On Chasing Brad Through Purgatory

by Stephen Benatar

  “Though what you said was right. Oh I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because I’m tired right now. Not quite the best time for arriving at any important decision.”

  There was a pause.

  “With me,” said Alan, “it’s a kind of penance. Used to think these people were the dregs of society. Never felt the least concern for any one of them.”

  My eyes had been practically closing but I jerked them open with a sensation of near-shock.

  Were there two of us here then?

  I studied him more closely. He was a few years older than me; just turned thirty. Sandy-haired, snub-nosed, freckled. Shortish; stocky. By disposition jaunty.

  “And what do you think now?” asked Beth.

  “What do I think now? Oh that I was absolutely right. They are quite undeniably of course the dregs of our society.”

  A moment went by. He laughed at our expressions.

  “That was a joke you mutts. No. I feel that every day and in every way I’m becoming a little more saintly and understanding. With any luck at all—by the time I’m fifty—people will automatically throw up at the sight of me.”

  “Yet you’ll no doubt get to heaven a lot faster than the rest of us,” I said. “Well a lot faster than me anyhow. They’ll probably think I need a crash course. A whole series of crash courses. Which could last practically for ever.” (Indeed, a blurry image flashed across my mind—an old lady in a hospital corridor?—but I couldn’t get a grip on it. Neither then nor later.)

  “Don’t be daft,” he smiled.

  But I knew from his lack of more significant reaction that he was just one of those good people who didn’t keep procrastinating. Who’d got his priorities right. Who wouldn’t need to go to jail.

  And I suddenly wondered: is that what I’d been doing? Procrastinating? Had I banked on maybe having another fifty years before I needed to be made too uncomfortable by my priorities?

  I would once have felt jealous of Alan. Intensely jealous. Been all scornful and disparaging.

  I said: “I wish you’d shown your saintly qualities a little earlier then. You could have taken Joey into the shower.”

  But surprisingly in fact I found I didn’t really wish that at all. Not in the slightest.

  13

  I had just broken up with Jonathan. It was raining when I got off the No 16. The rain suited my mood but even so I didn’t want to get too wet; I pretty much ran to the Quebec. Just as I got there this man was coming out. Our eyes met, my pulse rate quickened and I half thought about following him. But no—no way! To tell the truth he’d seemed a little down at heel and even with somebody who looked as he did I wasn’t in the market for any one-night stand.

  However, he’d clearly thought I looked interesting as well, because he’d turned around and re-entered the bar. Within a minute we were swapping names.

  “I’m Brad Overton,” he said.

  “Danny Casement.”

  As we shook hands something intangible about the glance he directed at my face prompted me to say, “We haven’t met before have we?” In a place like the Quebec although I’d only been there a handful of times previously such a thing was perfectly possible. Or it could have been at some other gay bar. In Soho perhaps. “I know that sounds a bit corny.”

  “No not at all. But if we had met I’m sure that I’d remember.”

  “Me too. Ridiculous I asked.”

  “What’ll you have to drink?”

  “Oh that’s kind of you. I think … a Scotch.”

  He ordered two. In response to the barman’s usual query he said, “Oh—Grant’s, that’s fine,” then asked me if I wanted water. We went and sat on one of those crescent-shaped sofa-things and had it to ourselves—the pub wasn’t busy. Shirley Bassey who was always something of a favourite with us gays was singing ‘My Way’. Happily they’d got her toned down a bit.

  I said, “Cheers! Thanks,” and clinked my glass against his. “So if we’ve never before met, at least one of us doesn’t come here all that often.”

  “This is only—I think—my third time.”

  “Snap!”

  The phrase went through my mind Third time lucky? (because Jonathan himself had happened on the second occasion) but I impatiently dismissed it. His appearance wasn’t exactly shabby but he didn’t look as though he took much pride in it. His blue-checked shirt was crumpled; his hair gave the impression that he patronized the cheapest barber in town. Which was a shame because it was good hair. Equally—I liked what the open top button of that unironed shirt revealed.

  “In fact,” he told me, “I’m still quite new to the gay scene.”

  “Mm?”

  “I was married for almost twenty years,” he said. “My wife and I have only recently split up.”

  “Twenty years? It must have been a good marriage?”

  “I think so. Hope so. And we have a daughter whom we both love.”

  “Was it—just tell me to shut up if I’m being too personal—was it the sex part that went wrong?”

  “Not principally. Naturally I’d always known I was bisexual but done everything I could to suppress the gay side”—he shrugged—“until when the marriage was over it all came back with a startling whoosh and is now doing its very damnedest to make up for lost time.”

  He pulled a face and picked up his drink from the table in front of us.

  “No it was far more a question of money. Hélène who’d always been incredibly supportive just got tired of being poor. Quite suddenly. ‘You live on a diet of pure hope,’ she screamed, ‘and if I ever hear again It’s going to be all right we’ll somehow muddle through I think I shall go mad. End up either in Holloway or Broadmoor. Life sentence for homicide!’”

  “Justifiable homicide,” I smiled. “Oh I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that. But I can see her point of view.”

