CHICAGO

"Zach, I'm running a little late," I said.

It was 4:45. "S'okay. I'll tell them, if anyone shows up."

"Cool. See ya in a few."

It was raining in Chicago, and I was riding the brown line for the first time. The elevated train flew above the streets, snaking its way through the buildings, the spaces of the grid. The spring was here, alternatingly wet, hot, and cold. I glimpsed a seagull moving above the buildings, and all over the city the trees had shiny new leaves.

Alighting at Belmont, I ran through the tight staircases of the station before pushing through the turnstile onto the street, and then sprinted along Sheffield to the Pick Me Up, trying a new short cut. It was going to be close. Through the window I recognized Jancko's haircut before I wrenched open the back door. They were already there!

"Hi." I checked my watch. "5:02. Not. Too bad." I was breathing hard.

"We'll let it slide, this time," said Stephen.

"Very. Cool. Whew! Hi, I'm Philippe!" There were already five gamers at the table. The table was decorated in a Tron-and-video-games motif. Zach was at ease; his blond hair looked like someone had spent hours tousling it expertly. Laughing in the corner, next to the window, he looked as if the Pick Me Up Cafe was an extension of his living room. Stephen S. had had his hair done, it seemed to me: it was electric blond on top, and shaved closed on the sides; his blue eyes looked intense.

"Paul!" I said, as I sat down next to him, still panting. "You removed . . . the goattee!"

"Yes. Too much maintenance. And you know I hate anything that requires maintenance." Without the goattee, with its shorn corners, he took on more of a cowboy's face, square-jawed; his height only added to this impression. Across the table I nodded at Jancko, who had dyed his hair not blond, but yellow! He had a shock of it!

"For the cosplay, I assume, Jancko."

"Yep!" He laughed.

"They were awesome pictures," I said.

"Hey, this is Mark."

"Hey, Mark! Welcome!" Mark had cut his own hair so that it fell to one side, in a kind of studied carelessness; and his voice cracked charmingly as he spoke. His pale skin looked like he shunned daylight. On one arm more than a dozen plastic bracelets of different colors were hanging, on top of the thin dark hair that criss-crossed his arms.

"Food? Food?"

"Not yet." The waitress brought Stephen the chai. I got a decaf latté for myself.

"Decaf!? It's only five."

"I'm sensitive."

My cellphone rang.

"Hello," I said.

"Hi, it's Brent! I'm here, at the Pick Me Up! Where are you?"

I stood up and turned around. Sure enough, a lean fellow with brown hair was on the phone on the other side of the restaurant.

"Yo!" I said.

"I see you."

I shook his hand as he came over. "Barnold81," I said.

"Oh, no one calls me that."

"Can I be the first?" said Stephen.

"If you need to. But my name's Brent."

I introduced him to everyone around the table. Brent was fit-looking, his hair neatly trimmed and parted, with brown, almost hazel eyes. He had just that morning walked for the American Cancer Society. He was wearing his brand-new T-shirt, a brilliant blue.

"My company raised twenty thousand dollars."

"You're shitting me."

He shook his head.

"And we came in third."

"I know you work for one of the big four accounting firms, but which . . . is . . . "

He had turned to show me the logo on the T-shirt. KPMG.

"What's it like?" asked Zach.

"Too much work. I'm thinking of quitting. Like last month, I worked every single day. I think I got one weekend off."

"Gah."

"CPA, right?"

"Yes. It's supposed to be a slow season, too. So I really don't know about this job. So that's why when you get home, you need to engage with something that does serious damage. . . . "

"Flamethrower. That was always my favorite. Also, the sniper rifle!" I glimpsed at Mark. "Not much for first-person shooters?"

"Umm . . . no," he said, with mock hesitation. But Mark and Jancko were already tuning out of our work conversation.

"Anyone else coming?"

"We may have a fellow who's coming from—er—Kankakee?"

"Kankakee. Whoa, that's a ways."

"He said he was coming."

Conversations were crossing the table, left and right, neighbors talking to neighbors, across the table, then switching, do-si-do.

"Ya get my message? So I'm running Half-Life in a Windows simulation so as not to have to buy the platform?"

"You're running it on WINE?"

"Basically. A commercial distribution."

"How far you'd get in Half-Life 2?"

"That must mean you can run it on Linux."

"The seashore, with the buggy."

