The Mystery Texter Ch. 03 on HotGuySecret
The Mystery Texter – Chapter 3 (of 8)
When we all separated for college, Abbi had gone to Bradley University in Peoria. She was close enough that we saw her during most breaks and even once in a while for a long weekend. She majored in Library Sciences and took a job at a high school in Tampa after graduation. A year later, in 1995, Abbi wrote a letter to Laura and me. Back in ’95, we didn’t even have email accounts yet. The Internet was in its infancy and people still wrote letters. Inside the envelope was a typical letter updating us on her job and her life in Tampa. There was a smaller sealed envelope inside the bigger envelope with the words, “open me last” written on it. Laura and I read the secret inner letter together. It turned out to be a “coming out” letter. Not only did she come out, but she announced that she had a partner, Patricia, and had chosen a date for their commitment ceremony.
We were so happy for them. Of course we flew down to Tampa for the wedding. Long before it could be legally recognized as such, we called it a wedding because that’s what it was. Laura, seven months pregnant with Todd at the time, stood up as Abbi’s Best Person. Patricia was twenty years older, but you’d have to be told to know it. What was obvious was their love.
Three years ago, Patricia died suddenly from a brain aneurysm, much too young in her sixties. Their time together was cut short.
When Patricia died, Laura and I called or texted her every day for months. We were there for the service, but also, three weeks later, we went down again, after everyone else had returned to their normal lives, and we spent another week with her. A year later, after Laura’s accident-crash-death-murder, Abbi reciprocated with me.
Not long after Patricia died, Abbi sold her house in Tampa and moved back to Chicago for a much needed change of scenery. She works as an administrator at CPS (Chicago Public Schools). We’re kindred spirits, Abbi and I. We understand each other. We empathize with each other.
Empathy sucks.
These days, Abbi is like my second sister. As we pull apart from our hug, the buzzer sounds again. I ask her to let Charlie in while I tend to things in the kitchen.
Charlie lives in Dayton, both seventy minutes and miles away. The three of us try to get together monthly, but usually, we go longer. Charlie, divorced for five years now, has two kids in high school. Theresa, his ex-wife, and their kids live in Dayton so that’s where Charlie keeps his apartment. He has the kids every other weekend and, being in high school, they have all kinds of sports and activities. Charlie never misses any of it. He is often the reason why the three of us have trouble lining up our calendars and scheduling time together. But Abbi and I understand. The kids come first.
Unlike with Jose and Angela, Charlie and Theresa are on good terms. They have a healthy co-parenting relationship. And money isn’t a factor; they both have six-figure incomes. I guess it’s easier to have a healthy divorce when nobody is arguing over assets and finances.
We never really knew why Charlie and Theresa split up. Whenever asked, Charlie shrugs and says matter-of-factly, “Why do people ever split up? It just didn’t work out.”
He seems pretty happy though. He has a full, busy, maybe even hectic life juggling the complexities of work, visitation and his kids’ extracurricular activities.
Charlie went to Penn State and majored in Marketing. We only saw him during summers and at Christmas. The four of us maintained our friendship regardless. I gave Laura most of the credit for keeping our group tight over the decades; she was the glue keeping us all connected.
Charlie always imagined himself in an artistic role; the mastermind behind the cleverest commercials on television. Entertaining people with creative advertising. That’s not how it worked out. It’s nothing like what you see watching Mad Men. He’s in management and he hires other people to do the creative work he wishes he was doing himself. I don’t think he hates what he does and I know he’s successful, it’s just not his dream.
I greet Charlie and offer the television in case either of them cares about the Superbowl.
The TV remains off.
Like with Jose and Shelby last night, it’s been too long. The good news is that Abbi and I are both in a place where stories about Patricia and Laura make us smile and laugh more than hurt and cry. We never thought that at this stage of our lives any one of us would be single but, for different reasons, all three of us are.
While we eat, we work our way through all of the obligatory family updates and small talk. Abbi is first to comment on my vibe. Can I fool anyone? I attempt to wave it off, but they both press me. I figured we’d end up having this conversation tonight anyway, so why fight it? I retrieve “the letter” from its dark hiding place and I let them both read it while I clear the dishes from the table and load the dishwasher. I emerge from the kitchen just as they’re finishing.
