Brian sat on the stool in the New York pub. He'd taken the train to New York for a performance with his summer jazz band. They'd wanted him again, they gave a great performance at the Carlyle, and he had his weekend in New York. True, he loved Philadelphia better than any other place. He'd been born there and his mother was buried in Longwood Cemetery. But New York was always a chance to get away from his routine and look at men from Greenwich Village. Trouble, most men his age didn't do that. Most men in their 50s were married with grown children, a wife who cooked pot roast every Sunday, most likely several grandchildren, too. But he came to New York, prowling for man. Hell, he didn't have to be all that young or pretty -- didn't matter to him -- but he had to have a man on this trip, he decided. He'd go to confession tomorrow, ask the priest for forgiveness, say his Hail Marys, and head back to Philadelphia in time for Fibber Magee and Molly. Tonight, however, he had to have a man.
He walked into the bar in Christopher Street. They asked him for the password and he gave it. He'd been there a number of times before, a ritual for his New York getaways. He walked down the stairs into the room and sat at the bar. A man sat next to him, nursing a gin and tonic, wearing a dark blue jacket, thin matching tie, and bald like a bowling ball, about Brian's age with a spare tire around his waist. Brian ordered whiskey and soda.
"Where are you from? I'm from Chicago, but last year I was living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Did love it there. Also lived in San Francisco, Key West, and Baltimore. My mother grew up in Cleveland and she met my father, who was a traveling salesman for the Roebuck Company, and we all ended up in Chicago. You really have to love Chicago, my friend -- second only to New York, is what I say."
The man didn't stop, but Brian stopped listening. He focused on the gin and tonic, smiled, looked across the corner at another man who was talking to his friend. The man still didn't stop talking. Some nonsense about the Oldsmobile Motor Company in Detroit. Brian looked at the man on the other side again. He was perhaps ten years younger, powerful barrel chest, a beard, dark blond hair, chiseled jawline. Brian couldn't take his eyes off him. The bald man next to him shifted topics and talked about the Roosevelts in Washington --- love 'em, he said -- and then talked about the chances for war with Germany -- not a chance, he said. Brian smiled and said something, anything, but averted his eyes to the bearded man across the way.
The bearded man looked his way, excused himself from his friend, and walked toward the exit. The man's backward glance before exiting the door gave Brian all the invitation he needed. Brian came upstairs and onto the street, looking for the man -- nowhere to be found -- but then he heard a voice behind him. "Hello," the voice said, "I'd like to visit your hotel, would that be all right?"
"Yes," Brian stammered. The man was even better-looking than Brian had thought.
"Good. That'll be ten dollars, please."
Brian didn't have ten dollars, so he went back into the bar and sat on the stool. The bald man resumed his story about a musical he'd written based on the novel "The Good Earth." Brian listened more closely this time.
He walked into the bar in Christopher Street. They asked him for the password and he gave it. He'd been there a number of times before, a ritual for his New York getaways. He walked down the stairs into the room and sat at the bar. A man sat next to him, nursing a gin and tonic, wearing a dark blue jacket, thin matching tie, and bald like a bowling ball, about Brian's age with a spare tire around his waist. Brian ordered whiskey and soda.
"Where are you from? I'm from Chicago, but last year I was living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Did love it there. Also lived in San Francisco, Key West, and Baltimore. My mother grew up in Cleveland and she met my father, who was a traveling salesman for the Roebuck Company, and we all ended up in Chicago. You really have to love Chicago, my friend -- second only to New York, is what I say."
The man didn't stop, but Brian stopped listening. He focused on the gin and tonic, smiled, looked across the corner at another man who was talking to his friend. The man still didn't stop talking. Some nonsense about the Oldsmobile Motor Company in Detroit. Brian looked at the man on the other side again. He was perhaps ten years younger, powerful barrel chest, a beard, dark blond hair, chiseled jawline. Brian couldn't take his eyes off him. The bald man next to him shifted topics and talked about the Roosevelts in Washington --- love 'em, he said -- and then talked about the chances for war with Germany -- not a chance, he said. Brian smiled and said something, anything, but averted his eyes to the bearded man across the way.
The bearded man looked his way, excused himself from his friend, and walked toward the exit. The man's backward glance before exiting the door gave Brian all the invitation he needed. Brian came upstairs and onto the street, looking for the man -- nowhere to be found -- but then he heard a voice behind him. "Hello," the voice said, "I'd like to visit your hotel, would that be all right?"
"Yes," Brian stammered. The man was even better-looking than Brian had thought.
"Good. That'll be ten dollars, please."
Brian didn't have ten dollars, so he went back into the bar and sat on the stool. The bald man resumed his story about a musical he'd written based on the novel "The Good Earth." Brian listened more closely this time.
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