Pokey's Place

By Wilson Devereau

The weather was lousy, the day at the office had been prickly, and by 5:30 P.M. when I finally got out of the boss's office, I had, in very clear terms, had it. All I could say was TGIF!

Having walked to work in the wet chill of late November, I had little choice about walking the twelve or so blocks home, unless I phoned for a cab. However, being in no mood to go home, all I could think of was a drink somewhere. So I put on my overcoat and left.

Outside it was dark and double-dreary. I started walking, thinking about the Chinese restaurant I would pass. Maybe I should stop for dinner? I didn't.

I had walked about seven blocks when I noticed I was passing the neighborhood bar I'd seen many times but had never entered. It looked like the kind that has the same soaks night after night until death do them part. Without missing a beat, I turned at the door and went in.

I was almost disappointed when I stepped inside. Had there ever been any local soaks, they were dead or gone to Florida. I counted three customers and a bartender.

The room was what I expected, however, even if the emptiness wasn't. About fifteen feet wide and maybe thirty-five feet deep to the back wall with its rest room signs. The bar ran parallel to the wall on your right as you entered with an enclosing el at each end. One of the customers sat farthest back at a table, his back to the wall so he faced front. There were four empty tables at the entrance end. The place had a depressing air of desolation.

A man was sitting at the el nearest the door and another was sitting about half way down the long side. Near him the bartender was wiping a glass, but he stopped to stare at me, as did the others, when I came in. I felt unwelcome.

As I walked past the first man I said "good evening". He didn't answer. I repeated myself when alongside the second man. He nodded. I said the same to the bartender who answered with "hi!" I proceeded to the last stool down the long side. As I sat I nodded to the man at the table and said "good evening".

To my surprise he answered. "Good evening. Weather getting worse?"

I smiled. "I don't know. I just left my office a few minutes ago and it's drizzly and cold. Raw. The kind of night you'd want to curl up with a good book in front of a nice fire." I heard the bartender walking down to me and looked in his direction. I was pleased to note that he walked with the swinging kind of gait that only an above-the-knee amputee can produce in what's becoming an old-fashioned artificial exo-skeletal limb. A very handsome gait it is and I love to see it. When he got up to me and stopped, I heard it clack.

"What'll you have?" he said in a soft voice that didn't match his heft. He must have been about six feet and close to two hundred pounds. Not bad looking actually. Having been intrigued by his being an amp, I got facetious.

"The usual," I said.

He gave me a knowing look and then, leaning over with his face very close to mine, said so softly I could hardly hear him, "I get a five-minute break at six-thirty. From your reaction to my phony leg, I assume we can take it from there?"

Cripes! Was I in a gay bar? Totally unexpected! And the bartender was an amp who knew at once that I'm an amp lover because he caught me staring at his prosthesis. That is the one thing I have never discussed with anyone: my being interested in amps. As for the bartender, I didn't think this was the time to emerge from my warm, comfy closet, although I was sorely tempted.

"I'll have a draft," I said, pointedly ignoring his proposition. He shrugged almost invisibly and walked with his swinging lope back down the bar.

"Where do you work, or is it any of my business?" said a voice from behind me.

I turned to look at the man at the table. He sounded different from the bartender. I think `educated' would apply here. And he looked different, too, rugged features, probably about forty. "I work for an engineering firm."

"Standard Bridge?" he asked.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"You said you walked here and they're just down the street. I used to be with Conn Construction."

"Really?" I was thinking fast. He said `used to be.' Had they gone out of business and I didn't know it? "Where do you work now?"

"Oh, I'm not working at the present. Just looking around."

The bartender arrived with my draft and a tab. He put them down and I pulled out some cash and put it on the bar. He took what he needed and swung his false leg back down the bar.

"Why don't you bring your drink over here?" said the man at the table.

"Don't mind if I do." I picked up my beer and moved to his table.

I had hardly sat down when he said in a low voice, "Did he proposition you?"

The question made me uncomfortable. "Yeah. At least I think that's what he meant. He was joking of course."

"On the contrary. He meant it. A good-looking guy comes in and that's the first thing he does."

I started to thank this man for the compliment, but thought better of it. Instead I said, "How does he get away with it? Hasn't anyone ever clobbered him?" Of course I thought about the fact that you don't pick a fight with a guy his size. And then I remembered the false leg and that picking a fight with a guy with a mobility problem--well, curtains!

"I don't know," my new friend said. "And he can't get fired. He owns the place!" He looked at me. "Why didn't you clobber him? Maybe you like gays?"

He had asked me to join him and now he was accusing me of being gay. Suddenly we're talking about things I didn't want to think about. "I have nothing against gays!"

