This is, of course, not a true story. Anyone who claims to be telling a true story is either very stupid, very gullible, or thinks that you are suffering one of the aforementioned ailments. All that you experience, hope or dream is far too personal and subjective to be ever defined as truth.
Friday Night
It's around 1:30 in the morning, and after impressing Mark,our waiter at Pimblett's, with how large a bill we managed to rack up in only 25 minutes, Trisha, Patrick, Judy and I have made our cheery way to Chez Cappuccino for coffee. It is wonderful seeing Trisha, who has been trapped in Kingston for what now seems like forever doing post-grad work at Queens, but my attention starts to wander and is caught by an attractive man with (!) long hair sitting in the opposite corner of the café. Our eyes meet for a moment and I look quickly away, embarrassed at being discovered, only to look back again and discover that we are sharing the same bemused smile. I grin helplessly for a moment, feeling like an idiot and liking it, and turn back to the conversation at hand to see what I have missed.
Throughout the evening I keep stealing glances at the opposite corner and its occupant, my co-conspirator, and our eyes keep meeting and igniting that same smile on both of our faces. He appears to be deeply in conversation with the man sitting across from him, though. Even were he alone, to actually walk over and initiate a conversation would probably be beyond me. Besides, it is entirely too much fun, this secret exchange of glances. "Look at that boy with the long hair over there!" Trisha exclaims at one point. No surprise there: Trisha's penchant for long-haired boys with tight bums in tight jeans is well-nigh legendary. "Yes, he is quite attractive, isn't he," I agree, feeling a mild exultation that it is my boy with long hair that she is admiring and a certain smugness at her, and everyone's, ignorance of our little exchanges.
His friend leaves, but he remains for a while, apparently writing or doodling as he sits. I feel an intense disappointment as he gets up and dons his coat, but the exchange has been immensely enjoyable while it lasted, and I am resigned to his leaving. As he nears our table, making his way to the door, I prepare for our last smile. He stops at our table, though, and I am dazed as he hands me a sheet of paper-towel containing a drawing of a cartoonish lion-headed man raising a glass in salute. "This is for you," he says, shrugging. I thank him, flushed and dumbfounded, and he grins one last time and leaves.
"What is it?" Judy asks. "Uh, some kind of drawing," I respond. Sharp as a tide-tossed pebble I am at times. "No, wait. There's something written on the back." I read the back of the drawing and blush so thoroughly that my fingertips tingle. "Oh my God," I giggle, feeling giddy. "Listen to this." Written on the back was:
IF I WERE A BEAST
& YOU WERE A BEAUT...
AH WHAT MOMENTS WE
COULD SHARE...
AN INVITATION
You are cordially invited
to a moment.
I AWAIT YOUR RESPONSE
It is signed "With Sincerity, Art," appended by his phone number, and has "CORNEY BUT TRUE" written off to the side.
"Right on Ken!" says Patrick, who is positively beaming amused approval. Trisha's response is a no less amused "Kenneth, I hate you!" She looks at the note for a moment and adds, "Oh well, he can't spell 'corny'; I suppose you can have him." Judy simply asks, "So, are you going to call him?", grinning with sly amusement. "God, I don't know!" is my inspired reply. "Oh my God," I grin once again, apparently incapable of saying much else.
The ball's in my court, I think, knowing full well that I rarely, if ever, play it when it is. But it is one of the most romantic things that has ever happened to me. What to do? The general consensus, of course, is that I absolutely must call him, if only so that I could then provide amusing stories, but fear of rejection or simply looking silly is, for me, a major cause of petrified inertia in these matters. What to do?
Saturday
Off and on, I take out the 'invitation' and wonder what to do.
Sunday
Off and on, I take out the 'invitation' and wonder what to do (I am nothing if not original). I ask Judy, "Would you call him?"
"It's different for me, because I'm a woman," she replies after thinking a moment. "He may be a homicidal maniac."
I am practically speechless. "So why is that any different?!?" I exclaim.
