by James Gregor
In the lobby, a young man in a skinny dark-blue suit with a Rasputin-like beard helped an elderly woman in a Chanel jacket through the doors. His eyes moved up and down Richard’s body with the lag of appetite and pursuit.
They went outside into the heavy air.
“Sometimes I wish I smoked,” Anne said, looking at a man in a leather jacket lighting a cigarette beside the fountain. “I like the smell.”
She wrapped her arm around Richard’s waist. Traffic noise bloomed around them and a glow filled the plaza.
“I smoked pretty regularly in college,” he said.
“You smoked regularly in Montreal if I remember.”
He put his arm across her shoulder.
“Should we go to Petrossian?”
“Let’s just walk.”
They went down Broadway toward the blocky eruption of the Midtown skyline. Nocturnal pedestrians ambled by with their hands in their pockets. A woman walked two West Highland terriers on a leash, speaking on her phone as the dogs sniffed a bench.
At Columbus Circle, dressed in neon T-shirts and high-top running shoes, a group of teenagers tapped their skateboards against the pavement. Richard stared into the arboreal reaches of Central Park, commanded now by cairn terriers and Bernese mountain dogs, strollers and joggers, as it once had been by rapists, drug dealers, and junkies, or so they said. He imagined himself reflecting back on this humid scene from the future—their awkward distribution across the clammy traffic island, the dark spangle of the skyscrapers, the park tamed but still potent with metropolitan promise and mystery—and erasing the fatigue, boredom, and clumsiness.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Nothing, really,” he said. “Just thinking about what Central Park used to be like.”
His phone buzzed and he slid it out of his pocket.
HOW ARE YOU TONIGHT? Blake asked.
“Who is it?”
Richard didn’t look up.
“My father,” he said, invoking a man who, in fact, never texted after eight o’clock in the evening.
“Oh, hi to your father. How is he?”
“I think he’s bored.”
“Yeah?”
She put her hands in her pockets.
“He’s just wondering what I’m doing.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“The truth.”
She was standing close. He moved away slightly, to hide the screen.
“Have you ever mentioned me to him?”
“Have I ever mentioned you to him?” Richard repeated, frowning and looking up at the upper floors of a nearby building. “Sure.”
“I’d like to meet him.”
“My parents never come to New York.”
“We should go and see them. I want to see where you grew up.”
“I don’t want to go home. It’s just . . . trees.”
“You’re being testy.”
“There isn’t much to do. And my parents would be there.”
Richard could almost feel the odd, suspended dynamic that would settle on such a trip, like an episode of some neurotic comedy whose humor springs from an unwieldy, weekend-long social embarrassment: the wrinkled-forehead politeness, his parents’ tolerant confusion as they tried, in private, to reason out what was going on, to discern the contours of the relationship before them without offending or “judging,” wondering if their guests wanted to sleep in the same bed but not wanting to ask, while at the same time not wanting to presume.
“I thought you had a good relationship with your parents,” Anne said.
Richard shrugged.
“I do, I do. It doesn’t mean I want to go home.”
He put the phone back in his pocket, not wanting to get caught up in a texting back-and-forth with Blake at that moment, an exchange Anne would surely notice.
“You don’t want me to meet them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
His phone buzzed again. He pulled it out and glanced down. It was Patrick this time.
PARTY AT TOLLER’S. GET HERE NOW. I WANT TO GIVE YOU A BIG KISS.
Richard smiled.
“That’s not your father,” Anne said.
“It’s Patrick.”
“What’s going on?”
“He’s saying hello. He got back from Boston today.”
She rolled her eyes and looked away.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“Should we call it a night? I’m tired and you’re not in a very good mood,” he said. The guilt he’d felt the previous morning in bed, in contrast to the rank comfort of his body, was now almost completely gone, and the prospect of Blake looming somewhere in an unidentified corner of the city, writing him messages, and the fact of Patrick demanding his presence from across the river at Toller’s loft, made him feel impatient and corroded his generosity.
“We could watch a movie,” she suggested.
But the idea of watching other people move around on a screen was unappealing when his own life was so rife with potential action.
“I think I’ll head back to Brooklyn,” he said.
“You’re leaving me?” she said, with a pained look.
“You don’t seem very happy with my company.”
“We were having a nice time. Let’s stay out.”
He inhaled.
“Do you still want to get a drink at Petrossian? I don’t want to watch a movie.”
“Maybe.” She was looking up at a building. “Let’s keep walking for a bit. It’ll clear our heads.”
“Okay, but I don’t want to be interrogated.”
“I wasn’t interrogating you,” she snapped.
As they went along Central Park South, Richard was overcome by the urge to flee. He glanced over into the humped, thistled vacuity of the park, saw himself scrambling over the mossy rock and vanishing into its black, pastoral depths.
“Let’s get away from that thing,” Anne said. They were approaching the beaming white cube of the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue. They turned south and paused in front of the window at Bergdorf Goodman.
