When You Don't See Me

by Timothy James Beck

  “Uh-huh,” she said listlessly.

  I finished taking pictures. Before she walked me out, I had to try again.

  “My uncle always says that power’s an illusion. They’ve only got power over you if you give it to them. If you get a new job, they’ll probably just forget you. I mean, how bad was your mistake? You didn’t kill anybody, did you?”

  She almost smiled when she shook her head. Neither of us said anything else before she closed the door between us.

  I felt thoroughly depressed. When I got back to the office, I left Bailey’s camera on her desk and went to see Jisella.

  “Give me something physical and mindless to do,” I begged.

  “Grab your safety goggles, mask, and a sander,” she ordered. “I can use your help with these shelves.”

  Out of kindness to me, she put in a Pet Shop Boys CD and we worked without conversation. Over the next couple hours, I took breaks only for water. At least until Bailey came looking for me.

  “What the hell?” she asked. “Weren’t you supposed to give me a rundown on the Battery Park place?”

  I pulled down my mask and said, “The pictures are in your camera.”

  “I can’t write up a bid based on a few stupid photos. Did you measure? Did you do an information sheet on the client? Did you—” She broke off and frowned when Jisella cranked up a drill. Then she yelled, “My office. Now.”

  She walked out, and Jisella’s eyes through her goggles were sympathetic. I got cleaned up and went to Bailey’s office, but I didn’t sit in the guest chair when she pointed to it.

  “Listen, you can fire me if you want to,” I said. “But all I wanted was to get out of that place. Janet Templeton is like the most pathetic person in the world, and I can’t…I don’t want…”

  When I trailed off, Bailey just stared at me with no expression. After a few seconds she said, “What? I can’t read your mind.”

  “I know you don’t want to know shit about my personal life, but here it is. Everybody in my hometown except my mother knows that my father cheats on her. Because he works in the electrical trade, he gets inside a lot of houses, and in those houses are women. Some of them are lonely or horny or whatever. He gets all the action he wants. And not just with customers. I’m pretty sure he once screwed someone at my dentist’s office while my brother and I were getting our teeth cleaned. You don’t know what it’s like when people look at your mother with pity because they think she’s stupid. Or when someone picks a fight with your older brother because your dad screwed his mom. Or when a friend’s parents end up divorced because of your dad.”

  Bailey looked stunned at my outburst, but she merely said, “I might understand more than you think. What does this have to do with Battery Park?”

  “Janet’s setting up an apartment for four men who sound like they’re big deals at City Hall. Four married men who need a place to take their mistresses. I don’t want any part of it. If that gets me fired, so be it.”

  Bailey’s face turned bright pink, and I waited to hear the words that would mean I needed to clear out my stuff. Instead, she dug through papers on her desk. I watched while she dialed her phone.

  “Hi, Janet, this is Bailey Wilkes. I’m sorry I missed you. Apparently, the job is much smaller than our firm’s usual projects, so we won’t be submitting a bid. If you need recommendations for a more appropriate firm, give our office manager, Eileen, a call. She can give you some referrals. Thanks so much for considering us.” She hung up and stared at me. “Satisfied?”

  “You didn’t have to—”

  “One of the perks of owning my own business, Nick, is that I can turn down jobs that aren’t right for me. You can stop looking at me like you admire my integrity. I really don’t want the name of Wamsley & Wilkes to be splashed across the city’s news rags one day when somebody gets hauled into court on ethics charges. We won’t be the firm who’s known for decorating a love nest for the commissioner of something or other.”

  “So I’m not fired?”

  “Don’t make drama where there is none.” She paused, then added, “And where there is drama, walk away. You’ll be a lot happier.”

  When I told Roberto that it was time for me to talk to Fred, he nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, “I want to be there.”

  “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”

  “It’s not just your battle. How long before someone finds his stupid blog and tells the wrong person that I’m positive? Like maybe one of my brothers. Or my coworkers.”

