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  Eric smiled fondly. “No, but thanks. It’s been a long time since I had any grass. It makes me drowsy, hungry, and silly. Or is it sleepy, dopey, and happy? Whichever of the seven dwarfs it is, I’ll stick to booze. I certainly don’t mind if you smoke a little weed, though.”

  “How open-minded,” Melanie pouted. “You treat me just like a peer.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive!” Eric chided Melanie. “Let’s get one thing clear. I’m probably one of the most liberal men you’ll ever meet. I have no hangups about women in the workplace, in politics, in management, or any field formerly considered the male’s domain. I think everyone should have the same opportunities. People should be judged on performance, not appearance.” Realizing he’d gotten far too serious, Eric leapt up on a bench and hollered at the empty Mall, “If elected, I promise a chicken in every pot, and pot in every chicken!”

  Melanie laughed. “Eric, you’re such a dear! I admit you’re the only man who treats me like a professional at work. You invite me to meetings and discuss issues with me like I’ve got a brain and I appreciate that.”

  They walked in silence. Melanie had a hard time picturing Eric smoking dope or doing anything illegal. “Did your college friends make you smoke from a water pipe as part of a fraternity initiation?”

  Puzzled, Eric shook his head. “No, why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered how anyone managed to get you stoned, that’s all. You seem pretty conservative to me.”

  “There was a time when I dabbled in a lot of things I wouldn’t go near today,” Eric conceded. “The nice thing about booze is that it’s widely available in standard quantities at reasonable prices. It’s both legal and socially acceptable most places. Most of the things I like could be similarly described.”

  Melanie wondered if she would ever get close enough to Eric to learn any of his secrets. For that matter, she wondered if anyone ever got close to him. In his late twenties, Eric was attractive, well educated, gainfully employed, witty, and appeared to be headed for bigger things. Like everyone else they worked with, Melanie couldn’t help but wonder why Eric was still single.

  Eric was hunched over a stack of projections in his office when David found him at ten. “Morning, Eric. How’s the budget shaping up?”

  Startled, Eric’s head jerked up. David claimed all his shoes were uncomfortable, but everyone knew he prowled the eighth floor of the old bank in his socks so he could drop in on subordinates without warning. That particular quirk of David’s especially irritated Eric.

  “Too early to tell, David. This is only the second round, but I think we’re going to need at least three more rounds before we get a credible set of numbers.”

  “Keep me posted, Eric. I’m so confident in your ability I’m not going to get very involved in the budget this year. I really dropped by to see if you would give me that tennis lesson you promised on the elevator a few weeks ago.”

  Eric regretted his words the instant they were spoken on the elevator. He could hardly refuse a direct request from his boss, so he asked when David wanted to get together. Fully expecting David would tell him to make an appointment with his secretary, Eric would make the appointment as far in the future as possible, hoping it would be canceled. After two or three postponements, David would lose interest and Eric would be off the hook.

  “It’s a beautiful day to be outside. How about this afternoon, Eric?”

  “Fine with me,” Eric lied. “What time?”

  “I thought we could leave about three and take the rest of the day off.”

  Eric nodded. “I’ve got all my stuff in the car. I’ll change, then drop by your office.”

  “Great! I’m looking forward to this, Eric. See you later.”

  When David left, Eric turned to stare out his window. He was still so hungover from drinking three nights in a row his hands were trembling slightly. He’d feel almost normal by three, but certainly in no condition to play tennis. Eric knew he couldn’t cancel the appointment, so there was only one thing to do.

  An hour later, Eric carefully arranged his suit jacket, coffee mug, and papers so anyone who stopped by would assume he’d simply stepped out for a few minutes. He told his secretary he’d be in meetings with vendors a few blocks away. Instead, he slipped out of the building and drove home. After a two-hour nap, Eric shoved a handful of aspirins, vitamins, and caffeine pills into his mouth, then washed his special mixture down with a shot of brandy. When he returned to his office at two that afternoon, he looked and felt much better. Promptly at three, Eric stopped by David’s office and they left the building together.