Abbi goes first, “What the hell is this? Why didn’t you tell us? When did you get it?”
“It just came Friday. It’s only been two days and I’m telling you now.”
I offer them my last two beers but they both decline. We move into the living room leaving the recliners empty and sitting close together on the loveseat with Charlie and Abbi flanking me on either side. It reminds me of how they protected me at school all those years ago when I finally returned. Abbi takes my left hand and Charlie puts his left arm around my shoulders.
I tell them, “I’m not the only one who got a letter.”
They look at each other and it hits them simultaneously. “William,” they say in unison.
“Yep. He texted me Friday night.”
Charlie is surprised, “I didn’t know you were in contact with him. Are you two…friends?”
“No.” It comes out too defensive. “Not at all. I’ve hardly seen him for thirty years. Back when his sister died, my dad, Laura and I went to the service and William guilted me into exchanging phone numbers. We’ve never called each other but he sends me a text every now and then. I rarely respond, but this time I had to. I just met with him a few hours ago.”
They both drop their jaws.
“It was the first real time I’ve spent with him since, you know… That night. I didn’t want to. I had no choice. He said he had ‘information’ that I’d need to know before talking to Warren Lewis’s lawyers. I felt like I had to hear him out.”
Charlie asks, “So was he bluffing or did he really know something?”
I never told Laura, Charlie and Abbi about the “cocaine incident” in my car or really anything about what William and I did that night. The brutal finality of how that night ended made everything else that happened seem meaningless. Insignificant.
I take a deep breath and I tell them the story of my meeting with William. I start by going back to 1989 and working my way forward. I tell them almost everything.
“How is he even still alive?” asks Abbi.
“He says he’s been clean for a long time now. I have no way of knowing if that’s true, but he didn’t seem high today. Either way, he’s not winning at life.” I describe his cadaverous appearance.
Charlie warns me, “You need to be careful. Don’t feel sorry for him and let your guard down. You’ve always had a weak spot for him.”
“He was my friend. It was never like with you guys, but I knew him my whole life. It wasn’t a weak spot. He was a victim that night too.”
I don’t know why I’m defending him. At some point the whole “victim” thing has run its course. It’s time to move on, right?
“I’m just saying, his life should have turned out differently and it’s not completely his fault that it didn’t.”
Charlie sighs, “Okay. My point is, you come first. Protect yourself. Keep your priorities in order.”
Leya’s been telling me the same thing. The truth is, I’ve been doing that for over three decades now.
Friday, November 10 th, 1989
I ask William, “Do you wanna try something new?”
William eyes me suspiciously, “I don’t know, do I?”
I grin at him. Without a word we get in my car and I drive us from Kappy’s to the high school. This late at night the parking lot is empty. It’s just a wide-open slab of smooth pavement. I come to a stop, yank up on the parking brake and turn and face him.
“You’re about to learn how to drive stick shift.”
His eyes widen. “Wait…what?”
“Well, you were asking all those questions earlier, I figured you were curious.”
His expression is of stunned bafflement. “Righteous!” Then, “What if I break your car?”
I crack up. “You’ll be fine. Now, before we trade places, watch me. Especially, watch my feet. I’m gonna show you.”
I explain the gears and the clutch. I demonstrate starting from a stop and shifting a few times. I tell him, “Starting up is the hardest thing to learn. It takes a minute to get used to the release point on the clutch. You wanna go for it?”
He’s hesitant to get behind the wheel. By nature he’s careful and cautious. I sometimes push him outside of his comfort zone. For his own good, of course.
A smile plays at his lips and he finally nods.
We trade spots and since he’s the exact same height as me, the seat doesn’t need adjustment. I say, “First, step down on the clutch, now lower the parking brake and put the stick into first gear. Okay, good. Slowly ease up the clutch and as you feel the car pull forward, gently give it some gas.”
On his first attempt he kills the engine. He looks at me sheepishly, “Sorry.”
I say, “It’s okay. It happens to the best of us.”
He scoffs, “And you’re ‘the best of us’?”
“Duh.”
“Not even.”
“Even.”
We both laugh.
“Try again.”
