Big Chicago

Big Chicago Part 10...By Samayel


I am getting used to it…being alone sometimes. It’s been a week since Harry left. I’ve enjoyed myself for the most part. Sometimes there’s such a thing as too much aloneness. I think I’ve accepted that this is where I live. I’m starting to feel less out of place and more at home. I wish I had things that made it ‘mine’. Like a picture of me and Harry somewhere, so I could have it by the bed. Maybe some mementoes of a place we went together. I have ticket stubs from the museums, but they don’t look good on a wall. I have memories, but they only live behind my eyes. I’ll ask him for photos of us when he gets back. It would help a lot…I think.

Harry sent flowers from wherever he is…or had the people he works with send them. Two dozen roses, long stems intact. They’re beautiful, and the card with them was simple but sweet. ‘Even here, I am thinking of you. Love, Harry.’ I used to be suspicious of the worth of gestures like this, but it’s Harry, and I know he means it. I miss him terribly, but it helps a lot to know that, even with all the things he must have to worry about, he knows that I am here, missing him, and that a reminder that he’s well and thinking of me means so much right now. It reminds me that I am not an idiot for wanting him, even if I have to close my eyes to picture his handsome face.

Yes…I am a terminal sap and a closet romantic. Get over it.

I could paint a picture, but I’ll have to get supplies first. I’m pretty lousy, in my opinion, but with certain mediums it’s all subjective anyway. I don’t do well with pencil roughs, or charcoal, but I make do okay with oil, watercolors or acrylic. Then I could hang something on the wall somewhere. I think that’s a goal for my next trip out. Maybe I’ll have Ron take me somewhere where I can get a real Chicago deep dish pizza! Therese’s cooking is wonderful, but there are more than a few places in Chicago where they can make a truly good pizza.

Let me explain for the uninitiated. You may think that, in restaurants near where you live, that you have had a Chicago deep dish pizza. Unless you live in Chicago or have had one while you were here…you have been misinformed. If you can’t push a finger into it down to at least the second knuckle, it ain’t deep dish! Imagine a huge pie with no top crust, filled to the edge with sauce, meat, cheese and veggies. Big, greasy and bad for you if you try to take it all on at once…the very essence of Chicago. Bring friends…it helps. I expect Ron could knock out whatever I can’t finish. I’m not bringing back leftovers if I can help it…I’d hate to offend Therese.

Before or after lunch I could hit an art store and pick up a few supplies. And a tarp…because I wouldn’t dare get paint on carpets like these. I could set up in the music room. There’s still space for days. Pizza and shopping…I can live with that. I’ll save my pining and whining for when the lights go out, but for now, Ron is just a phone call away, and he’ll be here with the car in the usual five minutes. Possibly faster if I mention the deep dish pizza. On second thought, given his natural inclination toward speeding, I’d better tell him about that after we’re halfway there.

It’s off to Malnati’s. Let me explain again. Malnati’s may be a Chicago chain of pizzerias, but it’s a chain that happens to do deep dish pizzas and do them well. They weren’t the first, but they are one of the best. This is good eating that won’t make your wallet cry too. Ron even looks pretty happy, since deep dish pizza is generally eaten with a fork and knife because it’s so gooey that you can’t eat it by hand. No chopsticks for Ron this time!

We hit the art store first, and I spend a bit more than I planned, but not enough to make a serious dent in the petty cash. I still have several hundred left, which means I can handle a few more trips into town if I need to, but big time shopping is out until Harry gets back.

Harry. Riding in the car, alone in the back, it’s hard to distract myself from the way I miss him. I don’t have all that many memories of him, but this backseat has some. Making the journey to the beautiful place I live now, gambling on the hope that he was for real. Holding his hand quietly after the words that made me want to be his and no one else’s. The luxury of that perfect cock filling my mouth on the way home. Oh yeah…I really like that memory.

I used my ’new toy’ the night before last. I made myself comfortable on the bed, with a nice fluffy towel protecting the sheets. I used the lubricant I bought, since I didn’t want to waste the stuff Harry keeps in the nightstand. I lavished a little more that the usual attention on myself, using fingers carefully to get everything thoroughly slicked, then I nudged the head of it into myself.