  “I don’t know about you," Eric panted three hours later, "but that’s enough for me, David.”

  David glanced at his watch. “I was having such a great time, I didn’t realize it was already six. I know you’d probably like to get a couple more hours in, Eric. You’re just worried about an old man like me dropping dead on the court, aren’t you?”

  “Old man?” Eric cried with mock disdain.

  “Well, I’m certainly no kid anymore,” David sighed. “I’ll be forty in two months. I just passed the halfway mark on the mortality chart.”

  Eric realized it was his turn to say something, and it should be flattering. “You’re in great shape, David. I really don’t think you need any more lessons. Playing racquetball keeps you in top condition. You already know how to volley and serve.”

  “Yeah, but there’s more to tennis than that. I could tell you were taking it easy on your serves. And you weren’t slamming the ball back in my face when you easily could have. I need a lot better serve, backhand, and return if I’m going to play competitively. Eric, do you play in any tournaments?”

  “No, I haven’t played competitively since college. I just goof around on the court with friends these days.”

  “You look pretty good out there,” David complimented him. “Why don’t you sign up for a tournament or two?”

  “Guess I’m really not interested anymore,” Eric replied quietly.

  “I see. Oh, will you be at the company picnic this Saturday? Maybe we could get a few games in then. I know they have courts at the park we’re using.”

  “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make it,” Eric lied. “Some friends from Chicago will be here this weekend and we’ve already made other plans.”

  “That’s too bad, Eric. We’ll miss you. You’re always so much fun at social events.”

  Eric grinned despite his resentment. His co-workers had discovered if they primed him with a few stiff drinks, they could get Eric going for several hours. He made puns, resurrected old jokes with updated punchlines, and traded harmless insults with anyone who happened to be within fifty feet. Lately, he’d begun to feel being the life of the party was more responsibility than he wanted.

  “Are you up for a cold beer, Eric? There’s a great little tavern right around the corner and I’m buying.”

  “Lead the way,” Eric beamed. It was the first suggestion David had made in weeks that Eric actually liked.

  That Saturday, Eric slipped into his favorite gay bar. Spotting an attractive guy leaning against the wall, Eric stood next to him. “Hi sailor! New in town?” Meant as a clever come-on, Eric smiled seductively at his target.

  “Huh?” the young man replied.

  “English not your first language?” Eric cackled. Turning away momentarily, Eric signaled the bartender to bring him Manhattan number four.

  Slightly offended, but still intrigued, the young man ignored Eric’s insult. “Sure is crowded in here. I’m Brett,” he said, offering Eric his hand.

  “That’s more like it, Brett. I’m Eric.” They shook hands lightly, but a handshake was not the kind of touching either had in mind.

  Brett watched while Eric became a fumbling mass of activity, rummaging through his pockets for a piece of gum, cough drops, and cash for his drink. Eric paid the bartender, dropped his change, and then scooped it off the floor. Next, he unwrapped a piece of gum, drop
ped the gum on the floor, popped a cough drop into his mouth instead, fished out another piece of gum, then successfully loaded piece of gum number two into his mouth. After five minutes of fumbling around, Eric discovered Brett had disappeared. Drunks, no matter how witty or cute, did not appeal to Brett.

  Eric sat on a barstool brooding. Another hot man had gotten away. Rationalizing at warp speed, Eric convinced himself Brett wasn’t his type anyway. He looked much younger than Eric and probably just wanted money or free drinks. For those and a thousand other probable sins, Eric decided he was lucky Brett had abandoned him. Eric signaled his only true friend in the place and Manhattan number five was on its way.

  Sweet Manhattans. Pure booze. Brandy, vermouth, and a couple maraschino cherries were Eric’s ultimate elixir. If alcohol was served in heaven, Eric was certain everyone would be drinking brandy Manhattans. Around ten, Eric realized six Manhattans had given him quite a buzz. He switched to red wine, sipping a couple glasses until midnight, floating through the intervening hours by drifting from one group to another. When the clock struck midnight, Eric was perched on another stool watching the bar people with amused detachment.