“That’s beautiful,” she said, pointing to a rose-colored Valentino crepe de chine dress.
“You would look good in that.”
“I am too short to wear a dress like that.”
He beat back a flare of exasperation.
“All right then,” he said, enunciating primly.
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “You know what I just remembered?”
“Nope.”
“Our night in the tent.”
“The protest?”
He felt his phone buzzing again.
HEY STRANGER! Blake wrote. WHAT’S UP?
“Is that Patrick again?”
“Yes.”
She let go of his arm. She glared at him as he concentrated on his phone.
“Do you have feelings for Patrick?”
“What are you talking about?”
Of course Richard knew what she was talking about. He knew that she noticed him checking out guys on the street. It was obvious they were both captivated by the same exemplary, specimen-like young men—they had similar tastes, he suspected—striding down the block, which of course happened often in Manhattan, though their shared appreciation had never quite been expanded upon.
“Your voice changes when you talk about him.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“I’ve asked you several times if I could meet him.”
Richard tried to think of a response, but nothing came.
“Do you talk to him about me?” she said, sounding pained again.
“Why does that matter?”
“You don’t want to introduce me to your friends. That hurts me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’ve met Erin and Alicia. I haven’t met any of your friends.”
“Erin and Alicia live with you. That’s different.”
“You’re making a
n excuse.”
“Honestly?” he sighed. “I’m afraid you won’t like each other.”
“You think he wouldn’t like me?”
He saw the sting in her face. “I didn’t mean it like that. That didn’t come out right. It’s more that you wouldn’t like him.”
“If you care about him I will like him. I will try to like him.”
His phone buzzed again.
ARE YOU COMING OR NOT? Patrick wrote.
A second later:
?????????
“Don’t look at your phone while we’re talking.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. Why are you acting like this?”
“You’re being rude.”
His phone buzzed again.
IT’S NOT COOL, Patrick wrote. THAT YOU’RE IGNORING ME.
This was followed by a text from Blake:
HI.
“There’s a party,” Richard said, feeling assailed. “It’s happening right now. Do you want to go?”
“Where?”
“Brooklyn. Patrick will be there.”
“Oh God, really?”
“You just said you wanted to meet my friends.”
“Am I actually welcome?”
“Do you want to go or not?”
The thought of her walking off alone, amid the anonymous late-night shoppers and scrutinizing tourists, both pleased and distressed him. In his annoyance and fear, he felt the urge to dismiss and repudiate her, to send her off on her own. At the same time, he wanted to comfort her.
A young man and a young woman were kissing several feet away.
“I hate public displays of affection,” Anne said rancorously.
“Let’s get out of here then.” Richard raised his hand to hail a taxi.
* * *
THEY RACED DOWNTOWN AND over a bridge, not talking. Richard stared at his phone and Anne turned her face sourly out the window. Manhattan leapt forth to one side as they turned onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
COMING! Richard texted Patrick. CAN I BRING A FRIEND?
THAT GUY YOU RAN OFF WITH THE OTHER NIGHT?
So he did notice, Richard thought.
NO, A CLASSMATE, he replied, immediately questioning that moniker.
When they arrived at Toller’s loft, they found Toller, Amir, Barrett, and Patrick sitting on the couches. Richard led Anne across the room to make introductions, but when he tried to formally introduce her to them, the boys just nodded sparsely.
Patrick explained the rationale of the party. Barrett and Toller had been fighting for at least a month, at first playfully and then more genuinely. Barrett said that Toller played bad music at his parties, and that he was “sick of gyrating like a dreidel until his hair was about to fall out.” Toller retorted by calling Barrett a spoiled brat, and in turn Barrett accused Toller of being “old.” Several abrogated parties later, it was clear that they were dependent on each other—Barrett had no comparable space to take his friends, Toller no one to invite to his parties. To celebrate the renewal of their friendship, as well as to welcome Patrick back after his trip to Boston to look at postdocs, they were throwing this party. There was a male model in a jockstrap present to serve drinks.
“Check out the bulge on that guy,” Patrick said to Richard and Anne.
Patrick smiled at him. The young, curly-haired man waved back.
“I think I would have preferred drinks at Petrossian,” Anne said.
No one acknowledged this comment. A light machine attached to the ceiling fired kaleidoscopic rays at the dancers in swift, precise volleys.
Patrick vanished to field excited greetings and hugs.
“I’m getting a drink,” Anne said to Richard. “Do you want one?”
“Sure.”
She went off to the bar. While she was gone, Richard watched the dancers. When she came back, she had two glasses in hand. She gave one to Richard—it was a gin and tonic—drank hers quickly, and went back for another.
Maybe it’s better if she gets drunk, Richard thought. She won’t notice how they treat her. Or she will, but I won’t.
Beyoncé came on the speaker and Barrett, Amir, and Toller ran to join the small clump of dancers in the middle of the loft.