"I get it. You like gays as long as they stay in their closet."

I looked at him with care. Here's an engineer who lost his job with one of the biggest construction companies in the nation and all he wants to talk about is gays. Here's a damned good-looking man I would like to get acquainted with, and he's pushing me into a corner. Maybe coming in here wasn't such a good idea. Maybe I better get the hell out. Only trouble. he was very attractive and I'm a push-over for male men.

We sat for some time in silence and sipped our beers. The subject of gays was a real conversation stopper.

Finally he said, "My name's Dave Cosgrove," and he put out his hand.

"Mine's Gordon Albright," I said shaking his hand.

Then he started talking about being an electrical engineer and what his job had been in the company. What a relief to be on safe ground! I told him about my job which was basically architecture. We went on like that exploring each other's professional lives for a good thirty minutes and a couple more beers. He was turning out to be one hell of a nice guy and I was beginning to like him. To help matters, it appeared that he liked me as well. I kept thinking that maybe I'd found a long term friend. But I was still nagged because I didn't know why he left the company. Had he been fired? And why had he been so defensive about gays? Was it because he was gay? Or was this wishful thinking?

Then he abruptly changed the subject. "How old are you?"

"I'm thirty-four. And you?"

"Are you married? I'm forty-two," he said.

"No, I'm not. You?"

"No. Never went out for it." He made it sound like college football. "Never...went...out...for it," he repeated very slowly looking at me. Then he added, "I'm gay."

I looked at him for a few seconds before answering. "I'm glad to hear it," I said softly and seriously.

He looked stunned. "You're--"

"That's right. Glad to hear it, because I like you and I want to get to know you better."

He looked at me in silence, and while he looked a great change came over his face, a look of hopelessness. Then he said in a tight voice that didn't sound like him, "I like you, too, but. . . get out of here!"

"What?" I was stunned. "Don't tell me to get out of here--"

His face was contorted and he looked as if he were going to cry. He whispered, "Please leave me alone, please go."

And that's where his control failed him. He buried his face in his hands and put his head down on the table. Talk about feeling helpless! I didn't know what to do. This didn't make any sense.

"Dave!" I whispered close to his ear. "Dave, please!" I wanted to touch him but I didn't dare. At that point I looked toward the wall behind him and discovered he wasn't sitting in a regular chair and because the light was so bad, I couldn't figure out what it was.

I put my hand on his shoulder and got a thrill when I felt the muscles there, but I said nothing. He was sobbing in silence, stifling any sound that might give him away. Again I looked at the back of whatever he was sitting on and with a flash I realized he was probably sitting in a wheelchair that had no arms and only a very low back.

An engineer who had an accident and is no longer working: I racked my brain trying to remember reading or hearing about an accident at Conn, but I couldn't remember anything like that. Meanwhile I just sat there with my hand gently massaging his shoulder. He hadn't tried to shake me off and that was encouraging.

As the minutes ticked by, he became calmer. I heard the bartender walking our way and turned to him and shook my head. He shrugged and went back to his side of the fence.

Finally looking up Dave motioned for me to lean in close to him. I did so. "Gordon," he whispered, "I would like to go to bed with you and tell you how much I like you, but. . ." and he stopped there, his body trembling as if he were going to cry again, but once more gaining control, he whispered, ". . .but you won't want to go to bed with me."

"Are you sick?" I whispered.

"No," he said and even grinned a little, "I don't have AIDS. Just put on your coat and go. You don't want anything to do with me. I'm not your type. I'm not anybody's type."

I was getting stubborn. I liked the guy and I was not about to give in to a wheelchair. "If it has to do with the wheelchair--"

"How did you know I was in a wheelchair?" he was startled. "Look! Just get the hell out of here and leave me alone."

"Dave! I don't give a damn. Dave, I like you. How you get from here to there is beside the point. You're a human being I've become fond of during the last thirty minutes. And I want to make love to you and hold you and--well--make love to you." Tears were beginning to come down from my eyes, too.

"You won't accept me. You'll think I'm a freak."

"Dave, listen to me, listen carefully. Before I knew you were in a chair I thought you were a terrific guy. You're still a terrific guy because not being able to walk doesn't change anything. You're you. I'm me. And we're going to my place and eat something and discuss this--" I lowered my voice even more--"in bed."

"You like me even if I can't walk?"

"I'd like you even if you didn't have a head on your shoulders! You wouldn't look as good, but I'd still like you."

"I hope you mean that because I don't have any legs."

I looked at him and smiled. "And here I was thinking you were a paraplegic who couldn't get an erection! Even though many of them can, you know."

