“I don’t know, Jeff. It was still pretty funny.”
“You want to tell me what it is you think you’ll accomplish here, Fletch? Hanging around like this?”
“Accomplish?”
“Yeah,” he said. He was all kinds of frat-boy cocky, head tilted back, chest out. And man-oh-man, let me tell you something—I hate frat boys. “I mean what’s your game plan, dude?”
“I don’t think I have one, Jeff.”
“Pretty sure you do. You’re hoping to make an end run, score a few cheap points—like you did up there—weasel your way around me and back into Roger’s life. Bit of a Hail Mary, but I always admire a little grit and determination—”
“Wow. Sports metaphors.”
“—but you will never get Roger back.”
“Get Roger back?!” What was he talking about?! “I’m not trying to get Roger back!”
Was I?
“No?”
No, of course not! I thought.
“No! Of course not!” I said.
“Then why are you hanging around here all of a sudden?”
Beats the hell out of me, I thought. Really, why was I hanging around all the time?
“I was just catching up with some old friends, Jeff.” Improvisation.
“Seriously, dude? Because I’m not buying it.”
I was starting to wonder about it myself.
“I just like hanging out with Roger.” That much was true. “Don’t you, Jeff? Rey.”
“I’ll tell you what I think your plan is, shall I?”
“Oh yes please!” I said all sarcastic. “Do shall!” He ignored my attitude.
“A, you’re just going to hang out as much as possible because B, you figure you’re so good-looking, you don’t have to do a whole lot else.”
“Why, thank you, Jeff, that’s so nice of you to say.”
“C, you’ll be attentive and do him little favors, and you’ll be all loveable and charming with his friends—and you’re a pretty charming guy, Fletch, I admit it—”
“Jeff, tell the truth, are you getting sweet on me?”
“—and D, you’ll manipulate things so you’ll get your little moments, your little whispered conversations with Roger, like you did in the kitchen up there.”
“Hey—Roger asked me into the kitchen. If there were whispers, well then…”
“And E, one thing will lead to another—”
“Wait—is this really my plan? I mean, it doesn’t sound bad, but—”
“Look, dude, I know you had a really cozy deal with Roger back in the day. I can’t blame you for wanting it all back, i.e., his credit cards, his fat paycheck, the nice apartment—”
“Wait-wait-wait—you’re thinking I’m after Roger…for his money???”
“You’re trying to tell me you’re not?”
“That’s really what you think?!” And you know, I had thought I had to take this guy seriously. He’d had me worried there, he might have been on to something, but forget that! “Let me try to explain this, Jeff, in language you can understand. A, I’m not chasing after anybody.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“Two, if I was chasing after somebody, it sure as hell wouldn’t be because of his money!”
“You expect me to believe the money doesn’t interest you at all?”
“Pretty incredible, I know—Where was I, you threw me off. I’m not used to talking in bullet points. D! Now I’m starting to be suspicious of your motives here, you little flatworm, because you apparently can’t see that that smart, amazingly talented guy up there has so much more to offer than a frigging bank account!”
“Fine, okay. Look. I’ll cut you some slack here. I’ll even admit that you might not be just the pretty-boy prostitute—”
“Actually, I never—you know, never mind. I’m not even going to try.”
“I’m willing to admit that you might even like Roger a little. So if you do like the guy, do you think you’re making him happy, hanging around like this? You’re not. You’re making him miserable. Roger’s moved on, and you have to let him have the life he’s meant to have.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. You’ve met his family.”
“No, never did.”
“Really! Huh.” He looked even smugger, hearing that. Man-oh-man, I could really get to hate this guy. “See, Roger’s from this old blueblood family, and he’s a lawyer at a big, fat New York firm. Roger needs someone like me next to him, helping him in his career. Not some male escort embarrassment.”
“You know, Jeff, I don’t even care what you say about me, but I can’t tell you how much I’m starting to hate hearing Roger’s name in your mouth.”
“Look, I have this fantastic career, and with my guidance, Roger can have the same. Roger and I are going to be this fabulous power couple—the kind that everybody envies—and no little call-boy is going to keep that from happening.”
“Dude, you really need to stop talking.”
I may have mentioned that my childhood and adolescence weren’t exactly all sunny meadows and marigolds, and to be honest, I had learned to fight from people meaner than you can imagine. If Jeff wanted to have a go—and holy guacamole, he was begging for it—I could promise only one thing: It would be quick.
“Roger’s not your boyfriend anymore,” Jeff Bornic blathered on. “He’s mine now. Roger belongs to me.”
I was livid. Crazed.
“I’m gonna go.” I turned and started walking away from him.
“Don’t you walk away from me, you little—”
I heard his feet on the sidewalk, trotting after me, and he grabbed my arm.
There are reflexes you just never unlearn. My right hand was around Jeff’s wrist like a rattlesnake strike. Man-oh-man, did I want to follow through. So easy. Lay him out right there. But Jeff’s head was going to hit the sidewalk when he went down, and you just never know how that’s going to go, and I had my reasons for not wanting to do anything that might possibly end with a squad car, flashing blue lights and me in the back seat.