When Anne returned again, she said: “Did you notice that none of them asked me a single question?”
“You didn’t ask them anything either.”
“I’m the guest.”
“Everyone but Toller is a guest here, technically.”
They looked on as Barrett, Amir, and Toller bobbed in an arrhythmic cluster at the edge of a mass of happy dancers.
“I hope you’re not planning to dance,” she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not insulting you. I just don’t want you to leave me standing here by myself.”
“You wanted to come.”
“I wanted to go to Petrossian.”
“We had to go somewhere.”
She crossed her arms. A moment later, she rested her head on his shoulder, and he cocked his head impatiently.
“Are you falling asleep?” he asked. “Do you want to go home?”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“This is moronic,” she said.
Perhaps it would be more difficult to integrate her into his life than he’d ever imagined. They were like two ornery stray cats sitting on a wall, maintaining a peevish distance from each other, commenting bitterly on whatever transpired, and then disappearing into a dark space to copulate.
“This is not moronic,” he said. “Everyone is having a good time.”
Barrett appeared beside them, bathed in his own sweaty effulgence.
“What’s it like out there?” Richard asked cheerfully.
“That guy in the lime-green tank top won’t leave me alone. It’s like, I do not appreciate your unibrow, okay?”
“Don’t be mean,” Richard said with a chiding smile.
“Are you having fun?” Barrett asked Anne.
“Not really.”
“Why don’t you have another drink? Then it won’t matter.”
“Good advice.”
She went back to the bar.
“Bit of a wet blanket, that one.”
“She’s just tired.”
“Who is she again?”
“A friend from school.”
Toller and Amir appeared.
“Should we get out of here soon?” Barrett said, looking around with a contemptuous sneer. “I don’t know about this crowd.”
“You can’t leave,” Toller said, his eyes wide with exasperation. “You’re one of the hosts.”
“Where’s Patrick?” Barrett turned to Richard. “He loves you the best, you know?”
“Did he say that?” Richard asked, feeling an involuntary spring at this remark, like a dog intercepting a Frisbee. Anne returned with her drink.
“He and Valdes are fighting,” Barrett mused, almost optimistically. “It won’t last.”
Anne raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” Richard said.
Patrick hadn’t told him that. Why not? Richard had always thought of himself as having privileged access to Patrick’s inner life, and the idea that he did not dismayed him. At the same time, part of him was atavistically comforted to know that Patrick and Valdes were having relationship issues.
The song changed.
“Ooo, I love this,” Barrett said, and he darted off.
Richard watched as his broad, glistening back disappeared among the other dancers. As Anne again placed her chin on Richard’s shoulder, he was seized by a desire to flinch and let her topple to the floor.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Anne asked.
He pointed to a far door.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she said, handing him her drink.
When she was out of sight, carrying her drink and taking cat sips, Richard went to look for Patrick. He was impatient to find Patrick an
d talk to him, perhaps to comfort him. But when he passed the crowd, Barrett grabbed his arm and pulled him in. The music separated into sharp, discrete notes and fused into a charged ascending crest. Someone’s hand brushed his crotch. Richard closed his eyes and swung his arms in the air.
“Where’s Patrick?” he said when the music paused.
“I think he went outside to talk with Valdes.”
Richard squeezed out of the crowd and walked over to a window, scanning the street below. A few feet down the block, in the humid air portioned out by bent branches and a heavy canopy of leaves, like a grouping of hands spread out one on top of another in a communal gesture of support, Patrick and Valdes were getting into a cab. The door slammed shut and Richard watched as the cab accelerated down the block and turned a corner.
“What are you looking at?” Anne said, coming up and standing beside him.
“Nothing. I just needed some fresh air.”
“It is kind of stuffy in here.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, still watching the cab.
“I’m fine, I guess.”
He turned toward her.
“Should we go?” he said, feeling resigned now to the diminished emotional possibilities of the party.
He rested his chin against the top of her head.
“You don’t want to see your friends?” she asked.
“Let’s go.”
Anne smiled at him.
“Okay.”
She ordered an Uber and they went downstairs. The night was cool and still but for the muffled vibration of the music emanating from Toller’s loft.
As they waited, a group of guys, large young men in polo shirts, their arms a sequence of veiny bulges, appeared on the opposite sidewalk and crossed the street toward them.
One of the group stared at Anne.
“You look like the kind of art school chick I’d like to fuck,” he said.
“I’d fuck your dad,” she replied immediately.
“My dad’s dead.”
“Yeah, but he’s still got the biggest dick.”
The guy paused, a look of stark but forgiving confusion on his face. He stepped forward—Richard tensed but did not move—and embraced Anne.
The embrace lasted a long moment. Her arms hung at her sides, but then she raised one hand and briefly patted the young man’s broad back. When it was over, the group moved off without a word. The Uber arrived.
“Are you okay?” Anne asked Richard, getting in.