  “So could everybody else.” He again made a grimace mainly expressive of self-mockery. “For twenty years or more I’d had a succession of crap jobs—never a career—because the only career I was ever interested in proved to be frustratingly elusive.”

  We’d finished our drinks.

  “Same again?” I asked.

  “Yes. Same again,” he said. There was something mildly weird about the emphasis he seemed to lay upon those words. I liked him but—well it was difficult to analyze—was it simply that he came across as needy? That he was confiding in me too fully and too fast? (Though I knew I’d been displaying interest.) Or possibly it wasn’t so much the things he was telling me as just a feeling I had about him: due maybe to a certain intensity that showed in his expression—indeed in the whole of his body language. And was it this which had made me think of neediness? And which now told me to be wary?

  Very probably.

  Yet physically the man was undeniably attractive. Mega-attractive. Dress him more stylishly, take steps to rectify that haircut and he’d have the sort of looks that could have got him out to Hollywood. From what he’d told me he had to be at least forty; but in my own view men only really came into their own when they hit forty.

  And there was something too about his face—I mean other than the fact that it was handsome. Something innately appealing; something that reached out to me. Trustworthy? Vulnerable? In some strange way it made me feel …

  No! I did not want to feel protective! In no way did I want to feel protective! Rather, if already I was beginning to look for someone new (which to be frank yes I suppose I was), I’d be looking for somebody who was himself protective. That had been the trouble with Jonathan; or anyway part of it. He was only twenty-nine. He’d been immature. Obviously. Had too many unresolved hang-ups. Which meant of course he hadn’t had the time to devote himself to mine! That thought made me laugh a little while I stood there waiting at the bar.

  I threw a glance across my shoulder at this new guy, Brad Overton; and discovered him staring at me. If it didn’t sound too crazy I’d have said his expression was … imploring? The eye-to-eye conta
ct lasted for perhaps five seconds; totally unsmiling. Then at last we did smile—briefly—before I turned again to face the bar.

  This time we had doubles; I thought he could most likely do with one. Also I decided to switch from Grant’s to Bell’s. Bell’s was only slightly more expensive and I didn’t know if either of us would even notice the difference but at least it represented some sort of nod towards the good life. I was always making such futile little gestures. Living in a bedsit in Cricklewood—and working at Price-As-You-Like-It—you needed to keep on reminding yourself that it really did exist. The good life.

  He commented on the quantity yet not the quality; commented gratefully. “Now tell me about this elusive career of yours. Although I bet I can tell you what it is. And if I’m right then we’re both tarred with the same brush. Heaven help us.”

  “Yes—indeed. Heaven help us. But tell me what you think it is.”

  “You’re an actor who’s waiting for his big break.”

  “Warm. Are you an actor?”

  “No I’ve been vaguely toying with the idea, that’s all. But this isn’t about me. The spotlight’s full on you.”

  “Well. I hope to be a playwright. So far I’ve written eight plays. Producers have often made some nice noises but it’s never got beyond that. Up till now.”

  Because he’d put stress on that last phrase I was able to pretend optimism. Even eagerness. “Things show signs of changing?”

  “Yes but you’d have to ask Hélène about that. According to me things always did show signs of changing.”

  It struck me as very sad that even mock eagerness and mock optimism were so totally out of place. “Then how do you manage to live?”

  “Right now? I pop along every fortnight to those nice people at the Job Centre who very sweetly pay me for my autograph. Perhaps they think that one day I’ll be famous.”

  “Oh right,” I said. And studied to keep my tone neutral. Myself, I had never once signed on. I hadn’t got much patience with anyone who did.

  “But—who knows?—that could be coming to an end. Just this afternoon I sent off three copies of the new play which I’m convinced is going to be my masterpiece. In fact that’s why I’m here tonight—to celebrate.”

  Despite everything I suddenly felt glad I’d bought us doubles.

  “Three copies?”

  “Three different managements,” he smiled.

  “No but I mean—there must be many more than that?”

  “Oh indeed there are. In another couple of weeks I’ll maybe send off several others. It’s just that … well photocopying gets expensive.”

  “Oh. Yes. Right.” I nodded noncommittally. “What’s this new one called?”

  “A Hundred Years Hence,”

  “Why? Is it set in the future?”

  “No quite the reverse: it’s set in the nineteen-twenties. A comedy; practically a farce. But when I was young I grew fond of this old man who used to lodge with my grandmother. ‘A hundred years hence!’ he’d always say if life was getting him down in any fashion. Say it with a little chuckle. ‘A hundred years hence Mr Bradley sir … and what will any of this matter?’ I used to find it quite comforting.”

  “But couldn’t it be quite depressing too?”

  He laughed. “Well just so long as my play still matters! And maybe one or two other equally worthwhile things.”

  “I like a man with confidence.”

  Brad picked up his glass and without drinking simply cradled its coolness for a moment. “Yes I do have confidence!”

  He said this as though it were something he’d only just discovered about himself. But apparently it wasn’t.

  “In fact I always was confident,” he added. “That little cry was merely in the nature of a reaffirmation of faith.”

  “Good.”

  “Expressing both my certainty and my defiance,” he continued.

  “Still good,” I smiled.

