When You Don't See Me

by Timothy James Beck

  “Who’s Lou?”

  “He used to work here. With me, here in the workshop. Lou was always challenging other people’s ideas. He wasn’t afraid to take risks, or of pissing off architects or designers if he thought he could do better. He usually could, too. The man was a genius. He made furniture look like art.”

  “Why’d he leave?” I asked. “Did he get a better job?”

  “He died,” Jisella said. “Liver and renal failure and PML.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing but “Oh.”

  Jisella spelled it out for me. “He had AIDS.”

  “But—”

  I felt stupid as soon as I said the word, and stopped talking. I felt even more stupid when Jisella seemed to know what I was thinking and said, “The inhibitors don’t work for everyone. Lou had strong reactions to them. He had all the side effects. It was awful.”

  I thought of Roberto. Ever since he’d told me that he was positive, I was hyperaware of how I acted around him. I didn’t want to treat him differently. I didn’t want it to matter that he was positive. But if I was in our room when he took his meds, the sound of pills rattling in bottles would seem amplified a thousand times. I’d catch myself staring at him and wondering what life would be like without him. If he sneezed, I almost expected his head to explode. Worse, if I sneezed, I felt like I should check in to the nearest hotel.

  “I’m so ignorant,” I complained.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Jisella said.

  “It’s not that I think I’m invincible, like most people assume my generation thinks. I practice safe sex, but mostly because it’s like…” I struggled to find the right words. “Sort of like following a set of instructions.”

  “Step one. Arouse partner,” Jisella said and laughed.

  “Step two. Magically produce condom at the right moment,” I added. “It’s weird how safe sex is ingrained in my mind, but I really haven’t thought about what HIV is, or what it does to a person. That’s the best way I can explain it.”

  “Do you think about cleaning products on a daily basis, and what effect they have on the environment?” Jisella asked.

  “No.”

  “How about breathing? Do you dwell on carbon dioxide and how plants need it to live?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not a bad person, Nick,” she stated.

  After a moment of silence, I said, “I’m sorry about Lou.”

  “Me, too,” Jisella quietly said. Then she stood up and said in her normal booming voice, “Ever hand tooled a table leg? No? Let’s get to it.”

  My review after three months of employment lasted fifteen minutes. Bailey and I sat in matching Parisian Deco leather chairs and sipped cappuccino in her office. She tossed my file onto a nearby oak Parsons table and said, “There’s nothing for me to say, really. Everybody here raves about you constantly. Cinnamon?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. I really didn’t like cappuccino. I only accepted it because I wanted to seem gracious.

  “You work hard. You’re polite. You help everyone,” she said. “I assume you want to keep working here.”

  “Of course,” I said. I replied quickly, as though she’d suddenly scream, Too bad, sucka! if I paused too long.

  “Good. Isaiah threatened to quit if you left us.”

  “Isaiah rules,” I said.

  “Yes, he does,” Bailey agreed. “Your salary increase will be reflected on your next paycheck. Your benefits kick in now. Be sure to get all the information from Eileen about the HMO. I don’t understand a word of it, but she can tell you everything you need to know. Is there anything else?”

  I thought she might be talking to herself, so I waited and thought about how nice it would be to buy actual Cheerios, instead of the generic brand. When she cocked her head slightly and raised her right eyebrow, I said, “I can’t think of anything. Do I need to speak with Mr. Wamsley?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  Her answer was obviously meant to be humorous. But I couldn’t help but grimace, because her choice of words was eerie. Just that morning I’d asked Morgan if I should replace the sheets hanging in the doorway of my bedroom with something nicer. Now that I had a steady income and a job that was all about fine furnishings, I kind of wanted to bring my work home with me. I couldn’t imagine anyone from Wamsley & Wilkes seeing the rat hole we called an apartment. Morgan hadn’t even looked up from her Alpha-Bits when she blandly said, “I don’t know. Should you?”

