Hanging with Brad [Part 2]
Read Part 1 here


"Let me buy you a coffee," I say, after ordering myself an iced Americano.

"Oh, thanks, man," Brad says. "I only get $10 a day from the caretaker at my house, and he wasn't around this morning when I got up, so I haven't got any money."

Brad holds his head down in embarrassment and shrugs. "It's so depressing to be so broke, but that's where I'm at right now," he says.

"No problem, I'm happy to get you one," I say.

He orders a grande Americano with four shots of espresso.

I show him the web site I'm designing right now on my PowerBook G4, and tell him a little about my education and experience. My parents don't have Internet so I'm using the wireless at the cafe.

"Ho-lee, man, you're talented!" Brad says. "You've really got it together, don't ya?"

He says it in such a cute and exaggerated way, I laugh. I'm warming up to this guy more and more. I discover he doesn't really know how to use the internet very well, and isn't sure what to click, but he tries his hardest to come up with something intelligent to say about the home page I show him.

"Yeah, that's really awesome, I like the graphics and it looks easy to navigate."

I want to hug him. He's a big kid trying hard to be liked.

I soon notice that Brad is a major *chick-magnet.* Women from 14 to 40 years old do a double-take when they're within eye-sight of him, and go out of their way to get his attention. We're sitting outside looking down the street toward the crosswalk when Brad notices that there's a beautiful 40-something woman at the other end. She obviously puts a lot of time and care into her appearance – she's wearing a tight tank top and clam-digger pants showing off her toned and shapely body. He says casually, "That woman's giving me the eye."

"Where? Which one?" I ask.

"Over there, on the crosswalk."

Without thinking, I very obviously lean forward in my seat and scan the sidewalk, with a big smile on my face. "Where?" I ask Brad.

"The one with the short dark hair, she's crossing right now."

I finally notice her, and this woman knows she's being cruised by 'us.' She looks flushed from the attention, and walks confidently down the crosswalk, her shoulders back, breasts firm, and when she gets close enough, gives Brad a huge smile. I'm watching this, flabbergasted, that she's being so bold, and that there's all this sexual energy between her and this young man who looks maybe 21.

"Hi," she says in a low voice, flirting with Brad.

"Hi," he smiles back.

Just as she goes to open the coffee shop door, a couple walk out, causing her to swing it open for them, allowing her to brush against Brad, her breast within licking distance from his face. She lingers a few seconds longer than necessary, holding the door.

I'm shocked by her brazen display. Brad looks non-plussed, as if this happens to him all the time. Once she goes inside, I say to him, "I can't believe what I just saw. This 40 year old woman was very aggressively flirting with you."

Brad says, casually, "I know. I often get hit on by 'cougars.'* My last girlfriend was 39 years old. I like older women – they know what they want." He smiles wickedly.

Teenage girls suddenly stop talking as we pass by, only to giggle nervously and whisper to one another once Brad is out of their eye-line. The servers at the coffee shop become very attentive and start joking with him when he orders coffee. I get a sense of what it's like to hang out with a movie star.

"So, wadda you up to today, Doug?" Brad asks me.

"My name's [Intertextual], not Doug," I remind him.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry. You remind me so much of this gay lawyer I met, who's from Vancouver, named Doug," he explains. "I met him in a treatment centre. A really cool guy, very intelligent, sophisticated, about your age. We became really good friends, 'though he kept trying to grab my ass and get into my pants. He was always teasing me."

"What did he look like," I ask. "I know a few gay lawyers in Vancouver."

"He's about your height, with dark hair, good looking. You're way more attractive though, and you've got all your hair. You also look younger although you're around the same age," he says, flatteringly.

I tell him that I should do a couple hours of work, then we could meet up after lunch and go check out the art gallery and museum. Brad is excited.

"That would be so cool, man. I haven't done anything since I got here, except wander the streets listening to tunes. I haven't really connected with anyone, and I've been so lonely. It's so great to make friends with you," he says.

***

I'm finishing up my work on the upper level of the coffee shop when I see him, coming up the stairs. Brad's changed into shorts and an army camouflage t-shirt, made of long-underwear-type cotton. He has a huge smile on his face when he sees me, and I notice all the women in the room turn to stare at him. I can't help but smile unguardedly back.

"Hey buddy, how's it going?" he greets me.

***

We have an enjoyable afternoon, visiting the art gallery and museum. We sit on a bench overlooking the coulees and High Level Bridge.

"I haven't had such a good time in. . . months," Brad tells me.

He does most of the talking, reminiscing about his past, telling me stories about all the horrors and tragedies he's experienced, yet doing so in a humorous and engaging way. He's been charged for armed robbery [the can of peas he threw at the shopkeeper who came after him with a machetti was considered a 'weapon'], spent a year in medium-security prison, mainlined heroin and crack, attempted rehabilitation countless times, been in five highly dysfunctional relationships, contracted hepatitis A, had a psychiatric breakdown, lived on the streets in Nanaimo, BC and downtown Montreal. He's lived too much life for too young an age.

I'm torn between several mixed feelings. Brad definitely pulls at my heartstrings, making me want to take care of him like a younger brother. The enlightened "higher part" of me wants to protect and nurture him in the kindest way.