Been there, done that.
So I held his hand where it was for a couple seconds, tight enough that it had to hurt, and then I pushed it away.
“Don’t ever.”
I turned around and walked away while he was still too stunned to say anything stupid that would make me change my mind. I actually jaywalked right out in front of a car—she wasn’t going very fast, but she laid on the horn anyway. I didn’t even turn my head. I just needed to get away from there fast. I stomped off onto the avenue, and started uptown toward Fiftieth Street. I was walking so fast it’s a miracle no one was hurt.
I was so damned mad. I was shaking all over. My eyeballs ached I was so pissed.
Who did this guy think he was?!
“He belongs to me now”??? My teeth were grinding.
First, if Roger needed defending, he’d do it himself. He clearly had no problem telling me to go to hell—he’d done it before.
I was stopped, waiting for the fucking light at Twenty-Third Street to change. I fucking hate Twenty-Third Street, I thought. Has to be the fucking ugliest—
Walk light. I pushed my way past people in front of me who didn’t move fast enough and strode off.
But the thing that really set me off—damn it—was that Roger was nobody’s property, and he was so much more than a paycheck. If I was going to chase after Roger, it wouldn’t be because of his great-aunt’s trust fund or what-the-fuck-ever.
Of course, I thought to myself, my totally losing it like I did, and then storming off—wasn’t exactly a terrific move strategically. I’m sure Jeff thought he won this round.
That’s because he did, you dolt. You let him get to you.
Fuck.
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And why? Why was I getting so sweated up about it anyway?
If Jeff felt the need to get all macho and flex his testicles with me, it just meant that he saw me as a threat. Good. Let him feel threatened.
And why should I care? None of this had anything to do with me. I wasn’t trying to break anybody up.
Didn’t have to, anyway. They didn’t have a chance. They were a terrible couple. I ask you, how long could Roger put up with America’s Got Talent? I know how Roger hears music, and a girl belting out some inane power ballad at the top of her lungs—and slightly flat—had to give him hives. Not to mention Jeff’s master plan of steering Roger’s career, turning Dweeb into Jeff Jr. Can you imagine???
I just wanted Roger to be happy. Jeff was never going to make Roger happy. That was clear. Power couple. For cryin’ out loud.
I wanted Dweeb to see that this Chia Pet wasn’t good enough for him.
He could do so much better.
And no, I wasn’t thinking of me. I wasn’t suggesting for a nanosecond that I would be better. Because I had been terrible for Roger. I had never understood why Roger took me in in the first place: the Harvard lawyer and the gutter kid. And I had proved myself to be the worst thing ever for Roger, as I’m sure he’d cheerfully tell you. I was so unbelievably not good enough for Roger.
I was stopped again at Thirty-Third Street.
But I had to ask myself—was part of me, some tiny, stupid part me, thinking about me and Dweeb? Was I chasing after him? Is that what all this stalking and bribing of dog walkers was about?
I didn’t wait for the light and just dodged across.
If not, then why was I hanging around, being all cute and adorable and nice? Hmm???
I like Roger, I thought. I always have, ever since we met at Katrina’s that night. So if I wanted to hang around—there didn’t have to be some great big reason behind it, did there?
But was there? A reason, I mean?
So let’s suppose one day Roger turned, looked me in the eye, and said, “Hey, Fletch, I want you back.” Would that be what I wanted?
My pace had slackened.
Was that what I wanted—back together with Roger? Like before?
No!
Of course not!
I mean—I don’t know.
Maybe.
But no. Not like before. I couldn’t do that to Roger again. It would have to be different.
How different?
Don’t be an idiot. You know exactly how it would have to be different. Was I ready for that? Was there suddenly a part of my miserable, undereducated, oversexed, juvenile-delinquent brain that was actually entertaining monogamy as a possibility?
Here’s the thing. I really like sex. I really like guys. I really like sex with guys. I love guys’ bodies. I love guys’ wieners. Was I ready to say that I’d seen the last wiener I was ever going to see, except for mine and his? Could I live with that? I was only twenty-five, for cryin’ out loud. Too young to retire, don’t you think?
On the other hand, let’s be real—I’d probably seen more wieners than most guys do in a long lifetime. I’d certainly seen my share anyway. I mean Disney on Ice alone…
And after a while, after you’ve racked up a body count like I had, they tend to blur together anyway.
And then there was Roger.
Was I really thinking that? That, if it was possible—and, of course, it wasn’t possible and this was all pointless—but if it was possible, that I might spend tomorrow and the next day and the next with Roger? No one else but Roger, day in, day out? Like before, but without the distractions? Listen to Roger’s arpeggios every damned day, day after day? Nothing but classical music out the wazoo from now ’til Doomsday? Take care of Roger when he gets one of his awful colds? Let him take care of me? Get old with him? Watch him get old? For years, decades? For forever???
