Invisible Life

by E. Lynn Harris

  “I was beginning to think you had disappeared,” Kyle said.

  “Yeah, I can’t believe you’ve been actually working all this time,” JJ added.

  “Trust me, I’ve been swamped.”

  We ordered drinks and scanned the menu of Southern delicacies, each of us taking turns describing what had happened since we last saw each other. Kyle and JJ wanted to talk about Quinn and how that was going. They squealed with disbelief when I broke the news that he was married. I failed to mention my night with Sela or my scene with Pops. Kyle had met some new man that he was being vague about and JJ was complaining about the lack of real men. Sylvia’s was always packed and the waitress seemed to take forever. We had been talking for almost twenty minutes before she came back to take our order. JJ and I ordered Sylvia’s famous fried chicken. Kyle still hadn’t decided and the plump waitress appeared a bit annoyed.

  “You still haven’t decided?” she asked with slight condescension in her voice.

  “Excuse me?” Kyle demanded.

  The waitress didn’t respond. She stood there holding her white pad and rolling her eyes at Kyle while JJ and I continued to talk.

  “Did you hear me?” Kyle asked, raising his voice.

  “What?” the waitress replied.

  “Miss Thang, you heard me. Are we paying extra for your shitty attitude?” he asked.

  “My name is Tawanda. I ain’t your Miss Thang,” the waitress replied.

  “Tawanda, Lawanda. I don’t give a fuck. I want to see the manager,” Kyle said in an abusive tone.

  JJ and I stopped our conversation and looked at Kyle with puzzled expressions on our faces.

  “What are you two looking at?” he asked.

  “Don’t come for me. You don’t want me,” JJ said.

  “Kyle, come on, give the lady a break,” I pleaded.

  “Fuck that bitch. I get sick and tired of these ghetto bitches giving me attitude for no apparent reason. They don’t give white folks their shitty attitudes.”

  These were the times I found Kyle trying. While I avoided confrontation, Kyle would sometimes look for it. He wasn’t a mean person; it’s just that I think at times Kyle tried to intimidate women before they intimidated him. When the manager of the restaurant came to our table, Kyle ranted and raved, using his expressive hand gestures and finger pops to explain what had transpired between him and Tawanda. The manager apologized and offered to buy our drinks. This was fine with JJ and me, but Kyle was still simmering. By now, other people in the restaurant were staring at our table. I was beginning to become embarrassed.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Kyle shouted at some people who had stopped eating and were looking directly into Kyle’s mouth. I began to look around to see if I recognized anyone. Chances were slim that I would see anybody from the office up in Harlem on a Saturday night. Sylvia’s was such a tourist spot that several white families were in the dining area where we were sitting. I had been there countless times and never experienced the scene Kyle was creating. I found the staff among the best in New York and that included the midtown restaurants I frequented.

  After a few more drinks Kyle calmed down, but he and Tawanda continued to exchange icy glances. Kyle looked pleased with himself. I was relieved that they changed waitresses and that Tawanda didn’t call Kyle a sissy … at least to his face. It would have caused an unusual occurrence. A hurricane in Harlem.

  We managed to finish dinner without any further incidents. Kyle and JJ wanted to go dancing at Better Days, a club located in midtown. Kyle also knew about a party in Brooklyn. I was tired and was not in the mood for the bars, so I passed. I probably could have been talked into going to a party because I enjoyed gay parties more than the loud dance bars.

  The bars were truly meat markets. People didn’t speak to you unless they were interested in going to bed with you, and everybody walked around with a snobbish attitude. Being grand was the goal while in the bars. Secretly, we all feared rejection. Parties were different, people were more at ease and didn’t appear to be out on the prowl. Seduction was more subtle.

  “Let’s stop at André’s and have a drink,” Kyle suggested.

  “I’m going home. I have to go to the office tomorrow.”

  “Party pooper,” JJ joked.

  “Next weekend,” I promised.

  Kyle and JJ decided to go to Better Days, so the three of us caught the No. 1 train downtown. While riding the train, Kyle started to talk a little more about the new man in his life.