There’s no shame in admitting it. I’m a very sybaritic, very sensual, creature of pleasure. I like to be on my back, or on my stomach, as long as I’m the one who’s fussed over. With the exception of moments when I have a point to make or when I’m almost dangerously excited, I like to be passive. It’s like being worshipped, and I like the feel of that.

It wasn’t hard to slide a little more in at a time, because if you combine the considerable experience I had before prison, and the years of it that came after, I’m very comfortable opening my body up to entry. I know how to make it simple and comfortable. The only disappointment is that rubber, or plastic, isn’t warm and alive, and there aren’t strong hands on my hips or shoulders. No lips to rain kisses onto my shoulders. I was really just pressing the thing in and moving it slowly to stimulate the lonesome and aching place inside of me that cries out for Harry. I haven’t used a toy in years, and frankly it’s so awkward, posing that way, one arm twisted to reach the base of the toy and manipulate it, that it’s hard to properly enjoy myself.

Still, it does the trick in a pinch. I needed it. The feeling of fullness, with no roughness or cruelty attached. The soft nudge against nerves inside of me that need contact desperately now that they’ve woken up. Having your ass battered by someone who hates you three to five times a week is NOT sensual or stimulating. Harry made the part of me that craves real sex, real contact between lovers, come back to life, made me want it to come alive, and now that it’s back…I’m almost as needy as I was at eighteen. This isn’t the same, and no toy ever could be, but it’s the best I can come up with for the moment.

It didn’t take much to finish when I finally wanted to. I didn’t really want it to be a brief and hasty thing, so a half hour of lazily letting myself writhe in nervous desire around a thick, hard toy does the job. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, and my prick was leaking pre-come onto my stomach, I relented and let my hand do the rest, making a sticky and spotted trail on my chest and stomach while my legs shook and I could feel myself clenching around the thing buried nicely inside of me. Remembering it all while I relax in the back of the car is easy enough, but it does bring back the point that, when I get home, Harry probably won’t be there to make the lingering feeling of emptiness go away.

Malnati’s is always busy. That’s just the way it is in one of the best pizza joints around. Ron has the place checked out and seats us near the exit, this time with his back to the wall as always. I’m in my boy clothes, which is fine, but I get a few looks because I can’t help that I ‘swish’ a little when I walk. I have never been ’butch’ or tough. It just isn’t who or what I am. I’ll fight to survive if I have to, but I know I haven’t got a chance in a brawl, because I’m too small to last more than a few seconds. Struggling makes it hurt more, and after a while, you learn to let go. For me, surviving is finding a man who is strong enough to protect me…and I think I’ve finally found that in Harry.

The lunch rush is underway, and in a place like this class doesn’t really matter. When the prices are low, everybody rubs elbows with everybody else, and money doesn’t mean much here. One down side. Cro-Magnon, ass-ignorant construction types. They’re already giving me the hairy eyeball. I should have dressed up and come as Dee. For me, being a boy is always taking a risk, but being Dee is always an asset. Small wonder I prefer it. Ron gives a tiny nod when he sees the worried look on my face. He knows they’re there, talking shit just a few feet from us.

“Faggots make me puke! How are we supposed to eat in a place fulla queers?”

My face is burning. This was a stupid idea. I belong in higher class places where this can’t happen. I have no business coming here, where assholes breed like flies on dead meat. It’s like asking for trouble. I just wanted a pizza. Ron sighs softly and stands up.

“Funny thing. Ya can’t eat pizza through a straw. If you like those teeth, shut your fuckin’ hole.”

People are already moving away. Women are grabbing their children and leaning over them. What kind of animals make a scene like this in public over a person that just isn’t like them? The biggest one moves forward, finger pointed at Ron.

“Nobody asked you, you fuckin’ fairy bastar-AAAH! SHIT! FUCK! FUUUUCK!”

I didn’t even see Ron’s hand move, but everyone here heard that finger snap. The big one is screaming and cursing, holding a hand with a finger that’s just been bent backwards until it snapped like a twig, but the others are moving forward. Ron opens his coat enough to show his pistol. That stops them cold.

