Simple Simon

by William Poe

  “I feel sorry for Masako,” Harris said. “You went through with the marriage, but you didn’t love her.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.” Harris kept his gaze fixed on me.

  “Does that mean sex?” I asked. “Is that what people mean by love? Then, no, I didn’t love her. But my heart smiled when I thought of her, and early on, I couldn’t wait to see her when I went to New York for meetings.”

  “Do you love her now?”

  “Masako isn’t part of my life anymore. What does it matter? Ask me if I love Thad.”

  “First, tell me how you feel about Masako.”

  “Evil, evil counselor,” I quipped, hoping to cajole him off the topic. A tactic that never worked with Harris. He sat motionless, arms crossed, waiting for a reply.

  “If I say I loved Masako, or that I love her now, doesn’t that mean I hate being gay?”

  “Do you?”

  He had me trapped.

  “I don’t know what I feel about Masako. She’s gone, living in Japan, and I’ll never know what suffering I caused her. If I had been straight, I think we would still be married. I know of several couples who left the church after the Madison Square Garden ceremony and stayed together. I suspect that the shared experience of having lived in the church made it easier for them to maintain a bond.”

  “Poor Lyle,” Harris said. “You left him alone and went off to the ceremony.”

  There was much more to the story of Lyle and me, but in the end, I was sure about those feelings.

  “I didn’t love Lyle,” I said. “I never meant to hurt him, but at least, in his case, I know it was affection, not love.”

  “What are your feelings toward Thad?”

  An internal voice screamed out, Lenny would have loved me if only I weren’t a sissy queer.

  I said aloud what was in my heart, fighting off the inner voices. “I love Thad.”

  “Simon is a good man,” Harris said, with deep kindness in his eyes. “People love him. Thad loves him. I saw it in Thad’s eyes when he was here visiting you. Remember how desperate you felt after arriving at Riverdell? Thad reached out to you, and you chose to live another day. Love reached out to you. Simon is gay, and people love him.”

  For all his kindness, even gentleness, at stating what should have been obvious, I felt a vice grip press on my heart.

  “This is bullshit!” I shouted, standing up suddenly and heading for the door. “Who loves me? Who do I love? What difference does it make? This is bullshit.”

  But I knew it wasn’t. Admitting to loving Thad meant that I was really, truly gay and that I would never have a wife, never attain what Lenny wanted for me—a wife and children. Vivian would never see grandchildren from her son. If there were a God, that being would have answered my prayers!

  I gave up ten years of my life believing in something that didn’t exist, struggling, repenting for my transgressions, trying to live up to the expectations of my beliefs, and it had amounted to nothing but loneliness and drug addiction. I left the church, naive, gullible, unable to make thoughtful decisions. I succeeded in business, failed, made friends and lost them, allowed people into my life who only wanted to take advantage of me—and I couldn’t stop myself from doing it. I surrendered to cocaine as fully as I had given my life to Reverend Moon.

  Upstairs, I stuffed my clothes and toiletries into a pillowcase and gathered my notebooks. I knew where Joshua would be after Riverdell had kicked him out, and I knew he’d have drugs. I wanted to stop these feelings. Drugs would give me that.

  The rules were clear. If I left without permission from Harris, I couldn’t come back.

  Harris’s questions had been simple, his comments straightforward, but they had stirred up enough feelings to make me want to go back to my old life. The last seven years in Hollywood had been eventful, if nothing else. Returning to that life seemed like a better option than allowing my heart to be probed this way.

  Nothing could fix me. Counseling only succeeded in making me aware that I would never be the person I wanted to be. How could I hope to be a whole person and find gestalt when I was only half a man?

  In my desperate state of mind, I wasn’t taking into consideration the pain I had left behind in Hollywood, the heartbreak, the endless betrayals, the irresponsible decisions—the addiction.

  In reality, I had nothing left to go back to. My business wasn’t only defunct, but I also needed to avoid certain people—especially clients in Spain who had wanted me to launder money through my business bank account. I had received the first installment of their money, and then my secretary stole it from me and disappeared. I was broke and potentially being searched for by Spanish mafia.