  “He is so fine. Light-skinned with gray eyes. Body by God and the dick of death,” Kyle said.

  “Where did you meet him?” JJ quizzed.

  “It’s a long story,” Kyle said.

  “I hope you didn’t meet him at the Nickel,” I chirped in.

  “Fuck you, mister. Don’t you concern yourself with where I met him.”

  When the train reached the Ninety-sixth Street station, I kissed and hugged JJ and Kyle. While I was hugging Kyle, he slipped two crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills into my hands.

  “You sure you don’t need this?” I asked.

  “Trust me, I’m fine.”

  Once I reached my apartment, I collapsed. I kicked off my shoes, hit the PLAY button on my answering machine and lay across the bed. Two messages from Quinn, one from my mother and a call from Nicole. She was playing one of the lead roles at Sunday’s matinee and would leave two tickets for me at the box office. Whom should I take?

  “At this performance of Dreamgirls, the role of Dena Jones will be played by Nicole Springer,” the voice over the loudspeaker said. A collective moan went up from the audience. I’d heard these moans before at Broadway shows, but this was the first time the sigh was for somebody I knew personally.

  Minutes into the show Nicole Springer had won me over. She had a stunning stage presence and a beautiful, melodious voice. When I had last seen the show, years before, I was blown away by Jennifer Holliday’s booming voice and Sheryl Lee Ralph’s beauty. This cast didn’t include Jennifer or Sheryl, but it was exceptionally talented.

  I watched Nicole’s every move onstage. When she wasn’t onstage, I waited with excitement for her return. I hardly noticed all the good-looking men in the cast. Besides, I had seen many of them in the bars.

  I had decided to invite my paralegal, Susan Ward, to attend the show with me. We had been in the office working since 7 A.M. and she had never seen the show. I had originally intended to invite either Kyle or JJ, but both of them had hangovers from the previous night. Susan and I had become friendly working on cases before and she was really supportive of me with my first big case. She was attending NYU and planning to go to law school once she finished undergrad. Susan was tall and strongly built, with strawberry blond hair and pale blue eyes. She was attractive in a wholesome kind of way.

  Dreamgirls was a welcome diversion from all the documents we had reviewed Sunday morning. As I watched Nicole perform her part to perfection, I questioned why she had made a point of inviting me and leaving two tickets. By the end of the show Nicole had not only won me over but had also won over the entire audience, which gave her a thunderous ovation when she took her final bow. Susan and I waited outside at the backstage door to thank Nicole for the tickets and congratulate her on her performance. When she emerged from the door, she spotted me immediately. Nicole had a big smile on her face and gave me a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek. Her expression remained intact as I introduced Susan as one of my coworkers. While the three of us stood there talking, I recognized Kyle’s friend Tony Martin, who came from the stage door with one of the male cast members. When he first saw me, he had a quizzical look on his face. When he realized that I was with Nicole, he simply nodded acknowledgment and hurried down the street with his friend. If Nicole did see the glances we exchanged, she didn’t mention it. She was busy accepting congratulations from well-wishers and saying good-bye to cast members.

  One obviously gay cast member came up, interrupted our conversation
and said, “Miss Thing, you peed. You were fierce, girl! Miss Brown won’t miss any more performances when she hears about this,” as he snapped his fingers in the air, laughing.

  Though she still looked like the sharp-faced beauty from the first night we met, Nicole didn’t have on any makeup. She had washed off her stage makeup and her face was scrubbed clean. Her thick black hair was wrapped in a stylish ball. The sequined dress and mink coat had been replaced by a tight-fitting red sweater dress and a black leather cast jacket. She invited Susan and me to JR for coffee, but we had to decline. There was still a tremendous amount of work to do at the law firm. We agreed to try to get together for lunch sometime the following week. We again exchanged embraces and a sweet, simple kiss and headed in opposite directions.

  “I think Nicole is smitten with you,” Susan commented.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m a woman—we know things like that.” Susan smiled.