On his second attempt, he doesn’t kill it, but the tires screech and we jerk around, almost getting whiplash. We are moving though and I tell him to shift into second gear. I watch his feet clumsily work the pedals and in second gear, things smooth out. I glance at his face and he looks like a kid who is finally tall enough to ride the big rollercoaster for the first time. I realize that my smile is as big as his. We keep going and it’s not long before he’s handling stick like a pro.
Present Day
It’s not fair of me to compare my evening with Charlie and Abbi to the night before with Jose and Shelby. I didn’t show Jose and Shelby that damn letter. That evil thing is a mood killer. A party pooper. As soon as I took it out of its drawer it sucked the life out of the room. An instant downer.
I hate that letter.
Is it all the letter’s fault? Since Abbi’s move back to Illinois, the three of us have gotten together only a handful of times. But that’s the problem. It’s “the three of us” when we all know it’s supposed to be “the four of us”. That’s how it always was. That’s how it’s supposed to be. When we get together, there’s a void. We can see it. We can feel it. We try to talk about other things – our families, our jobs – we end up coming back to reminiscing about the old days. It’s not all bad. I’ve learned from Susan over the years that being able to tell those old stories and relive those memories is actually an important part of the healing process. If we felt we couldn’t talk about Laura, well, that would be way worse.
But then the ghost appears and we remember that our foursome has tragically devolved into a trio.
When I’m with Charlie and Abbi, I feel like the past is so much bigger than either the present or the future. I know that’s not fair of me. Even though Jose and Shelby both knew Laura for more than a decade, it’s not the same thing. There’s not the same history. Still. With Jose and Shelby I think more about what’s ahead than what’s behind. I see Shelby every day at school. And while I don’t work with Jose anymore, as long as Kyle and Sammy are together, Jose and I will always be connected.
I love Charlie and Abbi dearly. I’ll never not want them in my life. It’s just strange how things shift in unexpected ways. As we grow and change, we move away from some and toward others. Some relationships take hard work to maintain while others self-sustain easily and naturally.
And then there’s Matthew and Leya. Neither of them ever met Laura. They know of her. They know what I’ve been through, but being with them is so easy because they don’t share in any of the painful history. When they look at me, they don’t see a broken, sorrowful, depressed shell of a man. They see Brock Sanderson. A guy looking to move on, straight ahead into the next phase of his life.
But maybe that’s not the whole me.
It occurs to me that my life is full of trios. Obviously, this is nothing more than a meaningless triviality, but I’d never realized it before. Each of my relationships and connections involves a trio. Charlie, Abbi and I are a trio. Jose, Shelby and I are a trio. Matthew, Leya and I are a trio. Todd, Kyle and I are a trio. Dad, Janet and I are a trio. I get that it’s not exactly true. There are others on the periphery; Lydia, Ritchie, Jessica and Sammy to name a few. But still. The trio thing is a weird coincidence.
I also realize that I’m not in a trio with William, but I prefer to believe that I’m not in an anything with him. I hope that when this whole Warren Lewis mess is over, William will recede, once again, into the shadows. Fade into the past, where he’s been safely tucked away for over thirty years.
Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 7 th at 10:12pm:
How was your meeting with your old friend from the past?
Text message from Brock Sanderson to Unknown Contact. February 7 th at 10:15pm:
Productive and painful. I’m afraid I’m closer to the beginning than to the end of all of this. I wish I could close my eyes and sleep it all away. Hell, I just wish I could sleep at all. I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t come. I hate irony. Maybe I stepped on a bug when I was a kid and this is some kind of karmic payback.
How was your weekend?
Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 7 th at 10:21pm:
Not as action-filled as yours. I did attend a family reunion. I feel like such a failure around my relatives. My personal accomplishments pale in comparison to those of my cousins. They’re all movie stars, you know. WALL-E, The Terminator, RoboCop… Because I’m a robot.
I added a song to my music library though. Based on your recommendation.
I’m guessing you aren’t looking for advice on how to fall asleep. I won’t tell you to count sheep or drink a glass of warm milk. You’ve probably tried sound apps like Calm. Maybe you shouldn’t fight it. Hey, look at the bright side. You have the gift of time. Start a new book. Binge a series you missed the first time around. Write a song. Sleep will come when your body needs it.
