The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance]

by Gregory A Kompes

  "Mr. Donovan. Someone else has put an offer on the house."

  "Asking price?"

  "Well, no."

  "I'll pay asking price, Terrance. Make this happen." I said.

  "The offer is ten above asking," said the realtor.

  "I'll pay 50 above asking. Cash. If the owners accept when they hear."

  "Cash?" Terrence had been cool and collected during our visit to the brownstone until now.

  "Dial."

  I was reading mail when the phone rang. Absently, I answered it: "Duke Donovan." I listened to an unfamiliar, desperate voice while shouts, screams—and was that gunfire?—filled the background.

  "A what?" I asked. Revolution was the word offered to me by my team of guides. They then quickly came into action, informing the caller through me of what they needed to do to quell the violence. They described the result: Three days of fighting because of the advice, instead of the possible decade. Step by step they outlined. First a plan of action, second a plan of government. As they talked to the caller, a man I did not yet know, I thought a bit in the background about what it was I did. I mean, I offered advice to dictators and despots. It wasn't the noblest of professions. Rationalizations helped. After all, with my advice, a lot fewer people were murdered by these men. The people often received better treatment by them, too. Corruption is easier if the people are happy. Just look at how the United States functions. If we didn't have 24/7 cable, well-stocked grocery stores, malls, great restaurants, and gambling establishments we'd be up in arms, too. Instead, we live well and ignore the politicians and bankers lining their pockets at our expense.

  The phone line went dead. My mind was my own again as my guides backed off to their place in what I’d come to call “the other side.” It had been three hours since the call started. I quieted my mind and asked my team who they were talking to…General Samovar in a small African republic.

  I hit the buzzer. Malcolm appeared at the door, "Yes, Sir?" he said at first, followed by "Oh, my." Without instruction, we'd been through this many times, Malcolm helped me to my bed and tucked me in. I slept for exactly one hour and arose in perfect health.

  Sam slammed his hands down on the keyboard as someone pounded on the front door. "Malcolm!" Sam shouted. "Get the fucking door!"

  "I'm sorry, Helen, there's a ruckus at my end. Would you please repeat your last question?" I blocked out the commotion below my office to listen to her speak. "No, this wouldn't be the best time to your job. Hold on. Oh, okay, thank you. The woman you're sleeping with, about to disrupt your life for…oh, she's going to be murdered by one of her other girls….Yes, there are several….I do think you should leave your husband, and I do think you should leave your current job, but only if you plan to strike out totally on your own. I see you at first in a little apartment, somewhere near a park. The freedom that comes from being on your own, your own person for the first time, will be exhilarating. I think you need to stockpile a bit of cash in your own name, separate and silent from your husband, before you make this transition in your life. You'll go about three months without a job and then something at a soft drink company will come up, some type of marketing position."

  The commotion downstairs grew.

  "Helen, I'm so sorry, but I do need to ring off. I'll be happy to…" I looked at my book, "I'll be happy to break my six month rule and talk to you again in three weeks." I offered her several dates and times. She chose one and as I penciled in the appointment, we rang off.

  "What the hell is going on down here?" I asked coming down the stairs.

  Sam and a man were facing each other, standing, squared off. Malcolm stood as the silent observer. Sheet music was scattered all over the floor.

  "I'm telling you, Alex, this is mine. This is my gig. I don't owe you anything," Sam said through clenched teeth to the other man.

  "I gave you the title. I gave you the blow jobs while you wrote your little musical," Alex said through tears.

  I stepped between the two, faced Alex. "I give the blow jobs now. He'll change the title. Now you can either leave my house and never return or I'll have you taken care of."

  "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

  "I'm Duke Donovan and this is my house." I wanted to add "my town" in a burly movie actor style, but it didn't feel right.

  Alex backed up a step. His anger turned into admiration. "I've always wanted to meet you, Mr. Donovan."

  "Too bad you've fucked that up by acting like a spoiled asshole. You have no claim on Sam or his work. He's the talented one. You're just a sweet, hurt boy."