  Smitten, I thought to myself. Now surely a woman like Nicole Springer could tell that I was gay or at least bisexual.

  Or could she?

  The week flew by. Susan and I were heavily involved in the first round of preparations for our upcoming depositions. I had several meetings with the Tri Tech lawyers and I held my own. I had little time for a social life and it didn’t seem to matter. Quinn was calling less frequently and Kyle and JJ both had new men in their lives, so they didn’t seem to miss me. Thursday night I called Nicole and we agreed to have lunch on Friday.

  I suggested Ben Benson’s Steak House and Nicole promptly agreed. It was an upscale restaurant in midtown that the partners at my firm frequented. Nicole was waiting at the hostess’s stand, looking absolutely stunning, when I walked in.

  “You weren’t getting worried?” I asked as I gave her a gentle embrace and kisses on her cheeks.

  “No, I knew you’d make it.” She smiled.

  We engaged in cautionary conversation while we sipped hot spiced tea. Just when the waiter was delivering our salads, Nicole looked at me with a sarcastic smile and asked, “So, Raymond, how long have you been dating Susan?”

  “Dating Susan? Oh no, you’ve got me wrong! Susan and I are just coworkers.”

  “Oh,” she responded coyly.

  When our entrées were served, out came another question. “So who are you dating?” she asked while delicately spreading butter on the sourdough bread.

  “No one special.”

  I decided I’d better not order dessert or the are-you-gay question might come up.

  I enjoyed talking with Nicole. Not only was she beautiful, she was extremely smart. I discovered that she had come to New York after becoming the first black to be a runner-up to Miss America and the first black Miss Arkansas. I was very impressed. She was truly a Southern belle, a new type of belle but a belle nonetheless. She had a certain sex appeal that was hard to ignore, a quiet confidence in the way she carried herself that no man in his right mind could resist. Dreamgirls was her first Broadway show and she was in the process of preparing her nightclub act. She told me she had been in love once. He was a doctor, but he didn’t want to leave Arkansas. Nicole talked about how hard it was to pursue her career and have a social life.

  “All the men I meet are one of three things: white, married or gay,” she said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said with a faint smile. An uneasiness seized me, but I tried to appear calm. My eyes drifted away when I heard her say how lucky Candance was to find someone like Kelvin.

  “Maybe I’ll catch her wedding bouquet,” she whispered as if she were talking to herself.

  As Nicole talked, I thought to myself how tough it must be for black women these days. I mean, being black and gay was tough enough, but I had never stopped to think how difficult it must be for sharp black women. Maybe that was why she hadn’t asked me the gay question. Did she know and just want a new friend or did she really think that I was straight? Or was she willing to take me in my present condition?

  “Ray, I find it best to be forward, living in New York, so I have something I’d like to ask you.”

  “Yes and what’s that?” I now felt beads of sweat forming on the back of my neck.

  “Would you go to church with me on Sunday?”

  “Church?”

  “Yes, church. You have heard of it?”

  “Sure,” I said, laughing. “Sure, I’ll go to church with you.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Ninety-sixth and Broadway.”

  “Okay. I live in midtown, so I’ll pick you up at ten-thirty. Okay?”

  “It’s a date.”

  I looked at my watch and realized that it was almost three o’clock. I helped Nicole hail a taxi and headed back to the office. I still had a few calls to make and it was Friday. Kyle and the Nickel Bar would be waiting.

  When I was leaving the office, one of the partners stopped me at the elevator.

  “How’s the case coming, Raymond?” Mr. White asked.

  “It’s coming along fine, Mr. White.”

  “Great! Now, Raymond, I told you … call me Dan. We’re all equals around here.”

  “Sure, Dan.”

  “Tell me who that beautiful young lady was I saw you with at Ben Benson’s today?”

  “A good friend.”

  “Well, beautiful young lady. You should bring her to the next office function,” he suggested.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Dan.”

