Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  “He’s an intellectual, hard-core,” said Will. “I respect that.”

  “Exactly,” said Peter. “God knows we need more of them.”

  “I was amazed by that collection of books.”

  “Amazing, right? You saw the Eliot manuscript? He collects twentieth-century poetry manuscripts. He’s got Millay, Pound, Frost, Sandberg. But the Eliot is his prize. Do you know Four Quartets?”

  “Not that well. What’s it about? Time or something.”

  “The illusion of time, the eternalness of the present. ‘At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless.’ That’s how he describes human existence. Though I think the opposite is rather the case.”

  “How so?”

  “I can’t believe we’re talking about this.”

  “Should we light another joint?”

  “No way. Jesus, you brought another one?”

  “The magazine is hookup central.”

  “No, I’m fine with this,” said Peter, lifting his glass. “But you feel free.”

  “I’m fine,” said Will. “So—still point. You think the opposite.”

  “It seems to me, the person is always in motion, or should be, and the world is what’s static. Does that make any sense?”

  “It sounds like Buddhism.”

  “Yes! ‘In motion’ means being awake.” Will grinned. “No one ever talks about this stuff anymore. You know, even as late as the fifties, when I was a kid, we had poets and philosophers as national figures, and they asked big questions. Now what do we have—Avatar?”

  “Lost. Battlestar Galactica. Caprica.”

  “Very good, Will,” said Peter. “Those are actually much more to the point.”

  “I like your place,” said Will, taking a moment to glance around him. “It’s comfortable, but elegant.”

  “Thank you. You are most welcome here.”

  “Even your pots are nice. Do you collect cookware?”

  “No! That’s a funny thought. Well, actually, I guess I do. When I know you better, I’ll tell you how excited I was to get that grill pan for Christmas. Do you collect anything?”

  Will nodded.

  “Beach art,” he said.

  “Pictures of the beach?” said Peter.

  “Paintings, drawings that people do at the beach.”

  “Wow.”

  “You’d be surprised at how many of them you can find in secondhand shops, and how many of them are kinda good.”

  “Lovely.”

  “You collect books, too, I see.”

  “Yeah, but nothing like Jonathan. I just don’t throw things away after reading them. Actually, I do have a few etiquette books—vintage. The first one I borrowed from my uncle Malcolm, who was very fancy. Then he died and I kept the book, and that got me going. Guess you have to be a good, middle-class boy to fetishize all that.”

  “I know,” said Will. “I got thrown into my mom’s school with some folks who were way above me, socially.”

  “God, does that concept still exist?”

  “It does there. It brought out the bad boy in me.”

  “Good for you. Smoking behind chapel and St. Patrick’s Day pranks?”

  “Basically.”

  Was the conversation going anywhere? Peter realized he wasn’t in control of it and suddenly wondered if he should be. He couldn’t exactly direct the conversation toward the bedroom, yet didn’t know how to pounce or whether he was being invited to do so. Pouncing wasn’t even his style, nor did he necessarily want pounding-banging sex on a first date anymore. He preferred softer, friendlier play, like kissing and touching while lying on the bed, with cocks that went up and down without necessarily being expected to cum—none of which pouncing exactly set the stage for. Nor had Peter any idea of how to get to that spot by way of etiquette-book talk, even if Will were open to it. Yet again, if Will were more like Peter used to be, willing to have sex just for the fun of it, in a kind of just-jerk-me-off or just-fuck-me manner, then Peter would be willing to wing it and comply.

  “Your uncle was gay?” said Will.

  “Uncle Malcolm? Yeah, we think so. He died in the early seventies. Lung cancer.”

  “He smoked.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Aunt Ida died of the same thing, a few years before,” he said. “They smoked like mad people. They were both very fancy. They had cocktail sets and used them, tiki torches for summer entertaining on the patio. They had the first refrigerator I ever saw with French doors.”

  “But he wasn’t out.”