“That’s right. You know what that is. Guess you’re not as dumb as the whores who shit you out. Is there anybody else with a fuckin’ comment? It’s all fun and games ‘til they scrape you off the pavement. Now fuck the hell off. Outta here, the buncha ya! Ya fuckin’ apes.”

Ron waits until the goons have cleared out, sullen and still talking trash under their breath. If there hadn’t been a gun, they still would have gotten their asses handed to them, but that type is too dumb to know it until it happens, then they look surprised when they wake up in a hospital. The world is chock full of losers just like them, and the only advantage they have in life is that they breed faster than real people. Ron gives me a nod that says it’s time to go, and we’re out and headed for the car. Same rule for any incident. Immediate departure, then rendezvous at the safe point and wait for a report.

He takes me to the depot. It really is close by. Just a dozen blocks away in what looks like an old mechanic’s shop. There’s an automatic car lift that moves us into a basement garage. There are other cars here, vans and trucks and cabs, police cars and city vehicles or ones that look like them, as well as repair equipment to match any garage in the city, a couple of motorcycles, two ATV’s and even a few bicycles. Must be for gridlock traffic days. No one gets places faster than a bicyclist downtown. I’m kind of honored to even be here. It feels like I’m trusted…sort of. I guess this was necessary. But Ron was so cool about it all. I’m glad he was there.

He’s out of the car and motions for me to follow. He jacks his phone into some kind of antenna system that will get a signal out of the basement, and makes a single call.

“Compromised at Malnati’s. No shots. One injury. Threat necessary. Vehicle may have been ID’d. Lot’s of eyeballs present. Vehicle change underway now. Clean departure, no hitchhikers. Clear…Understood. Ron out.”

“Just had to tell them what happened. We’ll be using a different vehicle until I repaint the other. Get your bags and put them in the black Lincoln Towncar. As soon as the office crowd checks the chatter on the police bands and makes a hasty search of law enforcement computers, we can roll out and get you back to the penthouse.”

“Ron…do you live here? You’re always so close by, and I thought…where would you live in here?”

“Upstairs. Nice place too. Maybe not Harry’s, but pretty sweet for a guy who drives a car. I’m on call twenty-four seven, so I have to be near Harry’s place and near my vehicles at all times.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Fun? Are you kidding me?! It’s a garage with cars! This is fun central! It’d be nice if I could have more than a single beer someday, but that’s a driver’s life for you. Other than that, I get cable TV, all the music I can jam to, and a bank account that will let me buy an island somewhere before I’m forty! I got the good life.”

“Don’t you get bored? Do you ever go over to Harry’s? You two are friends, right?”

“Well, yeah. I did. No offense, I just haven’t been over a lot ‘cause Harry is gone or all about you right now. I’m sure once you guys settle down a little, I’ll be over for a poker game some time.”

“I’m very glad you were with me today. I’m just sorry we didn’t get any pizza.”

“Don’t even sweat it. Comes with the job. Bodyguards guard bodies. Nobody is putting so much as a finger on you while I’m on duty! Besides, there are two dozen Malnati’s all over town. We’ll try it again sometime, alright? Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta switch out some license plates while you get your stuff into the Lincoln. As soon as I get the call, we’re outta here.”

“Okay.”

I pack away the bags from the art store and take a seat near a pile of magazines. Mostly car magazines. Some motorcycle ones here and there in the mix. Nice guy, Ron…just not a deep thinker. No wonder I love Harry. Same reason he’d want me, I guess. It makes sense all of a sudden. I can’t share Moliere or Mozart with everyone. Hardly anyone most of the time. It doesn’t make other people bad…that they don’t enjoy these things. That’s not the point. The point is that I like them. I miss them. And Harry understands them, and enjoys them, and that enjoyment is even greater when they’re shared. He probably likes his friends a lot, but they aren’t the same. When he gets home…if we have time, we’ll talk again at our leisure. Well…as soon as I exhaust his body and mine enough to merit wasting time speaking.

