“I’m not looking to make a citizen’s arrest. I just want to get a feel for him. But, talking it through with you now, it sounds kind of unlikely. I mean, even if I went there, I’d probably never get close to him. The guy’s a lightning rod—I’m sure they screen who gets to meet him.”
“You promise you’re not going to put yourself in any danger?”
I crossed my heart. “Scout’s honor. Why?”
“If you’re determined to do this, we can probably get you right next to him. It just cal s for some social engineering.”
It wasn’t a phrase I was familiar with. “We’re going to build something?”
“Kind of,” Marc said. “We’re gonna build a new you.”
28
Don’t Rain on My Parade
After Marc told me what he had in mind, we said good-bye to get started on his plans.
I went back to my apartment, sent him some JPEGs he asked for, and quickly showered and changed for my meeting with Dr. Franklin Mitnick, a podiatrist with a foot fetish. After he noisily shot while buffing my left sole with a pumice stone, I had to ask him a question that’d been bothering me since our first session.
“Don’t your ‘interests’ make your job kind of hard?”
Dr. Mitnick wiped his spooge up from the floor.
“How do you mean?” He was a fifty-something man who, with his pink skin, shapeless body, and bald head, reminded me of a boiled and peeled shrimp.
He put the wet paper towels to his side.
“Aren’t you, like, in a state of constant excitement working around feet al day?”
“Oh dear, no.” Dr. Mitnick waved his hand to say pshaw. He reached for a bottle of lotion and started rubbing some into my feet. “By the way, do you mind if I do this? You mustn’t exfoliate without adequate hydration afterward.”
It felt like a dream come true. “No, hydrate away.”
The bracing scent of lime drifted up to me.
“Marvelous. As to your previous query”—Dr.
Mitnick had a precise way with language that always made me think he should have a British accent instead of his flat Upstate New York twang—“the feet I see here are cal oused and injured and old. But these”—he dug his fingers into my heel—“these are perfection. So smooth, so delicious, so clean.” He licked his lips and began to breathe a little heavier.
What he was doing felt so good that I normal y would have let him continue. But I had places to go.
“Thanks, doc,” I said, pul ing my foot away. He gave a little whimper. Sorry, dude. “Can you hand me my sock?”
“I’l get it for you,” he said, rol ing the sock over my toes with the care and reverence of an archeologist sliding a rare and precious find into a specimen bag.
“My pleasure.”
I went back to my place and checked my e-mail.
There it was: A note from Marc tel ing me the deed was done. Boy worked fast. I checked out a few links Marc included in his note and was amazed at what he was able to achieve.
Mad genius, indeed.
A lot of people think that because I’m a male hustler I have to dress provocatively al the time. It’s pretty much the opposite. I meet most of my clients at their apartment buildings or hotel rooms, and they usual y appreciate if I arrive looking as conservative as possible. Strangely enough, most men don’t want a young guy whose outfit screams “gay whore”
showing up at their door. Go figure.
So, I have a large selection of what I cal my
“young Republican” drag. For my first trip to Jacob Locke’s headquarters, I selected khaki Banana Republic slacks, a white Nordstrom brand button-down shirt, and a blue Brooks Brothers blazer.
Brown Oxfords and a brown belt completed my transformation into someone who wouldn’t look out of place at Liberty University. I laid everything out on the bed and was about to get changed when I realized I needed navy socks, too. Alas, a thorough review of my sock drawer made it clear I didn’t have any clean ones.
I went to my overflowing laundry basket and started looking for the least raunchy worn ones.
Sniffing each careful y (Dr. Mitnick would have been in heaven), I found two that matched and didn’t smel too bad.
OK, but it was definitely time to get my clothes washed. I usual y brought my laundry to the cleaners on the corner. After losing an iPod, a watch, and God knows how much cash, though, I learned to check my pockets first.
Since I figured I’d drop off the laundry on my way to Locke’s office, I went through it, finding a ten-dol ar bil in the pocket of a pair of sweatpants and my ATM card in my gym shorts. Sweet.
