“Fuck no.”
He sighs. “Okay. I’ve got some Ambien back at the house.”
“Sweet.”
“You need to get some sleep,” he says, standing up. “I’ve got a new houseboy starting in the morning, and you’ll need to show him around.”
“Where’d you find this one?” I ask.
“I didn’t find him. Jeff did.”
My ears perk up.
“Some kid who came by to see his movie posters. Hope this one lasts.” He gives me a smile. “I’ll be right back with your wonder drug.”
I sit staring at the door after he’s gone.
I can’t believe it.
Jeff finagled Luke a job here.
Or maybe Luke was the one who did the finagling.
Either way, I have a feeling that our new houseboy is indeed going to last.
And my life is going to be hell.
THE BACKYARD OF NIRVANA GUESTHOUSE
It’s such a beautiful morning I decide to serve the muffins and coffee outside. I set up a table under a locust tree, hauling out the coffee urn and arranging the blueberry muffins on a platter. The guests begin dragging themselves down the stairs around seven. First comes the baby dyke, Michelle, with another woman I hadn’t met at check-in. Tall, fresh-faced, freckled—I wonder if maybe she’s a trick. Do baby dykes trick? They mumble a greeting to me, then consume three cups of coffee each in rapid succession, popping a couple of muffins into their mouths along the way. They giggle a lot under their breath, then head out front to pedal away on their bikes.
Next to rise are the lecherous pair from Pittsburgh, genial bears who seem to have been on twenty-four-hour cruise control ever since arriving in Provincetown yesterday. For this type of tourist, the beaches and bike trails and nature walks hold no interest. It’s all about sex, as if P-town was just one big bath house, from the bars to the taffy shops to the Pilgrim Monument. The hairier of the two guys is named Bert, and he keeps winking at me, almost as if he has an eye twitch. It’s unnerving to say the least. I’m certainly not going to wink back, but even if I smile to be polite, he’ll see it as an encouragement. So I just try to stay as far away from them as possible.
I’m saved by the timely arrival of Ann Marie, dressed in smart white shorts and a gauzy pink blouse—her work attire. Her son J. R. follows a few steps behind her.
“Is there coffee out here?” she asks. “Jeff didn’t make any this morning, and I need a cup desperately before I get on Cape Scare.”
Cape Scare: Ann Marie’s pet name for Cape Air, the little eight-seater puddle jumper she takes every Monday morning and every Friday afternoon back and forth to Boston. You’d think by now she’d be used to it, but she’s still terrified every time that little plane takes off down the runway, circling over Hatches Harbor. I love Cape Air flights myself. Nowhere else can you get such a sublime view of the outer sandy spiral of Cape Cod and the blue waters lapping at its shores. Occasionally you can even spot a whale.
“Help yourself, doll,” I say, gesturing to the urn. I turn to J. R. “You’re up early. You and Uncle Jeff heading out to Long Point today?”
The kid just shakes his head sullenly. He’s been sullen a lot lately, come to think of it.
Ann Marie takes a sip of coffee and savors it, her whole body seeming to relax as the hot liquid pours through her body. “J. R. wants to come with me to Boston,” she tells me. “But I just can’t have him staying at the apartment all alone all week while I’m at work.”
Ann Marie has taken over Jeff’s old apartment in the South End. I look from her to J. R. “It’s summer, buddy,” I say. “Why would you want to be in the city when you could be here?”
“I’m bored here,” he says.
I laugh. “A lot of kids in the city might be glad to change places with you.”
He’s not buying it. He just sighs, scrunching his hands deep down into the pockets of his baggy black jeans. He wears a black Green Day T-shirt and black Converse sneakers to complete the outfit. J. R. was once such a happy kid, always laughing, pulling pranks. But lately he’s seemed more like a moody teenager than a nine-year-old boy. I used to be able to make him crack up by slipping on a plastic nose and glasses whenever he’d stroll by the front desk. Now, whenever I’ve tried it, he’s completely ignored me, making me feel like an utter fool. Who can figure out kids?
“Sweetie,” Ann Marie is saying, stooping down so that her eyes are level with his, “you know how much I miss you during the week. Don’t you think I wish I could just stay here and have a summer vacation like you? You know I hate leaving you during the week, but I have to work.”
Before she moved here to Provincetown, Ann Marie had been worried that J. R. was missing out on having a father figure in his life. Since he loved Jeff and Lloyd so much, the move made sense. J. R. got two dads, but, in the bargain, a part-time mom. Maybe that’s the reason for his current discontent.
“I thought you liked living here, dude,” I say to him. “The beach and the bike trails and the Jet Skis.”
He shrugs. “Whatever.”
“And now you’re a star basketball player at school—”
“Basketball sucks,” he says, and walks off.
I look over at Ann Marie. “Whoa. When did he decide that?”
“I don’t know. But he says he doesn’t want to play again next year.” She finishes her coffee. “He’ll get over it. It’s just a phase. Tell Jeff to take him out on the boat or something.” She looks at her watch. “Oh my God, I’ve got to get to the airport. But tell me one thing, Henry.”
