Quicksand Pt. 01

The obscenely rich trusted me, which is ironic because I did not trust myself. I could not absolve myself from how easily I had betrayed the deepest, most loving relationship a man could ever hope for. My character had been revealed to be sniveling and weak when tempted. Give me your wealth and you are certainly safe. Give me your heart and I am one treacherous son of a bitch.

Before I could text my regrets, there was a knock at my door. Evan stood there with an ice bucket containing a bottle of chardonnay and two glasses.

"I was afraid your phone was off so I decided to invite myself over." He presented me with the ice bucket. "I come bearing gifts."

I could have been rude and made some ridiculously transparent excuse about being busy. I should have but didn't. I invited him in. We stopped in the kitchen long enough to pour the wine and then retired to the living room. I gestured him to the couch as I sat in the adjacent chair.

He teased while settling in, "I wish I could say that I love what you've done with the place, but what the hell, Dude? How long have you lived here? Two years? And you haven't even hung a painting in all that time?"

I chuckled mirthlessly and scanned the bare walls. "Apparently not. I never really notice such things. So, how are you faring?"

"So chill. I'm not going to apologize for how liberated I feel."

"You shouldn't."

"Thanks for saying that. Lucy Fur and I have been competing to see which of us can be lazier. I swear, I've become limper than an old cat. Slumped inert on the bed watching rom-coms and binging The Bachelor and The Voice. It's been delicious." Evan giggled at himself. "How about you?"

"Not too different. Morning runs, work and the golf channel."

"You're a runner, aren't you? I've seen you out there at dawn. Not jogging," he said, impressed, "but really running."

"Well, I used to have a running partner who was very competitive, and it's a habit that I have thankfully kept up. Running for time, I mean. And I like to run the cart paths, so I have to get out there before the golfers."

"They do like to tee off early, don't they?"

"Golfers are sick bastards."

Evan's winsome smile was like the soundtrack of 500 Days of Summer. It set an irresistible tone. "The same could be said of runners."

"I'm cursed to be both."

"Well, it certainly keeps you fit. You look gorgeous. If you were gay, we could go clubbing and I could feast off of your discards."

My face reddened and I laughed louder than I had in months. Or years. "Now that's a compliment I've never heard before. But I can't even imagine the club scene, gay or straight."

We enjoyed that chardonnay to the last drop and I enjoyed Evan's company. He continued to unload about his life but with humor that rescued even the most wrenching details from becoming maudlin. He gently probed for details about my life but respected my obvious guardrails.

Evan came from oil money in a town that was birthed by oil. If you have ever seen one of those old photos of a forest of wood-beamed oil derricks rising from a landscape of black mud, that was Oklahoma a century ago. Tulsa was aptly named the Oil Capital of the World back then. Evan was an offspring of that.

His last name was Wilcox, common enough, almost nondescript. When he said his mother's maiden name my ears perked up. His grandfather's name sent a shiver down my spine and his great-grandfather's name was like a crackhead's rush blistering my veins.

I'm a money manager. I ride herd on some of those fortunes. Wealth so vast that trust companies exist solely to wrangle those funds from one pasture to the next, always feeding off greener grass, always fattening. By name, I knew Evan's family well.

If you are from Tulsa, you likely know those names as well. They adorn college dormitories, and business schools, and hospital wings, and city parks. Oil fortunes so vast they often sloshed from the trough in showy benevolence to edify the world around them, all the while brandishing those names in honor of a father, or grandfather, or (let's be honest) themselves.

From a young age, Evan's family had suspected he was gay. Actually, the term they used was homo or queer. When alcohol was mixed with anger, his father sometimes simply called him a faggot. His most searing childhood memory was their adoration fading into embarrassment as his nature became more obvious. He recalled the change in their eyes and the manner in which they looked at him. He remembered how their smiles began to curl at the corner and over time transform into sneers. He remembered vividly and it pained him corrosively.

