Going Dutch

by James Gregor

  “I disagree. Everyone is interested in the poor.”

  Barrett mentioned several crowd-sourcing ventures he wanted to pursue.

  “What about law school?” Toller said. “You spent all that time studying for the LSAT at my apartment.”

  “I didn’t say law school was out of the picture,” Barrett snapped.

  Richard wrapped his arms around his legs and squeezed himself—the sun was bright, but he felt cold—thinking that Barrett and Amir were making the appropriate moves to stave off future ruin. And what had he done? Learned Italian.

  “Otherwise,” Amir said pensively. “I either want to go into international development—or yes—become a lawyer and defend the disenfranchised.”

  “I had those dreams once,” Toller said. “But then I realized how much I like social chaos.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “It’s like in the seventies people went out all the time. Maybe the streets were full of potholes, but it certainly made for some great black-and-white photography.”

  Barrett and Amir rolled their eyes.

  “What do you want to do?” Barrett asked Richard.

  “Teach and do research, I guess.”

  “You guess,” Barrett said.

  “Like, on Dante?” Amir asked. “Do people still do that?”

  The question was so evenly put—posed with such a radiant impartiality—that Richard wanted to reach out and hug him.

  “For the time being,” he said.

  After the picnic, they went en masse to Toller’s loft for a more expansive party. People began to arrive almost immediately. Vladimir, Patrick’s new boyfriend, met them there.

  With his pitiless brow, perfect blockade of teeth, and cheekbones smoothed to a poreless glisten, Vladimir was undeniably handsome, but he was also a terrible dancer—even worse than Blake, Richard thought affectionately now, with satisfaction scrutinizing him as he gyrated. On top of that, Vladimir wore in Richard’s opinion terrible clothing: a pastel-blue shirt, chinos, and aerodynamic Nikes.

  But then, at the end of this pesky line of reflection, Richard could only conclude that all this squareness in dress and manner was likely proof of nothing except that Patrick really did love Vladimir for who he was.

  Toller came and stood beside him.

  “What do you think of Vladimir?” he asked.

  “Does it matter what I think?”

  “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

  Toller moved off and a few minutes later Patrick was beside him.

  “Everybody seems to be figuring things out,” he said sunnily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Toller will probably get one of his plays produced at some point and Barrett and Amir are both getting into law school, I’m sure.”

  “Good for them.”

  “Try and be less obviously bitter. People don’t like bitterness.”

  “You never used to give me that kind of advice.”

  “Well, we’re getting older.”

  People were lighting cigarettes, and the air was thick and milky with curving smoke. Nearby, Barrett danced opposite a muscular boy in a tank top. They maintained competitively intense and blank stares, their bodies set like contrasting morphs in a physiology textbook.

  “Toller invited too many people again,” Patrick said, sipping his beer. “I wish he would curate more.”

  Richard nodded but said nothing.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “I’m not mad at you,” Richard said. “But I’d prefer that you weren’t leaving.”

  “Want to get some fresh air?”

  They squeezed out of the crush of people and went toward the front door. When they were outside, Patrick lit another cigarette. Richard felt nervous. He could feel a weight like a large open hand pressing down on his chest, a mix of nerves and exhilaration.

  “Where’s Blake tonight?” Patrick asked.

  “Blake’s working,” Richard said. He paused. “I think he’s mad at me.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Can I have a cigarette?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I won’t be smoking in San Francisco,” Patrick said, handing the pack to Richard. “I don’t want to get punched in the face.”

  As Richard inhaled, he knew almost immediately that it was a mistake to draw in so much smoke. A wave of nausea passed over him, and he leaned against the building.

  “I hope I don’t hate San Francisco.”

  “You’ll love San Francisco,” Richard said, slowly regaining his equilibrium. “You’ll be fine. What am I going to do?”

  A car went past, the driver bopping his head to a heavy bass line.

  “You’re fine,” Patrick said with a chill elegance. “You’ll survive.”

  “Yes, but how?”

  “Stop asking yourself that. Anyone would worry.”

  “It’s a legitimate question.”

  Patrick raised an eyebrow and looked at Richard.

  “What’s wrong?”

  They were both silent for a moment.

  “Everything.”

  “I’m going to ask you a question,” Patrick said. “Sound okay?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Who was that girl at Toller’s last party?”

  Richard frowned. Part of him did want Patrick to ask him this question, knew it was coming. Part of him wanted to create a detailed map and express everything in a neutral schema of columns and numbers. Part of him wanted it to be perfectly clear.

  “What woman?”

  “That woman you were with.”

  “Anne?”

  “If I knew her name I wouldn’t be asking.”

  “She’s a friend from school.”

  “Right,” Patrick said, glancing down from his height of six foot three and a half. It was an obnoxious height, Richard thought.

  “Is that all?”

  “Is that all, what?”

  “Is that why Blake is mad?”