In the meantime, Ron is installing plates on the Lincoln, and I can hear his cell phone ring. That’s our call. I put aside the magazine and head for the car.

“Ron. Check. Car two is now in operation. Car one down for remodel. Check…Understood. Ron out.”

The snap of phone closing and he’s in the driver’s seat. Five minutes later I’m home. I love saying that. It’s still so new for me. This is my home. This is my life. This is not a bad state of affairs. I thank Ron before I go, and he just gives a terse grunt and a thumbs up sign.

“I mean that, Ron. I’m glad you were there. Thanks for taking care of me like this. I know it isn’t exactly what you want to be doing, but you’re as good at it as Harry said you were.” Ha…I made the big goof blush.

“Knock it off already! You’re a piece of alright yourself, Dee. Hey…mind if I ask you something?”

“Nah…go ahead…fire away.”

“I heard some of the stuff outta the files. How’d someone like you wind up in a place like that at eighteen? It just doesn’t figure. I know it was coke and all that, but how did you wind up doing something like that? Just doesn’t seem like you. You don’t hafta answer if you don’t want to. Just curious.”

What can you do? I smile and shake my head.

“I was in love…or something like it. He asked me to do something for him, and I did it. I know I shouldn’t have, and I know I paid for it in spades, but that’s why I did it. That‘s why I kept my mouth shut and took the time.”

“Damn. You took the hit and went down for seven years because of some guy? That’s a tough break, kiddo. If it happened all over again…and it was Harry on the line…whattaya think you’d do this time?”

As if I even need to think before I answer.

“Whatever he needs me to do. A lot more than I did for the last guy. You were right…Harry is different, and there‘s no one and nothing I want more than him.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, mulling over the answer that came without a second thought.

“I guess that’s good enough. You’re a piece of alright, Dee. See ya next time. Get in that elevator and be good to yourself, right?”

“If you say so, hero.”

I say it with a smirk and make my way in. He’s got layers to him, our Ronny-boy. If the notion of red hair and freckles didn’t make me gag, I’d say he was a prime catch in his own right. But I’m just a push button away from paradise, and my one and only man is Harry James Potter.

I’m famished, since I never did get that pizza, but Therese already has some concoction brewing that smells heavenly. I’m not sure what it is, but I can tell that leeks and chive are in the mix somewhere. Who cares? If she makes it, it will be good, and I’ll eat every bite. I kill time before lunch by setting up my new easel, laying out the tarp, setting up canvases and preparing a palette. I also unpack the smock I got for myself, so I don’t spoil otherwise nice clothing.

One corner of the room looks fit for a true musician, the other looks well prepared for a painter. Lunch is served, and Maria and Therese and I dine on a thick soup that is just out of this world. Therese baked some pumpernickel bread on the side, and it’s fresh and hot. I can smear as much butter as I want on it. The butter is French…sweet, salted, real cream butter. The kind where the salt content is from real salt, and it makes a tiny crust around the edge of the brick of butter. Just incredible…that such a simple thing as bread and butter can be so good. Wonderbread and Land O’ Lakes…eat your heart out! This…this is the staff of life. This and the soup make up handsomely for the pizza I didn’t get to enjoy earlier.

The rest of my day is booked up in what I call the ‘music room’. Even though it really is more than that, I can’t think of it as anything else. I play until my fingers ache, pushing myself to take back what I’ve lost. Schubert’s Moment Musical #3. It isn’t an overwhelmingly complex piece, but it is fun and makes practice more interesting. I won’t compromise. I want it all back, every iota of skill and talent that slid down the toilet while I wasted a life I almost ruined for good. When my fingertips pulse and throb I relent, and then it’s time to try some painting. Oil on canvas, smock in place over my least pricey outfit, trying to vent what I’ve felt for the last decade.

I used to be good at this in school, but like so many things, I’ve lost a bit of my edge from lack of practice. The brush strokes aren’t steady or sure, and to be frank, my sense of proportion is more than a little off. The perspective never seems quite right. I don’t care…it doesn’t matter…because this is about release…not perfectionism. I’m not Rembrandt, or DaVinci, or Chagall, and I never will be. But I can put who I am and what I’ve seen onto canvas, letting it out of my skull and transporting it onto cloth for the world to see. That’s good enough for me.

