The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance]

by Gregory A Kompes

  The house was quiet on Saturdays. Sam conducted two shows and was gone most of the day. We rarely met for dinner and sex between his performances any more. Funny how quickly routines return and sex becomes less of a priority. In most of my short-lived relationships, this is the point the boys would start to wander, to start sleeping with others. They didn't usually leave right away, life was too good in my house, they were too well cared for to give it all up for an unemployed actor or over-priced hustler. I hoped this time would be different. Not that Sam wouldn't cheat on me, I know he already had. But it was different this time. I felt a connection and bond with this talented musician.

  Are you feeling concerned or outraged that I know Sam cheated and yet I haven't thrown him out yet? Get over it. I know he cheated because my team let me know. They're rather good about sharing such information. They don't like to see me hurt by men so they prepare me with a touch of truth when necessary. It was simply a fuck-buddy quickie at the gym. Old habits die hard and good fuck buddies are difficult to come by. I’ve had a few of those in my life: someone who you only have sex with, no strings attached. Actually, there's very little of anything attached: no companionship, no expectations, no acknowledgment in public that you even know each other. Most successful gay men have a fuck buddy or two. It makes living life without a long-term relationship easier; it makes long-term relationships much easier to stay in.

  Anyway, if you're not horny after a workout, sauna, and shower surrounded by hunky boys who are also horny, well, I don't think you can include yourself on the gay roster.

  I enjoyed the quiet of Saturdays. I'd lived my life mostly sans relationships. I like being alone, enjoying my own company, pursuits, and explorations with my dog more than being with others. Aristotle lifted his head from my foot, contemplating my intention. We hadn't been to the park in days. "Where's the ball?" Aristotle went from lying to prancing in a blink. He chased his tail, once, twice, thrice, before heading at lightening speed down the hall. He returned just as fast with a green tennis ball in his mouth. I hooked his leash to his collar and we headed out the door toward the park.

  It was a lovely, early summer day, with a light breeze and puffy clouds. Aristotle led the way, stopping once to pee and again for a shit in the street. He waited patiently for me to pick up the poop, led me to the corner trash can, waited for me to deposit the soiled newspaper, and then attended again to his park pursuit. At each crosswalk red he sat, waited patiently, shifted the ball in his mouth.

  "Duke!" a young woman called as we closed the gate behind us. The dog runs in New York varied from small, dust patches, to elaborate, well tailored parks. Our park was one of the latter. Several of us dog owners made sizeable contributions to the city to keep it that way. I released Aristotle from his leash. He made his way around the enclosed area, saying hello to each person in attendance. After his first round he returned to me and dropped the ball at my feet. I gave it a kick. He chased it and returned.

  "Hello, Ariel. What's the good word?" We hugged, kissed cheeks. I kicked the ball for Aristotle. Hank, Ariel's black lab followed in hot pursuit.

  "Tons of auditions, no jobs," she said with a smile. "Any advice from your team?" Ariel loved getting freebees from me at the park. If my guides had a message for her they offered, never urging me to seek payment. Pro bono work for unemployed actors is all part of living in New York City no matter what your profession or service.

  "Something very big is coming," I said with a smile. I always said that whether my team chimed in or not. Hope is essential in this world, especially for out-of-work actors.

  "Musical? I'd love to do a musical. I haven't danced in a while, but it's feeling like time again." She kicked the ball for the dogs, brushed hair out of her face.

  My guides told me that the second lead in Sam's new show would be perfect for Ariel, not to tell her, but to invite her to the party tomorrow. "If you're not doing anything tomorrow night, I'd love to have you over. We've got…"

  "I saw it on Page Six. I'd love to meet Clara Tells. If I could be anybody other than me, not that I want to, mind you, but if I could it'd be Clara Tells. We look a lot alike and she's living the life I'd love to live."