  “But one gets weak. I mean when one finds oneself wanting any particular thing too much it’s amazing how the very silliest of doubts can sometimes start to filter through … Like weevils getting into cornflakes.”

  His simile almost reminded me of something. Though I couldn’t remember what.

  “Isn’t it the Buddhists,” I asked, “who claim that’s the one true path to happiness? Learning never to want anything too much?”

  He looked at me. “I don’t know,” he replied, “I don’t know.” His answer was ambiguous and either way slightly surprised me.

  “Anyhow,” I said—and raised my glass. “Good luck to A Hundred Years Hence! Let’s hope there are certainly a few things that’ll really go on mattering.” Like the way we’re all conducting our lives at this very moment I thought—and at every other moment too. But I didn’t give voice to that one; I hadn’t the slightest inclination to bring in anything about religion.

  We drank. “Thank you,” he said. “That was kind. You’re a kind person.”

  This made me feel impatient. “Not true. Unfortunately. You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “Is that so? Then you’re not kind? But in that case what’s your own definition of kindness?”

  “I’ll tell you what my definition isn’t. Not just when the occasion warrants it, not just when you happen to be with your family or your friends and it’s the social, convenient, reciprocal, expected way to behave.”

  “But that wasn’t at all the sense in which I meant it,” he said. “A deep fundamental niceness … an obvious and intrinsic goodness of heart. Impossible to hide under a bushel even when a person tries his best to do so. Those were the only things I had in mind.”

  This didn’t sound like just the small talk of two strangers in a pub. Not to put too fine a point on it it sounded like the conversation of a weirdo. I’d have said that he was speaking with conviction and sincerity but since there was clearly no basis for his doing so I found it all a tad alarming—possibly more than just a tad. I did what I could to change the subject: in fact the absolutely obvious thing.

  “Are you ready for another drink?”

  “No it’s my turn.”

  I shook my head. “You can send me a ticket to your new play when it’s the hottest thing in the West End.”

  “I’d like to think I shouldn’t need to send it. That by then I might be seeing something of you. Or am I being a bit too forward?”

  I paused. “Listen. I’m going to be frank with you. I think you’re enormously attractive but …”

  He waited. Well clearly I couldn’t say It isn’t any part of my plan ever to get involved with losers; not even with losers who look the way you do. I would contemplate a one-night stand—or even a six-night stand—could find myself thoroughly tempted to break a well-established rule; which in itself ought to make you feel quite privileged and proud. But I know that if I did, your wretched neediness could make the eventual separation painful to us both. And separation would be inevitable. The thing is, you see, I’m a materialist; and no power in heaven or on earth is ever going to change that. I can’t afford to let myself get even passingly attached to a no-hoper. Oh passingly maybe—but who could say how long that ‘passingly’ would last or how much it might turn out to affect us?

  My thoughts were getting repetitious. I was distractingly aware of some singer on the tape—I had no idea who she was—who had taken over from Abba, who had taken over from Liza Minnelli, who had taken over from Shirley Bassey; and I listened for a moment, perhaps only to give myself more time to compose the rest of my reply: “… And shall I recognize/the light in his eyes/which no other eyes reveal/or shall I pass him by/and never realize/that he was my … ideal?”

  My silence must have stretched a full fifteen seconds; maybe longer.

  “But…?” he repeated at last, almost matching the sadness of the song with the sadness of that single syllable.

  “But I’ve just broken up with my current boyfriend,” I said, “literally just a couple of hours ago and I don’t feel I�
��m yet in a proper frame of mind to … to start talking about seeing anybody else. I’m sorry.” I looked pointedly at my watch. I’d totally forgotten I’d just offered to get him another drink. “I think in fact I ought to be leaving.” I stood up and extended my hand.

  “No,” he said. “Please don’t go. Not just yet. Please.” He smiled in some embarrassment. “I know that’s totally the wrong thing to say.”

  Well at least it was something he should realize it. And in all fairness I had to concede that from his own viewpoint there wasn’t any longer any right thing to have said. But although it was flattering to have become an object of such interest to a personable stranger and my instinct told me there was not the least degree of danger in him it wasn’t—well if I can say this without sounding too abysmally blasé or conceited or spoilt or whatever—it wasn’t by any means a new experience. One had to be a little hard.

  “You could give me your phone number,” I suggested. “Then maybe when I’ve got myself sorted out …” That ‘maybe’; I was very careful to make sure it was included.

  “No,” he replied. “Once you walk out of here alone, I know damned well I’ve lost you. Lost you for all time,” he added.

  God!

  God! God! God!

  “Brad,” I said. “Please! Less than an hour ago we hadn’t even met.” I hadn’t intended to advance any more argument than that. I’d intended merely to say goodbye. But there was something about his eyes, some look in his eyes I couldn’t simply turn my back on. The creature was suffering; I had unwittingly been the cause of it; and no matter how neurotic or disproportionate his pain … Besides. For some reason I really felt a liking for him. A deep liking. Perhaps I was nearly as unhinged as he was, we poor couple of sods.

  “I know I’m doing this all wrong,” he repeated. “But that isn’t your fault. Please. They’ve got to make allowances. Stay just a little longer.”