I was playing a gig in a seedy little bar on the
south side of town. It was the same as
a hundred other juke joints I’d been in - dark and smoky with watered-down
booze and broken-down people. There was
only one reason I came to such establishments and that was to play my
music. I felt uninhibited in places
like this. No one cared what I played
or how I played it. No one cared who I was or why I was here. I was just another in a long line of
starving musicians that paraded through on a weekly basis. And I always made it a point not to look at
their faces. To me they were just nameless huddled shapes drowning their
sorrows in liquid psychotherapy.
That’s how I always saw things and I could justify
my detachment until that night and that man.
I finished playing a set and sidled up to the bar for a drink when I
noticed him out of the corner of my eye.
He didn’t belong here, that much was evident. He had a beautiful profile, finely chiseled features, dark curly
hair, and clear blue eyes that were staring sightlessly into the mirror behind
the bar. He had a look of casual
elegance about him, in spite of his rather worn blue jeans and the two-day
growth of beard on his face. The hands
wrapped around his beer glass were strong, yet sensitive. I heard him sigh deeply as he straightened
his shoulders and tried to ease some of the tension out of his posture. Even in that one simple motion, I could see
the grace and ease with which he moved.
Intrigued, I scooted a little closer to him under
the pretence of reaching for a napkin.
I made sure that my long blonde hair brushed his wrist as I wiped at an
imaginary spot on the bar top. He
ignored me completely and I was perplexed.
Usually guys were all over me with their pick-up lines and phony
smiles. Most guys begged for my
attention, but this man was somewhere far away. I decided to try a more direct approach.
“Excuse me,” I began in my best sexy voice. “Would
you mind passing me those pretzels?” I
received no response so I tried it again, this time resting my hand lightly on
his arm. “Excuse me, mister, would you
mind passing me those pretzels?”
Ever so slowly he turned to face me, his eyes
gradually regaining their focus. He
looked at me questioningly and cocked an eyebrow. So, I repeated my question for the third time. “I said, would you
mind passing me those pretzels?”
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he reached over and handed me
the bowl. “I guess my mind must have been elsewhere.”
“That’s ok.
I’m sorry I intruded on your thoughts.
Oh, and thanks for the pretzels.”
I made a show at eating a few of the snacks, after all I didn’t want him
to know I was coming on to him. He
didn’t seem to care one way or the other.
“So, you come here often?” I tried again to engage him in conversation.
He heaved a great sigh and looked at me, eyes boring
into mine. After a few seconds I had to
look away. There was something in those
eyes that unsettled me, but I couldn’t say what it was. I can usually read people, as much time as
I’ve spent in bars I’ve had lots of practice.
But there was something inscrutable about this man. It was like his eyes were one-way mirrors
and I could feel them probing my soul, but they revealed nothing about him.
I picked nervously at the pretzel in my hand and
studied him covertly. My first impression had been right - he was
beautiful. I know that’s a strange word
to use to describe a man, but it suited him.
Not beautiful in the Vogue or GQ kind of way, but beautiful in a
down-to-earth absolutely genuine kind of way.
His eyes were the most amazing shade of blue and provided a unique
contrast with his dark hair. I could
see the smile lines etched around his mouth and wondered what it would take to
see the smile that had made them.
Something told me I wouldn’t see it tonight.
Finally, he broke the silence. “It’s obvious that
you really didn’t want the pretzels, so why don’t you just tell me what’s on
your mind and cut to the chase? I have
neither the time nor the energy to play games with you.”
Mentally, I cringed at the thought that I was so
transparent to him. How did he
know? But I plastered on my best smile
and my most successful come-hither look and somehow got up the courage to look
him in the eye again. “If that’s a pick-up line, mister, it needs work!”
“It’s no pick-up line. I’m not here lookin’ to score a hot date.”
I saw my opportunity and pounced on it. “So, why are
you here?”
He stared at me again for a moment or two and seemed
to struggle with himself before he answered. “My captain kicked me out of the
hospital, so I came here for a few minutes.