Text message from Brock Sanderson to Unknown Contact. February 7 th at 10:27pm:
You had me going for a second there. I wish I was a robot too. Robots don’t need sleep, do they?
You’re right, though. I’ve always wanted to watch The Wire. Maybe I’ll give that a try.
“The gift of time”? Wow. So lame. I’m embarrassed for you.
Text message from Unknown Contact to Brock Sanderson. February 7 th at 10:30pm:
LOL. Fair enough.
Two Truths and a Lie:
- I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket
- My porn star name is Butch Vista
- I once had a pet hamster named Harry Caray
~~
I’m still on the couch with eyes that won’t open and a body that is frozen still. But I can feel. In fact, I feel extra sensitive. Extra aware. Of everything. I can even feel my Mystery Admirer’s eyes on me.
Finally, my Admirer speaks. Unfortunately, steps have been taken to ensure I will not recognize the voice. The words come out through a voice modulator. It sounds like I’m talking to Stephen Hawking.
“My name is Butch Vista.”
No it’s not. That’s just a game. A lie. Or maybe it’s true, but it’s still not a real name. I hear fingers snap and suddenly my jeans are gone. My sweatshirt is still on. My Air Jordans are still on. My Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs are still on. My pants are gone.
Two hands begin to play with my left knee. Why does touching my knee feel so good? The fingers of one of the hands wiggles and dances down my shin while the other glides up my thigh. My bare leg is a keyboard and my Admirer is a piano virtuoso. The left hand plays lower notes and works further down my shin while the right plays higher and nears the top of my thigh, reaching my underwear.
“I am an experienced porn star. I am about to make you one too.”
My body is still frozen in place, except for the one thing that freely moves with a mind of its own, and presently, its mind is racing. My erection is at full-mast. And as such, the tenting effect on my underwear has created a clear entry path for my Admirer’s exploring right hand to enter under the fabric. The hand continues a northbound journey and I am quickly running out of thigh. My formation rages harder. Knuckles and fingertips graze at my scrotum and I need to scream, but I can’t. My body needs to bounce off the couch, but it won’t. Precum soaks the apex of my Fruit of the Loom as that devilish right hand reaches for my steel rod–
And I wake up. Over the last two years, I was beginning to think that my male organ had stopped working. At the very least, it had been in a long hibernation. Not anymore. The season has changed and sleepy time is over. I feel like a teenager again.
~~
As I get ready for work I find that I’m thinking about Butch Vista. I’m trying to recall how the “porn star name” thing works. If I remember correctly, it’s a combination of the name of the street you grew up on and your first pet’s name. I grab my phone off the nightstand and open the Google Machine, hoping to bring clarity to the situation.
Clarity not achieved.
Not only is it unclear what order the names go in, but apparently you can substitute either one with your middle name.
Butch Vista. Is this a real clue? Butch. Does this mean my Unknown Contact is a guy? Not necessarily. Butch could be a street name or a pet’s name. I mean, who’s middle name is Butch?
And who’s to say that “Butch Vista” isn’t the lie? Maybe my Mystery Admirer is a hamster-loving cautious driver. But who hasn’t ever had a speeding ticket? It seems impossible. There’s essentially no public transportation in the suburbs making owning a car a necessity. The occasional speeding ticket goes with the territory.
And every kid owned a hamster growing up, right? Hamsters are the definitive recyclable pet. I had many. Die, replace, die, replace. Harry Caray is the clue there. So, I guess my Unknown Contact is a Cubs fan. Unless this is the lie. Plus, Harry Caray broadcasted for the White Sox too before crossing over to the north side.
Oh my god. I have to stop. I’m taking this too seriously. The Two Truths and a Lie thing is supposed to be just for fun. I’m overthinking it. Maybe it’s all meaningless bullshit. What I know for sure is that my Unknown Contact continues to succeed in distracting me from my problems.
~~
During school my phone is off and in my messenger bag. How can I enforce the “no phones during class” rule if I violate it myself? At lunch I power it up and discover a few unread texts. The one from Dad tells me that dinner with Janet and Todd is set for tomorrow night – his house at 7:00. He goes on to explain that it’s no trouble. He’s ordering food in, not cooking. He thought the nature of the conversation would be better suited for a private venue rather than a crowded, noisy restaurant.