  As I had for months, I squinted hard and tried to blur Bailey’s edges and see Morgan somewhere in her features. The nose was all wrong. But her mouth, even without the blackberry lipstick, was close. I couldn’t tell if they were the same height, because Bailey always wore high heels. But even if they seemed dissimilar, I still got a feeling about them. I was reminded of something Jisella had said: Even though two mass-produced end tables seemed the same, they were always different. Even if it was the direction of the wood’s grain. Or sometimes, a millimeter of difference in height could make a piece feel different.

  “Do you have a sister?” I suddenly asked.

  Bailey’s nose wrinkled and she set her cappuccino on the Parsons table, a foot away from a waiting coaster. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Just curious, I guess.” I tried to sound casual, even though I was suddenly worried about getting fired. “I have two brothers. They live in Wisconsin.”

  “That’s nice,” she said. The way she said it told me she didn’t care. “Nick, I’m sorry, but I only talk about work at the workplace. I find it cuts down on the sexual harassment claims. Okay?”

  Just a few days before, we’d had a long conversation that went from Broadway musicals, to Jekyll and Hyde, and then to her secret crush on Sebastian Bach. None of which had anything to do with work.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Sorry.”

  There was a tapping on her door. Eileen stuck her head in and said, “I hate to interrupt, but Sheila Meyers is here.”

  “It’s okay. I think we’re done. But you could’ve called,” Bailey said. “I’ll be right out.”

  “She’s not here to see you. She’s asking for Nick.”

  Both women stared at me with curious expressions, as if the reason why a famous model would visit me at work might be stitched on my shirt or tattooed on my arm. Eileen was smiling, as if she’d known from the moment we met that I’d be full of surprises, like a spunky child in a Disney movie.

  Bailey’s expression, on the other hand, didn’t need interpreting, because she said, “How do you know Sheila Meyers? Why are we just finding this out now? Who else do you know? But more importantly, how do you know Sheila Meyers?”

  “You already asked that,” I said.

  “You haven’t answered me.”

  I decided to take a risk. “She’s a friend. It didn’t seem appropriate to bring her up in workplace conversation.”

  Bailey smirked and said, “Good one.”

  I found Sheila caressing the leather armrest of a wing chair in the waiting area. A Yankees cap covered her blond hair. She wore white shorts and a tank top emblazoned with a crown, obviously the insignia of a designer I knew nothing about. Her sneakers were gleaming white, as if they barely ever touched the ground. I stared at her white purse and wondered if Jisella would go for the idea of an alligator ottoman.

  “Like that?” I asked. Sheila started and her sunglasses fell from the tip of her nose, bounced off the chair’s seat, and fell under an Art Nuevo end table. I found them for her and said, “Sorry.”

  “I’m such a klutz,” she said. She banished them to her purse and then looked at me as if we were starting over. “Hi! You’re so thin. Are you eating?” Before I could answer, she hugged me. Over her shoulder I could see Eileen and Bailey staring at us from halfway down the hall. Sheila released me and said, “I’m mad at you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I haven’t seen you since—”

  “I know,” I
interrupted.

  “It’s been a long time,” she said. “I know I’ve been busy. But you know that I’ll always make time for you.”

  Sheila took my hand, as if sealing a deal. Jisella walked by, saw us holding hands, and grinned wickedly. She mouthed the words “hot stuff” at me, behind Sheila’s back, then gave me the thumbs-up and walked on.

  “I know you would,” I said to Sheila.

  “And you’ve moved. You haven’t invited me to your new place. Or any of us, for that matter.”

  “I wouldn’t. The place is disgusting. Trust me, you don’t—” I stopped talking when I noticed Terry and Susan standing near the elevator and holding a yard of printed silk charmeuse between them. They were having a very quiet and overly animated discussion, like extras in a soap opera. I turned my attention back to Sheila and said, “You don’t want to see my apartment.”

  “I do. By not inviting me, you’re denying me my right to bring you a casserole,” Sheila joked.