“What’s that?”
She grins. “How in the world did you get Lloyd to hire your trick from Tea Dance?”
“So you’ve heard.”
“I was there when he hired him!”
I scowl. “Well, the true credit goes to your brother. Who had his own nefarious reasons, I’m sure.”
Ann Marie laughs. “Let the drama begin.” She kisses me quickly on the cheek. “Here he comes now.”
As she rushes off, calling after J. R. for one last hug, I spot our new houseboy trudging up the walk. He’s still shirtless, still with his backpack over his shoulder. He spots me and waves.
“Henry!” Luke calls.
I nod. So now I’m Luke’s boss. Two days ago he was my trick. Luke West—that’s the name he gave to Lloyd. I wonder if it’s real: sounds like a porn name to me. No matter, though: he’s off limits to me now—a little rule Lloyd and I faithfully follow when it comes to our houseboys. Of course, the rules don’t apply for Jeff. Rules never do. Jeff sleeps with whomever he goddamn pleases.
“So did you hear I got a job here?” Luke asks breathlessly, after planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
“Of course I heard,” I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance. “I’m the manager here.”
“So I report to you?” Luke is actually batting his eyelashes. “I’ve never had such a hunky boss before.”
“Cut it out,” I tell him. “I have a strict rule about not fraternizing with the houseboys.”
Luke pouts. “You mean, no more fooling around?”
I doubt very much that he would have fooled around with me again anyway, now that Mr. Jeff O’Brien had inserted himself between us. So it gives me some pleasure, some face-saving satisfaction, to declare unequivocally that sex between us was in the past. It’s my decision. Not his.
“No more fooling around,” I say with authority, unaware that hairy Bert from Pittsburgh has overheard me, and is sidling up behind me.
“Oh, come on,” he says, “just a little fooling around?”
Luke laughs. “Nope,” he tells our guest, “Henry’s cutting me off.” He extends his hand. “Good morning, I’m Luke. I’m your new houseboy.”
Bert shakes his hand. “Well, and a fine houseboy you are.” His eyes move up and down Luke’s lithe frame.
They look like they could pose for a before-and-after chart on evolution: Bert the hulking, hairy Neanderthal and Luke the lean
, smooth Cro-Magnon man. Or boy. My own eyes seem riveted again to his tight belly, the way the lines of his internal obliques drop dramatically down into his shorts. Why am I so fixated on him? Ann Marie was right the day we met him: Luke is not my type. I like bigger guys, with more muscle, more experience. Not twinks like Luke. So why can’t I stop looking at him as he chats up Bert?
Because Jeff got him. That’s why.
Palm Springs, White Party, 1999. A boy named Nathan, not so different from Luke. Smooth, lean, with full red lips and long eyelashes. I’d met Nathan first, in line to buy water, and by the time we’d made it back out to the dance floor we were liplocked. Sure, it was our good friend Evelyn who provided the chemical rush between us, but no amount of ecstasy could cushion what happened next. Nathan took one look at Jeff, and before long he was moving between us, kissing me for five minutes and Jeff for ten. Then me for three and Jeff for fifteen. Then he stopped coming back over to me at all. That night, back at our hotel, I slept out by the pool so that Jeff and Nathan could go at it in privacy in our shared room.
Luke is walking around with the pot of coffee asking the guests if they want refills. “Jesus Christ,” I grumble, moving over to him. I grab his elbow. “Houseboys aren’t waiters,” I tell him. “Your job is to get inside and make the beds and clean the bathrooms.”
“Well,” he purrs, “how would I know if you don’t teach me, boss?”
“Come on in,” I say, “and I’ll give you the rundown.”
“Mmm. That sounds sexy.”
“Rundown, not rubdown.”
Luke makes a face. “But I haven’t had any breakfast yet. Can’t I at least have a little bite?”
I sigh. “Okay. But we’ve got a lot to do today. We’ve got three new rooms checking in this afternoon.”
Luke saunters over to the table of sweets. I watch him as he looks over the choices and considers what to have. “It’s all carbs,” he says finally. “Muffins and bagels and croissants…”
“Like you have to worry,” I growl.
Luke looks back at me. “So did you keep your promise?”
“My promise?”
“No ice cream? Remember, we’re checking up on each other.” He beams over at me. “I haven’t had a cigarette since yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh,” I say in a small voice. “Good for you.”
“And you?” Luke asks. “No ice cream, right?”
“Right,” I lie.
“Excellent!” He returns his attention to the table. “We ought to at least put out some peanut butter,” he says. “You know, for protein.” He ends up choosing a blueberry muffin and pouring himself a glass of orange juice.
“Look, Luke,” I say, “don’t think this is going to be a regular routine.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Houseboys eat on their own before they start work. You can grab a muffin in the kitchen before you do your rounds.”
He’s ignoring me. “You know, maybe if we just boiled some eggs—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy the neighbor’s calico cat suddenly leap onto the table from the fence that divides our two properties.
“Hey!” I clap my hands. “Get off, you damn cat!”