  Tears began to stream down Alex's face. "Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't…" his words trailed off. I reached into my trousers, handed the boy a hanky.

  "Shall we all have lunch?" I asked, stepping out of the middle.

  "No, no, I need to go. I'm so embarrassed," said Alex after blowing his nose.

  "Nonsense. Malcolm, lunch for three in the dining room."

  Malcolm didn't move.

  "Duke," Sam pulled me to the side. "What are you doing? A moment ago he wanted to blow my head off. He's got a gun."

  I turned back to the boy. "Alex?" He looked up at me through red, teary eyes. "Give me the gun." We all waited. "Now." The boy took the gun out of his coat pocket, handed it to me. "Good boy.” I handed the gun to Malcolm who took it out of the room.

  "I have to go," said Alex who didn't wait for good-byes.

  We watched as he scurried through the front door like a rat back into his hole.

  "Duke, I'm so sorry," said Sam.

  I breathed deep before locking the front door. When I returned to the parlor, Sam was slumped into a chair holding a pillow over his face, crying. "What was that all about?"

  Sam raised his head, just enough to look at me above the pillow. He shook his head before dropping it back into his lap. I moved to him, sat on the chair arm, rubbed the his back. He started to speak into the pillow. Between the plush stuffing and his tears I could only hear mumbles.

  "Come on," I said, standing up, taking his hand. I pulled him out of the chair with the intention of leading him upstairs. Sam hugged me hard. As we stood there his tears stained my shirt. I held him and let him cry. I'd never seen any man weep so hard. His whole body shuddered as he sobbed. I gave up my mission of moving him, wrapped my arms even tighter around him, whispered those horrible phrases "it's all right," "you're all right," "I'm here."

  Sam pulled away, his face streamed with tears and snot. "Oh, I've ruined your shirt."

  "Come on." As I led him out of the room toward the stairs Malcolm appeared. "Brandy in the bedroom. Bring the bottle." Malcolm acknowledged me silently, turned back toward the kitchen, disappeared. I got Sam into the master bathroom. "Strip off those clothes. He did as told; I ran the bath water, cool at first, then hot. Steam filled the room. Malcolm came and went, silently leaving a tray on the vanity. "Get in," I instructed Sam. again, he followed my instructions, sliding into the hot bath. I gave him a brandy and he drank it off. I refilled his glass, he sipped at the second.

  "Get in with me," he said, his voice horse and quiet.

  I got undressed. Before I slid into the big tub I moved the tray to the small bath table. The water was perfect. We positioned ourselves with me in back, my arms around Sam from behind. We drank more brandy as visions of the scene in Pretty Woman, with Julia Robert’s legs wrapped around a handsome Richard Gere. I wanted to say the therapy line that Julia’s character used, but decided not to.

  "Hmm, this feels good," Sam said, sounding like himself. I hugged him a little tighter. "I met Alex in a literature class at NYU. We hit it off. Drank together after class at first. Ended up in bed together. He's a lousy kisser. Both of us were bottoms. The sex was okay, but not great. After a month he lost his lease and needed somewhere to crash. He moved in with me. That was the late fall. We celebrated the holidays together. That was nice. I'd never had a boyfriend for New Year's."

  I held him while he told the mundane story of two college boys
falling into and out of love. We drained the water, added more, kept the bath hot. Malcolm instinctively brought a second bottle of brandy, coming and going in silence.

  "…so he hit me, hard. I didn't see it coming. That's where I got this scar." Sam pointed to the small line on his forehead. I traced it with my finger. "I told Alex I was through. I told him to get out. He did. That was the last I'd seen of him. I'm not sure where he found out about what's going on with me, but he has no claim. As I was writing this show he was there. We'd talk about it, he'd make suggestions. We didn't write it together."

  I never questioned or doubted that. Of course, I had information from beyond. Now, I knew the history of the dark figure my team had warned me about.

  "We've turned to prunes. Let's get out," said Sam. His demon purged with two bottles of brandy and a long, hot bath.

