Chris Wells

DICK’S

It was late summer. I had been on a date — dinner at an Italian restaurant in the East Village. The date was fine; he was nice but no sparks.

         I took my leave of the restaurant and strolled up Second Avenue. The evening was pleasant and I felt free. Next thing I knew I was standing in front of Dick’s Bar, the one with the pig painted on the side of the building. The bar’s closed now, the pig’s gone, too. This was 2006.

         I don’t spend much time in bars anymore. There is a suspension of disbelief required to enjoy the inside of a bar, otherwise you’re going to think it’s lame. Kind of like The Theater. But I thought, What the hell. And so, I entered Dick’s.

         The joint was quiet — it was a weeknight after all — with only six or seven people inside. It was dark, with the smell of booze on top of booze, alternating with layers of smoke; and was that a hint of desperation I smelled?

         I walked up to the bar, ordered my seltzer with lime. Opposite the bar was one of those narrow, elbow-level shelves, which I leaned against and looked around.

         An old man sat at the bar near the door, staring into his glass. Two hustler types played pool in the back, beyond the jukebox. Bananarama was playing. A “Cruel Summer” indeed! It’s funny when the music from your youth returns decades later to haunt you. And then, there at the far end of the bar, two large brown eyes were staring at me.

He made his way down the bar, walking languorously, as if bored but hoping things might improve over by me.

         “May I get you something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said.

And he stepped over to the bar.

         He was close to sixty and reminded me of James Baldwin: world-weary eyes daring to look for something new, doubting they will ever find it. He wore mustard rayon slacks, cut full and cuffed. His shirt was a silky sort of African-inspired print of cream, ochre, brown; oversized. A shell choker wound around his neck and several large rings adorned his hands. I cannot remember his name; let’s call him Maurice.

         “How are you this evening?” Maurice said, coming back with a fresh cocktail.

“Fine thanks. You?”

“Oh, it’s been quite a week. School just started back.”

“You’re a teacher?” I asked.

“Adjunct at NYU; start of year is always challenging.”

         We talked about teaching, the decline of the American educational system. I wasn’t attracted to him, but I was intrigued. I sensed he wasn’t talking about what he really cared about, but had a feeling we’d get to that soon enough.

         Then he said, “Do you smoke?”

“No.”

“You’ll excuse me?” And he stepped outside.

         A few minutes later, Maurice walked back in and, with his slow manner and a sidelong glance, passed me by. He took up his seat at the end of the bar, and I thought, People are so curious.

         When I was a boy, my dad would say, “There are two kinds of people in the world, Chris: those who wear motorcycle helmets, and those who don’t; those who take their Christmas lights down on New Year’s Day, and those who don’t.”

         These simple constructs appealed to me, and I would try to come up with my own “there are two kinds of people in the world”; I once said to my best friend Carol, “There are those who ride the bus to school, and those whose moms drop them off in front of the school.” After a minute, Carol said, “But what about the kids who walk to school?”

Right.

“Or the kids who get rides with their older brothers or sisters?”

Okay.

“And then there are the kids who take the handicap bus . . .”

“All right, all right, Carol; knock it off.”

But she was right — my pronouncements never snapped in quite the same way as my dad’s, never led to any tidy conclusion about humanity.

At the bar I looked up. Maurice was watching me. I raised my glass, and he moved toward me again.

“So, you’re a big guy, aren’t you?” he said, holding his drink. It looked dark and sweet, Brandy Alexander maybe.

“Yes,” I said to Maurice, with a smile, “I suppose I am a big guy.”

“What sign are you?”

“Leo, Virgo rising, Scorpio moon.”

I come from a line of casual metaphysicians and grew up knowing these sorts of things.

“Oooh . . . Scorpio moon,” he said, like he’d encountered a flavor he loved, “you must be very sensual.”

I chuckled. “Um, yeah, I guess I’m a rather sensual person.”

And then the thing I suspected we would eventually get to came out. Maurice said, “I bet you have a really big sneeze.”

“Well,” I said, “as a matter of fact, I do. I have a really big sneeze.”