  “Not to us. But you know what? This kid showed up at his funeral—a young guy none of us had seen before, dressed in super-stylish, big-city attire, like platform boots and a Carnaby Street jacket. This was, oh, 1972. . . .”

  “Carnaby Street?”

  “London, the swinging sixties, groovy mod styles.”

  “Got it.”

  “The kid shows up looking like a Beatle—big hair—and he weeps and weeps. Later he comes up to my father, Uncle Malcolm’s brother, and says he knew my uncle from New York. Uncle Malcolm often went there on business, to buy supplies for the beauty parlor he and Aunt Ida owned, especially after Aunt Ida died. . . .”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Right? And the kid has these records with him—like four LPs, vinyl, in a leather satchel—that he says Uncle Malcolm lent him. He wanted to return them.”

  “Wow.”

  “So my father says he should keep the records, to remember my uncle by. And that’s the last we saw of the guy.”

  “Was he cute?”

  “Yes! And it kind of makes me happy to think that maybe Uncle Malcolm was getting some, even though he never came out, quote-unquote.”

  “What were the records?”

  “Good question. I only saw one of them: the Bee Gees.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I know! And I have always kicked myself for not seeing what the other ones were.”

  “Your uncle blew into town and hung out with the cutest boys.”

  “And was into the Bee Gees! I wasn’t even into the Bee Gees, at that point. They were too pop for me.”

  “Really?”

  “I was strictly classical, back then.”

  “I’m giving us another vodka,” said Will, popping out of his chair.

  “Um, OK,” said Peter, continuing with his story without compunction, while Will poured, served, and reinstalled himself in his chair. Peter realized not only that he was slightly drunk, but that Will was clearly comfortable with both of them being so; he even seemed intent on it. A good sign? Also, as he went on, Peter realized that the face-to-face arrangement of the chairs, squared off for some kind of interrogation, badly suited a seduction, if that was what was going on. And he hoped that was what was going on, even if Will was driving it and not him. The memory of Will’s fingers in his hair and the possibilities of more were proving more intoxicating than the vodka.

  “Hey, speaking of cute boys, are you still seeing that guy—Enrico?” he heard himself asking.

  “We’re just friends,” said Will. “We hang out now and then.”

  “Very cool.”

  I’m in, thought Peter. Woo-hoo!

  The rest of the conversation was a blur. The following day, when Peter went over the evening in his head, moment by moment, he groaned as he remembered looking at Grindr with Will, squeezing together briefly to view Peter’s iPhone, commenting on favorites and men nearby, then settling back in their respective seats and babbling about friendship and dating, boyfriends and sex, and—ugh!—fuckbuddies. He remembered blurting, ever so casually, that his past exploits included getting simultaneously blown and rimmed one night on the dance floor of the Roxy, surrounded by cheering crowds of shirtless gymbots, but that his sexual practice had evolved into something much tamer—which of course, he realized as he said it, would be more palatable for a young prospective bed partner than the risky extremes of gay history’s most libertine era. He hastened to mention
that most of all, nowadays, he was aroused by a bright, handsome face whose truthful expressions he wanted to watch season after season.... He’d wanted to add, “Like yours,” but didn’t.

  And Peter remembered the graciousness with which Will declined to stay the night. It was after three and he had to be up at seven; he said the daybed—toward which Peter had gestured halfheartedly—wouldn’t be as comfortable as his own bed. The departure wasn’t like an escape and Peter was grateful for that. The two hugged and shared a modest kiss, and Will did give Peter’s head an affectionate sort of pat.

  “So no consummation?” said Jonathan.

  “No,” said Peter. “But he did let me steer the conversation.”

  “And God knows, that’s close enough to sex for you.”

  “I was trying very hard not to be pervy, Jonathan.”

  They were standing in one of far west Chelsea’s most prestigious art galleries, in an airplane hangar–like space with hundreds of other people who’d paid $1,500 a head or more to attend an art-performance event that was also a benefit for an environmental group. The performance took the form of twenty-four models, twelve women and twelve men, dressed in nothing but high heels embellished with rhinestones, processing through the crowd in slow motion, as if in a trance, singly and in groups, stopping occasionally to pose, according to a predetermined choreographic sequence. The result was an amalgam of Vegas show, Japanese butoh dance, and high-end retail display.