They were Catholic. A rectory bore their name. They invoked the Bible to correct him and, in the greatest irony of all, enlisted priests to instruct him. But being gay was his nature, as indelibly impressed as being left-handed or blue-eyed. You can't alter a latent trait or disguise it beneath tinted contact lenses. It will always be there. That's how nature works.

Evan's response was to rebel and assume a flamboyance that was as much a disguise as tinted contact lenses. It accomplished alienating even the far reaches of his family and provided the distance he thought he wanted. Later, when he abandoned the flamboyance, no one seemed to notice. Like a boomerang thrown too far, it could not return.

He told his story well but at times the narrative was too severe for a whimsical tone. Then, with welling eyes and frequent pauses, he confessed a darker tale. His restraint confirmed the trauma more than tears ever could. When he raised his pant leg and pulled down his sock to reveal the jagged scars of self-mutilating slashes, I was the one choking back sobs.

The death of his parents left him aloof of financial woes but still outcast and fundamentally adrift. His need for approval left him almost pathologically submissive. He found his pleasure in serving the sexual needs of men.

"Oh my god, I'm really exposing myself to you," He laughed candidly. "Only figuratively, I promise."

"Thanks for that." My laughter was appreciative but hid a shameful level of titillation. "Although our generation has a reputation for being shameless."

"But shame always finds a way back in, doesn't it?"

With a brave face I said, "Most def."

He looked at me with beguiling eyes and a guileless smile. "It's so easy to talk to you, Alan. I feel like I've found a real friend."

"I think so." I realized that misery did, in fact, love company, and Evan's company suited me. "We're like shipwrecked souls clinging together in a tempest of trauma."

We both laughed in unreserved self-pity.

"You're a poet."

"And I didn't know it."

"That calls for more wine," Evan said. "Sit still. I'll get the bottle."

"I think it's empty but I have some in the fridge. That is if you can handle the stuff with a screw top."

Evan returned with the bottle in hand. "Can I tell you the truth?"

"If you want to. Just don't get too salacious." I noticed my words were slightly slurred.

"There was a point when -- oh god, I can't believe I'm saying this -- that I felt like I only existed to have a man's cock up my ass. That was my purpose. The only thing I had to offer. It didn't matter what the guy said to me, or how he treated me, my value came in servicing another man's needs."

Suddenly, I was squirming. "Maybe we shouldn't go down this road, Evan."

"Just let me finish this thought. I promise I won't go full porno. It wasn't all bad. Not by a long shot. Most men are pretty great. And I made them feel special, that's all I'm saying. I really could make a guy feel like the king of the world. Let me tell you, Alan, and I'm not just bragging, but I'm a great piece of ass. And suck cock? I can suck the engine out of a Lexus through the tailpipe."

The last thing I needed right then was a beautiful man professing his sexual prowess. "Congratulations, Evan."

"Sorry. Sorry." He apologized unabashedly. "But I bet you can guess the downside of that. It's all cool until it isn't. That's all I'm saying. And it got very uncool very fast. I'm sorry. I promised I'd keep it light."

"It's all good, Evan. Really. I'm glad your nightmare is over. And I am glad that motherfucker is dead. He had it coming in so many different ways."

Evan's eyes were red and he deserved the sigh that he gave. So did I.

"Well, that's enough wine for me. Tomorrow's the funeral and then this dark period of my life will literally be dead and buried."

We both stood up, but Evan made no move toward the door. Instead, he pointed to the mantle.

"Was your wife's picture in there?"

I looked at the empty frame. "Yes."

"Was she your running partner, too?"

"Yes."

"And you cheated?"

My voice cracked, "Yes."

He surprised me with a hug. It was a deep consoling embrace and it quickly became mutual. With a whisper in my ear, he said.,"You're a beautiful man, Alan, inside and out. Grieving can only go on so long, my friend. Forgive yourself."

We made our way to the door and, with another tight embrace, we parted for the night.

I poured myself another glass of wine. I shouldn't have but I did. A full one. I sat back in my chair. For a long time, I considered the empty picture frame, then recited the words to no one: "And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting." I skipped ahead to Poe's ghastly punchline. "And my soul shall be lifted--Nevermore".

I should explain ...