlos. His black hair is cut shorter and is flecked with gray, like mine, but something about the set of those broad shoulders, that high ass bouncing, those strong legs, put me right back to 1982 and another ‘L’ ride, when the lines were not differentiated by color but by name.
You know how you just know someone by sight? Every person has a distinctive walk, a mien unique to that person. I think sometimes we believe we see someone and we have doubts. And when we have those doubts, we should know it’s not who we think it is. Our intuition works better than our brain.
I feel like a stalker as I trail him up the steps from Grand Avenue to Michigan Avenue. My heart’s beating a little faster, both from the exertion of the stairs and more from the sighting. Just laying eyes on him reminds me of my younger self and how conflicted I was when I met this man.
I have always wondered, through my marriage, divorce, and two tragically brief live-in relationships with gay men, what might have happened had my mother not called that night when we got together. Everything could have changed. Maybe I would have called off the wedding. Perhaps I’d be living in contented bliss with the man walking briskly ahead of me. Silly notions? Maybe not.
But then I wouldn’t have my son, Tate. Lots of things wouldn’t have happened.
But I can’t pause to consider all that right now, because Carlos, or the man I believe is him, is now close enough to touch.
Without thinking, heedless, I do just that. I reach out and tap him on the shoulder as we both step onto bustling Michigan Avenue.
The man turns, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, probably thinking I’m going to ask him for spare change.
Is it him? I look into dark brown eyes, the same as Carlos’s. There’s no mustache, but the face could be the same.
“Carlos?” I wonder.
The man’s expression softens. He regards me with something like amusement playing about his lips. Doubt stabs at my heart. Could this be him, changed over the years?
I recall what I thought earlier, about the certainty when we see someone we know, and I recognize my doubt for what it is: the truth. This isn’t, can’t be, Carlos. I know it before he says anything, and my spirit, soaring, takes a quick plummet earthward.
He shakes his head. “No, you must have me confused with someone else.” His speech carries a Spanish accent, which Carlos most certainly didn’t have. He doesn’t offer his name.
I laugh. “Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen this guy. Sorry to have bothered you. You just look a lot like him.” Yet the more I peer at the stranger, the more I realize he doesn’t . His nose is too big. The jawline is subtly different.
“No worries.” He shifts his weight, as though unsure how to conclude our little encounter. His gaze shifts to over my shoulder. “Well, gotta get to work. Have a good one!” He
Similar Books