Dave almost laughed. There were still tears in his eyes, but I felt we were home safe. And what was my reaction to Dave's news? `Where's he been all my life!'

"Let's git!" I said.

"If you don't mind, let's go to my place. I've got lots of food on hand and it's not too far from here. You said you're walking?"

"Yeah."

Dave picked up his coat from a chair and put it on. I got up and pulled the table out so he was free to roll, and put on my coat.

"Goodnight, Dave," the bartender said.

"Goodnight, Pokey," the wheeler said. I said goodnight to the bartender and caught up with Dave at the door and opened it for him.

"You really know how to treat a guy nice!" he said when we got out on the street. "Hey it's nippy out here!" He started rolling fast and got ahead of me so I had to dogtrot to catch up. We hurried on in silence. Two blocks later we turned to our right and ended up at an apartment house exactly three blocks from where I lived.

In the foyer he said, "I live on the third floor, but the elevator is only big enough for my chair. You go up first!"

"No, I'll walk. I need the exercise!"

"I'll see you there!" He rolled in and closed the door. I walked up.

He was waiting for me at his open door. I walked in past him, closed the door and followed him as he headed for the kitchen. His apartment was very neat and very warm.

"You want a beer or something with a little more substance?" Dave asked.

"Depends on you," I answered.

"I'm a scotch drinker, myself," he said with gusto.

"Fine with me," I said.

As he fixed the drinks, he recited a dinner menu to choose from, all of which could be warmed up in the microwave. I chose roast beef and a bunch of other tasty-sounding dishes.

"Where do you get all this food? You must spend hours every day cooking."

"Not hours, but I do a lot. I like it. I've always been a cook. A good one."

We chatted like old friends while he prepared two hot plates of dinner for us. We ate in the kitchen, sometimes in silence, each of us looking at the other with a kind of admiration. At one point when I had finished eating, I sat there looking at his rugged face with its lines carved by wind and sun, by care and despair, by loneliness. My arms ached to hold him. He broke the silence.

"I hate to break this spell of reverie we seem to have created, but I just want you to know that I really like your looks. You're the most handsome blonde I've ever met. You're also the easiest person to talk to I've ever met. I feel as if I've known you for several thousand years."

"Maybe you have, Dave. Maybe we've known each other since Atlantis. Maybe we've been lovers since the beginning of time. Let's stop this nonsense and go to bed. Let's put ourselves on trial!"

Dave smiled and pulling out from the table headed for the bedroom. I followed in his wake.

He was hardly through the door when he coasted to a stop and started undressing. Without a word I took over and finished unveiling that handsome body of his. Then I pulled down the bed covers, and watched him vault over from his chair. He was beauty and grace.

I started undressing in a hurry, staring at him the entire time. He had magnificent shoulders and a magnificent chest, and his arms looked like a pro weight lifter's, thick and ripply. His stomach muscles were tight and his stumps were twin cylinders of flesh, so short that it would be extremely difficult for him to wear prostheses. Completely naked and ready for love, I just stood there staring while he just sat there on the bed staring, equally as ready.

Climbing on the bed I sat in front of him, scooting in tight so that our crotches were close. The backs of my thighs felt the pressure of his stumps and their touch was so intensely sexual, I probably could have had an orgasm at that moment. Instead, I embraced him and kissed him long and hard. During the kiss I disentangled myself from holding him between my thighs, and we stretched out on the bed, still kissing passionately. We made love in every way known to men and gods, including my discovery that when I kissed those soft muscular stumps, we both became almost overwhelmingly aroused. Just thinking about it turns me on. And on.

I don't know what time it was when we climbed into bed, but at 1:10 A.M. we finally turned out the light. It was like every story you ever heard about the honeymoon.

Dave woke me at 8 A.M. with a cup of coffee. He had got up about 7:30. He was naked in his chair and his twin stumps added the flawless perfection af a Greek god. I had about three sips of coffee while I looked at his gorgeous body and then, from the way things were progressing in my crotch, I was happily aware that the honeymoon was not over. Thank goodness it was Saturday. Putting the coffee cup on the night table, I said, "Get over here you beautiful hunk!"

Dave grinned broadly. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"So that's why you woke me in the middle of the night!" I said without rancor. He rolled up and vaulted into bed and we went after it again.

We spent all that day in each other's arms. And we've now spent several years in each other's arms. When we first met, Dave had been a double amp for only eleven months, and had been through the kind of hell that only rejection by his "best friends" can create--in addition to the overwhelming change in life patterns that such an amputation can effect. But Dave pulled himself together and now works for Standard Bridge full time. Everyone knows, of course, that we live together, but it's doubtful if they know how much we enjoy it.

Frankly, I can't imagine life without him.

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