“Tee,” said the man.
This man griped a brown parcel under his arm. He wore the remnants of a blue pinstriped suit slouched over a white shirt, opened at the collar. His sickly Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with every swallow, and he swallowed often. Lips thick and pasty. Chin stubbled. Nose hooked and in want of trimming. The man — this Flo, had all the charm of an undertaker, and not a modern, sensitive gravedigger, but one akin to a grave robber. His green-yellow eyes darted from Thomas to Philip as if to accuse one or both of being abroad beyond the limits of regulation. Thomas ignored these twitches. They were within his acquaintance for thirty years, as surely as this man who cast a shadow over the table.
“Philip,” Thomas said, still not gazing in the man’s direction — up. “This is my agent, Florian Townsend.”
“Glad to meet you,” Philip murmured over the sticky pastry. He extended his hand. Florian gazed at it as if it were a cadaverous leftover.
“Flo,” Thomas said, now shifting his eyes upward. “Philip Flaxen and I are enjoying a new acquaintanceship. It would not spoil your manicure to complete the gesture.”
Florian sucked on his teeth, and then grasped Philip’s hand, shaking it with scant motion. “Philip, you say.”
“Yes,” Philip said, withdrawing his paw back to the turnover. Florian slid into a chair and managed a smile.
“Philip and I were just discussing the pros and cons of Internet pornography.”
“Oh, we’re still on that, are we?” Flo said.
Thomas gave Flo the fish-eye. Although Florian’s arrival did not surprise him, it was as welcomed as Sprakie’s. Thomas could see Philip’s gorges rising as he sat beside the odious Mr. Townsend, but Thomas realized that if he and Philip were to go beyond mere acquaintance — beyond this coffee ceremonial, the Flaxen One would need to be exposed to the agent.
Florian slid the parcel across the table. Thomas ignored it. “As I was saying, Philip, there is another thing I like about you.”
“I bet,” Philip said, winking.
Florian grunted, but to no account. Thomas leaned toward Philip with a notion to put Florian still further on the periphery. “I like your on-line manner. You are courteous, and I would say exude a certain honesty and intelligence.”
Florian blew an unkind puff through his thick lips.
“Intelligence?” Philip asked.
“Yes. You do not take yourself so seriously as to ignore the needs of other people.” He now stared at Florian, although his remarks were still meant for Philip. Or were they? “When I went into my first One on One, I mentioned that I was a One on One virgin.” Florian twitched. Thomas thought he might leave, and if this were the key to do it, he would pursue it. “You were gentle — understanding. You guided me through it step-by-step.” He touched Philip’s hand. “Step . . . by . . . step.”
“I don’t know, Tee,” Flo said. “How long are you going to moon around here?” He tapped the parcel. “Business.”
When Thomas moved his hand toward the parcel, Philip snapped it back. “Business, Mr. Dye?” Philip winked again. “We are here after hours. Don’t mistake my on-line skills with anything short of grifting.”
Thomas chuckled. “Grifting?”
“You know, Tee. A con game.” Flo stared at Philip. “A quick scam. A hand of Three-Card Monte.”
Thomas was sure that Philip was not acquainted with Three-Card Monte as it might be called something else altogether. However, Thomas was sure that Flo’s tone would carry the insult’s full weight.
“Perhaps so,” Philip said. “We’re trained to slow the customers down.”
“I am sure it is for our greater enjoyment and pleasure,” Thomas said.
Philip looked to Flo, and then to Thomas. “No. It’s to run up your credit card.”
“Three-Card Monte,” Flo said. He pushed the parcel under Thomas’ hand.
Thomas frowned for the first time since this encounter. Was that what this was about? A further extension of a One on One — a punt at ye olde credit card.
“Highway robbery,” Thomas said. “You are bursting my fantasy, dear boy.”
Philip stroked Thomas’ arm. Flo trembled, obviously judging these maneuvers in a less than tepid light.
“Does this feel like a fantasy to you?” Philip said.