  “Trying to feed me? Out of everyone, I never expected you to jump on the bodyweight bandwagon.”

  Sheila cringed and said, “Ugh. I did that earlier, didn’t I? I didn’t even realize it. Sorry.”

  As I waved away her apology, Tassel trotted up to Sheila, sniffed her sneaker, and sneezed. He pulled on her shoelace until it was untied, barked once, then left the waiting area. Sheila propped her foot on the wing chair so she could retie her laces and said, “Cute dog.”

  “He had an appointment to get to,” I explained. “There’s another one around here somewhere, in blue.”

  “Speaking of appointments,” Sheila began, “what does a girl have to do around here to get one?”

  “You need a designer?” I asked. Nigel, who’d stopped walking by long enough to stare at Sheila’s ass while she tied her shoes, suddenly looked up with a hopeful expression. “One of my bosses, Bailey Wilkes, was very excited when she heard that I know you. I’m sure she’d love to work with you. She does amazing work.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nigel frown. “If she’s not available there’s this other guy, Nigel. He’s pretty good.”

  “Whoever,” Sheila said.

  Nigel took that as his cue, cleared his throat, and introduced himself. While they talked, Eileen returned to her desk. Five seconds later, Bailey walked up to her with some files. She frowned at Terry and Susan, who both looked embarrassed as they folded the charmeuse and slunk to their offices. I worried that I was about to be lectured for talking to friends on company time, but Sheila’s hand landed on my shoulder and I heard her say, “That sounds great, Nigel. I really appreciate your doing this on such short notice. Can Nick come with us?”

  “It’s up to him,” Nigel answered. To me he said, “I could use you. Taking Polaroids and cataloging items, that sort of thing. That is, if you’re not helping anyone else right now.”

  I glanced at Bailey. Her wide-eyed expression and frantic nodding prompted me to say, “Sure. Let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later we were in the air-conditioned comfort of a black car that was on loan to Sheila. I was surprised when she gave the driver an address on Central Park West. She noticed my puzzled stare and said, “I’m moving.”

  I thought of the town house apartment she and her husband, Josh Clinton, rented. It was a cozy duplex on the ground floor with a small garden behind it. “Are you outgrowing your apartment?”

  “I thought we weren’t commenting on each other’s bodies,” Sheila said. Before I could say anything, she added, “My career is outgrowing the old place. Everyone is telling me I need to be in a building with security.”

  “The San Remo is supposed be like a fortress,” Nigel said.

  “That’s what I hear,” Sheila said.

  I always confused the San Remo Building with the El Dorado, so I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t hear an address and automatically know which building it was. I felt out of my league.

  I felt out of my body while we were in the elevator, until we exited and followed Sheila as she led us to her new apartment. She fumbled with the obligatory key ring of a true New Yorker. It looked like one of those key rings jailers in cartoons always seemed to have, comically crammed with hundreds of keys. She figured out which ones worked the locks and opened the door. I prepared myself for the mandatory celebrity apartment: one worthy of a very special episode of MTV Cribs.

  Instead, we walked into an apartment that almost resembled a typical college dormitory. Each room deserved the suffix “ette” attached to it. A small kitchenette adjoined a living roomette. There was no dining area, so I tried to imagine Sheila and Josh eating on TV trays. The bathroom was the size of a Honda Accord. Surprisingly, there were two bedrooms.

  Sheila and Nigel were talking about the apartment in admiring tones. They praised the light, the neighborhood, and the view of the park, all without taking more than ten steps. Their voices echoed in the empty space. I felt like we were in a recording studio instead of an apartment, and wondered if carpeting the walls would make the place look bigger.

  “Why?” I suddenly asked without meaning to.

  “What?” Sheila asked. Behind her, Nigel’s eyes grew wide.

  “I mean,” I began, “for some reason I thought this place would be bigger.”