  “No,” Richard said, dumbstruck as always by Patrick’s sonar-like ability to identify what lurked in his mind, to keenly perceive him, to see him.

  “I sincerely hope you’re not bisexual.”

  Richard twitched. A bird landed on a branch across the street, and he stared hard with an accusatory expression, his face hot.

  “Did you really just say that?”

  “If you want a husband, which is what you’ve always wanted, a girlfriend is not going to help.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  Did Patrick pay closer attention than Richard gave him credit for? Maybe he was not as bound up in his own narcissism as Richard had always thought.

  “Fine then,” Patrick said. “What do you guys do?”

  “What, like, during the day?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We study together. Sometimes we eat together.”

  “She takes you out?”

  “It’s mostly a dutch thing.”

  “You need to be careful,” Patrick said. “You know how you confuse women.”

  “I have a female friend, and suddenly I need to be careful? That sounds pretty retrograde.”

  “Don’t be vague.”

  Richard felt himself gathering energy. A defensive bitterness propelled him.

  “If you were getting the attention, we’d be laughing.”

  Patrick frowned.

  “I think you should consider her feelings a little more,” Patrick said. “You could hurt someone.”

  “I don’t see where you’re going with this. I do think about her feelings.”

  “Do you? And why are you getting so upset?”

  “You’re seriously asking me that, when you’re attacking me?”

  “I’m not attacking you.” Patrick lit another cigarette. “I’m curious.”

  “ ‘Who is she?’ ‘Are you bisexual?’ ”

  “Relax. Jesus.”

  Richard rolled his eyes.


  “So you get to have all this—Vladimir, San Francisco—and what do I get? Am I supposed to just hang around and listen to your drama forever?”

  He was almost yelling, and Patrick’s head snapped back, but he stopped himself from actually taking a step away from Richard. As the cigarette burned in his hand, Patrick raised it to his mouth. He had a look of stung disbelief on his face, an expression that, though it quickly turned to derisive incredulity, could not hide the slash of Richard’s words.

  “I’ve spent hours listening to you,” Patrick said. “Years.”

  “The amount of time you’ve spent listening to me is nothing compared to the time I’ve spent listening to you.”

  “You’ve been measuring, is that it? Counting it up? Sounds fun.”

  “It’s uncountable, actually.”

  Patrick exhaled.

  “We better change the subject,” he said. “I don’t like this.” Richard shrugged.

  A rigid silence came over the street.

  Everyone was so angry with him, Richard thought. Was it really so terrible, what he had done?

  Maybe it was terrible. He did feel sick with himself, disgusted, as if, like pigeons on a derelict building, lies were roosting all over him. He wanted to brush them off. He had deceived Anne; he had deceived Blake; and he had deceived Patrick, who had always seen right through him—Patrick, who was not dependent on him, who had a full life separate from him, who could have severed all their ties without any material loss to himself, yet still loved him.

  “All right,” Patrick said. “We don’t have to talk about this. So you’re moving in with Blake, right?”

  “I’m not sure now.”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Not second thoughts. I’ve never felt this way about someone.”

  “Then I really am happy for you.”

  Patrick spread his arms out and motioned for Richard to step forward. Richard shook his head, but Patrick kept his arms open, insisting. There was a moment of hesitation, but then Richard came forward and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s broad body, leaning his forehead against Patrick’s shoulder. For a moment, he felt that they were tangibly, intuitively connected, their chests opposite walls that curved around the same chamber, arcing over a shared, precious space.

  “You’ll have to come out to San Francisco,” Patrick said, rubbing his back. “We can go to the two good gay bars that are left.”

  “Maybe I should move out there too. I’m not sure I like it here anymore.”

  Richard could feel both of their hearts beating.

  “You’re going to move in with Blake. You don’t actually want to leave.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Richard exhaled but didn’t say anything. “Your future is full of plans,” Patrick said. “Instead of repeating ‘What am I going to do?’ repeat ‘I’ll be fine.’ ”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Well, I don’t doubt you.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Richard felt he had to try to block the panic and sickness, to contain it. If he did not, it would overwhelm him.

  “I want you to know something, but you have to promise to forgive me first.”

  “I can’t do that,” Patrick said without a beat.

  Richard sighed.

  “Why do you have to be so difficult?” But there was little recrimination in his voice, just fatigue. “Why can’t you be supportive?”

  “What is it?” Patrick said, rubbing his back again. “I need to know what to forgive you for.”

  “Remember when I couldn’t write?”

  “Your writer’s block. Of course I remember.”

  “That took me a long time to get over.”

  “Mm, that was rough.”

  “It was rough—it really was.”

  Patrick’s sympathy was calming, but still there was the combative feeling that Richard could not vanquish, an anger that would not disperse.

  “But you got over it.”

  “Yes, well. I’m getting over it,” Richard said.

  “Good, that’s good.”

  “I’ve been getting help with it.”

  “Everyone needs another set of eyes.”