  I smiled at the young, thin actress. Ariel could sing rings around Clara, if you ask me. "Great, the festivities start at seven. Dinner’s at eight." I kicked the ball. The dogs tore off, followed close behind by a schnauzer named Bill making a run for the money. When the three returned, Aristotle dropped the ball at my feet and the little Bill grabbed it and took off. The other two good naturedly chased after the little one. When Ariel's dog picked up the ball, Bill remained attached. Hank retrieved ball and Bill and set them at Ariel's feet. Bill took off again. Everyone in the park laughed at these recurring antics.

  "Shit," Ariel said.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I don't have a proper dress to wear. That guy Silas I was dating shredded all my clothes when I threw him out. I've been adding things here and there, mostly from the Goodwill, but I don't have a summer cocktail dress yet. I guess I'll have to wait to meet my idol."

  Without thought I reached in my pocket, pulled out a wad of bills and handed them to her.

  "Duke, I couldn't."

  "Of course you can." I reached out, took her hand, placed the money in it, and closed her fingers around it. "See, that was easy."

  "Really, Duke. You've done so much for me. This is too much. I didn't say it to get your pity or your money, well maybe your pity." She laughed, her smile sending warm chills through me.

  "Listen," I moved a little closer, conspiratorially. "I picked up a new client. My bank account is fine. Let me help you out now and when you make it big you can help out some other twirly in need."

  "Duke Donovan, I'm not a twirly!" she said with fake indignation, knowing as all actor-singer-dancers know that they are twirlies.

  "No, but wouldn't it be nice to help one out if you can?" I replied with a wink. Aristotle came back to me, dropped and lay with his head on my foot. "Looks like we're finished," I said.

  "Yep. Hank!" Ariel's dog appeared at her side. We both leashed our dogs, headed for the gate. "Should I try and find a date? I'm sure it won't be a problem."

  "You're welcome to bring someone." I thought for a moment, listened to my team. “Someone you’d like to impress.”

  "As you say, oh wise one." We hugged at the park entrance, each going our separate ways.

  Chapter Nine

  The house came back together, slow at first, then fast. The number of workmen dropped to a few specialists every day. One day a plumber, the next a carpenter, and so on, each doing finishing work. Finally, the painters arrived to give all the new drywall a coat of fresh white to start with.

  I've always loved the smell of fresh paint. There's something clean about it. White walls always feel like a blank canvas, like anything can happen to them.

  Barton appeared in my doorway early on a Monday morning, his arms filled with fabric samples and design books, just as the final touches were being made to the house, right as the foreman was walking me through the place, having me sign off on forms of completion for the work requests. The interior designer gave a little whistle, a sound I'd grown to know, and mostly love.

  "Barton, my friend, dump your stuff on the table there. Come see the house," I called down to him from the second floor. He did as told and joined me in the new master suite.

  "Beautiful work, Lewis," he said to the foreman, strolling around the room. If I could have seen inside his head, I'm sure the hamsters were working overtime to keep up with the spinning wheels of inspired thoughts and ideas.

  I signed a form.

  "That's it, Duke. I'm out of your daily life. I'm sure old Bart here will have a few more changes as he begins helping you furnish the place. Just give me a call."

  "Thanks." I shook the man's hand. "Oh, when's the baby due?" I asked.

  "Duke, there's no baby. My wife can't have…" his thoughts trailed off. "She's been feeling a bi
t under the weather the past few days."

  "She needs to see her doctor. This is going to be a rough pregnancy. If she stays off her feet and takes it easy, no stress for the duration, you'll have a lovely baby boy." I looked into Lewis' eyes; they were misted over with tears.

  "Really?" he asked.

  "Really."

  Lewis bolted from the room and out of the house.

  "Duke, you've got it. You've got the touch." Barton looked at me with a warm smile, hoping for a reading of his own while we worked together. "Okay, let's get this party started. Come down stairs with me and let's go through the drawings I've created. We're going to turn this into a magazine cover home."

  Barton met me at cold storage. All these years later, he was still my interior designer. He was wonderful at choosing the paintings to be rotated in the house. I liked to showcase new art for my guests.