  The trust of the independent movie producers with whom I had contracts was gone. No one would let me represent their films again. My small corner of the film industry depended on reputation and trust. I had become a pariah.

  I threw my notebooks on the bunk and put my stuff back in the locker. I snuck down the back stairs, made my way into the yard, and ran down the street.

  In second grade, I had been terrified of disappointing my friends because I didn’t know how to play baseball. Now, it was the game of life. My failure had been revealed to everyone. I was a homosexual drug addict.

  I ran to the bus station in North Little Rock with furies swarming my thoughts like flies on a carcass.

  As I had expected, Joshua was at the edge of the bus garage hustling one of the drivers. The man’s body language told me he was about to give Joshua whatever he wanted. I watched from behind a column. Moments later, the two finalized their negotiation. The bus driver took out his wallet and gave Joshua some cash. Then they disappeared into an empty bus and shut the door.

  Harris’s words echoed: Simon is gay, and people love him. Thad loves him.

  Could Thad and I make it as a couple? What was I afraid of? How could it be worse for people to know I was gay than for them to know I went into rehab? Vivian wasn’t judging me; she accepted Thad as my partner, in whatever way she characterized the relationship.

  If I didn’t go back to Riverdell, I’d never know how it turned out. Take the next step in the adventure, Simon. Be who you really are.

  I went inside the bus station and found a pay phone. I called Vivian collect. Thad picked up the phone. He knew instantly that something was wrong.

  “You left Riverdell, didn’t you? Where are you?”

  “At the bus station.”

  “Go back, Simon, before they miss you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’ll break Vivian’s heart if you give up, Simon. You’ll break my heart.”

  Trapped.

  “Go back, Simon.” Thad’s voice sounded desperate. “Please don’t run away. I truly love you, Simon. I want to greet you when you finish your program. I want to be with you.”

  Thad’s words, even the sound of his voice, soothed the agitation and brought calm to my anxious heart. Recognizing the power of his love, the force of my own heart propelled me back to Riverdell.

  The kitchen door was ajar. I crept in quietly and made my way to the sleeping quarters. The first thing I did was open my notebook and go over the section Harris had read before our conversation. I needed to forgive myself for treating Masako so cruelly, not only because I had acquiesced to our marriage when I knew it was wrong, but because of how terribly I had treated her when she followed me to Los Angeles after I left the church.

  And Lyle. Maybe ours was not true love, but I had cared for him. He never went back to the street after our time together. Even a touch of love could be transformative. Lyle taught me that.

  I went downstairs. Harris was with another client, so I waited. When the fellow left, I stuck my head in the door.

  “I’m gay, Harris. I forgive myself for not loving Masako. I love Thad, and I want to make a life with him.”

  Tears streamed down my cheeks
as I spoke.

  Harris stood up to grasp my hand. He didn’t need to say anything; his eyes told me all I needed to know. He was proud of me.

  CHAPTER 39

  Opening the door to my room at the Tropicana, I found Lyle stretched out on the bed, naked, except for a pair of Speedos.

  “You’re home!” Lyle exclaimed, jumping to his feet and hugging me. He pressed his forehead against mine. Wispy strands of soft hair brushed my cheek. He took my face in his hands and kissed me on the lips.

  “Lyle, you’re making me crazy,” I said, hooking my fingers into the band of his skimpy swimsuit and peeling them down his thighs.

  “Yeah, well, you make me horny as shit,” he said, grabbing himself. “I’ve been saving up for you. Haven’t jerked off in days.”

  I threw off my clothes and tumbled onto the bed. After the fierce emotions I had experienced toward Mitsui in the aftermath of the Jacob ritual, followed by deep anxiety about entering into married life with Masako, I spent a blissful night having simple sex with Lyle.