  “People who know us know I didn’t have a nervous breakdown. Maybe they’ll think Fred’s lying about the HIV thing, too.” When Roberto didn’t comment, I said, “Did I have a nervous breakdown? Am I the last to know?”

  “Just because you make me laugh, mijo, doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. We deal with Fred together.”

  “Fine.”

  We had to decide on a neutral meeting place. I asked that no food be involved. Fred asked that no art be involved. Roberto asked that no crowds be involved. It was like setting up a summit of world leaders as we text-messaged back and forth, since none of us wanted to actually talk before we talked.

  “Sweet bride of Satan!” Morgan shrieked from her bedroom one night as Roberto and I strategized in the kitchen. We waited, but when no more oaths were forthcoming, we went back to our endless debate about a place to meet. Both of us were ready to scrap the entire idea and leave Fred hanging.

  Morgan whipped into the kitchen and threw a business card at Roberto. As he bent to pick it up, she said, “That’s an address for a spa on the Upper East Side. The owner said you can use their Tranquility Room for two hours on Sunday night. It’s a little lounge where their clients relax before their massages or whatever. No one will bother you. Sunday nights, they do a class for a group of hearing-impaired yoga addicts. But don’t yell because the staff can still hear you. Since the owner’s providing the room for free as a favor to me, don’t break anything. Just stop talking about it and fucking do it, before you make me bat-shit crazy.”

  “Too late,” Roberto said.

  Her eyes got even beadier, and she said, “You know, that body won’t always help you charm your way through everything.”

  “You’ve been peeking,” Roberto said and gave her his most winning smile.

  “God,” she huffed and went back into her bedroom.

  “Did you hear that?” I whispered. “She thinks you’re a god.”

  After Fred agreed to our meeting, I used Eileen’s computer to check out Structured Serenity Spa. Everything about it sounded enticing. I called my mother and made her look at their Web site, too.

  “Looks great. Are you trying to give me ideas for Drayden’s spas?” she asked.

  “I thought I might do some research for you.”

  I could hear the smile in her voice when she said, “It’s fine to use the credit card, Nicky. Knock yourself out.”

  I’d never really gone to a spa before, and I felt a little embarrassed. But every time I thought about dealing with Fred, I got too keyed up to eat or sleep. I hoped spa services of one type or another would settle my nerves.

  Without telling Roberto, I booked several appointments for Sunday afternoon. My spa guide was Pascal. He smelled deliciously of rosemary, spearmint, and lemon. I recognized the scents because of Gavin, who used aromatherapy in Uncle Blaine’s apartment. It was really just the spa smell picked up by everyone there, but they weren’t all as cute as Pascal. I tried to flirt with him, but he was all business and didn’t respond to my innuendos.

  Pascal’s job was to take me from one place to the next. Our first stop was to an aesthetician who gave me a facial. While my cucumber-and-mint mask was drying, a stylist clipped my hair in the same spiky cut that Davii usually gave me. Then Pascal led me to the detox room. I was covered with clay and wrapped in plastic, except for my hands and feet. After a manicure and pedicure, I showered off the clay before getting a full-body massage. The therapist wasn’t as good as
Gavin, but the massage still melted my muscles.

  I tried to let go of my anxiety about seeing Fred. Maybe I’d have been better off following Blythe’s wisdom. Instead of doing all these things that were making me more aware of my body, I should have just gotten laid. Then the feelings formerly known as a crush might not make me say or do anything stupid when I saw Fred. Maybe that was the reason Roberto had insisted on being with us: to save me from myself.

  After my massage, Pascal helped me into something called a flower-infusion bath, where I nearly fell asleep while I soaked. I finally got out and wrapped a clean towel around my waist before Pascal took me to a dry sauna.

  I balked when he opened the door and said, “It’s so dark in here.”

  “It’s a one-person room,” he said. “Just lie back and sweat out the toxins released by your massage. I won’t let you stay longer than you’re supposed to.”

  I did as I was ordered. The warm wood under my body was soothing. If I could afford that kind of pampering all the time, I’d never suffer from insomnia. I began to drift, imagining my roommates’ reactions if I tried to stay in the bathroom long enough for an infusion bath.

