When You Don't See Me

by Timothy James Beck

  “Yeah. Sheila didn’t mention the house in Los Angeles part.”

  “A while back we rented movies, one of which was that movie with Jodie Foster where guys break into her town house and terrorize her. From then on, Sheila wanted to move. Her manager thought it was a good idea. Because she’s apparently too high profile now, she needs a place with a doorman, and all kinds of other reasons. We started looking for a place to buy. Which sucks, I might add.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, remembering how much I’d hated looking for a place to live.

  “Then we stopped and talked about our long-term career goals. Sheila’s taking acting lessons and trying to get more movie roles. Most of the commercials she does are shot on the West Coast, and she’s always flying back and forth. It just makes sense to get a house out there and keep a small place here.”

  “But what about you? Aren’t you still working for Ultimate Magazine?”

  “It folded.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “Yup. The last issue comes out next month. Couldn’t compete with the Internet. It’s a blessing, really, because I have enough work as it is. Most of which is on the other coast.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’ll be back a lot, though. You haven’t seen the last of us. I promise.” His cell phone rang. He answered it and said, “It’s my agent. I have to take this.”

  I nodded and watched as he bounded up the stairs. Then I frowned at the envelope on the coffee table for a while. I heard footsteps and didn’t look up until Sheila said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that we’re moving to Los Angeles.”

  “It’s okay,” I mumbled.

  “I didn’t want anyone else to tell you, and I wanted to tell you in person.”

  “Should I tell Nigel the gig is over, since it was just a ploy to get me over here?”

  “No! Look at this place. It looks like a used furniture shop. Nigel’s already making big plans for our house in L.A., so don’t ruin that, please. We need his help.”

  “I always liked this apartment,” I said.

  “Yeah, so did I,” Sheila said. She sighed and sank onto the sofa. “We’ve had some good times here. We’ll have more. We’re not going away forever.”

  “I know,” I said, even though I didn’t.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then what’s with the surly teenager bit?” I glared at her, but she spoke before I could. “I don’t know why, but you’ve completely bailed on us, Nick. You’re an adult now, you’re in your own apartment, you’re living your life. That’s great. That’s how it should be. I did the same thing when I was your age. But I didn’t cut myself off from the people who care about me. I don’t know why you’re doing that. I don’t even want an explanation, because I’m still your friend and I’ll always care about you. No matter what you do.” Sheila thrust her face in mine and said in a demonic voice, “You can’t get rid of me, Nick Dunhill!”

  I laughed and said, “You’re nuts, lady.”

  She pulled a set of keys from her pocket and said, “Here. These are keys to the new apartment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll need to get in and out whenever Nigel starts moving stuff, won’t you?”

  “Oh, right,” I said, feeling dumb.

  “And if you were to make a set for yourself, Josh and I won’t mind. You never know when you might want to get away from whatever madness is going on in your life. Plus I’d love it if, when we’re gone, you’ll check on the place every now and then.”

  “When are you guys moving?”

  “Pretty soon. I’m starting a new movie in a few weeks. It’s an action-adventure film and I play a model—big stretch, I know—but I get killed. I’m getting big bucks to play dead. I can live with that. It beats hawking fried chicken,” she said, referring to her most recent commercial. She’d portrayed a model voraciously attacking a bucket of fried chicken between walks down a fashion show runway.

  “No. That was funny,” I protested.

  “Thanks. Are you still mad at me?”

  “I never was,” I said. “I’m just—I don’t know, sad, I guess.”

  “You don’t like change,” Sheila stated. “I understand. But I thrive on it. I’m lucky to have the career that I do, because I’m never in one place for too long. Josh is the same way. We’re a good fit. We go with the flow. You do it, too, though. You came here, you lived with Blaine, you tried college, you dropped out, you moved into your own place. You’re going with the flow, too.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “Are you happy? Healthy?”

  “I guess I am.”

  “Haven’t really thought about it?” she said and smiled.