  It was difficult to tear myself away the next morning, but I had to make an appearance at Maury’s office. Mitsui’s terse note about Maury reporting directly to him made it obvious he didn’t want to take the risk of kicking me out of the family, but he definitely intended to isolate me. No telling what he had said about me to Maury—or worse, what Maury might have said to him!

  “You’ll get some coke, won’t you?” Lyle asked as I prepared to leave. “I get horny for more than your ass, you know.”

  “When did you start caring so much about cocaine?”

  “Been partyin’ with a punk band next door. Shitty music, but they had good stuff. Talked ’em into putting on a Judas Priest cassette while we snorted lines. They checked out the other day, and I haven’t had nothing since.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, wondering what else Lyle had done with the punk band.

  “Whatever,” Lyle mumbled, throwing the blanket over his body ceremoniously. I took it as a message: if you want more of this, then get me drugs. “Don’t be gone long, man,” Lyle added. “I’m bored with this rat-ass place.”

  “I’ll return as soon as I get my work done,” I told him.

  “Whatever,” Lyle repeated, rising to get his stash of pot from the dresser. He loaded his bong as I shut the door.

  A new receptionist greeted me when I arrived at Maury’s office. She talked to Maury on the intercom system, then told me, “Mr. Fender doesn’t have an opening in his schedule, but he said to wait and he would try to fit you in.”

  I was ready to storm out. What a way to treat me! An old copy of Reader’s Digest kept me occupied for the better part of an hour. When the receptionist took a break, I peeked through the window and saw Sandra typing intently. She took off the Dictaphone headgear for a moment and waved.

  “Hello, sweetie,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear. “Scott’s in the library meeting with a group of Miami psychics who flew in yesterday.” She looked toward Maury’s office to make sure the door was closed. “We’ll be free soon.”

  Finding myself with such diminished status felt strange. I was accustomed to Maury dropping everything to see me when I showed up. When Maury finally granted me an audience, I brought up the letter he had written to Father. Prior to my leaving for New York, Maury had displayed concern about what would become of me “if the worse happened.” Now, I sensed regret about having penned the letter.

  “Look, Maury, I need to know if you’re serious about me apprenticing with the firm. That would be a major change in my life. It’s a big decision.”

  “Let’s discuss it again after the appeal is complete.”

  “How do you want me to help?”

  “The office has everything under control.” Maury began shuffling through a pile of documents. I thought it had something to do with our conversation, until he found a particular folder and called one of the paralegals to take it from him.

  “Did Mitsui tell you to report directly to him from now on?” I asked.

  Maury nodded as he began rifling through a drawer.

  “Well,” I said, “hopefully he doesn’t stab you in the back.”

  Maury was about to say something when the phone rang. He turned his back to me and looked out the window while speaking to whoever it was.

  Scott came to the door. Noticing that Maury was occupied, he called me into the hallway.

  “You still have the credit card, don’t you?” Scott asked, nudging me in the ribs.

  I nodded.

  “Let’s you, me, and Sandra celebrate that marriage of yours. How about champagne and dinner at Cyrano’s?”

  “Yeah,” I said, poking him back. “That’s a great idea. Let’s go.”

  Sandra sashayed toward us. She kissed me on the cheek and pressed her body close—too close.

  “You have nice boobs, Sandra, but don’t squeeze them against me like that.”

  “You are so hopeless,” she said, backing away.

  I kept thinking that if I wet my finger and ran it across Sandra’s cleavage, it would make the same sound as tweaking a birthday balloon.

  “And to think, you could have married me.” Sandra raised her heel in a dance-like gesture.

  “The very image of La Gouloue,” I said, lifting her hand over her head. She twirled gracefully.

  “Well, Monsieur Lautrec,” Sandra laughed, “shall we be off to the Moulin Rouge du Cyrano?”

  Scott looked at me, then at Sandra, and said disgustedly, “You two need a drink.”

  I ordered a celebratory bottle of Moët & Chandon brut. The body-stocking maître d’ brought out a special vintage after Sandra informed her that I had just gotten married. She was relieved to learn it wasn’t to Sandra.