  Jonathan had been too tired to attend Peter’s party, a few nights before, but had agreed to “look in” on the gallery event because he had friends on the committee and the gallery was only a few short blocks from his house. Peter had been shocked, earlier in the evening, when he arrived at Jonathan’s door and saw that his friend had lost more weight. Jonathan was noticeably gaunt and joked about it, saying that he had finally lost the seven pounds he’d been trying to dump for years—and Peter did his best to take his friend’s cue about the tone of the evening.

  “Tyler says it’s not about age,” said Peter, reaching for a glass of white wine from the tray of a passing waiter. “But how could it not be?”

  “Give it time,” said Jonathan, who was drinking water.

  “He’s not into me that way—claro. I must be grotesque to him.”

  “Relax. It was only a second date.”

  Around them, the gallery’s scene-energy was escalating. Guests continued to drink, chat, and laugh ferociously, while the high-heeled models oozed among them, radiating exemplary focus. On hand to preserve decorum between the naked performers and New York’s most entitled culture vultures was a squad of art-world security guards, heavy guys in ill-fitting uniforms, whose hovering presence was meant to allow everyone to feel comfortable and wild at the same time.

  “Look how clean their feet are,” marveled Peter, as they inched through the crowd, gawking at the models in a pretend-blasé way. “Now that’s good execution.” The boy models betrayed only a hint of the difficulty they were having with the high heels, while the girls looked more at home in the performance, owning their space fiercely on the polished concrete floor—a pretend-simple surface, Peter knew, that was colored in a precisely formulated shade of warm gray and had cost more per square foot than most Persian carpets.

  “You’re really into this guy, aren’t you?” said Jonathan.

  “God help me,” said Peter. “He’s such a delicious blend of masculine and something else. And why am I being so shy, anyway? Why wouldn’t I just put my cards on the table and see what’s what?”

  “Did you get into top and bottom?”

  “I did not.”

  “It could mean trouble.”

  “Oh, no, darling. Boys are all bottoms, these days. You’d know that if you were dating. Anyone born after 1975 is a bottom. Besides, you know I was never into all that. I still don’t know what to say when people ask me about Harold and me.”

  Being free of top- and bottomness was, in fact, a big reason why Peter liked playing around with younger men, though they did wrestle, in their own way, with subtle gender identity issues—a battle that, in Will, seemed like a tension between the Inner Boy and Inner Girl, though not in an artsy way, as with Tyler, who used ambiguity to his advantage in his work at the agency and onstage, but in a more everyday way, with fashion accessories that referenced Affluent White Suburban Mom Realness: the scarves, sunglasses, and tote bag that Will sometimes used to mitigate his Cute Young Guy looks. The new terms of young men’s identity exploration felt like progress, Peter told Jonathan: a step beyond the parodies of masculinity adopted by their own generation as a response to oppression. These kids had never known much oppression, which was not only nice for them but also made them nicer to be with. And no, Peter assured his friend, he and Will had not delved into gender theory that night, though Peter did admit being obsessed with a tender lilt that sometimes flecked Will’s laughter and a delicate continuity between masculine and feminine grace that Will demonstrated when, for example, handling glassware and pouring drinks.

  Was Peter really into the guy? Sure. How—as a friend? That would be nice. As a boyfriend? Maybe, if Will were into it and had no issues with age. But age wasn’t a question that could simply be asked and answered. Will might not find Peter “grotesque,” just a sexual no-thank-you. Then again, Peter was as unsure about Will as he was head-over-heels. Who was the guy, really, and what would he become? Who was he raised to be, and how would he manage the gift of his parental programming? Tyler’s mom, for instance, was only a career waitress, unmarried when she raised Tyler, but she was sharp and progressive, and had imprinted her son with the will to better himself, and that had motivated him deeply. Such imprinting was a kind of hidden color, too, which revealed itself only when the light was stronger.