"Yes, Linux, of course."

"Oh, yeah, it bogs down a little there."

"Of course, the next big game is . . . Starcraft 2," said Brent.

"Oh, yeah, that looks good," said Zach. "And Deus Ex is coming out with that sequel."

"Oh, I hope it's good!"

"What's Deus Ex?"

"Eidos."

"I thought they'd folded."

"Emcee Denton."

"Yes!"

"Next month is Pride."

"What's that going to be like?"

"Big. Crowded. Hot. As in hot, hot. Weather hot."

"Also, hot hot as in men, hot."

"Yes, crowded, hot, fun. And hot. And lots of men."

"You're not over Pride?"

"I'm so over Pride," said Stephen, with mock exasperation. "No, it'll be fun."

"We should get a float."

"We so need a float," said Paul. I looked at Jancko. But he was riding with his school, the University of Illinois at Chicago.

"We should dress as Playstations or Wiis."

"Or characters. Link. Some Final Fantasy character, they're always poofy," said Zach. "Just what we need."

"What'll this cafe be like?"

"It's going to be jammed."

"Ah, I'll risk it."

Stephen looked up. "We've got more coming, looks like."

I turned around. Five gamers were uncertainly slouching towards us. I recognized several of them from their myspace pictures, and one of them I'd written to only a couple of nights before.

"GlassChocobo!" I called out. He looked at me. There was a careful look in his eye. I later learned he was thinking, "I hope these girls do not notice the ColdStone ice cream in my hand cause I really don't wanna give it up. . . . " But they did notice it and someone nabbed the ice cream. Sheeeeit.

He shook my hand and smiled when I said his name. "All the way from Kankakee, man! I very much appreciate your coming!" He had changed his hair since his gaygamer picture: now it was grown out, and ivory-colored beads were hanging in trains from his braided hair, and he looked sharp. He looked real mean—till he smiled, and then his pearly whites, covered in braces, made him take on that geeky cool look. Right dude, right place. "Adam," he said, introducing himself.

"Philippe," I replied.

"See, they were afraid of you," one of the new fellows said to me. I looked down to see a guy—half-White, half-Asian, perhaps? I recognized him.

"Crownmeking81?"

"You remembered."

"David."

"You remembered."

"I thought you'd dropped out! You cancelled your account!"

"That was an accident! I don't know what I did! I just hit a switch, and it said, your account has been deleted. I re-registered, and then I stopped getting the invites. I thought you'd taken me off the list!"

"I figured you wanted out of all my damn reminders, so I didn't put you back on again."

"No, it's cool."

"So you saw the meetup story? Where we talk trash about you?"

"Yeah! I did see that! And I want to know who was talking crap about me. I want to know exactly who. Right now."

"Paul!" I called out across the table, a dozen guys away. Paul was a big fellow, I figured it was safe. "Remember that guy who said he couldn't make it out because we intimidated him?"

"Yes!"

I put my hand on David's shoulder. "David," I said, introducing him.

"Cool! Hi, I'm Paul! I talked trash about you!"

"I just want you to know—I was so not intimidated."

"Yes, you were, don't lie," said a new voice. "Hi, I'm Justin." Justin was a White guy, with brown eyes and brown hair, a goofy and endearing grin, hiding in the corner, with a hoodie that he held behind his head with his hands, lifting it occasionally. "Justin's such a gay name. I know three Justins, and they're all gay!"

"I'm an occasional gamer," David continued.

"Are you a gamer?" I asked Cory, with whom I'd exchanged seats to make room for them all.

"Naw," Cory replied, slowly, and quietly. He reminded me of Chicago itself, he had that sort of solid presence. He was a big fellow, and he was Blacker than most, and he kept his hands lightly clasped in his lap. He fixed me with a careful look that dissolved into laughter when Adam made a light-hearted crack.

"Cory's sort of gamer by association. He plays whatever I have lying around."

"It always starts that way. You go to your friends' houses, play whatever they have lying around, and pretty soon you're in deep."

"Unless someone steals it."

"Yes. I read about that. That was an ex-boyfriend?"

"I saw him! I saw him, just walking around in the hospital—I'm training as an R.N.—and he was just as casual as can be, like it didn't matter a damn thing."

"Very sorry to hear that."

"Lot of old games he took, too."

"Very sorry," I said.