It’s close by and I can be back there in a heartbeat if I need to.” His voice was flat, emotionless as if it were
a great effort for him to share even that much of himself with me.
“You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t
understand. Your captain kicked you out
of the hospital?”
“I’m a cop. My captain told me if I didn’t leave the
hospital for even a little while he would have me locked up and sedated. So I came here for a few minutes to appease
him.”
“So, what’s the attraction at the hospital?”
“My partner’s there.” He said it simply, as if that explained everything. He hung his head and stared into the depths
of the beer he had barely touched.
There was a palpable cloak of sadness wrapped around him and I wanted to
reach out and take him in my arms to make the pain go away. But that was one more thing I knew wouldn’t
happen tonight.
“Your partner?”
I asked. “What do you mean,
partner?”
“My partner, you know, police partner. We work together.”
“Oh. He get
shot?”
“No, I think I could deal with that. At least then I’d be able to visit him, talk
to him, be by his side. Now all I can
do is watch him through a glass wall as he struggles for every breath. A cop like Hutch deserves better than
that. He should go out in a blaze of
glory, not behind some glass barricade like a damn specimen in a zoo...” He
stopped suddenly as the glass he had been holding shattered in his grip, though
his face and voice showed no evidence of the emotional turmoil that had lent
strength to his hand.
I quickly retrieved a towel from behind the bar and
dabbed at the blood seeping from several cuts on his palm. Somebody shoved a first aid box in my hands,
and I began to tend to his wounds as the bartender cleaned up the spilled beer
and broken glass. He didn’t seem to be
paying any attention to me at all, so I was startled when he reached over and
captured a strand of my hair between his fingers. I looked up into his face and saw that he was watching me
intently.
“You remind me of him,” he began quietly as for one
brief moment his eyes focused and he actually saw me. “That blonde hair and those blue eyes. And the way you’re lookin’ after me...that’s the way he is,
always lookin’ after me. I got to see
him one time, just one lousy time since this whole thing started, and he made
me leave. Oh yeah, he made it seem like
I was doin’ him a favor by leavin’, gave me this long speech about hoppin’ in
holes and hittin’ the streets. But I
know what he was really doin’. He
didn’t want me in there ‘cause he didn’t want me to get sick - I could see the
terror in his eyes. So I left, and now
they won’t let me back in until they’re sure the serum works.”
His eyes took on that glazed, unfocused look again as
he continued to speak. “If Hutch were
here right now, he’d be doctorin’ my hand, tellin’ me I needed to get it
checked out and hollerin’ at me for being so clumsy. He has a way with people, especially with me. No matter how crummy I feel or how moody I
get, he always knows just what to say or do to bring me out of it. And it’s not just me, either. Everyone seems to feel better when he’s
around. And I can’t begin to tell you how many times he’s saved my butt, kinda
like a grounded guardian angel, I guess.
He’d laugh at that, though, be the first to tell you he’s no angel. I just hope he’s not gonna become one
anytime soon...”
By this time, his hand had stopped bleeding and I
finished bandaging it the best I could.
I really had no idea what he was talking about, but I was fascinated by
the play of emotions across his face.
Anger and desperation seemed to be predominant, but then, every time he
talked about his partner, a different look came into his eyes. It took me a while to pinpoint it, but I finally
realized I was looking at love. Not the
mushy, romantic Hollywood idea of love, but a pure, unselfish love that seemed
to well up from inside him. And as jaded as I like to think I am, and as tough
as I pretend to be, I couldn’t ignore the lump in my throat or the tears that
threatened to spill down my cheeks.
“Hey, mister,” I began in a voice that was quivering
with emotion, “I think you ought to go to the hospital and get this hand
checked out. After all, I’d hate for
you to get an infection or lockjaw or gangrene or something. And you know how slow they are in emergency
rooms. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were there all night long.”
He looked at me again, a trace of a smile creeping
across his face. He didn’t say another
word as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and turned to
leave. He reached down, cupped my face
in his hand and kissed me gently on the cheek. Then, with one last deep sigh,
he was gone.