Making a Name on Halstead In all fairness, if Tony was know as Dorna-Queer on Halstead Street in days gone past, I guess I must tell you my namesake along the same stretch. Of course that memory was lost in a deep abyss in my recollection of yesterday. The yesterday that makes me sigh as I ponder the good ol' days, which are good because I blocked out the fact I was so poor, I dated to get a decent meal, extending my food budget. I would dine at a table of older gentlemen, tossing hair flips right and left as I discussed academically how disco--close to the hearts of those who came of age in the 70s--was really a social movement about liberation, inclusion, acceptance and individuality. You can only imagine the knot in my stomach forming as I sat through an extended dinner where the wine kept flowing, appetizers kept coming, and realizing not only did I not have enough money to pay for my share, but I couldn't even afford bus fare home. And yet, I had to lead the conversation to one huge argument before bowing out--who would have the privilege of paying for my dinner. When I moved to Melrose Street, not to far from Halstead, my friends all knew I had perfected this task. I had even learned to manage the argument. "Boys, boys, boys," I would say. They would silence, amused I was referring to them as boys, waiting for the drop of wisdom that might drip from my tongue. "Why don't you subtract me, and then split the bill evenly." I'd rim my wine glass with my finger seductively. "We all enjoyed the wine and appetizers, and certainly our entrees are not that significantly different. This way, you all can have the satisfaction of contributing to my meal. And in exchange, I would like each of your business cards so that I may contact you in the future." They would scramble for their business cards first, then their wallets. The business card was for me to send a nice thank you note (postage from work) saying how overall it was a pleasant dinner, but it was the individual I was writing to whose company I enjoyed the most. And besides, it was just good networking. I bumped into a guy on our last night in Chicago who I had dated a few times. Suddenly, I was taken back to the summer of '94, when I was given the namesake no one would forget, and I had until this moment. His name was Eric. Back then, I was with my friends at SideTrack, enjoying a night of disco music. When Dancing Queen came on, it catapulted me into my college routine developed with my friend Julia: "Can't you see..." Gaze out through the crowd. "...digging the dancing queen..." shovel digging motions. My friends had seen it hundreds of times. But Eric had not. It appeared to captivate him, and so captivate I did. He was cute. He approached me to comment on the way I could bust a move, but I shunned him away. Couldn't he hear Abba and see I was in a routine? After the classic came to a close, I turned to him and apologized for the rude reaction to his rude interruption. We chatted just long enough for him to ask for my phone number. I gave him a business card, and he said he had to get home. But it's only 10:30, I said. "Yeah, but my Mom says I have to be home by 11," he replied as he walked away. "I'll call you." The next morning I was running a bit late. Not horribly late, but late enough for the receptionist to notice when I came in to work. "Tim, some guy has been calling you for the last half-hour," she said. "Do you know who it is?" I asked. "No, I don't recognize his voice, and he keeps asking for your extension number. I told him you weren't in, but he said he would call back, and he's been calling every five minutes." I hadn't even settled in at my desk when the intercom came on. "Tim, it's him on the line." I picked it up, still unpacking my backpack. "Hello, this is Tim," I said. "Hey," said the voice on the line. "Hey," I said. "It's Eric." Eric, from the Sheraton Hotel and Towers Gift Shop? Eric, my best friend's friend? Eric, the concierge? Eric, the cutest damn security guard finally calling me to go swimming? He chased me down. Eric the security guard, that is. He saw me one day with a swimming and diving sweatshirt on, and chased me half-a-block. I worked for the building's management company so he knew me through association. I only knew him as E. Logan, from his name tag. Anyway, he wanted to let me know that he was a swimmer, too. I was a bit caught off guard because big, hunky, straight-acting men in uniform don't usually chase me for half-a-block. I wondered if maybe he would let himself into my office late at night, maybe secretly sniffing my pencil box. So I gave him my number and suggested we go swimming together some time. He gave me his number. I even used it a few times, but nothing ever happened. "Eric, from last night." Thank God for a point of reference. My mind was refocused from the Eric, the Security Guard to Eric, from last night. "Oh, hey, how are you? You're calling early. Did you get home in time, or has your mother grounded you?" We chatted just long enough to make arrangements to meet him for dinner that night. Actually, I was going to meet him at the shoe store where he worked. I thought it would be really sexy to go buy a pair of shoes from him, just so he could fit my feet. Then we'd go to dinner, and then who knows from there. I was to meet him at six o'clock. All this seemed kind of fast, but he was driving the schedule, so I went along. When I got home that night, he was sitting on the steps to my building on Melrose. This made it feel even faster. Particularly since I wasn't really that into him; neither of us could afford dinner. He was 18, had just graduated from High School, was living with his Mother, and I just wasn't sure about all this. Plus, he was Hispanic, and what would my Father say? He was already convinced all I needed was a good straight woman. What would he say when he found out I was dating someone from south of the Border? I changed quickly and we went out for soup and sandwiches. Over dinner I learned that he had only been with one other guy before, and it was early in the fall of his Senior year. It was his band director. I naturally assumed he meant drum major. I was wrong. It was the teacher band director. The image of my nasty old band director--naked--filled my mind. It was hard to chew. Turns out he was only 23 and it was his first year teaching. "Does he want to make a life-long career out of teaching?" I asked. Apparently, they had been dating all year long. And yes, Eric got an A in band for the way he blew his horn. Eric and the band director were just friends now, and Eric was looking to date. Apparently, they had decided it was not a good idea the two of them date. Some student-teacher thing, I guess. We went back to my apartment so we could change to go out. Since I lived so close to the bars, I had outfits I didn't mind getting all smoky. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. "Ahh, shit," I heard him say from the other room. "Ahh, shud, whud?" I asked, my mouth full of tooth paste. "I forgot my pajamas." I choked. Slumber party was not part of my plan for the evening. Some heavy mashing later on, maybe. But not a slumber party. I spit my toothpaste into the sink. "I thought you had to be home at 11?" I asked. "Oh, I do. Normally, but I told my Mom I was house-sitting for my band director," he said. "Oh?" I rinsed my mouth. "Yeah, that is how I would get to spend the night with him. She never knew," he said. "I see. So he travels a lot?" "No, he's in town, but my mother doesn't know." So this story of Eric the Pajama Boy didn't help much when I told my friends back then. For my nickname, that is. So when I saw Eric for the first time in five years, as a re-make of Abba's "Dancing Queen" with bikini-clad go-go boys flashed on the screen, it all came back. At first I wasn't sure it was him. He's filled out a bit, in the way 18-year-old boys tend to do when the final stages of puberty set in. He wasn't skinny and awkward any more. He even had an Adams apple now. I made my friends call out his name and he turned to look, but we were looking into our cocktails already. I didn't really want to say, "Hey, it's me, 1-900-Tim." I'd prefer that nickname die. When I hooked up my new phone on Melrose, friends started calling me 1-900-TIM. Not because of anything I would say on my phone, or anywhere else for that matter. But because of stories like this and my new phone number was 404-8466, or 404-TIMM. Yes, I know. It's a silly vanity phone number. But it worked, and I thought of it before the next guy. It helped to impress those tables of older gentlemen, who would all go directly to their car to dial up the phone number, just to see if I was yanking their cord.