And it’s true, I have a ridiculously large sneeze. It’s explosive, even a bit violent. Often people think I’m joking when I sneeze. Old women look askance, babies weep, animals tense. I try not to sneeze in public; I pretend it’s to be polite, but really, I have some sneeze shame.

Maurice said, “Big sensual man with a really big sneeze,” savoring the idea.

We were leaning against the shelf. He pulled toward me, and asked, “Have you ever tried snuff?” For a second I thought he meant snuff films, you know, where people are actually killed on camera. Did Maurice want to kill me? Then I wondered, And just what are the limits to my curiosity?

Then I realized he meant tobacco.

“Oh! You mean inhaling tobacco? Like Charles Dickens?”

“Yes.”

I was impressed. I have tried many things, sometimes I think I have tried most things, but never snuff. “No, I’ve never tried snuff.”

“We could go to my apartment, get comfortable, and you can try some snuff.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t really want to make a late night of it.”

“It’s perfectly harmless — we’ll hang out, you can try some snuff, then show me that big sneeze of yours.”

I must admit I was flattered by the objectification, even if it was for something I had never thought of as sexy before. But I said, “Thank you, but I’m not interested.”

And with that he stepped outside to smoke another cigarette.

A short while later Maurice walked back in and again passed me with an arch of his brow. We repeated our pattern: I looked around the bar. And when I glanced over at him, he was looking right at me. I raised my glass of seltzer, and a minute later, he appeared at my side, and said, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try some snuff? There’s nothing scary about it.”

I imagined leaving the bar together, walking out into the street, making our way to his apartment. Then I imagined his apartment: overgrown houseplants in macramé hangers, a poster of Josephine Baker, the heavy smell of incense. Nothing bad about any of that, but I wasn’t looking for complications.

“Thanks, Maurice, but I’m not interested.” And he stepped outside for still another cigarette.

This would be my moment to leave. Right? I was thinking that; I was thinking I would set down my seltzer and leave and that would be that: Goodbye to the old man at the end of the bar, the bartender, the hustlers playing pool, the jukebox playing — the God-help-me Bangles now — and goodbye to Maurice. I turned toward the door, but Maurice walked back in and directly over to me.

“I’d really like to hear you sneeze. Please, do some snuff. Please.”

And I don’t know if it was as simple as third time being the charm or if I’m just pliable enough for people to have their way with me if they just stick with it, but I thought, What is life for but for living?

“All right, I’ll do some snuff with you.” Maurice’s sad eyes sparkled.

“But,” I held up a finger, “we’re going to do it here.”

He said, “But —”

“That’s my offer. I will do the snuff, but I will only do it right here.”

Maurice took one full beat to consider my terms then became instantly focused, pulling a small plastic film canister from his pocket, with a smile on his face. He popped the top, tilted the canister to the side, dug his long pinky nail in, and shoveled out a small pile of tobacco.

“Lean in,” he said. I thought about the other guys in the bar, wondered if anyone was paying attention to us, thinking, Oh, Maurice got another big guy to snort snuff with him.

And big, gay sensualist that I am, I leaned in.

“Inhale it quickly,” Maurice instructed, “a short sharp inhale. Do this a few times, same nostril.”

He put his pinky to my nose. I inhaled. The mentholated tobacco hit the back of my sinus with full force. I thought about the first time I snorted cocaine with JoAnn Barrett whom I met through Salvation and Light ecumenical youth choir. I thought about snorting crystal with Dwayne Calizo in his crazy loft in Highland Park, doing poppers with my friend Andy on the dance floor at the Backdoor in my hometown. The way we put strange substances in our bodies with the people we know.

And sometimes we put strange substances in our bodies with strangers. Or we do things to their body, they do something to ours and the by-product of these situations is that we’re hanging with people we’ve never met before. The shared act isn’t the strange part. It’s the hanging out afterward or in between acts, the silent pauses, that reveal everything.

As soon as we finished the Taking of the Snuff, things changed. I tried to chat, but Maurice just stared lustfully at my nose. After a few minutes, I said, “Shouldn’t I have sneezed by now?” He shushed me, as if speaking of it might sully this sacred act.