“I do not know,” Thomas mused. He was in less control, a feeling he did not relish. “You can touch fantasies. For example, when you read books, you step into another world, yet it is just something held in the palm of your hand.”
Thomas sensed Flo’s discomfort, but he didn’t care. This charming young man — this captivator was sparring with him on his own terms. Intelligence. It was there. Logical and resolute, even if it puddled under a pool that reflected significance like the moon borrowing its candle from the sun. Philip was suddenly illusive, yet attainable. In the palm of your hand.
“Our One on One,” Philip whispered, “was wonderful. I didn’t think once to extend your time for the good of manluv. If we went into overtime, it was because I wanted to give you more of me.”
“You danced like Salome,” Thomas reflected.
Philip smiled, registering the reference. “Did you lose your head, Mr. Dye?”
“Intelligent boy.”
“Boy with candy,” Philip said, holding up the turnover remnants.
“I think I’m going to puke,” Flo said, this time shuffling the parcel directly under Thomas’ forearm. “We have an offer for Bright Darkness.” He slapped his hand on the package. “Contract’s here. I need you to look it over.”
Philip retracted his hand. Thomas kneaded his brow. “You have never been sharp when it came to this sort of thing, Flo. Is it not evident that I am on a date?”
“Is that what you call it? Looks like coffee to me.”
“Do you see coffee?” Philip snapped, and then giggled.
Flo twisted about. “I know that I’m an untimely interruption in your business, but this contract might help defray your cost.”
Thomas slammed his hand down. “Enough, Flo.”
“I mean, Tee, this is important.”
“It can wait until tomorrow.”
Flo stood. “I don’t know why I even bother.”
Thomas stood. “Sometimes I question that also.”
Flo sat down again. “So, are you guys going out dancing? I won’t be in the way.”
Philip’s eyes showed panic.
“Actually, Flo,” Thomas said, “We are going for a late dinner.”
“Great,” Flo said. “Some Chinese food, perhaps?” He gripped Philip’s shoulder. “Do you like Chinese?”
“Actually,” Thomas said. “We will be discussing Philip’s latest read — Moby Dick.”
“That old fish tail.”
“He isn’t a fish,” Philip said, brushing off Flo’s grip. “He’s a mammal.”
“He’s ancient history and required reading in High School. Do you remember High School?”
Thomas spit. “Excuse us a minute, Philip.” He glared at Florian. “A word with you.” Flo reached for the parcel. “Leave it be.”
2
Thomas was as steamed as a New England clambake, but he held his temper well. This didn’t mean that he hadn’t temper. In fact, when his blowhole went, woe betides the Pequod and the entire fleet. Still, he had managed Florian Townsend for many years and they were friends. It might have been difficult to divine friendship from the current action, but this was only one event in many scores. Thomas knew that Florian would not relent until he made his point — what’s a man like Tee doing with a girl like Philip? Thomas knew if it got to that point, Philip would probably drift out the door and home to wherever home was.
Flo didn’t fight the notion of a private talk, but Thomas was not inveigling to invite Mr. Townsend back to the table. He was about to eject him — with explanation, but ejecting him he would. He walked him to the large glass doors with the heavy brass handles. There he stopped and rounded on his friend.
“I understand your need to conclude business at all hours of the night, Flo, but you have never had a sense of propriety.”
“I know what you’re doing. It’s that Internet business still.”
“It may have been, but give me a break, Flo. I have just met Philip, and I think I would like to know him better.”
Flo bit his bottom lip. “Taking notes is one thing. This is another.”
“I do not follow.”
“Christ, Tee. You’re twice his age . . . or more. Is he jail bait?”
“No.”
“How do you know? Have you asked him for identification?”
“You are being an ass. He strips on a pay site and he needs to be eighteen or older to do that. It is the law.”
Flo pouted. “I guess it’s your business, but if you ask me . . .”
“I did not ask you. Nor would I.”
Flo trembled. “I thought I knew you better than that.”