  “I’m fine. Everything is good,” I assured her.

  “Good. I’m proud of you, Nick. You’re starting a new life for yourself. It’s exciting.”

  Before she could ruffle my hair or pinch my cheeks, I stood and said, “Thanks. I should probably get back to work.”

  Sheila went to the office with us to sign paperwork authorizing Nigel to do whatever it was he planned on doing to the Meyers-Clinton homes. When we walked in, Eileen looked up from her knitting to tell me that Bailey wanted to speak with me. I promised Sheila I’d see her again before she and Josh moved, then went to see what Bailey wanted.

  When I entered her office, Bailey said, “Did you have fun hobnobbing with the rich and famous?”

  “Did I do something wrong?” I asked, pointedly ignoring her question.

  “No. Did Nigel get the account?”

  “I think they’re signing paperwork now.”

  “Good.” She opened a desk drawer and removed two dog leashes. She held them out to me and said, “I need you to walk Ottoman and Tassel.”

  “Can Eileen do it? I was hoping to get back to the workshop. Jisella and I were going to—”

  “Eileen has more important things to do,” Bailey interjected. “What’s your job title?”

  “I’m a runner,” I said.

  “Right. Now, run along.”

  I took the leashes from her and walked away, muttering, “Yes, Morgan.”

  “What did you call me?” she asked before I could close the door.

  I stuck my head back in and said, “I said, ‘Yes, Bailey.’”

  “No, you didn’t. You called me Morgan.”

  “I did? That’s my roommate’s name. That was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not a big deal. Walk the dogs,” she said in a distracted voice, then pointedly added, “Please.”

  “She’s related to Morgan. I’m sure of it now,” I said to the dogs as they sniffed a mailbox on the corner. If I hadn’t been walking two obviously pampered poodles on the Upper East Side, people probably would’ve thought I was just another New York crazy talking to himself. Few people looked in my direction. Those who did either smiled at the dogs or openly laughed and pointed. I knew how that felt, so I ignored them all.

  “Did you see the way she reacted when I called her Morgan?” I asked Tassel, who sniffed Ottoman’s butt and then turned away from both of us. “Oh yeah. You weren’t there. You guys must know something, right? Why won’t you tell me anything?”

  Ottoman looked up at me and started to poop.

  “That sums it up, I suppose.” I pulled a plastic bag from my pocket and cleaned the mess from the sidewalk. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out on my own. Who needs you two, anyway? Stupid poodles.”

  “I guess you told him,” said a guy who’d been waiting for the light to change. I wasn’t sure if he was talking on a cell phone or to somebody else. The only other person waiting for the light to change was dancing to the beat of whatever was playing through his headphones. The guy who spoke looked familiar. I looked at him again, noticing that his dark hair had some curl to it, and how that helped the strategic messiness of its style. He had blue eyes and a ring in his eyebrow�
��

  “Hey!” I turned with sudden realization. “Keith Haring!”

  He looked around quickly and said, “Yeah, but keep it down. Everyone thinks I’m dead.”

  “Very funny,” I said, thinking about when I’d seen him a couple of months before at the Pop Shop. Roberto had accused me of flirting with him.

  “Well, you thought so,” he answered. The light turned and we stepped off the curb in unison. “So, whatcha got there?”

  “Huh? Oh, just walking my boss’s dogs. I work at a design firm nearby.”

  “Are you a designer? That’s cool.”

  “Me? No. I’m an artist. Kind of. I mean—I’ve studied art. Briefly. But I’m not really doing anything now. Other than walking dogs and odd jobs at work.”

  “Yeah, but you’re artistic. It’s in your soul. I can feel it.”

  “Yeah? What else can you feel?” We continued to walk down the sidewalk, turning a corner and heading toward Park Avenue.

  He smiled and said, “I can feel that you’d like to go out with me tonight.”

  I couldn’t help but smile back. I was a sucker for cockiness. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Oh yeah. You know, nothing fancy. Maybe coffee? Or we could grab something to eat? Maybe just walk, like we’re doing now?”

