(Jet City Boy Culture) In the Company of Strangers!

A writer's journey of dating and living gay in Seattle exposed.

 

by Tristan Wilde

Never talk to strangers. As children, this is one of the first life lessons repeatedly taught to us. It’s drilled into our developing minds by our mothers as they send us off to school. We’re educated on the subject of “stranger danger” by elementary school teachers, in hopes that they’ll see our innocent faces in class the next day. If a stranger invites you into his car, run. If a stranger tries to talk to you, ignore him. Don’t let him tempt you with candy or money. Find an adult immediately. We’re taught the worst possible scenario. Ultimately, we grow up learning that strangers are capable of any number of heinous acts. But what happens when the stranger becomes the hero of the story? How do we react when the person we’re taught to avoid has become our savior?

I wake up in a tangle of damp sheets. The dull, gray light of an overcast day peeks at me through the vertical blinds of a bedroom I’ve never seen. I quickly panic and sit bolt upright. It feels like a fog has invaded my brain, limiting any clear thought. I’m thirsty; my tongue is veritably sticking to the roof of my mouth. I observe my surroundings and discover a cherry wood dresser bureau, a matching computer desk, and nightstands on either side of the bed in which I sit. Nothing but standard bedroom furniture. I’m in my underwear, which has me continuously attempting to recollect the events of last night. I instantly begin scanning the floor to locate my t-shirt and jeans.


“Good morning,” a voice calls out and startles me half to death. My attention jumps from the floor to the man standing in the doorway. An innocent smirk is etched upon the beautiful face before me. I suddenly feel timid, as if I’ve done something wrong, and pull the sheets to my chest.

“Hi.” For the moment, I’m at a loss for words as I study his features. Five-foot-eleven, Hispanic, black hair that’s short-cropped and blends into longer locks, delectable chocolate-colored eyes, and nice pectorals defined through his thin, button-down shirt.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

“What happened?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Again, I do my best to muster any thought of last nights’ events. The Stylist. The date. The drunken Stylist. Going back to his place. The drunken Stylist trying to drug me? ”I think I was drugged.”

“You were definitely something, that’s for sure.”

Suddenly, I feel like I’m being grilled for some major error over which I had no control. It’s like I did something wrong and I’m required to give answers to the stranger standing in front of me. Regardless of how good looking he is, I go on the defensive. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

He takes in a deep breath through his nose and leans against the doorway. “Well, besides the guy whose bed you’re in, I’m also the guy who saved you from practically falling into the street. Oh, did I mention that I’m also the guy who you cursed and yelled at from the time I got you into the car until we got back here?”

Embarrassment washes over me. “I’m sorry. That’s not normally me.”

“I had a feeling it wasn’t. You looked like you were trying to get away from somebody last night.”

“Would you believe me if I said a bad date?”

“Really?” He laughs, and I notice the cutest dimples appear. He walks toward me. I imagine that he’s coming over to kiss me. Instead, he extends his hand. “By the way, I’m Diego.”

I shake his hand. “Tristan. Nice meeting you. Thank you.”

“No problem. Just promise me you won’t go out on any more dates with guys who want to slip things in your drink.”

“Promise,” I say as I smile. “Ummm,” that awkward moment, “where are my clothes?”

“Oh,” he says as he walks back toward the doorway, “I washed your clothes. They are in the bathroom with a clean towel. I figured you’d want to take a shower. Oh, there’s also an extra toothbrush in there too. Do you like pancakes?”

It’s as if my brain has been inundated with a number of thoughts all at once. Clothes washed. Shower. Toothbrush. Pancakes. Nice guy. I wonder if whatever drug was slipped to me is still in my system. “Uh, pancakes, yeah.”

“I was going to make some. Blueberry, in fact.”

“My favorite,” I say with both excitement and doubt in my voice. This all feels like a dream. It’s as if I’m Dorothy in Oz. However, I’m certain that my rendition of Over the Rainbow wouldn’t sound so pretty.

“I’ll get started on those and let you take a shower. The bathroom’s right down the hall here.”

He’s practically gone before I call his name to bring him back in sight. “Diego?”

“Yeah?”

“We didn’t…well, you know?”

Again with that smile. “No. You were very adamant on telling me to go fuck myself and leave you alone. I slept on the couch.” With that, he disappeared down the hallway. As I get out of his bed and make my way to the bathroom, I hear him yell back from the kitchen, “You do have a cute butt though.” Now I’m the one smiling as I shut the bathroom door and purposely keep it unlocked. I realize Diego seems to have morals but, hey, a guy can dream, right?

Within twenty minutes, I’m showered, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen table where a short stack of blueberry pancakes, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee are set in front of me.

Before Diego sits down with his own plate, he hands me my cell phone. “Your phone was dead last night. Since we have the same type of charger, I went ahead and plugged it in. I switched the ringer off because it’s been going off from late last night until this morning.”