Stephen arrived. He had his backpack strapped on across his chest, a five-o'clock shadow. "This is quite a crowd. Did it not start at six?"

"Well, I pushed it back to five."

"Oh. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Er. I did. In the messages."

"Oh. I don't read the messages."

I banged my head against an imaginary wall. "It is impossible (thump) for me to imagine someone (thump) less involved with the site, who does more for all the gaygamers in Chicago (thump). Stephen. Thank you. I'm glad you're here. Now let's squeeze you in."

And we did. Stephen wound up nestled between David, next to Cory, and Brent. They were keeping up a steady chatter on the south side of the table.

"You live in the South Side?" I asked Cory.

"No," he replied. "Closer to downtown. I work in the red building."

"Ah, nice area. And what's Kankakee like?"

"Friendlier," said Adam. "I mean, people will acknowledge you exist."

"Imagine that."

Next to Cory, the other David leaned in to hear more. David had a lean face, intellectual intensity written into his expressions; he wore a light gray University of Illinois sweatshirt, and oval glasses. On the right side of his head, a little scar crossed the hairline. He looked at me with a directness I appreciated, and his talk was of games, but he looked like he could talk about lots of things. He spoke fast and with lots of details. I couldn't follow, and I ran my hand, at the speed of a Star Wars battle cruiser, slowly over my head, to indicate I was in over my depth. I could barely hear him, over the din. He laughed heartily.

The food had been arriving all evening long. Pancakes with syrup, a Stir Crazy veggie dish, salads, sandwiches, coffees, cokes, all had been floating over the table. We were so crowded, I was holding my dish above my lap with one hand, and eating with the other. We had been driving our waitress crazy because there were thirteen of us.

Two more arrived. I recognized him instantly: I had only invited HanajukuSiren to join us the night before. I stood to shake his hand.

"Charlee," he said, introducing himself. "And this is Steffany."

"I'm Philippe. How do you do. Thanks so much for making it out."

Charlee wore a three-quarter-length black leather trenchcoat, and jeans that flopped near the shoes. His hair was—how to put this? "A coiffed confection of feathered frenzy." Grin

Steffany had an alert face and long curly brown hair, and she came in wearing a sort of plaid pajama-like trousers, and flip-flops. Charlee carried a furled umbrella rather the way I imagine Englishmen carry a cane. We sure had all styles.

"Let me introduce you," I said. I named everyone around the table. I bet the waitress, behind us, busted a gasket. We were fifteen in a space designed for ten.

But the food kept coming: Charlee and Steffany ordered pancakes, rich and creamy. I noticed David, sitting across from Justin, was also wearing flip-flops.

"David, how many languages did you say you spoke?"

"Four."

"More like two," said Justin. "Maybe one and a half when you combine them all."

"Shut up."

I turned to Justin. "Have you ever lived abroad?"

He put his hands on the table for a moment. "Yes," he said. "Sweden. For six months."

"Where?"

"Uppsala."

"What was it like?"

"The Swedes are the most introverted people in the world. I had three housemates and I never saw them. They just stayed in their rooms. And I think three people said Hi to me the whole time I was there . . . and two of them were foreigners."

"Jesus Christ. I thought it was hard to meet people in Chicago."

"I know!"

"You live in . . . ?"

"I live in Evanston," said David. Way up north. "Justin and I both work for the government."

"That's right, I remember you had to go to D.C. that one time. How is it?"

"It's work."

"Yah, I know how that goes."

"So it turns out Craig and I go to the same school," Charlee said, as I turned to his table.

"Ah, Craig couldn't make it tonight. It's hard to predict when he'll be here. I think he's twenty, too? Your age, tomorrow?"

"That's right!" And their pancakes arrived, gigantic, Midwestern portions, slathered in butter and syrup.

As they began to eat, we settled the bill on the big table. Eighty-something dollars, not too bad going. We were a little short and Zach, ever the gentleman, threw in some extra dollars.

"We want to keep coming here, folks."

Adam and I faced each other. "It was very nice to meet you."

"You too."

"I don't know if I can make the next one. Because of work."

"You can take the weekend off for Pride," said Cory.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"I'll hope for the best. Thanks so much for making it out. It was great to meet you all."

"We're just moving outside," said Paul, as the gamer gaggle moved towards the front of the restaurant. I sat with Charlee and Steffany.