  “Care for some company?” Eric heard someone behind him ask.

  Eric turned and smiled at the young, clean-shaven Scandinavian standing behind him.

  “Anyone sitting here?” the man asked, pointing to the stool next to Eric.

  “I’m sure it’s available for a short-term lease if you’re interested,” Eric grinned seductively.

  As he settled in, the young man introduced himself. “Name’s Butch. What’s yours?”

  “Tony,” Eric lied, suddenly assuming a fake identity.

  “Nice to meet you, Tony. From around here?”

  “Just moved here a few months ago from Boston.”

  “Never been there myself. You’re all dressed up, Tony. What’s the occasion?”

  “Work, the curse of the drinking classes,” Eric chuckled. “Got off late and came here for a few cocktails before going home.”

  “What kind of work do you do, Tony?”

  “I’m a consultant. Have my own business with clients all over the world, so I travel a lot.”

  “Sounds pretty exciting. Is there someone waiting when you come home all tired and lonely, Tony?”

  “I live alone,” Eric replied, yielding his first honest answer to Butch.

  “Want some company tonight, Tony?”

  “Sure. Why not, uhm. . .uh, Butch.”

  They finished their drinks. A fifteen-minute ride from the downtown gay bar district to Eric’s suburban apartment was all that separated their initial meeting and sexual intercourse. When they finished touching each other’s most intimate places, Butch dressed quickly and left without a word.

  Eric sat up in bed and lit a cigarette. He had spent four hours locating an acceptable sex partner. The transaction which finally took place lasted less than ten minutes and was not particularly memorable. Although Eric thought Butch was attractive, he was relieved he didn’t want to spend the night.

  As he drifted off to sleep, Eric wondered if he had missed anything at the company picnic. His life seemed to be so complex. Finding a lover who did not look or act gay was getting to be a full-time job. He needed just the right man. A self-sufficient, masculine man with a sense of humor, sexy body, and great looks who didn’t mind hiding in the closet while Eric rose to the top of Corporate America. Only serious applicants need apply! He wanted someone like Tommy. Eric momentarily resented Tommy for leaving him alone, but the resentment passed quickly. Finding Tommy’s replacement was proving more difficult than Eric anticipated. Meanwhile, Eric would have to make do with one-night stands and anonymous sex, no matter how empty he felt afterwards.

  Eric’s career picked up steam. Using econometric models he created, Eric persuaded the bank to dramatically restructure its investment portfolio ahead of a recession. The strategic shift Eric engineered added a billion dollars to the bank’s bottom line as the economy tanked. Senior executives throughout the country invited Eric to speak to their officers and directors, explaining the factors which helped him predict the recession so accurately. Eric’s bank moved quickly to protect its prodigy. At age twenty-nine, Eric was elected Vice President of Finance for the nation’s 15th largest bank, moved to a spacious office in the parent company’s headquarters, and awarded a generous pay increase.

  The promotion touched off a series of changes. Eric bought his first home and a new car on the same day. He also began drinking more heavily, and developed a sudden urge to gamble. Several months after his promotion, Eric visited his rented post office box and removed the envelope he knew would be waiting for him. Scanning the Swiss bank statement quickly, his eyes rested on a single dollar figure in the bottom right corner, next to the words: CURRENT BALANCE.

  “Christ!” Eric muttered softly. It was much worse than he expected. Only $47,000 left in the account. Where had it all gone? He knew he had been spending a lot of money, but he had lost track of the amount.

  As he drove home, Eric tried to mentally reconstruct his major financial transactions for the past year. He had invested $50,000 in land one of his fraternity brothers swore would triple in value only to discover it had been used as a chemical dump in the 1950s. The cleanup cost was more than the land was worth. Another $50,000 had gone to pay off half a dozen credit card balances. He had charged plane tickets, gifts, expensive dinners, silk suits, and many more extravagant items. There was a foolish $75,000 bet with some drunk during the Superbowl. And then there was the kid he had found wandering around downtown last Thanksgiving. He looked so scared and hungry that Eric had emptied his billfold, handing the kid a score of crisp new hundred-dollar bills. Eric could not recall how many times he had done the same thing when he was drunk, but he knew it was happening with alarming frequency.