  “You’re such a good friend,” said Peter, kissing Jonathan impulsively on the forehead. “Listening to me prattle on about boys.”

  Jonathan rolled his eyes heavenward, which only heightened the fact that his eyes were slightly sunken.

  When the performance concluded, the dancers bowed slowly, butoh style, then the evening’s chairperson introduced the choreographer, who said a few words about nakedness and nature. Then, as the live auction began—on the block was the evening’s artwork itself: a DVD of the performance, plus a pair of used high heels and a certificate of authenticity—Peter and Jonathan made their way to the bar.

  The place was a museum of former flings, commented Peter. Julian was there, a journalist whom Jonathan used to see. So were Newsome, a gallerist whom Peter dated for five minutes, and Delia, a dealer Peter had made out with once on a banquette, many years before, when she was at Vassar and Peter got her and some extremely cute classmates, boys, into a hot club. Peter nodded to both, smiling as they passed, continuing to talk with Jonathan in a way that indicated that an interruption would not be cool. For Peter, nearing sixty, the city was never so full of former golden boys, many of whom he had promised the world and many who rejected it. What does one say to a boy who has rejected the world and also lost his looks and now seemed a poseur, a weakling, a dullard, or a fake?

  And then Peter saw Nick. He was walking toward them with a guy Peter assumed was a new boyfriend. They were going to say hello and there wasn’t time to warn Jonathan, without looking obvious, that he didn’t want a protracted exchange.

  “Peter, hi,” said Nick, leaning in for a perfunctory hug. “Hi, Jonathan.”

  “Hi, Nick,” said Peter. Introductions were made to Benny, the man Nick was with.

  “Nice party,” said Nick.

  “Having a good time?” said Peter.

  “Great. Not sure I get the art.”

  “There’s not much to get. Naked young people in cute shoes. QED.”

  Nick was a tall man in his early forties, with dark hair; huge, dark eyes; and a prominent nose. He had a permanent smile and sparkling demeanor, the latter which now, chastened by sobriety, seemed gentler.

  As the four talked, Peter made sure
his body language said that he and Jonathan had been on their way to another part of the gallery, and Jonathan, no slouch in social matters, even if at death’s door, played along cheerfully.

  “How was that?” asked Jonathan, after Nick and Benny had left.

  “Fine,” said Peter.

  “You sure?”

  “Jonathan, we did three years of therapy, just to end it correctly. I’m good.”

  “He’s put on some weight.”

  “Hasn’t he, though?”

  “But still cute.”

  “At least he’s still alive.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “A chef, I think,” said Peter. “Benedetto.”

  “Julian is looking well,” said Jonathan. “I wonder if he’s still hooking.”

  “What do you mean? I thought he was at Rolling Stone.”

  “He was, back then. He was also taking clients, which is how he and I met.”

  “Jonathan, you shock me,” said Peter. “I did not know that.”

  “About him—or me?”

  “Either of you.”

  Jonathan smiled weakly.

  “You know I’ve done a call boy now and then,” he said.

  “I’m not making a judgment,” said Peter. “You know I have great respect for sex work.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Peter was more upset over seeing Nick at the gallery than he let on, and he was peeved to be that upset, given all the therapy that he and Nick had been through together, after the breakup. On his way home, as he and a zombie driver rattled down Varick Street in a gypsy cab, toward the Brooklyn Bridge, he kept going over those few seconds of banal party chatter in his mind.

  “Not sure I get the art.” “There’s not much to get.”

  But Nick was so much smarter than Peter! He often saw more than Peter did in all kinds of art, from contemporary stuff to the masterpieces people knew since childhood. Peter always said so! Yet Nick’s background wasn’t intellectual. He hadn’t undergone the standard art historical indoctrination at home or in school, and never seemed to want to learn more about what he was seeing, as Peter always thought he should do. Peter expected that anyone would want to do that, because . . . Well, all that was ancient history now. The therapist had helped them see that they were two different people, two different stories.