  When I signed in, the facility manager rushed up to the table. "Mr. Donovan! There have been three deliveries for you. We've called and called but you've never answered.

  "I'm here now," I said, handing the pen to the security guard.

  "Oh, you have a guest?" the manager asked. "He must sign in, too, please."

  We finished the paperwork.

  "Mr. Donovan, follow me," said the manager, rushing down the hall. While he was always very discrete, the fact remained that he loved seeing all the precious things housed in his facility. My guides informed me long ago that he'd never steal anything because he fantasized that he already owned the paintings, furs, and antiques stored in his building. "Here, sir." We turned into a small room. He shut the door behind us. Two boxes were on the table that took up the center of the room. A third crate stood against the wall.

  "The crate should be placed in my unit as is. I'd like to leave that one boxed up," I said after looking at the delivery sheets. “This will be placed on loan in a few weeks with a museum in Kansas. That was the agreement. So, it makes sense to leave it crated.” The manager made a note on his clipboard. "I'm not sure what this one is," I said pulling the smallest package to me. While not large, it took two hands to comfortably adjust its position.

  "Here," said the manager, handing me a delicate Exacto knife.

  I carefully cut away the outer wrappings. The folded back cardboard and paper revealed a lovely, carved box topped by a note card. "DD, I saw this and knew you'd love it, JL."

  Barton looked over the card. "JL?" he asked.

  "One of my clients," I answered. I tried to never share names. Excited by the possibilities, I opened the box from the Italian banker. Inside were a stack of tarot cards. They were ancient, well worn. My guides buzzed. We know these cards. Don't inspect them here. These have been stolen and you don't want others talking about them in connection to you if the news people pick up the story, they instructed in my head. It was rather rare that they offered such detailed comments about my life, and even rarer that they’d direct stolen property to me. I put the cards back in their box, closed the lid, moved to the third parcel. "This is the one I was waiting for." I removed the outer coverings to reveal a small Monet. It was a delicate painting of a bridge surrounded by flowers. I opened the accompanying envelope, looked at the letters of authenticity and bills of sale. My hands trembled. Two million British pounds were paid for this and it was mine. You helped him win his revolution, my guides said in my head.

  "Wow!" exclaimed Bertram. He followed that by his endearing whistle. We're going to hang this in the parlor. Oh, can we go to your storage unit. There are several other bridge paintings that will make a lovely grouping for that wall to the right of the fireplace."

  "No, I want to hang this new one in my bedroom for a while. I'd like to wake up to this image for a bit."

  "As you wish."

  We were all silent.

  "Duke," Barton said, "I was thinking about that Georgia O'Keefe piece, that big red poppy, for the living room over the mantle. I think it's time to bring it out again."

  "Of course," I said, still captured in the Monet.

  "It's beautiful, Duke," Sam called to me from bed. I was in the bathroom, getting a warm, wet washcloth and clean towel for him.

  "There was another gift there today, too," I said, tossing the cloth to Sam.

  "Whatcha get?" he asked.

  I watched as he wiped his stomach and chest clean of our combined semen. "A box of tarot cards, old ones. They're in horrible shape, but beautiful all the same. I think they're ancient versions of the cards I like to use now. I haven't had time to really go through them. There was no bill of sale and my guides told me they're stolen."

  "Cool. A little intrigue. Things aren't actually stolen by the people you help. They're pilfered, right?" He winked at me as he dried his stomach and chest with the fluffy towel.

  "You're gorgeous!"

  "I know," said Sam. "But, it's nice to hear, all the same."

  We were silent, looking at each other, at the new painting. I lit a cigarette. "How was your day?"

  Sam propped himself up against the pillows, lit a cigarette for himself, "Not so great. I didn't get Little Shop. They'd rather keep me where I am. That's basically what they said."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I know you wanted to work with Clara. I know you wanted to do that show."