  “That woman has such a crush on you,” I teased.

  “I’ve been letting her flirt with me since I first came in here. As long as I get a good table, let her dream.”

  Scott, I realized, had been drinking before he left the office. After a single glass of champagne, he found it difficult to form complete sentences.

  “You know what you should do, don’t you?” Scott offered woozily. “Get out of that Tropic Anna—’ropicana. That rotten hotel. Rent a’partment. I know a place that’ll take that credit card o’ yours. It’ll be you and Lyle-zes love nest.”

  “Who is Lyle?” Sandra shot a glance in my direction.

  But my attention was on Scott. I took him by the chin and challenged, “How do you know about Lyle?”

  “Well, er…I, uh…I was drunk and dropped by the Tropic-ana, forgot you wouldn’t be there. Some blue-eyed boy answered the door. Said his name was Lyle.” Scott’s gaze blurred into a far-off stare. He took another sip of champagne.

  “And did you go into the room?” I asked pointedly.

  Scott, looking guilty, offered an excuse. “He was listening to Judas Priest on a boom box. I hate that music. So I left.”

  Sandra suddenly burst into laughter. “Darling! You went to New York and got married while you had a blue-eyed boy stashed out here in Hollywood? Isn’t that bigamy or something?”

  “Much worse,” I said.

  “Homogamy,” Scott said, proud of himself for inventing a new word—and managing to articulate it.

  Sandra patted Scott on the hand in a kindly gesture and ordered more champagne.

  “Speaking of Lyle,” I said, “I need to bring something back for him.” I pressed an index finger against a nostril and sniffed.

  Sandra smiled and carefully opened her purse to take out a vintage compact. She lifted the lid and surveyed the room with its small mirror.

  “Amazing Sandra, from La Gouloue to Joan Crawford in one hour. Not bad.”

  Scott moaned at the references, which he only partially understood. “I know who Sandra is like,” he said, sure of himself. “She’s like Thoroughly Modern Millie.”

  The word thoroughly almost defeated him.

  Sandra pawed Scott affectionately as he f
idgeted in his chair. “Stick with the law, dearest,” she said, kissing him on the cheek and winking at me. “Leave the banter to Simon and me.”

  With her back straight, Sandra dabbed the end of her nose with the cosmetic pad. “Modern Millie has a thoroughly special powder,” she said, glancing furtively to the left and then to the right. She set the compact on a napkin and pried open a false lid. Below rested a reservoir of cocaine. Sandra slipped a tiny metal tube from the hinge.

  “Ingenious,” I said, marveling at the transformation of the compact into a drug kit.

  Sandra took the tube and bent low as if checking for something in her eye. She managed to inhale through one nostril while adeptly pressing her finger against the other.

  Carefully closing the compact, she handed it to me under the table, saying, “Take it to the men’s room.” The cocaine had given her a twinge of paranoia, evidenced by her eyes, which darted around the room to see if anyone was watching us.

  Scott couldn’t wait his turn; he grabbed my arm and took the compact, drunkenly bumping into more than one chair on his way to the men’s room.

  “I need a gram for Lyle,” I whispered to Sandra after Scott was out of earshot. “Is there enough in that compact?”

  More composed now, Sandra dug in her purse and brought out an old-fashioned snuff bottle.

  “You’re really into vintage accessories, aren’t you?”

  “There’s a paraphernalia store on Hollywood Boulevard that sells replicas from famous movies of the forties.”

  “Can I pay you later?” I asked as Sandra handed me the bottle.

  She smiled. “Consider it a wedding present.”

  When Scott returned, wide-eyed, he took my hand in both of his and passed me the compact. The cautious nature of his manner struck me as silly, until I returned from the men’s room with my own bout of paranoia. It took fifteen minutes to get up the nerve to hand the compact back to Sandra, so convinced was I that a policeman would appear out of nowhere and throw handcuffs on us the second I did.

  When the delusion faded, I was left with the impression that I had just experienced a wonderful sensation. Cocaine was sly that way.