  Stunned by the pace of his spending, Eric resolved to slow down. He was not terribly afraid of being broke. He knew one day his salary would catch up with his spending habits. In the meantime, his credit was excellent. What really bothered Eric was the possibility the truth might get back to his superiors. Wouldn’t they be shocked by all the poor investments the bank’s financial genius had made with his own money?

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Eric was hungover when his flight touched down at Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport. He declined cocktails during flight, preferring to wait for a more respectable hour. After all, Eric believed anyone who had more than two drinks before five p.m. had a problem. Eric could always make it until five on two drinks or less. Of course, there were special occasions like farewell luncheons, anniversaries, or promotion parties. The list of special occasions had grown so long there was one for each day of the month.

  As Eric’s taxi pulled up to the Peachtree Plaza in downtown Atlanta, he spotted a banner erected by the local police union welcoming visitors to one of the most dangerous cities in America. The banner detailed the number of violent crimes committed during the past year, but Eric’s eyes were too bloodshot to read the smaller print.

  “That true, what the banner says?” Eric asked the cab driver.

  “Yes, suh!” the driver exclaimed. “Don’t go wanderin’ round by yaself while you’re here. People gettin’ mugged and raped and shot all the time. This town’s goin’ ta hell!” The driver shared some of the recent horror stories of child murders, brutal hooker slayings, and young women being attacked in their hotel rooms.

  “I’m not a child, a hooker, or a young woman, so I guess I’m safe,” Eric snickered.

  The driver sized Eric up and down in his rearview mirror. “Your kind makes a pretty good target, too.”

  “My kind?” Eric echoed softly, wondering what the driver meant. Businessman? Tourist? Fag?

  Realizing his tip was in jeopardy, the driver recovered quickly. “You know, good lookin’ young fella, expensive suit, and gold on the wrist and ring finger. Good target for pimps and hustlers. You just be careful, suh, and
have a nice stay, hear?”

  Eric was flattered and tipped the driver well. He intended to slip away to the gay bar district later that night, no matter what the driver or the local police union said. He had never been to Atlanta, but he heard the gay bars were full of hot men.

  It was mid-afternoon when Eric checked into his room. He unpacked quickly, then took a two-hour nap. Refreshed, he showered and put on a fresh set of casual clothes, acceptable for cocktails in the lounge. Eric smiled as he rode the elevator to the ground floor, thinking about the bankers he’d soon be mingling with. Most could easily pass for used car salesmen. And why not? Bankers were salesmen who dealt in one of the most precious commodities in the world. They bought money from people who had too much, and sold it to those who had too little.

  Eric toured the cocktail circuit for three hours, liberally ordering drinks for himself and everyone within earshot. Extremely sociable after a few drinks, he traded gossip at each stop. The content meant very little to Eric, but he understood knowledge was power.

  At ten o’clock, Eric decided he could steal away unnoticed. He knew it was foolish to set foot in any gay bar earlier than that. From ten until midnight, the crowds swelled to a peak and then dwindled until closing time. Eric was scheduled to speak the following morning at eleven. He figured he had plenty of time to drink, meet some local talent, play a little poker, and then find someone to spend the night with. From past experience, Eric was confident he could manage all that and still get six hours of sleep before his late morning speech. His thought-provoking criticism of the finance industry and big government, laced with fascinating arrays of statistics and sly wit were always a big hit with the bankers.

  Eric hailed a cab, instructing the driver to take him to an intersection he had jotted on a slip of paper. When visiting a gay bar, Eric never gave a specific address. He knew dispatchers kept logs of each trip and he did not want to leave a paper trail of his excursions into the gay community.