  "Well, I'm trusting that things will work out. It's just a good gig. Short, fun show, out early every night, great cast and director. I've never worked with Roy before. I'd like to get him to direct my show. I thought having an experience with both him and Clara would help us create a team bond. But, I'm trusting all of it's going to work out."

  My guides buzzed. Things he doesn't know. Good things.

  Knock at the door.

  "I'm telling you, the old man listens at the door for us to finish," Sam whispered to me.

  "Yes, Malcolm?"

  The butler popped his head around the door. "Sorry to bother you, Sir, but it's that line." He disappeared, closing the door behind him.

  I pulled on my robe. "Have to go earn another gift," I said to Sam, kissing him lightly. "There are things you don't know about this situation. Just keep thinking those positive thoughts. Keep envisioning exactly what you want and you'll have it."

  "Is that advice from you," he pointed to his head, "or from them?"

  "Both," I said with a wink.

  "Hurry back, I'm not done here yet," he said looking down at his growing erection.

  I leaned in and kissed him hard, letting a hand wander down his chest, over that flat stomach, to his crotch. I gave his dick a few tugs, tickled his balls, pulled away.

  "Hey!" he said.

  "Duty calls."

  "What about your duty here?"

  "You're on your own for a bit, Sam." I waved as I left the room.

  Chapter Ten

  The interior designer, never without his oversized, leather notebook, showed me drawings and fabric samples ad nauseam. I've never been a fan of shopping. I finally couldn't take it any more. My usually calm demeanor turned into something I didn't like. I exploded.

  "Barton, what am I paying you for? I can't make all these decisions. I hate shopping. I just want this done. I want a beautiful, comfortable home. I want this old building to look like it's walked back in time, but I don't want horrible, can't-sit-on antiques or dusty old paintings. I want the nineteenth century here in the twenty first. Just do it. Just make it happen. If I hate something, and so far I've loved everything, but if I hate something I'll tell you. Take all the time you need to make it perfect." I stormed from the room, leashed the dog, and headed out into the streets of Manhattan, into chaos I could handle.

  I like nice things, I just don't like having to pick them out. At first, I enjoyed getting gifts from people because it saved me from having to go to the stores myself. After a little success, when the boys started coming into my life, I got in the habit of making lists and leaving money and they would wander around town getting what I wanted. Finally, after being in the brownstone a year, Malcolm appeared, my helper, my aid. B
ut, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  The house was buzzing when I returned from the flower market. Marci had put together the perfect combination of exotic and domestic flowers. My arms and those of my driver and Marci's assistant were filled with the amazing blooms. We took them into the dining room where I set up the assistant to make magic from the beautiful raw materials. Malcolm had already covered the table with a white sheet and placed dozens of vases and containers across it.

  Terrific smells emanated from the kitchen. I headed in to welcome Chef Drague. He was shorter than I remembered, but his energy overflowed everywhere.

  He rushed up to me, "Duke Donovan, such an honor to see you, again," he said with the broadest smile. His rosy cheeks and bulbous nose gave him the look of a small, thin Santa. I know that's a strange comparison, but that's what popped into my head.

  "The honor is all mine, Chef Drague."

  "Call me Derek, my friend," he was all warmth and smiles. "Shall we go through the wonderful menu I have decided on for you and your guests?"

  I thought for a moment, looking deeper into his sparkling eyes. "I would love to be surprised at the table. Do you mind?"

  Sparks verily shot from him, "Oh, that would be wonderful. Each of the nine courses will bring awe and wonder to you and your guests."

  "Wonderful. I'll leave you to your kitchen." I released his hand and Derek gave me a deep bow. Leaving the room, I felt like royalty, a tired king of my castle. All I wanted was to be back in bed for a few hours wrapped in Sam’s arms as he softly snored into my ear.

  "Sir," Malcolm said as my foot hit the first step.

  "Yes."

  "It's that line."

  When I got to the phone, General Samovar greeted me. "Mr. Donovan?"

  "Yes, General," I said, settling into my chair. Aristotle took his spot under my desk, resting his head on my foot.