Judy gets a dumbfounded expression on her face for a moment, giggles and says, "Oh my God. I just realized that I had assumed that because he was gay, he was a sane and well-balanced individual!"
The logic may seem skewed but is somewhat consistent with Judy's rather bent view on life. She has often quipped that her head is a very odd place to live, and at times like this I have to agree. We both burst out into laughter, and after a moment she thoughtfully adds, "I suppose you could meet him in a public place, though." Safe sex I can live with, but this is ridiculous!
Monday
Today, I don't take out the invitation and wonder what to do. I have written down his name and phone number on the back of a business card, so off and on I take it out and wonder. Finally, I work up the nerve and dial, my heart thundering in my ears. There is no answer, much to my disappointment and relief.
Tuesday
Once again, I work up the nerve to call, and suffer the symptoms of impending heart failure as the phone rings. The phone is answered, and I suppress a squawk of alarm, but it is a woman who answers. Wifegirlfriendmother?!? I think. God, not more questions! "Is Art there?" I somehow manage.
"No, I'm sorry, he isn't," she replies.
Oh God, he lives with his mother. I have decided that the voice sounds too old for wife or girlfriend. What if he wants to come to our place? It's a mess!! This is a massive understatement, but if you can't lie to yourself, who can you lie to? I want desperately to ask who she is, but the appalling rudeness of that is only barely thinkable. "Uh, okay, thanks," makes its way around my tongue. "I'll try back later."
"Okay," she says pleasantly, apparently unaware of how close I am to a seizure, and disconnects. I am left staring at the receiver, not quite sure what to do with it. Finally I decide that maybe I should hang up.
Wednesday, Thursday & Friday
I decide that since we may have plans for the evening, I will not attempt to call. I'm not just making excuses. Really.
Saturday
Time to wonder idly about aneurisms once again as I dial from work before I start my shift. The mystery woman answers once again, but I am prepared this time, and I do not squawk. "Is Art there?" I ask confidently.
"No, he's out getting his hair cut."
"Okay, thanks," I reply, prepared to disconnect at this point.
"You could leave a message," she offers.
Now I almost squawk. Oh sure, and say what? "Just tell him that the guy he passed a note to at Chez Cap called???" I think not. "No, that's fine. I'll call later."
"Okay."
After work, I decide to try again. It's much easier this time, since I have decided that he is never at home. A male voice answers, "Hello."
My life passes before my eyes. This takes a while, so there is a bit of a pause. "Is Art there?"
"Speaking."
I turn several very interesting colours, and alternate between giggling nervously and stammering. "This is, uh, that is, uh we met at Chez Cap on Friday." My fingers are tingling again.
"Oh hi! But we didn't exactly meet, did we?"
His relaxed tone does much to calm me. Thank God -- he remembers. And he didn't ask when, so it's probably not something he does all the time. Things move a little smoother, with Art leading the conversation, and we end up agreeing to meet at 11.
"Well, do you want to come over here?"
He gives me the address, and I write it down, with thoughts of Judy's homicidal maniac running through my head. I give a long "Uuuuuuuh," so that he knows I am thinking, and then, hesitantly, agree.
"Actually, I was just thinking that it may be unfair to ask you to come to a strange house. There's a place near here called Sweet Surrender; do you want to meet there?"
I hope that the relief is not too evident. "Yes, that would be wonderful," I agree.
"All right, then. I'll see you there at 11."
It isn't until the subway ride home that the humour in the name of our agreed meeting place hits me and I double over in laughter.
Shit, I'm going to be late. The wait for the subway, where none of the clocks can ever agree, is painfully long. Finally I'm walking, looking for a restaurant, the existence of which I'm beginning to doubt. Never before has it been so apparent that Yonge Street is the longest street in North America. Block after block passes until at last I see the sign reading "Sweet Surrender." Panic ensues; suddenly I can no longer recall what Art looks like. What if all the men in there have long hair?
The fates are with me. Art is sitting in a window seat and waves at me in recognition. Breathing a sigh of relief, I open the door and enter.