At the bottom of the pile were Tony’s jeans. Aw, I was his laundry-whore. How romantic.
I didn’t mind. In my head, I played my favorite song for doing domestic chores: “Housewife,” by the super-talented and cute Jay Brannan, a folksinger I had a bit of a crush on.
Did I want to be Tony’s wife? Wel , duh. I mean, a wife with a cleaning woman and a personal chef, please, but stil , yes.
Which made me think of Marc’s remarks from earlier this morning. Did Tony refrain from nagging me about my work because he didn’t want me looking too closely at what he was up to?
Naw, not Tony. He was ambivalent and conflicted, but he wasn’t a cheat. He told me he wasn’t ready for a commitment and we had a somewhat (on my part) begrudgingly open relationship. So, what could there be to hide?
I checked his jeans. Maybe I’d make a buck. No such luck. Just some string, a Dentyne wrapper, and a movie ticket. Had we gone to see something recently? Not that I remembered. I checked the stub.
Super Rangers.
The movie I had asked—begged—him to see with me. The one he told me he’d never go to, because it was for kids. A waste of his time.
But someone got him to go. I checked the date on the ticket stub. A Saturday afternoon two weeks ago.
I remembered that day. We usual y spent Saturdays together, but he’d told me he had to work.
He lied to me.
I wonder what secrets he’s keeping? Marc had said.
I’d dismissed him, but maybe he was smarter than I knew.
If Tony wasn’t lying to me about wanting to sleep with women, why would he hide something as insignificant as having seen a movie?
Why do we tel smal lies? To distract from the big ones.
Tony was seeing someone else. I knew that was a possibility. But I could never imagine he’d take that person—a boy?, a girl?—to something he knew I wanted to do, and then lie to me about it.
Unless the person was important to him.
How do you know if it’s love or pain?
I stil had Jay’s “Housewife” playing in my head, but this time, the closing verse: “We haven’t met yet.”
It reminded me that, even in song, the housewife fantasy isn’t always meant to be.
Had I not met my soul mate yet, either? Would things never be right for Tony and me?
Fuck it, I thought. Regrets are for losers. I’d figure out Tony’s Big Lie later.
Now, I had a job to do. I had someone else to be. It was show time.
29
New York State of Mind
Not only was John Locke’s campaign headquarters in New York, but it was in Times Square, the dark heart of the city’s carnal excesses. Despite various attempts to clean it up, Times Square stil felt seedy and wild. I lived off Eighth Avenue, and on my thirtyblock walk uptown to Locke’s office, I passed about twenty-five adult boutiques, X-rated video stores, and peep shows.
I guess the efforts to neuter Times Square were as successful as every other attempt to suppress human sexuality, which is to say, a total bust.
My nice-boy Oxfords weren’t the greatest walking shoes, but I hoped the long hike would take my mind off Tony.
To further distract myself, I played The Pedestrian Game, in which I pick a person walking twenty feet ahead of me and hurry to catch up. Once I pul alongside him, I pick another target and
chase her, and so on, constantly chal enging myself to reach the next goal.
Because the streets of New York are always so crowded, it’s not just a matter of walking fast—you have to weave in and out of the foot traffic, dodging, sidestepping, and slipping between wherever possible. Speed isn’t enough; you have to be crafty.
It takes a lot of concentration to play The Pedestrian Game. It’s a good workout, too. By the
time I reached the storefront that served as Locke Central, I was a little sweaty, had put Tony out of my mind, and was looking forward to not being Kevin Connor for a while.
The former retail space occupied by Locke for President wasn’t fancy, but it was festive.
Everywhere you looked hung red, white, and blue posters with the phrase, “For our country, for our families, for our future—Locke now!”
Desks with phones and computers were somewhat
haphazardly
placed
wherever
an
electrical outlet or phone jack al owed. A large map on one wal was dotted with pushpins. Another wal had an oversized calendar with events penciled in.
Omnipresent were photos of Locke himself, sometimes kindly, sometimes stern, always looking at you with the direct gaze of a particularly earnest salesman.