  I heard the door open, but it immediately closed. I figured someone hadn’t known the room was occupied. I was half asleep when it happened again a few minutes later. When I didn’t hear Pascal telling me it was time to leave, I drifted again.

  Then I smiled when I felt a warm hand grip my thigh. Maybe Pascal wasn’t all business. I didn’t resist or react. I was too relaxed, and I wanted to know what would happen next.

  He removed my towel. When I touched his arm, he grabbed my hand and moved it to my chest. Then he placed my left hand on top of my right and held both of them down. His breath was warm as he kissed his way down my stomach. He stimulated me with his tongue, then let go of my hands so he could use both of his hands to explore more flesh below my waist.

  I knew he didn’t want me to touch him or talk, so I didn’t. The only sound in the sauna was my ragged breathing. After I came, we were both still for a few seconds. Then he gently used my towel to clean me up. I felt him place a warm, folded towel on my chest after he shifted away from me. I thought his lips brushed the top of my head. Before I realized what was happening, he’d opened the door. I turned to look at him in the dim light from the corridor, but he was already gone.

  I lay back and closed my eyes. I was so drowsy that I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole thing. But I could still smell him. It had definitely happened, although I didn’t think it was one of the services the spa was meant to provide.

  I’d dozed off when the door opened again and Pascal said, “Nick? Come with me, please.”

  I got up and went outside, trying not to be obvious about searching his face for any sign of a connection between us. But he was the way he’d been all afternoon. Professional. Polite. A little distant.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “While you take a cool shower, I’ll bring your clothes to you. Then I’ll take you to the reception area. Tara will complete your paperwork, and you’ll be finished. I hope you’ve enjoyed our services.”

  His speech went on, but I wasn’t really listening. I stared down at the floor while we walked, trying to figure him out. Was I supposed to pretend like it never happened and just leave a big tip for him with Tara? Wouldn’t that be insulting?

  “Do you ever go out with your clients?” I asked.

  He looked surprised, either by my question or the interruption. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he said, “I only work on the men’s side of the spa, so I don’t have any women clients.”

  I frowned. Who was he kidding? Straight men might occasionally drink too much as a reason to absolve themselves of guilt for a little man-on-man action. But they didn’t give hand jobs to other men when they were stone-cold sober.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I thought you were gay.”

  “No big deal,” he said. “It’s not the first time someone’s made that mistake. But no, I’m definitely straight.”

  He seemed unfazed, and it dawned on me that I had no proof that it had been Pascal with me in the sauna. I’d just assumed. It could have been someone else on the staff. It could have been another client who’d seen me go in. Since we hadn’t exchanged a single word, for all I knew I’d been with one of the deaf yoga people.

  Several of the showers were in use. Pascal ushered me into an empty one and said he’d be waiting in the dressing area with my clothes when I was finished. The cool water felt great as it washed away my sweat.

  I shrugged into the thick terry cloth robe that was hanging just inside the stall door, and ignored the slippers. As I stepped out, I came face-to-face with Fred, who was also wearing a robe and running a towel over his wet hair.

  We stared at each other until he finally said, “The whole meeting thing stressed me out. I thought a massage was a good idea.”

  “Right,” I said. “Me, too.”

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said and hurried out.

  I held back, wanting him dressed and out of there ahead of me. I was taken off guard by seeing him earlier than I’d planned, but that wasn’t what was making my stomach do flips. Could it have been Fred in the dry sauna with me?

  That was crazy. But what was crazier was the mixture of feelings the possibility stirred inside me. I’d had a crush on him for so long and had fantasized about something like that with him a thousand times. But after weeks of being furious at him, the thought of being sexual with him was disorienting.

  Fred, like me, wasn’t fixated on a grooming routine, so he was already gone by the time I went out and took my clothes from Pascal. Pascal and I exchanged only a few words while he took me to Tara to settle my bill. I added all the appropriate gratuities, wondered what my mother would think of the total, then followed Tara’s directions to the Tranquility Room.