Thomas sighed. Flo had softened now into some dreary, wistful pose, like a pouty girl — an ungainly, ugly, pouty girl, but an imploded female nonetheless.
“Flo, this is not about us, you know. The old days are gone. We are friends. You are the best agent I have ever had, but if you cannot let it go, I will need to reevaluate . . .”
“No,” Flo said, raising his hand, halting Thomas’ train of logic. It was clear that Florian did not want that train to leave the station. He never did, and Thomas knew it. It was a wreck waiting to happen. Flo sighed.
“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.”
“You sound like a fucking bongo.”
“You said fucking. You must mean business.”
“I do. I shall see you tomorrow. Stop by the flat. Not too early, now.”
“I just hate to see you get hurt,” Flo said.
“I am a big boy.”
Flo’s head drooped. Thomas patted his back, opened the door, holding it until Flo slinked through and away.
3
Thomas turned back to the table. The Imperial Coffee Mug had thinned out. It wasn’t the hour, but a lull in the ceremonials. He paused, watching the young man who fidgeted before the great window. A pang bit Thomas to the core. It was a cross between guilt and desire. Florian was right. This was not an age appropriate coupling. Beyond that, Philip was curious and precocious, but nothing like the college lads that Thomas liked to date. Philip might be sucking on Melville’s misplaced teat at the moment, but what next — Shakespeare? Rabalais? Who am I fooling? Thomas thought. However, this thought was trumped by the matter at hand — the sheer beauty of the boy. He felt a bit like Aschenbach in Death in Venice, watching Tadzio running naked on the strand. What had that gotten Aschenbach? A passel full of plague and a gondola ride with the grim reaper.
No. This was different. Philip could be trained up, and if not, Thomas would turn idolater and kiss the nose of the pagan god. He decided. He strutted to the table watching his own reflection in the window as it blotted Philip’s out.
“I hope I didn’t cause any trouble,” Philip said. “You know, you asked about Sprakie and me. I never asked you if you were with someone.”
Thomas sat and pondered this question. Good question, but pointed. “Do you mean Flo and I? No. I cannot see that.”
“Somehow, I think he might. See it, I mean.”
Perceptive lad.
“No. You need to know Flo. He is my oldest piece of furniture. He does not like change, but he will come around.”
Pregnant silence. A palate cleansing moment, which on some occasions are fraught with nerves and a need to fill the void with chatter. In this case, it was welcomed and lasted a full three minutes. Finally, Thomas dashed it. “Well, what shall we do next?” he asked.
“You mentioned dinner. I’m famished.”
“Dinner it shall be. I know just the place.”
Philip smiled, and then winked. “And then you said we could go to your place and discuss . . . Dick.”
“You mean Melville’s Dick,” Thomas said. He laughed. “I mean Moby’s.”
“I like your laugh,” Philip said.
“Well, you do make me laugh. You make my heart feel so . . .”
“Young?”
“Young.” There we have it. They arrived at the issue and Thomas was not ready for a serious discussion, so he cleaved to the rigging and scraped up some old barnacles. “What is age anyway? Just another number to live up to?”
“Just a number,” Philip agreed, but his voice was as tentative as Thomas’ thoughts. “No other meaning.”
“Quite clinical. Even when we feel our age, it only serves to make us restless. We still need to . . .”
He closed his eyes. He saw the pages as if he had read the book a dozen times, which he may have, and spoke:
“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”
“Loomings,” Philip said. “But Tee.” At this, Thomas opened his eyes. “Can I call you Tee?
Thomas smiled. “It is music from your lips.”
“Come swim in the sea with me, Tee,” Philip said. “Take a deep breath. What do you smell?”
“Coffee.”
“No. Do it again.”
Thomas inhaled with the vigor of an old mariner on the docks. He smelled the sea.
“Salt in the air,” Philip said.
“I do smell it.” The aroma was from a different place than this old beatnik dive. Let me be a child again, he thought. He opened his eyes. “Lead on.”
Philip grinned. “I take MasterCard, Visa, and American Express.”
