Avery Considers Homicide

Alright, so maybe I exaggerated a little. I didn’t exactly punch Jack in the beezer when he said, “I wish you the best,” after I told him I’d be buying the condominium myself. In fact, I didn’t punch him at all. Yes, I wanted to go postal. I wanted to pretend he was an annoying Chihuahua and I a gun wielding mail carrier. I wanted to him to feel as powerless, hopeless, confused and scared as he’d made me feel. But I didn’t.

Chris Rock once said—and I’m paraphrasing here—that you’ve never truly been in love unless you’ve considered committing homicide. I guess no one could ever accuse me of loving Jack.

“When will you move out?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. There’s so much to do before then.”

“That’s an understatement,” I replied.

Jack was correct. Lots needed to be done before we said our final goodbyes. Our CD collection needed to be divided. He needed to disassemble and remove his office desk and the other tacky furniture left over from his dorm days. I’d always hated that furniture. On more than one occasion I’d threatened to burn it. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

“I just thought of something, Avery.”

He spoke slowly and quietly, as though he were choosing his words very carefully. I immediately tensed. The tone was that same he used when telling me that he no longer loved me. He spoke just as succinctly when he said that he’d be moving out of our home. He delivered his “yeah” just as softly when he confirmed that there was another man.

“Yes, Jack?” I held my breath and waited for the next in the list of bombshells I’d received in less than 48 hours.

“Well,” he slowly replied. I hated the way he was dragging out his words. The mix of anticipation and dread killed me. This was not going to be good.

“Get on with it,” I urged, unable to wait another second.

“Avery, I want to keep the cats.”

If Chris Rock’s words were true, I was more in love with Jack at that moment than I’d ever been.

Avery and Jack’s Domestic Bliss… Take Two

Jack and I had no clue as to how to begin our apartment search. He, the quintessential suburbanite, has no preference or concept as to which neighborhood would be appropriate for us. Although saddened at the prospect of losing my once perfect bachelor pad, I was eagerly looking forward to accomplishing a goal I’d set for myself as a little kid growing up in Oak Brook. I wanted to move downtown.

“But, Avery,” you’re all saying to yourself, “You lived in the West Loop. That’s downtown.”

You are correct. The West Loop is downtown, but the West Loop wasn’t the downtown I envisioned long ago. I wanted to be surrounded by the city’s tallest buildings. I wanted to step right outside my door and have no delay when hailing a taxi. I wanted to be walking distance to Michigan Avenue, Lake Michigan and all those other points of interest that we native Chicagoans make fun of tourists for loving.

“Sure. Whatever,” said Jack.

After all of my work with Dr. Drexel Carrington, I now have to wonder if Jack cared at all. As I said before, I believe his true motivation for “shaking up” with me was so he did not have to move in with his mother in Melrose Park or his dads in Irving Park. At the time, I gave this no thought. I was moving on up!

Through a friend’s referral, we connected with an amazingly friendly—and dreamy—real estate agent named Billy. Billy stood about six feet tall, had ocean blue eyes and spoke in a soothing baritone. His red hair sat messily on top of his head in a way that can only be achieved with the help of a $300 stylist and lots of product. Don’t cha just love a ginger?

“If it’s downtown you want,” Billy said, “then its downtown you’re going to get.”

With those words, we set out to find new diggs for Jack and me. We set out to find an apartment that met both of our needs. We set out to find a building that offered every amenity we desired—central air, a dishwasher and a doorman. We set out to build a home that would be overflowing with the most important amenity:

Love.

Avery Recites a Mantra… or Two

Jack and I stood face-to-face in front of the refrigerator. I froze. When I was young, my uncle in Milwaukee would take me and my cousins on camping trips. Before we ventured out into the wild, he would always remind us how to behave should we encounter a large predator.

“Remember,” Uncle Heinrich (the women—and 10% of the men—in my family are really into German guys. More about that later) would say. “Stand completely still. Sudden movements could lead to an unfortunate situation.”

Although we never had to put that lesson into practice, I’ve never forgotten it. Perhaps I was channeling it that morning. Perhaps if I stood completely still, Jack wouldn’t notice me. He’d graze right past me, through the kitchen and into the abyss (or suburbs) from whence he came.

No such luck.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said to me. I figured the safest thing to do was to answer his question with another question.

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“I spent last night at a friend’s, and  took the day off so we could continue our conversation. Figured you’d have cooled off by know.”

I stifled the string of expletives that languished on my tongue. Now was not the time to begin another fight. What was that saying that Whitley Gilbert on “A Different World”, used to repeat? “Relax, relate, release.”

“I’ve spoken with my father,” Jack continued. “I’m moving in with him and Stan.”

I haven’t told you this, but, by this point, Jack’s father Rodney and his domestic partner Stan has long moved from Irving Park to a quaint little bungalow in—are you ready for this—Berwyn. Jack was leaving me, the cats and our fabulous condominium with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Navy Pier to live with two middle-aged wannabe Village People in BERWYN? I needed a drink.

He continued his telling me his plans as I headed for the bar. He’d been thinking a lot about the fact that we’d signed a contract on the apartment (Good to know!). He’d decided that we should speak to our landlord. Maybe he’d let us out of the contract if we could find another buyer (Get real!). If not, Jack’s okay with buy the place and living as—you’ll need to sit down for this—roommates.

Relax, relate, release.