I should have picked up way more black, white, and gray. What else would a person who was in a shitty little cell for so long paint? I didn’t really notice it until I was working on a third canvas, but they’re all distorted scenes of the penitentiary. Hollow-eyed men shuffling mindlessly, staring upwards as if waiting for a miracle or a sign, hungry to see the sun again. Cold-eyed guards in uniforms that blur ever so slightly, watching the milling lines of men in gray.

This last one is really the best effort of the three, or at the least, I like the subject so much that I’m pleased either way. Harry. In front of that cell, his back turned and only a hint of his jaw and face visible. I couldn’t get the texture of his hair right…and admittedly he was wearing a shirt when it really happened, but I like this. The shading around his torso and head gave him an aura of power that is deserved. The muscles along his back are nearly right. Someone more talented or more practiced could do better than this, give the moment the justice it deserved, but this is the best I can do…and it isn’t bad. I might just hang this one somewhere in here once it dries and cures.

After a nice dinner and some conversation with Therese and Maria while we clean up the kitchen, I take my leisure in the library, in the huge, padded leather chair next to a small table and an exquisite little lamp. It’s just me and Samuel Taylor Coleridge for a few hours. Even through the opium, the man’s brilliance shines. Don’t think ill of him for being stoned most of his life. He had afflictions of several kinds that would have left him in crippling agony if it hadn’t been for the soothing power of the poppy. He produced his most scintillating works within a few years, captivated the attention of his peers even during his own time, and he produced very little that wasn’t memorable. The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner, Christabel, Kubla Khan…all three poems have endured as classics for almost two hundred years. The English, in the great scheme of things, may have been a big thorn in the rest of the world’s ass, but the bastards really knew how to write.

To drink the milk of Paradise, indeed. No Paradise or ‘milk’ to drink for me…at least until Harry comes back. Admittedly, I think clearer now that he’s gone. When I think about it carefully, I know he makes me irrational. Even before we spoke, just staring at him from across a crowded prison, he made me feel emotions so easily. Fear, anger, envy, desire…and it was happening before I realized it. Something primal in him makes me his, without a word spoken between us. The smart, calculating survivor in me stumbles and crashes, and the giddy queen snaps to attention and takes over. It’s a weakness, I know, but I guess I like being weak.

When he’s gone, my mind is back, even if it flutters with memories of him and crazy, lurking desires at every turn. I can think about where I am and what I want, and even here…now…lonely and horny and curled around a book and a glass of mimosa, I want him back. He wants me to define myself…and I think I want to let myself be defined by him. I could be anything I want, but I am a lazy fool because I want nothing more than to be his?

Sometimes I wish that I were less intelligent, less given to introspection and more a creature of blind passion, living on instinct and whim, never questioning my own reasons. It would be easier. Fewer hard questions. I think that’s why I really did those things when I was a teenager. Drugs and sex and loud music took the edge off my mind, set me free from worries, and erased those pesky questions from a mind that wasn’t ready to handle them. Just because a person is smart or gifted, it doesn’t mean that they can handle what they perceive. Emotions are the great leveler. Everyone has them, rich and poor, man and woman, black and red and white and yellow, gay and straight. We’re all confused, and frightened, and desperately uncertain of what to do next. The only edge anyone really has is how well they cover for it, and how cool they can look to the rest of the world while they wrestle with their fears in silence. I can do that pretty well, so I guess that makes me one of the lucky ones…but it still sucks.

I’ll sleep, and dream, and eat and paint and play and come alone for as long as it takes. Harry will be back, and he’ll make me not-think and just feel, and what he makes me feel is good. I can wait. For him. As long as I have to. Maybe I’ll stumble onto an answer or two while I’m waiting, and maybe…just maybe…I’ll work out what I want to be and what I want to do. But I know what I want to say. I whisper it into a pillow that holds a hint of his scent every night.

“I love you, Harry. Please come back to me…soon.”

TBC!!!