The cat darts away under the wild rosebushes, upsetting a few cups in the process.
“Goddamn animal,” I mutter, still clapping my hands to make sure it returns to its own yard. “It’s always trying to get at the cream whenever I serve breakfast outside.”
“Poor little thing, it was just thirsty,” Luke says.
I look over at him. Luke’s eyes are on the rosebushes, trying to see if he can spy the cat.
“That cat is a pain in the ass,” I tell him, enunciating it clearly so he understands. “It’s always scaring birds away from the birdfeeder, and guests like to watch the birds.”
“Cats have a right to do their thing, too,” Luke says.
“Not in my yard.”
Luke’s silent as he takes a bite of his blueberry muffin. “Do you know I had an uncle who looked like the Penguin?” he finally asks.
I’m a bit taken aback by the non sequitur. I turn and look at him. “Your uncle looked like a penguin?”
“No. He looked like the Penguin.” He finishes his muffin and to my chagrin he reaches down and takes another from the table. “Like from Batman.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Yeah. Short and round with skinny eyes and a long nose. And Uncle Louie was just as vicious as the Penguin, too. Now, don’t be fooled by that funny Penguin on the old Batman TV show or Danny DeVito’s shameless mugging in Batman Returns. As written in the comic books, the Penguin was a cruel, vicious criminal, and I should know. I had to live with him for a while.”
I just look at the kid, not sure where the hell he’s going with this.
“Once,” Luke says, his eyes a world away, “I saw Uncle Louie kill a stray cat who’d turned over the garbage can. I can remember sitting on my swing set, watching as Uncle Louie’s rifle poked out through a hole in the window screen. Then he pulled the trigger, and kablooey! That poor old mangy cat blew apart. I had to clean up the mess, and with each scrape of fur and blood off the concrete I cried my little heart out.”
He pops the last of the muffin into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
“My mother had a cat,” he continues. “She called it Puss. She loved Puss and so I did, too. There’s not a cat alive that doesn’t remind me of Puss, even though Puss was a big fluffy Siamese. Even the straggliest strays that came knocking around our garbage cans reminded me of Puss. Uncle Louie hated those strays. They’d cry up on the fence, mangy in heat, and eat from our garbage, knocking it all over the place. There’d be times Uncle Louie would go out and open the lid of a trash can to find a hissing cat inside, and he’d curse so loud that the old lady next door would scream over at him to shut up. Then he’d shout back at her, and soon the whole street was shouting.
“But after Uncle Louie killed that first cat, I decided never to let it happen again. Down at the Safeway I bought two cans of tuna. I opened them with a metal can opener out on the back porch, and the stink that came out was soon wafting through the night air. You know how canned tuna fish in oil smells. Hoo-wee! Well, half a dozen strays came by to sniff it out. And don’t you know they slurped it all down when I plopped it onto the concrete, all runny and oily.”
Luke looks over at me with his soft hazel eyes, more intense now than I’ve ever seen them before.
“So I repeated this every night,” he continues, “and soon all the cats got into the habit. Dinner was served on the back step precisely at seven—far away from our trash barrels. Of course, no more knocking over garbage cans meant there’d be no more dead cats scraped off the sidewalk with my shovel.” He laughs, throwing back the last of his orange juice and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Problem was, more and more cats seemed to find out about my little restaurant, and so I had to buy three cans, then four, then five cans a day to keep them all fed. That meant I had to find ways to make money to buy them all.”
I can’t resist asking. “How’d you make the money?”
He winks. “I found ways. Hey, I had to. It was either that or the Penguin would slaughter all the cats in Gotham City.”
Who is this kid? I just stare at him, wondering what he might say next.
“So,” he asks, “are we going to get to work?”
I make an attempt to answer, but before I can formulate the words there’s another voice interrupting us.
“Is Henry already slave-driving you?”
I look around. Jeff has sauntered over from his house, wearing floral-patterned boardshorts and a white T-shirt that hugs his pecs perfectly. I see him wink at Luke.
“No,” Luke tells him, “we’ve just been gabbing like girlfriends.” He smiles at me. “Henry was just about to show me the ropes.”
“The ropes, huh?” Jeff smirks. “Henry, since when are you into bondage?”
I ignore him, turning my eyes back to Luke. “Start bringing
some of the dirty dishes inside,” I say. “Pile them in the sink for now. I’ll be in momentarily.”
“Yes, sir!” Luke says cheerfully, loading up a tray of cups and glasses. Jeff pours himself some coffee. As the boy heads inside, his tight little ass shows a hint of crack above his shorts. Both Jeff and I watch him closely.
“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Jeff says to me over his coffee cup.
“You hired him, I didn’t.”
“No, no, no, Lloyd hired him.” Jeff smiles, eminently pleased with himself. “I merely suggested it.”
“Have you forgotten, Jeff,” I say, drawing close, “that Lloyd and I have a rule? No sex with the staff. I know you’re technically not staff here at Nirvana, but I still don’t think it was kosher to fuck Luke and then hire him—”
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