  “So,” Fred said when I walked in.

  I’d taken two bottles of water from Tara. I drank about half of my first bottle to buy time. Then I said, “We should wait until Roberto gets here.”

  Fred shrugged and went to look at a mirror in a mosaic frame, as if he gave a shit about things like that. I couldn’t study him, since he could see my reflection, so I stared at the floor. I was still trying to deal with my mixed emotions when Roberto came in. He stopped short, obviously having thought he’d be the first one there, and Fred and I stared at him.

  “Is it raining?” I asked. When Roberto gave me a blank look, I said, “Your hair.”

  “Is wet,” Fred added.

  “I got here a couple of hours ago,” Roberto said. “I took a spin class. Then I needed a shower.” He gave me a curious look when I laughed.

  “I came early, too, for a massage,” Fred explained.

  “I had an entire afternoon of beauty,” I said.

  “Didn’t work,” Roberto and Fred said together. They frowned at each other, then at me. I frowned back.

  “Why are we even doing this?” Roberto finally asked. “Are you going to apologize? Because if you think what you did is okay, we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

  “When I started the blog,” Fred said, “I never thought anyone I knew would read it. It was a way for me to vent about work. Or talk about what it’s like living in New York. Or whatever else was on my mind. I never used people’s real names.”

  “You used my older brother’s name,” I disagreed.

  “Yeah, and he’s the only Tony living in the Midwest.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “I don’t know how people began finding the blog. Or why they were interested in it. It just took off. My editor says—”

  “The fact that you can even say ‘my editor says’ is fucked,” Roberto said. “I don’t give a shit about the history of your blog. I don’t care how innocent your motives were. I. Don’t. Care. Got it? You told secrets you had no right telling. You fucking told the world I’m HIV-positive. In the first place, you don’t know whether or not
that’s true. If it is true, it’s not your place to announce it. My little brother’s freaking live on the Internet.”

  “That’s why I don’t use real names,” Fred said. “Only a handful of people know who the Barista is, and they wouldn’t have known if Melanie had kept her mouth shut.”

  “Is the author of your book also going to be called the Barista?” I asked.

  “Of course not. In case you haven’t checked it lately, I’ve pulled a lot of posts from the blog. Anyone in my book will be composites of several people. No one will be identifiable.”

  “Not the point,” I said. “Even if no one knows who I am, you trashed my family. Both my families. You talked about my brothers. My uncle. You talked about some of the most private stuff in my life. It doesn’t matter whether or not people know that ‘Stick’ is Nick Dunhill. It doesn’t matter whether or not you’re accurate or full of shit. You violated my trust. I used to think the reason you listened to me, paid attention to me, was because we were friends. All that time, I was just material for your blog. And you still haven’t apologized.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That means so much now that it was dragged out of you,” Roberto said. “I know how Nick feels. I thought we were friends, but we’re not, are we? I’m just Roberto, the dumb Latino kid who paints on walls and manages to get infected even after being informed about the risks. By the way, did you do my lab work? And do you plan to publicly diagnose all your so-called friends, or just me?”

  Fred stared at him a few seconds, then said, “I knew you were HIV-positive because I saw you at Duane Reade one night. You didn’t see me. The pharmacist was telling you stuff about your medication. I looked it up online and found out it’s an HIV drug.”

  “Maybe he was picking it up for a friend,” I said. “Maybe he was getting it for one of his brothers. Or for me or Kendra or—”

  “You know what made me sure?” Fred asked, turning back to me. “Because of the way you suddenly fixated on Adalla and her little girl. That’s what you did with Emily when Gretchen died. After that happened, you fucked around at school. You stopped hanging out with the rest of us. You got that hollow look in your eyes. It was over a year before you started acting normal. Or as close to normal as you’d been in a long time. Then, for no apparent reason, you dropped out of Pratt. You moved out of your uncle’s place. You avoided people who care about you. Same pattern, so I knew something bad had happened. It wasn’t much of a leap to figure out that Roberto must have told you the truth.”