“You make me laugh,” Thomas said. “Besides, I always pay with cash.”
Thomas stood, his hand out to catch Philip at the balance like a country gentleman escorting the shallow country maid from the cotillion floor. They would take a late supper like civilized folk, and then see what lay beyond Christopher Street. Thomas did sense something in Philip’s pulse. Before the evening was out, one or the other would be compromised, turning idolater and kissing the nose of the pagan god.
Chapter Six
Confidence
1
“Which floor?” Philip asked.
He scanned the array of buttons in the immaculate white elevator. They were arrayed from L to 25. He hoped Thomas lived high up — a penthouse perhaps, with a good view of the East River, although they were closer to Central Park.
“Three,” Thomas said. “You look disappointed.”
“No. Three is good.” He grinned, and then pressed the button. The silver door shut.
Philip was tired now. It was probably more the food than anything else. Thomas had taken him to an intimate restaurant overlooking Park Avenue — The Gujarati Rose — specialty, Indian cuisine. Small and scarcely lit, the curry aromas had intoxicated Philip, and although he avoided the super-hot Vindaloo, he managed the mild one, which was hot enough. They ate in near silence, the waiter chattering in unintelligible palaver about the dishes and that he hadn’t seen Thomas in many weeks and something about the Dalai Lama. The food, spicy aromas and the buzz of these ramblings lulled Philip into a state of euphoria. In the dim candlelight, Thomas seemed more haven than meal ticket.
Now Philip was on the short rise to the third floor of a spacious apartment house — an older high-rise, but complete with doorman and an ornately appointed lobby. Philip was impressed that the place had a name — Papillon Arms and there was a distinct lack of urine smell in the hallways. In fact, he detected roses, which brought to mind the Turkish Delight dessert that had just ended his meal.
The elevator door opened. Thomas, key in hand, waved the direction. There were only three doors, and Thomas’ was to the left. Philip brushed his hand over a huge flower arrangement perched on a cherrywood side table reflected in a garish, gold framed mirror. He caught a gli
mpse of himself and Mr. Dye. They were not bookends, but rather misfit puzzle pieces — he in Sprakie’s gold shirt and Thomas in blue poplin. This was unlike the earlier visions he had of his own radiance tubside. He seemed diminished now. He felt diminished now, but he wasn’t hungry, and he did want to know more about this author, who would undoubtedly strip away the backpack and dive into the covers of more than the Book.
“Are you coming?” Thomas asked.
Philip touched the arrangement again — a big breasted peony. “Aren’t we forward?” he said.
“Cheeky monkey,” Thomas said, winking.
So it was into the breach without a doubt of the outcome. Philip had not taken into account the depths below the bowsprit.
Lights on. Philip was amazed. He had expected something larger than Sprakie’s cramped boudoir PLUS, and indeed something more spacious than his parent’s place in Brooklyn, which leaned against the MacDonald Avenue El and rattled with every train pass; however, Thomas Dye’s apartment (he referred to it as the flat — how British), took his breath away. As Philip had not learned the social responses that would suppress his exhilaration (he might in time), he raised his hands and spun around the foyer.
“This place must have cost you a fortune,” he spluttered.
“Well, I have had it for years and was lucky to acquire it when I did. I guess it would fetch a fancy price in today’s market, but actually it reflects the profit of one of my earlier books.”
The parlor was warmly appointed, a reliquary of furniture, none that matched, and each standing sentry and testament to an adventure in antique hunting. Philip’s enthusiasm was transmuted to a strut, like a visitor at a museum resisting the temptation to reach out and maul the merchandise. Thomas sighed, a great heave that carried the weight of satisfaction.
“You can touch,” he said. “I have accumulated too much furniture for my own good. I have a storage unit uptown with the overspill.”
“I guess when you’ve lived so long,” Philip said, and then decided to bend this awkward response into something less pernicious. “I mean, when you’ve had time to collect beautiful things, it’s hard to just turn your back and . . .”
Turning Idolater Page 6