  “It was a little more serious than that, you know? It wasn’t just, ‘I need another set of eyes.’ It wasn’t like I could just go to the Writing Center. I was suffering.”

  “I know that, Richard.”

  “If you knew, then why didn’t you do anything?”

  With this accusation, Richard felt a burst of righteous anger. It was as if he’d suddenly realized, after a period of troubled amnesia, that a terrible wrong had been done to him.

  “I didn’t know you needed my help.” Richard nodded at the ground, not meeting Patrick’s eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence. “So how did you get over it then?” Patrick said. “What was the solution?”

  “I asked for help.”

  “Who from? Antonella?”

  “It wasn’t Antonella.”

  Richard tried to think of some other suitable person, but his mind would provide no plausible scenario. He suddenly felt weak and unable to sustain the charade.

  “Who was it then?” Patrick asked.

  “Someone else in the department.”

  “Okay, what was the formula? What did you do?”

  “Nothing. We didn’t do anything. We just worked together.”

  “Like what, a group paper?”

  “No, yes—I got help. We helped each other. It was sort of like—it was a collaboration.”

  He was starting to sweat. He hoped Patrick could not tell.

  “This all sounds a little vague,” Patrick said, his brow furrowed.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Richard said. His throat was drying out; he wanted another cigarette. “I needed the money from the foundation.”

  “I’m not getting a good feeling from this.”

  “I know—I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “What did you do, Richard?”

  Richard didn’t say anything.

  “What did you do?”

  Patrick stopped the rubbing motion. Richard looked up at him with a pathetic expression, like a dog kicked in the face.

  “I handed in someone else’s work. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Patrick’s arms fell away. He was silent a moment.

  “There were lots of things you could have done.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ask for help.”

  “Do I have to spell it out all the time?”

  “Don’t try to blame me for this.”

  Richard was angry again.

  “I’m not blaming you. This has nothing to do with you. But you get pretty wrapped up in your own life.”

  “Maybe I do, but that doesn’t change anything about what you did.”

  “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Yes it does,” Patrick said.

  “How?”

  “It has to do with my whole life, my whole academic career.”

  Richard frowned. “You’re being dramatic.”

  “Do you want me to tell you it’s okay?” Patrick said. “Just invalidate everything I’ve worked hard for?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “It would mean that all the work I’ve done—all the years I’ve spent, all the reading, all the writing and thinking, means nothing.”

  “It wouldn’t mean that.”

  “It doesn’t because I don’t absolve you.”

  “You don’t absolve me?”

  “No.”

  “It’s up to you?”

  “Well, why did you tell me? You don’t care what I think?”

  Of course he cared what Patrick thought. He cared too much what Patrick thought. What Patrick thought could paralyze him; what Patrick thought could reduce him to a state of incoherent paralysis.

  “I always care what you think. I’ve always been terrified
by what you think.”

  “Now you’re being dramatic.”

  But it wasn’t drama. Richard was being truthful.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not going to let this go,” Patrick said.

  “Never mind,” Richard said. “I don’t think I can deal with you right now.”

  “With what?”

  “Your sanctimonious tone.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Patrick tossed his cigarette away, nodded cuttingly, and strode toward the door of the building. Richard watched him go. For a moment he stood in front of the building with a stripped sense of exposure. Then he turned and started walking.

  Along the street, voices floated out from open windows. The neighborhood seemed full of parties. Fresh and miraculously cool, the soft air drifted. Richard told himself that he was happy that he did not have a bag; he tried to buoy himself by noting that he had not forgotten anything inside and did not have to go back to Toller’s apartment, that the drunken faces that had greeted Patrick as he stormed in would not turn to appraise him.

  But the world itself had been transformed to ensure a space for judgment to be exacted on him. The entire city was a courtroom. Just as he’d feared, Patrick had condemned him.

  He took out his phone.

  HOW WAS YOUR DAY? I MISS YOU. PLEASE ANSWER.

  NINETEEN

  Lying in bed, Richard observed that it had been too long since he changed the sheets. The amount of time he’d been spending there in the last few days clearly meant he should have been doing laundry more often. When he inhaled, he brought in the smell of sweat.

  Shapes appeared as the ceiling went in and out of focus. He rubbed his eyes, finally persuading himself to take a shower.

  An hour later, when he was dressed and outside, he walked down the humid arcade of the block. Branches and leaves clustered over, like the extended arms and hands of an audience applauding a performance.

  Around eleven o’clock, he was sitting in an unfamiliar coffee shop with a latte. As he looked vacantly out the window, his phone buzzed.

  HELLO, Blake wrote.

  Richard supposed it could be considered a response to the text message he had sent the other night, though so much time had passed, perhaps he could think of it as Blake reaching out.

  He shifted in his chair and began crafting his response. It had now been two weeks since he had last seen Blake at Sant Ambroeus and it was the first time Blake had responded to any of his texts.