“Sorry about that. Thanks.” I quickly glance at the eight missed calls. As I expected, all from The Stylist. Just as I set down the phone it vibrates with a new call.

“If you need to take the call, I can leave the room.” Diego is too sweet.

I notice it’s The Stylist calling. “That’s all right. I’ll take care of it later.” I click on The Stylist’s name in my contacts list and use the “block” feature of my phone.

Diego and I talk over breakfast. The conversation is nothing too deep. Just the basics. He’s from Las Cruces, New Mexico. He works as a server at a local five-star restaurant. He’s been single for over two years. He doesn’t go out to clubs or bars. He’s not into the local “scene.” At one point I ask (my own selfishness getting the best of me) if he ever intends on dating again. His response is a generic “some day” as he goes into his dislikes of the local dating scene. He brings up last night’s scenario as a perfect example of why he doesn’t “deal with dating” any longer. I’m a bit disappointed by his unwillingness to date. His ex must have really done a number on him to have him this guarded. Remember, I’m an expert on exes and walls, so it’s not that difficult for me to pinpoint when somebody else has been affected by a really bad break-up that has left him jaded.

The vibration of my cell phone interrupts our conversation. The caller ID announces a local number I do not recognize. “I’m sorry,” I tell Diego, “let me grab this real quick.” He begins collecting the dishes from the table as I answer. It happens to be one of the bartenders from C.C. Attle’s asking me if I’m coming to get my bag I’d left there last night. I almost completely forgot about it, and I can’t help but wonder if my Hugo Boss ensemble is still in the bag. I let the bartender know that I’ll be by in a just a bit and hang-up. “Do you need help?” I ask Diego as he rinses off dishes and places them in a dishwasher.

Diego looks into my eyes. I get lost for a moment. “No. It’s all good. So, did you leave something somewhere?”

“Huh?”

“You were saying that you’ll be by in a bit to pick something up.”

“Oh, yeah. My bag with (hopefully) the outfit I changed out of yesterday.”

Diego gives me a sideways glance, obviously confused.

“Long story,” I explain.

“You’ll have to tell it to me some time.”

There’s silence as I reconnect with those eyes. Don’t be so damn obvious, I reprimand myself. ”Soooo…I should get going. I have to stop by the bar and grab my bag, then head back home to North Seattle. I have some writing to get done.”

“Ah, North Seattle,” Diego announces. “I was trying to get that out of you last night. Where you lived, you know.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling as if I’m blushing again, “let’s forget about last night.”

“But if not for last night, we wouldn’t have met.”

“True,” I confirm. Again, that silence. Another one of those moments in which the person you’re interested in says something that indicates they’re interested in you as well. “OK, I’m going to get running. Thank you again. And thank you for the breakfast. It was very nice of you.”

“Why don’t I just drive you?”

“Huh?”

“Drive you. I can drive you by the bar to get your bag, then back home.”

You don’t have to ask me twice, I think. “Perfect. Great. I’m ready when you are.”

Diego takes me by the bar and then home. I’m happy to discover the outfit I’d placed in my satchel is still there. On the drive, Diego asks if I need to stop anywhere else. I tell him no. He asks me if he can have my cell phone number and I do not hesitate. “Bye. Thanks again,” I say as I get out of his car and shut the door.

“Bitch, were you out all night?” I hear a voice yell from behind me. It’s my best friend, Antonio.

“You have no idea,” I say.

“Is that a good or a bad thing?”

“Both.”

“Come with me to the market,” he says. “You can tell me all about it on the way.”

I run up to my apartment, drop off my bag, and make my way back downstairs.

Antonio and I decide to walk to the market since its less than a mile away. Not to mention, the weather is cooperating. As we walk along the desolate back street, I tell him all about my adventures from the night before. I tell him about the date from hell with The Stylist and about how The Stylist attempted to drug me. I think I must have heard the word “Seriously?” come from his mouth a dozen times. I tell him about meeting Diego and how I like him. “Go for it, girl,” he jokes. I explain that as much as I like Diego, there’s something else I can’t quite pinpoint about the guy. Perhaps he has too many walls up. If that’s the case, I have no chance with him. Pursuing such would simply be a waste of time.

We arrive at the market, and I immediately notice a young, Hispanic man stocking cereal boxes on a lower shelf. He glances up and I quickly turn my head. As sly as I’m trying to be, my staring him down was rather obvious. I know I’m caught. He waves and my heart skips a beat before realizing that Antonio is waving back.

“Oh,” I laugh, “you know him.”

“Yeah, that’s my friend Efrain.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Oh, you think he’s cute?”

“Indeed.”

“Come on. I’ll introduce you,” Antonio offers.

“No, that’s all right.”

“Come on,” Antonio says as he puts his arm around me and starts walking me toward his friend.