  I did my best to play it cool; then I realized I’d been holding a bag of poodle poop the entire time we’d been talking. It smelled, too. I hoped he didn’t think it was me. I wanted to discreetly throw it away, but the nearest trash can was at the end of the block. I held the bag behind me and replied, “Sure. That sounds good. I’m Nick, by the way.”

  “Nick Bytheway. Interesting name.”

  “Ha.”

  “I’m Brian. Brian Taylor.”

  “Nick Dunhill. I’d shake your hand, but…” I nodded at the dogs, who were winding their leashes around my legs.

  “Not a problem. I’ll shake it later. How about we meet around seven? Where do you live? What’s convenient?”

  We exchanged information, agreed on a place to meet, and walked in opposite directions. I tossed the bag of poop in the garbage on the corner, then herded the poodles back toward Wamsley & Wilkes. While I walked, I congratulated myself on following Sheila’s advice: I was going with the flow.

  Since Brian and I hadn’t discussed dinner and I was starving when I left work about half past six, I grabbed two dogs from a hot dog cart on my way to True Brew, the coffeehouse on the Upper West Side where we’d agreed to meet. The barista gave my food a stern look and shook his head. After a quick glance around to make sure Brian wasn’t there, I went back outside. I hurriedly ate my hot dogs while perched on a planter that had little white lights woven into its tree. Then I took a bottle of water and a breath mint from my bag, glad that I’d gotten all that out of the way before Brian arrived.

  I needn’t have rushed. I watched as couple after couple, and even single after single, went inside True Brew. Several came out right away with various beverages: hot, cold, foamy, steamy, and iced. The drinks were as varied as the people who carried them.

  Occasionally, I looked inside again to check whether Brian was already there. Maybe I just hadn’t seen him.

  “Why are you so late?” he’d ask.

  “Late?” I’d respond. “I wasn’t late. I’ve been waiting outside for you the whole time.”

  We’d both laugh about what losers we were….

  I looked at my watch. Actually, only one of us was a loser: the one who’d been sitting outside a coffee shop for more than an hour, refusing to acknowledge that he’d been stood up.

  “Hey, Nick, right?”

  I looked around eagerly and tried not to let my face fall when I saw a man who had to be at least forty smiling at me. I had no idea who he was, and it felt creepy that he knew my name.

  “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Jack.”

  I wondered if my face conveyed what I was thinking: Don’t remember you. Don’t want to.

  “We had a class together at Pratt. I think it was Introduction to Photography.”

  “Jack! Right. Sorry I was—how are you? What’s up with you?”

  “Not too much. Just saw you sitting here and realized I never saw you at school after fall term. Where’ve you been? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just needed to take a break, you know?”

  “So you’re not in school right now?”

  I felt like he was about to give me one of my uncle’s lectures. “No, I’m not in school right now.”

  “That’s too bad. But I understand.”

  “You do?” I asked. Since I rarely got that response, I decided to savor the moment.

  “Yeah, you seemed a little ragged when I knew you. I worried about you.”

  So much for savoring the moment. I knew he was just trying to be nice, but it would be refreshing occasionally not to be treated like I was on the verge of a breakdown. Next he’d be offering to take me to his place, feed me, and fuck me. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but there was no way that was happening.

  “I did the same thing,” he was saying. “Dropped out. Only started back last year.”

  The last thing I wanted to hear about was some old guy who’d wasted his youth working a string of fast food/grocery clerk/pizza joint jobs to make ends meet. “What’d you do in the meantime?” I feigned interest while trying to figure out how to make my exit.

  “I started school when I was your age, but I got tired of being told what to do. I guess I have a bit of an independent streak. I’d been working part-time as a delivery person and thought I could do a better job than the people I was working for. So two other guys who worked there left with me to start our own business. I’m one of the owners of a very successful courier service. Crazy how shit like that works out, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Now he had my attention.