I wouldn’t describe the place as busy. More than half the desks were empty. While every other campaign office I ever visited was fil ed with ringing phones and young people, Locke’s space was quiet and staffed mostly by senior citizens. I noticed a few people dressed in clerical garb col ating papers and stuffing envelopes. At the far end of the room, outside a closed office door, a guy who looked to be in his forties, young for the room, typed furiously. The whole scene was a little depressing.
“Can I help you?” asked a woman at the bridge table that had been set up by the door. She put down the book she’d been reading and smiled at me.
Fifty-something, I guessed, with a round face and pale smooth skin that spoke of a lifetime of avoiding cigarettes, alcohol, and the sun. She wore a dark blue cashmere turtleneck with a string of simple pearls. I noticed the book she put aside was The Holy Spirit: Activating God’s Power in Your Life, by Bil y Graham. She wore a nametag: Lucil e.
“Hi,” I answered, giving her my best Sunday school smile. “I’m here to volunteer on the campaign.”
“Wel , bless your heart,” she answered, her voice musical. “We can certainly use more young folk around here. Come along.” I thought I detected a bit of a Southern accent in her lilt and I wondered if she came to New York just to work on the campaign.
She led me to a long folding table against the wal facing her desk. She selected some papers from a hanging rack, like the kind that hold magazines at a dental office, and handed them to me. “Now, why don’t you fil these out and bring them back to me.
Someone from the campaign wil go over them, see where you’d do the most good, and get back to you in a couple of days.”
“OK,” I said. “Although I real y am anxious to start.”
“Wel , you know what they say. ‘Those who are patient inherit what has been promised,’ ” she tril ed.
Actual y, I didn’t know anyone who ever said anything remotely like that.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered equal y cheerily. “Good things come to those who wait!”
Lucil e beamed.
“Oh!” she said sharply, a sudden frown crossing her face. Had I already done something to blow my cover? “I didn’t give you a pen! Let me fetch you one.”
I reached into my jacket and pul ed out an expensive Montblanc that had been given to me by my late friend Al en Harrington. “I brought my own.”
“Handsome and clever,” Lucil e chirped. “I bet the girls are al over you.”
Not exactly. What would the proper Christian response be? “I’m saving myself for marriage”?
Probably too much. I decided to just smile.
Lucil e smiled back.
Now, we were both smiling at each other. I waited for her to say something, or leave, but she just kept smiling. Is this what nice people did? I guessed she real y wasn’t from New York.
“OK,” I said, trying to sound even more chipper than before, “I better get to work!” I waved my pen to remind her what I was supposed to be doing.
“You just give me a shout if you need anything, honey.”
I waited til Lucil e’s happy ass was seated back at her desk and surreptitiously slipped my iPhone from my pocket. I crooked my arm to hide it from view.
I opened up the e-mail Marc sent me earlier today and copied the information from it onto the volunteer application. As I wrote, I looked around. Not too much, though—the pace of the geezers who were working there was pretty glacial, and I didn’t want to startle them with any quick movements. I saw Lucil e talking to the guy I noticed earlier in the back, then watched as she drifted back to her desk.
“Al finished,” I announced, as I handed her my forms. “I hope I hear from you soon.”
Lucil e (shocker alert!) smiled even more broadly than she had earlier. “You’re a lucky boy today”—she looked at my sheet—“Kevin Johnson!”
Marc had suggested I not use my real last name.
“I am?”
“Why, yes, you are! Remember how I told you it takes a few days for us to get back to you? Usual y, newcomers have to wait until our volunteer coordinators review their applications. But today, Mr.
Jason Carter, our very own chief of staff, the man closest to the man himself, has offered to meet with you.” Her awed voice and wide-open eyes let me know his was an honor far beyond anything I could have imagined.
“Wow,” I said. “Lucky me.” I wasn’t particularly looking forward to meeting whatever creep would serve as Locke’s right-hand man.