  Just as we put on robes there was a knock at the door. "Sir?"

  "Yes, Malcolm, come in."

  "Sir, you have a call on that line."

  "Sam, I'll let it go if you need me to be here."

  "Go," he hugged me tight. "Thank you for today."

  I kissed him hard. "You're welcome." I left the room to take the call. "Malcolm, something hearty for dinner tonight, comfort food."

  "Very well, Sir," said the butler as he headed down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  My office felt warm, comforting. I slid into the leather chair, picked up the receiver, "Duke Donovan." I listened as a client started in on his woes. I closed off my mind, allowing my guides full access. They talked through me to the client. I had the hour off.

  My mind wandered. I first thought about Sam and Alex. They'd both be fine, although I feared that Alex would keep turning up like a bad penny. I set those thoughts aside for the moment, as I remembered my own first love obsession, the one who'd made me sob uncontrollably: Paul.

  Central Park was lovely that June day. The trees were green, the grass fresh. We'd had a huge rainstorm that had washed all the dust and dirt from the trees and statues. I sat on a bench, near the Children's Zoo. I liked to watch the polar bear make his rotation swim, that big paw pushing off the glass every minute or so, children and parents alike touching that spot comparing their small hands to the bear's giant paw. He made that rotation like clockwork, out of boredom I suspect.

  "Hello," he said. I hadn't noticed him approach. "I'm Paul and you're gorgeous."

  What a pick up line. I knew from that first moment that he was full of shit. No one has ever thought of me as gorgeous, not even myself. I'm many things, among them a realist. And, while I'm content with my looks, I know I'm not making any magazine covers in this lifetime.

  "No, I'm Duke." I stood and shook his hand.

  Paul took my hand, pulled me tight to him, and kissed me passionately in the park.

  It was that simple. That's how we met. For the next six months we were rarely apart, except for work. He was a low-level account rep at a banking firm, worked ten to four every day. I altered my client schedule to meet those times. My apartment was the better of the two and he moved in. Together we explored life: new restaurants, new bars, new cocktails, new drugs, new sexual positions.

  In mid winter, I walked into the apartment to find him being fucked by a tall, hairy, handsome man. I kicked them both out, naked. I spent the hours that followed throwing everything of Paul's out the fourth floor window as I shouted, ranted, cried.

  I ran into Paul at a party about a year later. We were pleasant with each other, cordial even. Neither of us mentioned that day. I never saw him again after that. It's easy to move in different circles in New York City. It was that night, seeing Paul a year later, that sent me into fits of sobs that lasted hours. I was with a client when it started. A nice man I'd known for years. He didn't ask any questions. He held me while I sobbed, ruining his clothes with tears and snot. He just held me, cooed to me, put me in a hot bath, put me to bed. Fucked me through the tears; we both thought it might help. In fact, that's the man that my guides were giving advice to as I explored these comparative memories.

  It was nice to have learned how to comfort others, what actions and words provide solace during times of high stress and personal tragedy. For me, it took heartbreak. But, that experience taught me how to care for others, even if I didn’t feel a great closeness or affinity for them. As for that moment, I’m glad that the client call came and Sam and I hadn’t fucked through tears. It’s just not that great of an experience.

  I rang off with the client after booking his next session a half year into the future and then rested my head into the comfort of my chair. Normally, Aristotle would arrive for a head rub after I finished a client call, but he wasn’t in the room with me.

  “I wasn’t the great love of your life?”

  I didn’t know where that voice had come from. Then, before me, he appeared.

  “No,” I said. “You weren’t.”

  We sat in silence as I stared at the ghost.

  “So, this is your second visit. What is it that you want from me? You do know your time here on earth is done?” I asked.

  “I’m not a fool. I’m also not haunting you. I have better things to do with my time now.”

  I waited.

  “There’s a woman coming. My niece. I want you to give her my pocket watch.” The ghost reached a very long arm across to my desk. He attempted to pick up the watch, but his fingers ran right through it. And, with that action, his image dissipated back into the ether.