  “So all this time, I’ve been working. And it’s fine, because I did what I wanted to do. Sort of. I mean, it’s all cool. It’s all for a reason, you know? But I finally thought to myself, Jack, it’s time to go back and revisit that passion for photography. So I am.” He shrugged. “If you’re enjoying what you’re doing, you keep doing it. If you’re not, it’s time to make a change. But you just need to do things on your own schedule, you know? Everything happens when it’s supposed to anyway.”

  I stared at him and considered the way Sheila and Josh kept themselves flexible, grabbing opportunities as they arose. I’d thought I was doing that with Brian, but maybe he’d only been the means for me to run into Jack. Maybe…

  “Oh, hey,” Jack said, looking at a woman who’d just emerged from a cab. She was somewhere between his age and mine and was, as Roberto would say, a honey. She was smiling at Jack like he was Brad Pitt.

  “This is Penny,” he said, presenting her to me. “This is Nick. I know him from Pratt.”

  “Hi, Nick,” she said, and her smile was warm. The two of them radiated that happy couple thing. I felt like a jerk for all my bad thoughts about Jack, especially my suspicion that he’d been trying to pick me up. “Are you joining us for coffee?”

  “Yeah, you should,” Jack said, quickly masking his surprise.

  I smiled and said, “No, actually I have a date. You two have fun. See you around, Jack. It was nice to meet you, Penny.”

  “You, too,” she said. I walked away but just before the door of True Brew closed, I heard her say, “What a polite young man.”

  “Yeah, he’s great,” Jack said.

  I stopped feeling like a jerk.

  August 2, 2003

  Dear Nicky,

  I’ve done a lot of thinking about things since I saw you a few weeks ago. There are things we never say, and that’s probably my fault. I never wanted to treat my sons like friends. I know people who do that, and it seems unfair to their kids.

  But I probably went too far in the other direction. Maybe I seemed too aloof or like I didn’t care. I’m sorry, because the truth is, I l
ove you, love all my sons, so much. I’m not very good at confiding in people or telling anyone my problems. And don’t worry! I’m not going to make you the person I dump on. I just can’t forget what you said about feeling distant from your family. If there’s emotional distance between you and me, it’s my fault. I’ll work on it.

  Meanwhile, enclosed is one of the perks of my raise and my determination to do a few things that I want to do for a change. The only person who’ll ever see the statement for this credit card is me. The account is in my name. This card is in your name. The limit is five thousand. You can get up to a twenty-five-hundred-dollar cash advance. I completely trust you with this. And you know what? I’ve always trusted you, even when I didn’t always understand you. You’re a good person, Nicky, and I’m proud to be your mother.

  Love,

  Mom

  11

  It Couldn’t Happen Here

  “Are you getting some?”

  This question from my occasional Saturday afternoon date didn’t really surprise me. I was sure he wasn’t expecting a detailed answer. He’d asked the question as an opening for something he wanted to talk about. I doubted that it had anything to do with my sex life.

  “Not so much,” I said, hoping this didn’t give him a reason to offer me unsolicited advice.

  I didn’t take my eyes off the backgammon board, where his hand hovered as he tried to decide whether to bear off two checkers and leave a man vulnerable, or keep his man safe in case my next roll was a lucky one.

  It didn’t bother me to wait. I liked looking at his hands. They were strong, a little veiny, and a lot callused. Workingman’s hands, like a man who’d spent most of his life doing roadwork for the city of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, should have.

  That had been Kruger Schmidt’s job. He was my cousin Emily’s maternal grandfather. I met him when he moved to Manhattan in the winter of 2001. A widower of several years, he’d found that retirement didn’t suit him. He got tired of living alone in his three-bedroom house in Harrisburg. Sick of shoveling snow in the winter and mowing a yard in summer. He stored a few of his belongings that might one day have sentimental value to Emily. Then he sold the rest and moved into what would have been the live-in nanny’s room next to his granddaughter.