“Come on then.” She grabbed my hand. “You don’t keep a man like Jason Carter waiting!”
Maybe you don’t keep Jason Carter waiting, but the reverse isn’t true. At least it wasn’t that day, as Lucil e and I stood by his desk for five minutes while he talked on the phone and ignored us. His head was down as he listened and spoke intently into the handset.
“No, no . . . we’l have to see. Right. Uh-huh. We can do it on the ninth, but only if Locke gets to speak before the senator. Right, before. Uh-huh, uh-huh, I know, I know, but he has to go first. Why? Because I want the audience awake for him, Roger. You know as wel as I that Senator Franklin puts a crowd to sleep faster than a stal ion takes to a mare. Uh-huh, yeah, wel , I’ve seen the senator’s pol ing and I think we do him more good than he does us at this stage, so that’s the way it has to be. I surely would appreciate if you could make that happen. You can?
That’s great. We’l see you on the ninth then, Roger.
Good job.”
As Jason talked, I studied his work area. Messy, but in a way that looked productive, as if he didn’t have time to be fastidious. On the credenza behind him, a photo of his wife and two children, a family so perfect they looked like the picture you get when you buy the frame.
Jason hung up the phone and shook his head, chuckling to himself. Lucil e cleared her throat. “Mr.
Carter?”
Jason looked up. My first impression was surprise
—he looked even younger than from across the room. I’d put him at around thirty-five. He had bright red hair in a military buzz and a redhead’s fair complexion. Blue eyes and freckles made him look even younger. He had a medium build, neither heavy nor particularly slim. It certainly wasn’t a gym body, but he looked healthy and in good proportion.
His poly-cotton white shirt was wrinkled, with a coffee stain on the left sleeve. A red tie was loosely knotted around his neck. I couldn’t see his slacks behind the desk, but I’d bet even money they were Dockers. I noticed the wedding ring on his left hand.
Jason wasn’t traditional y handsome, but he had an appeal, and when he saw us and smiled to reveal white even teeth and an unexpected dimple, he went up a grade or
two. His slight Southern accent was also pretty charming.
“Miss Lucil e,” he chided, “I’ve done told you, ‘Mr.
Carter’ is my Pa. You can cal me Jason.”
“Now, you’re in charge around these here parts, Mr. Carter, and you don’t go around cal ing the boss by his first name. It ain’t proper.”
For a quick second, I had the surreal feeling that I was watching Aunt Bee lecture Opie on The Andy Griffith Show.
“Fine, fine,” Jason relented. “Thank you very much, Miss Lucil e. I’l take it from here.”
Lucil e squeezed my arm. “Good luck, honey.” She handed Jason my volunteer forms and floated away.
Jason gestured to a chair facing his desk. “Al right, chief, take a load off. Kevin, right?”
“That’s right,” I said, extending my hand. “Kevin Johnson. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carter.”
“Tel you what,” he said, leaning forward and resting his hand on his chin. “I’l make ya a deal. You cal me ‘Jason’ and you’re hired.”
“OK, Jason,” I answered.
Jason grinned and let out a sigh of release. “My Lord, I do miss hearing my first name around here. I’l be frank with you, Kevin, the average age of the person who walks through those doors”—he pointed to the front of the room—“is somewhere between fifty and death. When Miss Lucil e told me you were here to help out, I figured I better grab ya before you leave, thinking you wandered into one of them senior citizen homes by mistake.”
I grinned, too. I kind of expected to hate everyone here, but Jason didn’t seem too bad. “Wel ,” I said, “I left my walker and colostomy bag at home today.”
Jason threw back his head and roared with laughter. You could see he didn’t get much chance to cut loose much around here. A few heads turned toward us, their attention drawn by the unusual outburst.
Jason leaned back toward me. “That was a good one, chief. I needed that.” He darted his eyes around the room. “Some of the folks around here,” he whispered, “seem to think they’re in church. That’s why it’s so darned quiet around here al the time. My Lord, I’ve been to funerals more lively than this place.”
Second You Sin Page 21