Runnin’ Out of Fools

The fireman the Marquis referred to the other night was a bit of a painful story for me.

I met the fireman at the basement bar of a Thai restaurant about a year and a half ago. I sat at the only available stool, which was next to him and his firemen buddies. We hit it off instantly, arguing politics and besting one another at trivia.

Eventually our knees were occasionally touching. Then hands briefly on an arm or leg as a story was told. When I got up to go to the bathroom, I pushed myself up on the back of his barstool and slid my hand along his back.

Later in the evening, when the attraction was fairly obvious, he asked if he could come back to my place and play Cowboys and Indians.

‘Cowboys and Indians?’ I asked.

‘I figure,’ he said, smiling, ‘everyone wants you to play doctor.’

And how can you not fall for a line like that?


For the better part of four months I had someone who could argue with me, could tell me interesting things, make me laugh, someone who I wanted to hang out with. You know the drill and what I’m getting at. It was perfect, except for one thing.

When he broke up with me, he said he couldn’t be gay, or whatever. That he would not feel safe if the guys at work knew, not to mention his family. That was in the spring of 2004. I haven’t heard from him in over a year and at that time he was dating some woman named Becky.


After Stockholm leaves I see a message on my phone. When I see it’s from him, I feel nauseous.