“I’ll take care of it, Jack.” Those five words had become my mantra. You might even say it was the slogan of our relationship. I’ve taken care of everything since the beginning, so there’s no reason I should stop now that were almost at the finish line. No one likes a quitter.

I reached for the telephone and began dialing the landlord. How would I possibly explain this predicament to him? 

Avery and the Junk Drawer

After dessert, Jack, Rodney, Stan and I retreated to the back porch for drinks. Over the next few hours, I learned a lot about their family, particularly the acrimonious breakup of Jack’s parents. Seemingly out of the blue, Rodney came home one day and told his wife that he was gay. With few other words, he packed his bags and left her for a flight attendant named Stanley.

I suddenly realized that the chilly reception I received from Jack’s mom had nothing to do with me. There was not a doubt in my mind that Jack’s announcement of, “Hi, mom, I’m gay and this is my boyfriend—See you later!” brought back many unhealed memories of her failed marriage. Poor woman. Poor, poorly dressed woman.

Having long aged out of his twinky-stewardess phase, Stan had moved on to a new career. He gushed when he learned that I was a nurse, because he too now worked in medicine.

“You’re a nurse?” he asked with a wild bewilderment usually reserved for those about 25 years younger than he.

“Yes,” I said proudly, “a pediatric nurse.” (Jasper swears that I think I was Julia in a former life)

“How exciting,” he squealed, “I’m a medical professional as well. I’m a phlebotomist.” His diction was so perfect you’d think he’d just announced his role as Surgeon General of the United States.

“What’s that?” Jack asked. Why are the cute ones never bright? After explaining that his job is to draw blood, Stan and I discovered that we both worked at the same hospital.

“Maybe I’ll see you on the battlefield, soldier,” he enthusiastically said to me. I doubt it. But it’s a nice sentiment all the same.

By the end of the evening, I’d had too many drinks to consider driving. Rodney invited Jack and I should spend the night. As Jack and I crawled into the living room sofa bed. Rodney and Stan stood in the doorway like too proud parents.

“Good night,” one of them said. “Lubeand condoms are in the kitchen junk draw. Just don’t make too much noise. The neighbors’ll complain.” Huh? And with that, Jack’s fathers turned out the foyer light and retreated to their bedroom.

“Do you like my parents?” Jack asked earnestly. I didn’t know what to think.

“I love them,” I fibbed

“Good,” Jack said, taking me in his arms. “Can’t wait for you to meet my sister. Maybe tomorrow?”

Jack quickly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. I, however, spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, asking myself over and over again, “What have I gotten myself into?”

Avery Would Like a Manwich, Please

Not to be a snob—shut up, Jasper—but I may have overshot when it came to my contribution to the evening’s pot luck. I’d purchased a smorgasbord of gourmet desserts from Whole Foods Market—tarts, cookies, and other delectable bite-sized delights. In an effort to give a more formal presentation, I plated the treats on a sterling silver service “borrowed” during a visit to my parents’ home in Oak Brook.

Rodney politely smiled and led Jack and me to the dining table. Stanley headed for the kitchen, sterling service in hand. He returned with two platters-full of the evening’s entrée: Sloppy Joes. That’s right. You heard me correctly. And in what I can only assume was an effort to ensure a well-balanced meal, French fries were served on the side. Not a vegetable in sight.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I hadn’t had a Manwich since I was about 10 years old. Even in that instance, it was only because my mother left me with a teenaged sitter who was more occupied with telephoning her boyfriend than my nutritional health. But who am I to judge.
Rodney politely smiled and led Jack and me to the dining table. Stanley headed for the kitchen, sterling service in hand. He returned with two platters-full of the evening’s entrée: Sloppy Joes. That’s right. You heard me correctly. And in what I can only assume was an effort to ensure a well-balanced meal, French fries were served on the side. Not a vegetable in sight.

“Dig in,” proclaimed Rodney.

I looked at my Sloppy Joe which was presented on Chinet atop an orange polyester table cloth. Oh well, I said to myself, When in Rome… or in this case, Milwaukee, circa 1972. I took a bite. OMG. Who knew that loose meat could taste so heavenly? A smile crept across my face. Jack smiled at me in turn.

As I continued to enjoy my Joe, I pondered the idea that these people could potentially become my in-laws. Sure the fashion was awful, the décor hideous and the artery-clogging gastronomical selection lethal, but—save for the awkward introduction between the mother and me—everyone seemed pretty nice. Furthermore Rodney and Stanley—who, it turns out is a retired flight attended (hold all jokes please, more about this tidbit of information later), were both extremely welcoming.

Just as I began to think I could really be at home there, the dinner conversation started. ¿Como se dice, WTF?

Avery Sees That Life is a Frolic and Laughter is Calling

The sun was still shining as I parallel parked in front of the brick three flat. The ride to Jack’s dad’s in Irving Park had been the longest I’d ever taken. Still shaken by my awkward introduction meeting of his mother, I didn’t have anything to say. Jack and I barely uttered two words to one another.

Avery and His Series of Desperate Acts

All thoughts of the New York trip and my subsequent conversation with Jack vanished as I prepared to face him for the first time since he told me our relationship was over. I placed the silver Promise Box back on side table and sheepishly entered the bedroom, where Jack laid watching a bad science fiction series. He glanced upon my entrance.

“Hey,” he said and then turned back to his program. Hey? Hey? That’s the best you can do? I’ve been unable to function all day after you drop a bomb over breakfast, and all you can say is, “Hey?” I took a deep breath and asked him to turn off the television. A serious talk was in order.