We stood there awkwardly. I looked around the bar; he stared at me, like my face was a stripper. My nose itched, but whenever I tried to rub it, Maurice would grab my hand, saying, “No, don’t touch.”

Finally, minutes had passed, and again I said, “Shouldn’t I have sneezed by now?”

Maurice must have realized that, yes, it should have happened by then. He ordered, “Follow me.”

I sighed heavily. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Complications.

“Just follow me,” he snipped. I groaned but followed him to the bathroom at the back of Dick’s Bar.

The walls were Chinese red, a bare bulb hung from the ceiling. There was one rickety stall, one urinal. We stood in the tiny room, and he said, “Look at the light.” I did. I have since learned that sneezing is related to the optic nerve, which is why he asked me to stare at the light. At the time, however, I felt something metaphysical was about to occur. Maybe it was, maybe the fascinations we pursue in life lead us to something greater than ourselves.

Hearing a rustling noise, I started to turn my head as Maurice snapped at me, “Look at the light!”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something approaching my nose. It was the back end of a wooden matchstick. It moved closer until I flinched.

“Look at the light.”

Slowly he inserted the back end of the wooden matchstick into my nostril.

I let out a childlike moan. And with that, Maurice began to gently tickle the inside of my nose.

How do we end up in such places? Sure, we can look back at the moments where we made the decision to stay instead of leaving, to turn off the interstate instead of heading home. But really, that’s too easy, isn’t it? To make sense of life in retrospect. It might be nice to know ourselves completely, why we do the things we do, make the choices we make. But, I will say, mixed in with embarrassment at my predicament, was a dose of wonder at how far I’d come from Lancaster, California.

“Look at the light,” he kept saying, chanting really.

And it began. The low moaning that accompanies my large and violent sneezes, “Uhhhhhh . . .”

“Look at the light.”

“Uhhhhhh . . .”

He kept tickling my nose.

“Look at the light.”

“Uhhhhhh . . .”

“Yeah, baby,” Maurice’s voice was low and close, “look at the light.”

Oceans rumbled, skies opened, the earth split, and rocks fell. It was a glorious and, yes, sensual explosion. Three huge, violent sneezes.

Wow. I stood stunned in the tiny red bathroom. I swear the bulb was swinging. I did not look at Maurice but could feel him watching me coolly. I reached for the toilet paper, and he said plainly, “No, leave it.” And I did.

He walked out of the bathroom. I stepped over to the mirror. I thought I might look different — I don’t know, exploded, maybe?

It suddenly occurred to me that I would have to walk out of the bathroom. Surely everyone heard my explosions in the bathroom, must have known what they suspected all along, that I would sneeze for him.

No one looked at me when I walked out. As I passed Maurice, he gave me a small wave of the hand, “’Night, now.” And I made my way back home.

About a week later, I found myself in the East Village again, strolling up Second Avenue. You might think that I went looking for something. I don’t recall that; I just remember being on my way home, then suddenly standing in front of a bar, looking at the pig painted on the side of the building. The next thing I knew I was inside the bar. A man sat staring into his drink; the bartender polished glasses; hustlers played pool at the back; the jukebox played Cher singing “Do you believe in life after love . . . after love . . . after love?”

And there, at the far end of the bar, sat Maurice, looking right at me. I ordered a seltzer, leaned against my shelf, and waited for him to make his way over.

“How’s your week?” I asked.

“Oh, fine . . . busy, but fine.”

“And how’s school?”

He looked at me sideways.

After a beat I repeated, “School?”

And he responded, “Do I know you?”

You could say this is a story of regret. However, I’d like to suggest it’s about gratitude, for, after a moment of looking at Maurice, to confirm that he really didn’t know me, I’m glad to tell you that I set down my drink and walked out.

Chris Wells is an Obie Award winning performer, writer, and community leader. He founded The Secret City, a secular church of art based in the Hudson Valley. Chris leads writing workshops at Omega Institute, Southern Vermont Writers’ Conference, and more. He lives with his husband, the painter Robert Lucy.