  Chapter Eight

  Workmen flooded the brownstone ten hours a day. The architect and construction foreman argued constantly. The energy was electric. They practically gutted the building. Plank by plank the floors were reconstructed around new plumbing works and electrical lines. The nineteenth century building would be brought up to twenty-first century grandeur in the restoration.

  My team of spiritual guides insisted that I lived in the house throughout the six month renovation. That was a challenge during the interior demolition, but got easier as the transformation proceeded.

  Each night, after the house was quiet, I wandered the space, sat in the rooms, envisioned the final results. I touched each plank and nail both before it was used and after it went into place. New floors, new walls, new ceilings, drywall, wood, fresh plaster. It was wonderful, all the smells and textures.

  Contrary to popular myth, not all queers are born interior decorators. I fall on the not so talented side so I hired someone with the touch. Barton didn't look the part of design queen. He was built like the proverbial brick shithouse, broad shoulders, hair everywhere. He had a terrific sense of humor, although he tended toward depression. While he provided design ideas I offered positive reinforcement. My team chimed in with advice on both.

  "Sir, do you have a moment?" Malcolm stood in the kitchen doorway.

  I looked up from the newspaper. "Of course," I said. "Sit."

  Malcolm reluctantly sat at the kitchen table in his stiff manner.

  "Sir, it's about the party."

  I listened as the butler went through details. There were issues with the flowers, RSVPs not received, menu problems because of availability. Malcolm concluded with: "I'm sorry sir. I know I haven't done as asked. I understand if you feel the need to relieve me of my duties."

  I thought for a moment, amused at his sincerity. There was no way I'd fire Malcolm. He's the one my guides had foretold many years ago. He's the one who put order to my life. "Phone," I said. He handed me the house cell; I dialed. "Are you coming tomorrow or not?" I asked. "Fine, see you at seven." I clicked off. "My father and his tramp will be here." I dialed another number; confirmed another missing RSVP. Dailed again: "Marci? Duke Donovan," I waited through her pleasantries. "Wonderful. Listen, Marci, I need some out of season blooms for my party tomorrow. What can you get for me?" I heard her shuffle papers. "Excellent." "Oh," I said disappointed. "No, I'll come out myself to pick them up in the morning." I chuckled at her comment. "I'll set the alarm. Thanks dear, see you tomorrow."
Dialed again. "Duke Donovan for Chef Drague," I said. I heard several clicks. "Derek, I need a favor." I try not to take advantage of my connections, but what's the point of having them if you don't occasionally use them. I explained my menu problems. "Diner is tomorrow at eight…twenty…Clara Tells, Sam, Bert and Jackson…really? Oh, Derek, you're just the best." I rang off.

  Malcolm looked dejected.

  "Okay, so Chef Drague will be arriving here at six in the morning with a small staff. He'll be taking care of dinner himself since his restaurant is closed on Sundays. He'd like a serving staff of ten if you can manage that. And, I know you and Derek don't get along, but I expect you to be on your most professional behavior." I looked Malcolm in the eye, not waiting for a response. "I need to be up at four. I'm meeting Marci at the warehouse at four thirty for the flowers. And, Malcolm, in the future, if you're having problems please don't wait until the day before to tell me. I have connections in this town."

  "Yes, Sir. I'll stay through the party and you'll have my resignation on Monday morning."

  "Malcolm, look at me." He did as instructed. "I will not accept your resignation, so get that thought out of your head." We looked at each other for a moment. "Is there anything else?"

  "No, Sir."

  The butler disappeared somewhere else in the house. I turned my attention back to the paper. The cover story conveyed information about the uprising in an African republic. Deaths were projected to be large. The military coop and subsequent fighting, headed by General Samovar, had been coming for years. If the neighboring republics were any indication, this was expected to last a decade.

  I couldn't help but smile at the false projections. While I didn't retain all the details my guides had shared with Samovar, I knew that the outcome would, most likely, be much different.