  “I’m not a girl who worries about size,” Sheila quipped. Nigel laughed. I rolled my eyes. She looked around the room and absently said, “I know it’s not much, but it’s all we need. Besides, we got a good deal.” She laughed and added, “I remember when I first moved here. I lived with Blaine in this dump of an apartment. It was probably no bigger than this place.”

  “I know,” I said. “I lived there. I slept on the couch, because Gavin had your old room.”

  “Oh,” Sheila said. “That’s right.”

  There was a short silence, which Nigel killed by asking if we could see her current apartment. Sheila sent the car and driver away, saying she’d rather walk the short distance to the town house. Her newfound need for security seemed unfounded, because the people we passed along the way seemed barely to look at her. One woman even bumped into Sheila and called her a bitch.

  Once inside her real apartment, Sheila ran around, straightening piles of magazines on tables, picking up discarded shoes from various corners of the living area, and asking us if we’d like something cool to drink. I waved her away and got myself and Nigel glasses of ice water, while Sheila grabbed a basket of dirty laundry from the kitchen counter and ran to her bedroom while muttering something about not having enough hours in a day.

  While she was gone, I showed Nigel around the apartment and pointed to several pieces of furniture in the living area that I’d always liked: an apothecary cabinet, a set of ladder-back dining chairs, a Noguchi coffee table, and an enormous oak bookcase with intricate scrollwork and gargoyle heads carved along the edges.

  Sheila returned just as Nigel was running his fingers along the edge of the bookcase and said, “After Josh and I got married, I begged him to get rid of that thing, but he refused. I don’t think it’s going to fit in our new place.”

  I didn’t think anything would fit in their new apartment, but I didn’t say it out loud. Instead, while Nigel asked Sheila about her favorite colors, I slipped away from them and went downstairs to the den. I stared through the French door at the garden behind the brownstone, remembering different times I’d sat outside with my uncle and his friends while Sheila and Josh told us stories about their travels. Those nights were always fun. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been a part of one of their garden parties. Was that my fault, or had they stopped inviting me because I’d moved out of Blaine and Daniel’s place? Was I being punished somehow? Why?

  I hadn’t noticed that the red light above the door to Josh’s darkroom was lit until he stepped out with a set of prints in one hand and closed the door behind him. When he saw me standing in the den, he grinned and said, “Hey, stranger. How goes it?”

  “It goes. I go with it. What’s that?” I asked.


  Josh grimaced and said, “I guess you call it Josh Clinton’s greatest hits. They’re just proofs, highlights from my career, for a book of my work.”

  “A book? Cool.”

  “My agent fished around and found a publisher who’s interested. It really wasn’t my idea. I can’t imagine who would buy the thing, but what do I know? I’m just going along with it and seeing what happens. No skin off my nose.”

  “Can I see them?”

  He handed me the photos and said, “Knock yourself out.”

  I sat on a nearby sofa and started flipping through the photographs. Josh sank down on the cushion next to me, and I felt myself blush. He was supposed to be like a member of my family, but he was more like that hot second or third cousin that you probably shouldn’t think was attractive. The fact that he was so passionate about art didn’t help, either. As he explained why he chose each picture, and pointed out various lines, shadows, and focal points, I kept concentrating on his hands as they moved through the air, through his shaggy brown hair, or thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

  When I was done looking at the last picture, a shot of the back of someone’s head with a shoe balancing on top, I said, “They’re all really cool.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. He put them into a manila envelope and said, “Is my wife home?”

  “Yeah. She’s upstairs with Nigel.” When he looked puzzled, I added, “This dude I work with.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot about that. No offense, but I told her we should just have a huge tag sale and start over from scratch. What did you think of the new apartment? Glamorous, huh?”

  “Seems really cozy,” I said diplomatically.

  Josh laughed, then said, “That’s a good word for it. The place in L.A. is a lot bigger.”

  “What place in L.A.?”

  “We just closed on a house in Beverly Hills. Okay, technically it’s in West Hollywood—nothing fancy by any means—but it’s a cute place. And I can see by the look on your face that this is all news to you, isn’t it?”