Chapter 23: Don’t Look Back
The next evening, I needed a strong drink out of the saltbox and decided to walk the one-point-four miles to the Redwood Bar, a queer bar for men over thirty who just happened to like the company of blue-collar workers. Of course, the occasional white-collar professional and go-go boy scampered into the bar, but didn’t stay long.
The place reeked of m*******a upon my arrival. Dark walls, a rubber floor, and two burly bartenders decorated the business. Mass, a blond-haired hunk with a hairy chest the size of a VW Bug, passed me three fingers of whiskey over ice. No lemon. No lime. No seltzer or ginger ale. Mass winked at me, quite the flirt, but always faithful to his husband of four years, a mechanic named Georgio.
To my surprise, while seated at the bar and