"So you love Final Fantasy VIII?"

"That's the one for me."

"And Steffany, you play?"

"Sometimes."

I was surprised to see the engagement ring. "Congratulations," I said. Steffany, I learned, had grown up in Illinois.

"I'll tell you the plan. Paul has a regular gamer night that we crashed a few months ago. The straight boys said we'd be welcome to join them. If that doesn't work, we'll figure something else out. How about it?"

"Sounds good." They hadn't done too much work on their pancakes, alas, when we stepped out into the chilly evening. We started walking.

"Where's Zach?" I asked.

"He's got stuff to do at the office," said Stephen.

"On Sunday? That's horrible."

"And I've got to do stuff as well," said Brent.

"Damn. They do work you hard, don't they. Did you have a good time?"

"I did."

"See you soon."

Adam, Cory, the two Davids, and Justin had already gone for their cars, to finish off their evenings.

"Well," said Paul, "Trey's not picking up."

"Argh."

Somehow the suggestion for Stephen's place came up.

"His housemate is going to want to kill us."

"We'll use martial arts to defend ourselves. We're gamers."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

We caught the 22 in two groups. At Stephen's house, we brought out the games. Tonight was Tsuro. It was a fast-moving destructive board game where you tried to run your opponents off the board.

"Perfect." I worked on a Rolling Rock while we got started. The first time I looked at the card, I was confused: which side was the playing side? There was no number, no score, no icon—just lines. Then I realized, oh, those are the tracks for the pieces.

Jenny arrived.

"Ah!" cried Charlee. "Another Asian!"

"Whatever," said Jenny. "I am so pissed off at gaysian men right now. Are you gaysian? Are you sticky rice?"

"Oh, hell no."

"Good. I am so pissed off, you have no idea. I need food. I brought my own. I'm sorry. I'm not normally like this. I just need to eat. Now."

"You remind me of Margaret Cho," said Charlee.

"Oh, gawd, like I've never heard that before."

"This is Steffany. She's not a lesbian. She's actually engaged."

"Ew, you have to tell me? Ew, you're engaged? How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Nineteen! Jesus Fucking Christ. You've got that man trained?"

"He's military."

"Good, so he likes training." She dug into her Mexican food.

"Jenny, do you want to play Tsuro?"

"No, I want to eat before I die."

We started another game. More food was proposed: Stephen, ever the perfect host, ordered it over the phone, while the other Stephen chased me around the board, trying to get my avatar to jump off a cliff. Mark entered combat with a chunky blue Nintendo DS, which went bloop-bloop.

"Agh! I'll help get the food."

Walking to get the food, in the Indian restaurant, our host Stephen seemed pensive. "I just don't know," he said, as I chewed on some sof, "where I'm going. What the plan is."

I tried to speak of mid-life career changes, the options that gay men sometimes enjoy. Night was falling, and along the way back, a young man, blond, and good-looking, in a red T-shirt, with the sort of deformed arms that thalidomide babies had, crossed our paths.

"We tend to have more options, always, than we give ourselves credit for," I said.

We returned to the flat with food to find Charlee doing things to Jenny's long hair. Then Mark decided to take a stab at the hair.

"Don't you dare put chopsticks in my hair."

"Why not? It might look cool."

"Fuck you."

More insults were exchanged, edgy words, like a game of seeing how much could you say, how close could you go, before cool became cold. More cameraphone pictures were snapped, more food was finished. We were drawing to a close.

Ten o'clock.

We all gave Stephen a hug as we left. We walked to the nearest bus stop before I realized I had to turn around to catch the 'L'.

"Great seeing you," I said to Jancko, and to Stephen. I gave them each a hug. Paul had flown off on his bicycle; Charlee and Steffany were taking another bus home. Mark and Jenny had crossed the street, and I waved at them, doing a little dance for good measure. Then I turned down to Fullerton, feeling a sharp wind along my face. Suddenly, I realized I was smiling.

-M.C. Denton, a.k.a. Philippe. Thanks going out to barnold81, Cory, crownmeking81, David, dekko, ersatzniceguy, firepoet, GlassChocobo, GuyGethsemane, HarajukuSiren, Jenny, Justin, Mark, and Steffany for making it out . . . and a big thank-you to our host, cheerfulchaotic.

Please abide by the Forum Rules