I'm also aware that I'm being played by him, perhaps unconsciously. He knows what buttons to push, how to entertain me and stroke my ego. He knows how to subtly flirt with me, by telling me how good looking and intelligent I am, by confiding personal stories with me, and also by constantly rearranging his dick while standing in front of my face. I also end up paying for everything: museum entrance fee, coffees, a late lunch.

Every once in a while my 'carnal self' goes off on a sexual tangent. . . what does his body look like naked? What would his cock look like erect – the one he keeps playing with? He keeps telling me how horny he is [he hasn't had sex in four months]. He shows me the callous on his palm he developed by breaking crack crystals into smaller pieces as a dealer, then turns over his hand, showing me his long, beautifully shaped fingers, holding them there for me to stare at, unnecessarily too long. He points out the scar on his thigh from an accident on his all-terrain vehicle. He shows me the tattoo on his forearm, letting my eyes linger, noticing how strong they look and how the blond hairs softly grow in a straight direction toward his wrists. He tantalizes me by repeatedly taking off his ball cap and running his hands through his scalp and wheat blond military cut.

Brad tells me that he put up some pictures in his room, arranging objects in a superstitious manner to protect himself from the other men in the house. "You should come see my room. . ." he says.

He must have seen the flicker in my eyes as I imagined being invited into his bedroom, alone with him, because he then adds, seductively, while looking me in the eye, ". . .and sit on my bed. [Long pause.] You know, to see if you can figure out the pattern in the way I arranged things."

I consider the internal conflict I have, between protecting him or seducing him. Between being used and using him. The false intimacy being created between us. In reality we're no more than strangers, sharing the intensity created by our addictions and attempts at sobriety. An attraction caused by the extreme differences in our age, education and experiences. We see one another as the exotic "other," both of us a mix of bad and good in differing but parallel combinations.

I know when I'm sober I won't take advantage of him. I stop myself from grabbing his butt, making suggestive comments, and repress my impulses to mentally undress him. That's why I have the occasional illicit fantasies about getting drunk with him, cracking some cocaine and taking off to a cabin somewhere alone with him. The alcohol and drugs allow me to act on these impulses that I keep controlled when clear minded. This may even be the main reason why I drink – a release from the darker and forbidden desires I keep locked up. I present myself to the world, sober, as a man grounded in high values and appropriate behaviour. Drunk, I have permission to be like "everyone else."

***

"Good night, buddy, thanks for the great day! I'll see you tomorrow," Brad says warmly.

I watch him walk home alone, to the half-way house where he lives with violent criminals just out from jail. A place where only two of the twenty residents are trying to stay sober – the rest are still using. A place where he tries to stay sober, without the support and care of his family and friends. He carries the burden of a wasted young life full of pain, self-loathing and wasted talents. And he has no clear vision for his future.

***

A couple days later I arrive at the morning AADAC meeting in my sister's car. I'm staying at her place while she and her family go camping. I'm hoping Brad will show up today and I'll invite him to drive around with me, and invite him back for lunch.

Maybe it's just a coincidence, but I've started taking a little more care in my appearance. I went out and bought a whole new summer wardrobe the day before, so I'm feeling. . . well, sexy. I see Brad at the opposite end of the table when I walk in, raise my hand in greeting, and he gives me a warm smile.

After the meeting Brad is bubbling over with energy and words, talking to everyone including me, trying to connect. When the crowd disperses I say, as casually as possible, "I've got a car today, is there any place you want to go?"

"You do?" Brad says, his eyes lit up. "Yeah, I have to go to the hospital to get some tests done today, are you heading that way?"

"Sure, I'll give you a ride."

His hyperactive mind continues to churn out a babbling stream of consciousness, and he jumps from topic to topic. Brad has a hilarious monologue he turns on occasionally, in which he talks and acts like an Italian mobster, but through the character of an Alcoholic Anonymous member. His script is a remarkably complex parody of AA, the organization, and a certain type of AA member who is gung-ho into the program and is constantly trying to make others conform to it.

"Mario, wadda ya mean you missed the 12 step meetin' last night? You want me to come afta ya, track ya down and drag ya there? You know who you're dealin' with here? I'll take ya down man, cut ya down to size if you don't show up to make the deal man. I'll get somma my men to come-a with me, and we gotta the machine guns, and we'll a kidnap you from your familee, tie you up and dump ya in the trunk and take you to the Old Timer's meetin'," Brad says, his hands and face gesturing in a comic imitation of Michael Carlioni. "I know AA preaches Live and Let Live, but I'm gonna murder ya if ya fuck up again."

I'm laughing hysterically. It's like watching a Saturday Night Live comedy sketch, in person. Brad gets so into the character he has difficulty switching back to his own personality.

He also does 'gangsta rapper' and 'blond chick' monologues.

To be continued...

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*I've noticed that in Southern Alberta a 'cougar' is thought of as any older woman (attractive or not) who likes having sex with younger guys. My understanding of the term from Vancouver is that a 'cougar' is a sexy older woman who likes taking care of a younger guy, like a man with a mistress, and using him for wild sex.