If there’s anything I hate, it’s not meeting somebody on my own terms. There’s no time to get to know the person from afar. It’s like conducting a book-reading at an event and not practicing the passage in which you’re planning to read. In fact, it reminds me of a form of stage fright. The heart races. The palms get sweaty. The throat goes dry. And it was each of these things happened to me when Antonio introduced me to Efrain.

“Nice to meet you,” I introduce myself. Efrain’s smile is just as captivating as Diego’s. He’s a bit younger than Diego, has a snakebite piercing on his upper-right lip, and more effeminate than Diego. Still, I can’t help but take stock of his cute looks and eyes in which I recognize a mischief that others might easily overlook. Again comes that awkward moment in which one is at a loss for words. I shift my attention to Antonio who dons a shit-eating grin because he can tell that I’m probably blushing. “I’m going to go pick up a couple things while you two catch-up.” As I walk away, I hear him tell Efrain (in Spanish) that I think he’s cute. I don’t turn around for fear of appearing beet red.

Two days after opening new doors in my world to both Diego and Efrain, I decide it’s time to shut the door to the world of The Stylist. They say that closure is important. In fact, it is said that without closure to a situation, it can be difficult for a person to move on. While I feel I have all the closure I need with The Stylist, there remains something that continues to eat away at me. True, I still hold rage toward him for what he did. Two days can’t change that, let alone two weeks. What’s more, I want him to understand how it feels from my point of view. I want him to comprehend the hurt one discovers when they realize the person they think they can trust has completely taken advantage of them.

I unblock The Stylist’s number and click the “Call” button on the screen of my cell phone. He answers within two rings. “Hey.”

I don’t waste any time and get to the point. “What the fuck did you put in my drink?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“You got to be fucking kidding me, right?”

“Honestly. Everything was fine and then you freaked out on me. I figured you were just extremely drunk.”

I’m in utter shock by his ability to play the innocent victim and pretend that nothing ever happened. “You know what? Let me clarify a few things for you that occurred that evening. I had no more than five drinks. You must have had triple that. You were kicked out of the bar. I had to drag you in a cab back your place where you decide to inform me that you live with your ex. Then you proceed to drug me. Apparently that is the only way you can get laid. Am I leaving anything out?”

The Stylist continues to keep his composure. “I don’t know what you think happened, but it didn’t. I would never try to slip anything in your drink.”

“Enough,” I say. “If spinning a web of lies is what you need to do to deal with your conscience, then so be it. However, I will be no part of it. In fact, I’m blocking your number again after this call.”

“Why are you doing this?” he raises his voice. “We have so many things in common. We get along so good.”

“No, we used to have things in common. We used to get along well. Not any longer. Find somebody else interested in playing your games. I will not.”

“Tristan,” he says, and I can hear a tremble in his voice as if he’s about to cry. “Please don’t do this.”

“You should have thought about that before trying to drug me.”

“But I don’t know what you’re talking–”

“Good bye,” I cut him off and turn the “block” feature on before he has a chance to call back. I’ve said all I need to say to The Stylist.

The next day, I receive a call from Diego. Apparently, he wants me over for dinner. He says he’s been hard at work cooking and creating the right blend of cheeses for his manicotti dish. In fact, he says that he’s had to make a couple calls to the cook at work from whom he got the recipe. I snicker at his silliness and determination. I tell him I’ll bring a bottle of wine.

On my way to Diego’s, I stop by the local market to pick up some wine. I tell Diego I’ll be to his place at 7:00pm, and it’s almost a quarter to. I despise being late for anything. I quickly make my way through the market and to the section of the store that houses the wine.

“Hey, Tristan,” I hear an excited voice. I turn to see Efrain approaching.

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Doing well. Just grabbing a bottle of wine.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Sorry, I’m on my way to a dinner I have to be at in exactly thirteen minutes.”

“No problem. Follow me. I’ll ring you up right now.” My own personal cashier? Perfect!

Within a minute, I’m leaving the market and telling Efrain that I’ll see him soon.

As children, we’re taught to avoid strangers at any cost. Strangers are dangerous people. However, the same doesn’t hold true as we enter adulthood. In fact, it’s common that we encounter strangers on a daily basis. Whether they be a friend request from a fan on the social networks, a grocery store clerk secretly admiring us as he does his job, or a waiter heading home from a long night of work and stopping to help a person appearing to be in trouble–strangers are all around us. And the only way we can understand what their true intentions might be is by getting to know them on a personal level.

Diego raises his glass of wine, and I immediately follow suit. I wait for him to say something, but he just stares at me and smiles.

“To a fabulous dinner,” I say.

“To meeting you,” he says as his glass meets mine.

I take a sip from the glass and watch Diego lean over toward me. He brushes his lips against mine. Soft lips. We kiss. In this moment, I am ecstatic being in the company of a man who, only a few days before, was nothing more than a stranger.

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The journey continues next Friday, February 01, 2013!