  The conversation with Dan made me realize that I was getting to the age where people were starting to ask questions about my marital status. Most of the professional gay men that I knew always managed to have a girlfriend that lived out of town … like the West Coast or, if you were lucky, Europe. After age thirty-five, the lie changed to “I’m divorced.”

  The only other black lawyer in the office, Brayton Thompson, was married and his wife, Tracie, often came to the office. I admitted to myself an undercurrent of jealousy and resentment when it came to Brayton. He was living the life I often dreamed of. Smart, successful and married to a ravishing model, with two beautiful children. Brayton had been with the firm about a year longer than I, but he hadn’t been assigned any big cases. I once overheard a couple of the partners talking in the men’s room, unaware that I was in the next stall. They were discussing who among the current associates would one day make partner. When Brayton’s name came up, one of the partners mentioned that he had finished first in his law school class. The other partner remarked, “Yeah, first at Howard, not Harvard.”

  I hadn’t decided if I was going to hang around long enough to be considered partner material, but I knew if I did well on this case, it might start to come up. The firm had one black partner when I accepted my offer, but he was later appointed to the federal bench. In the past I had always brought JJ to office parties and prayed the whole time that she wouldn’t get drunk and read somebody. I was also very careful with whom I talked on the phone at work. Everyone at Kyle’s office knew he was gay, but even when he called me, we talked in codes, changing he’s to she’s. Kyle said there was no way he would put up with corporate bullshit. Being a fashion illustrator meant he didn’t have to. I mean, have you ever heard of a black male in the fashion industry who wasn’t gay?

  As soon as I walked into the Nickel, I spotted Kyle. He still had his coat on and appeared to be waiting on me.

  “Don’t take your coat off,” Kyle instructed me.

  “Why?”

  “We aren’t staying here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Down to my apartment.”

  “Your apartment. For what?”

  “I have somebody I want you to meet.”

  “Who?”

  “This new guy I was telling you about, Steve Douglas.”

  “Steve?”

  “Yes, but I want you to act like you just dropped by. He’s really secretive. But I want you to see him in case I ever come up missing,” Kyle joked.

  “Is he a maniac?” I a
sked.

  “No, Ray, I’m just messing with you.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “When we get close to my apartment, you wait ten minutes and then ring my buzzer.”

  Even though it was freezing cold, we decided to walk to Kyle’s apartment on Fifty-eighth and Ninth Avenue. It always amazed me that no matter how cold it was, the streets of New York were always crowded with people walking. As we walked down Broadway, Kyle chatted nonstop about Steve this and Steve that. How wonderful he was in bed and how beautiful his body was. When I questioned Kyle on where they had met and what he did, he simply replied that he would tell me later. Between his rave reviews of Steve, he mentioned that JJ was going out with the bus driver from the No. 103 bus that she had been riding for years.

  “Is he straight?” I asked.

  “JJ says he is, but what does that bitch know. She thought you were straight.”

  “Screw you.”

  “You wish,” Kyle said as he darted into the closing elevator.

  I waited about ten minutes and then rang the buzzer to Kyle’s apartment. I quickly grabbed the door as soon I heard the buzzing sound. Once I reached Kyle’s floor, I saw him looking out of his door and motioning for me to hurry. When I came within inches of his door, Kyle said, “Ray, what a surprise. It’s been months. Come on in.”

  I rolled my eyes in slight irritation at Kyle as I walked into his small studio apartment. When I walked in, I noticed the back of a beautiful body in black leather pants.

  “Ray, this is Steve.”

  When the guy turned around to extend his huge hand, my mouth dropped open. I realized that I knew Steve from somewhere. But where?

  “Hello, Ray,” Steve said as he smiled.

  After a moment of shocked silence, I extended my hand and said, “Hello.” While Kyle was in the kitchen mixing drinks, I continued to stare at Steve. Kyle was right. This guy was an absolute vision. A tall, rock-hard body, with a chiseled face and honey brown complexion highlighted by an engaging smile. His eyes, a catlike gray color, were mesmerizing, not only because of their color but also because of their intensity, demanding my attention.