For forever—until somebody dies????
Because that’s what we’re talking about here, and seriously, why would anybody agree to that? It’s crazy! Terrifying!
And it also sounded—you know—like it might be…
I needed to think this through very carefully.
Because if I wasn’t ready for forever and ever, ’til death do us, etc., I should bail right now. I should walk back to Chelsea, kiss Roger on the cheek, look him in the eye, and tell him to have a nice life—and vanish.
Never see him again. Never think of him again.
How could I do that, when all I seemed to be able to do these days was hang around Roger, look at Roger, or stare at the ceiling and think about the next time I might see Roger again.
But! I had lived without Roger for two years, no problem. Why couldn’t I do that now? What had changed?
Good question, Einstein.
The answer was lurking right there, just out of the corner of my eye, and frankly it scared holy hell out of me.
I had come to a full stop in the middle of the sidewalk on Eighth Avenue at Forty-Third Street. People pushed their way around me like they were the stream and I was the rock.
This was the last bit of the old cheesy Times Square. I was standing in front of one of the few sex shops that were left. There used to be a million of these places. I stood there and stared at a blue neon sign in the shape of a naked babe. Booths still only twenty-five cents, said the sign. Ladies welcome.
Why do I mention all this?
Because it was a really strange place for a life-changing moment, and I was pretty sure that’s what this was. It was like something biblical: The skies opened up, and I could see with a new and brilliant clarity.
I had stopped breathing anyway.
At first I was gripped with a kind of panic, a paralyzing fear. And then the fear just slid off and fell away like an old raincoat, whoosh, and I felt—what?—relieved? No. Fantastic! Ecstatic, even. Transformed.
Because I knew the answer to my questions. I knew what had changed.
Was I really ready to spend the rest of my life with someone, and just that someone, and no more fooling around, not ever, never? The answer came singing to me through the noise of Manhattan traffic like a high, clear note from a violin.
“Yep,” I said. No one shoving their way around me even noticed. You have to do way more than talk to yourself to get anybody’s attention on a Midtown sidewalk an hour before twenty-nine Broadway shows go up.
“Yep. I am.”
If that person was Roger, then that was my answer.
Chapter 14
Cancun Should Be Lovely This Time of Year
Roger
I was practicing, working through some old etudes I hadn’t touched in a couple years, when Fletch let himself in. He had said he’d drop off some dog food today. I played through to the end of the page before I looked up.
“Hey.”
He didn’t answer at first, and I saw he was looking at some stuff Jeff had left on the coffee table.
“It’s none of my business, but what’s all this?”
“Jeff was here—we’re planning a vacation. January.”
“Cancun?”
“It’ll be nice to get away from the winter weather.”
“Ah. All that tropical sunshine?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Roger, you hate the sun.”
“It’s a vacation.”
“And you hate lying around doing nothing. What are you going to do in a resort?” he asked waving a webpage printout.
“Jeff’s going to teach me to play golf.”
“Now I know you’re yanking me.”
“Sadly, no. But Jeff really wants to go. His boss went there last year—”
“Why don’t you go to Europe, hear some music, see some art? Didn’t you tell me every little town over there has its own opera house and a concert hall and a litt
le orchestra?”
“Yeah, but I can’t haul Jeff off to Europe to go to concerts on his vacation. The music is meaningless to him. He’d just sit there, Facebooking on his phone the whole time.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Anyway, I can’t drag him off and make him miserable.”
“So he can drag you off and make you miserable?”
“It’ll be nice.”
“You get sick if you sit in the sun!”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Does he?”
“Here’s the thing, Fletch: He’s my boyfriend, and we’re going to spend some time together. It’s a commitment, and sometimes you make compromises. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”
“I understand this much. A compromise is when you want to go to Austria, he wants to go to Mexico, and you go to Spain.”
“It’s just for a week or—”
“But if you want Austria and he wants Mexico, and you go to Mexico—that’s not a compromise. That’s caving.”
Fletch was right, of course, which was just unbe-liev-ably irritating—and what was it to him anyway?
“Spelunking,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s a fancy word for caving.” Music major, remember?
“Ha ha, Dweeb. Totally lame.”
“I know. Look, not that it’s any of your business, but Jeff really wants to go, and I don’t care that much. And there’s nothing wrong with Mexico.”
“But why?”
“Why?” I was putting the violin and bow back in the case, but I could feel myself tensing up, grinding my teeth. “You want to know why?” I spun around to him. “I’ll tell you why! Because he’s dependable! That’s why!”
“I didn’t ask, ‘Why Jeff?’ I meant—”
“Unlike some people I could mention!”
“And why is this about me now?”
“Of course it’s about you! Everything’s about you!” For some reason I had a steady crescendo going here. “You’re so astonishingly, breathtakingly vain, you think the only possible reason I could be with Jeff is because he reminds me of you!”
Where Do I Start? Page 11