“Coming right up. Since you’re the houseplant expert, you decide where to put it.”
Ken positioned the cachepot on a small table in front of the living room windows. Then he and Rick sat down and admired the effect while they drank beer.
Ken enjoyed hearing part of the Tchaikovsky opera, especially when Rick summarized the story for him.
“She’s right to send Onegin away at the end,” Rick said, referring to the opera’s heroine, Tatiana. “She and Onegin were never really in love with each other. They were in love with this illusion they each had about the other person.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ken protested. “Illusion can be enjoyable sometimes. After all, reality has this annoying way of kicking in, sooner or later.”
Rick looked at him. “I’m interested in your attitude toward relationships.”
“Are you? Why?”
“Only because that sort of thing can tell you a lot about a person. And I do want to know more about you. Tell me. Have you ever wanted to get married?”
“No. Quite apart from the fact that I can’t get married legally in this state.” When Rick gave him a blank stare, Ken specified, “To a guy.”
“Oh. I forgot.”
“You forgot I was gay, or you forgot that gay marriage hasn’t been legalized in this state yet?”
“Both, I suppose. You don’t act gay.”
“Thanks, I think. Some guys would consider that a backhanded compliment. We don’t all swish, you know. Far from it.”
“Sorry. But let’s face it. Even really masculine gay men drop some kind of a hint every now and then. A certain look, or a certain inflection in the voice. I’m serious,” Rick protested, no doubt reacting to the expression on Ken’s face. “I’m not trying to insult anybody. But I’m an actor, remember? I think about such things when I’m around other people, you know, observing them, studying them. Looking for something that might come in useful some day in my work.”
“So what you’re telling me is that if you ever play a gay character, I may be honored by having you imitate the way I behave or talk.”
“Okay, I guess I deserved that. But seriously. You’re sort of the exception that proves the rule.”
“I can act as gay as the next guy when I want to. The difference is, I prefer to do my gay acting in bed. There, at least, I can usually count on the audience being appreciative.”
Rick let out a guffaw of laughter. “You’re funny.”
“And it’s good to see you smile and hear you laugh. You’ve seemed a little tense up until now.”
“I know. I do feel better, for some reason. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how talking about sex can relax you and put you in a better mood?”
“Yes, isn’t it? The only thing more relaxing and more mood-improving is to actually have sex.”
“Now you sound kind of gay.”
“Damn. I knew I couldn’t keep up the façade for long.”
“But getting back to marriage and relationships…. You don’t mind me asking you personal questions, do you?”
“Not at all. Ask away.”
“Have you ever liked another guy enough to want to live with him?”
“I have lived with other guys. Some of them were just roommates with privileges, if you know what I mean. Others were more serious relationships. More like a romance.”
“When you broke up with these guys—” Rick hesitated.
“No, go on.”
“When you broke up with these guys, was it traumatic?”
“We usually didn’t break up—not in the way most people use the term. It was more like a gradual cooling off of the sexual relationship, which led to an amiable parting of the ways. I’ve managed to stay friends with most of the guys I’ve been intimate with. It may surprise you to know that I don’t have much tolerance for drama queens. I try to be adult about my relationships.”
They talked some more, about less personal topics. Ken didn’t want to outstay his welcome, so he soon made his excuses and took his leave. Rick insisted on escorting Ken downstairs, and in the lobby he gave Ken the customary man-to-man hug and kiss.
This is getting to be a habit. A habit I could get used to.
“Thanks ever so much for the cactus and for the beautiful pot,” Rick said.
“You’re entirely welcome.”
“It was so thoughtful of you. And now, when I look at them, I’ll be reminded of you.”
Ken smiled at Rick. “Are you flirting with me, young man?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t know how to flirt with another guy.”
“Oh, somehow I have a feeling you’d catch on pretty quickly. If you ever do decide to expand your range of experience, feel free to practice on me.”
Rick grinned. “Get out of here before I have to kick you out to protect my virtue.”
“Yeah, it’s already in jeopardy. Inviting guys over for dinner, accepting presents from them, listening to romantic music together…. You’re already on a slippery slope, buddy. With the abyss of gayness lying in wait for you at the bottom.”
Rick snorted with laughter in that unguarded, boisterous way Ken now knew he sometimes had. “You are so funny, Ken. You’re such good company.” He looked slightly more serious for a moment. “You are such a good friend.”
“I try to be. So long.”
Ken was prey to conflicting feelings as he got back in his car.
Oh hell. I am kind of falling for him, aren’t I? And I told myself I wouldn’t let myself do anything stupid like that.
It’s only going to end in heartbreak and disillusionment, like it did for those two people in that opera. I’m just setting myself up for a big letdown.
But I can’t seem to help it. And it sure feels good, right now while it lasts.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE VIEW FROM INSIDE
THE FISHBOWL
KEN WAS relaxing at home after devoting most of the day to his properties and tenants. He treated himself to a cold beer, and as he tried to work up enough ambition to go into the kitchen and make himself some dinner, he turned on the TV. It was, by coincidence, tuned to one of those trashy cable stations that specialized in so-called entertainment news, namely gossip and scandal. Ken had gotten into the habit of monitoring such shows periodically in case there was any coverage of Rick and Eva’s upcoming nuptials. He decided not to change the channel as he finished his beer. There might be some mention of the happy couple.
He wasn’t disappointed.
“Hollywood wedding scandal!” the blandly good-looking male commentator who was on the screen at the moment practically shrieked. “The sex tape everybody is talking about! Now that Eva has been caught cheating on Deke, the question on everybody’s mind is: will the wedding go on, or will Hollywood’s hottest young couple call it quits?”
“What the fuck?” Ken exclaimed.
Fuck, as it turned out, was indeed the operative word.
The commentator quickly and gleefully filled in the audience, withholding none of the sordid details. Eva Angelokva had supposedly been on a fashion shoot in the Caribbean, squeezing in this assignment before she flew back to California for her wedding. Now it appeared that there had been no photo shoot. Eva had in fact been cruising about the Caribbean on her German industrialist’s yacht, indulging in—as the commentator put it—“one last fling before her marriage to the unsuspecting Deacon Rowe.” An enterprising paparazzo had tracked down the couple and, thanks to the miracle of modern technology known as the telephoto lens, filmed them on the deck of the yacht. In the footage, which quickly went viral over the Internet, Eva and her billionaire were not only both completely nude, they were engaging in a particularly energetic and acrobatic act of sexual intercourse.
Ken stared at his TV screen in disbelief as the entertainment show aired the video clip in digitally censored form. The couple’s private parts were masked by little patches made up of pulsating squares, but a viewer didn’t need much imagination to realize exactly what was
going on behind all that pulsation.
Ken tore himself away from the TV long enough to get his dinner started, but then he grabbed a fresh beer and continued to monitor the breaking story.
Eva’s indiscretion was all over the airwaves, at least on the kind of television channels that cared about such things. And those that did care were obsessed by it. World War III could have been declared, and these scandalmongers would have banished any coverage of it to the cable equivalent of the back pages.
More video clips surfaced of an unusually subdued and even tearful Eva, fully dressed and with her eyes concealed behind dark glasses, trying to elude reporters at the Miami airport, where she was catching a flight back to Los Angeles.
“It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Eva try to get away from a camera,” another commentator—a woman, this time—quipped.
Ken ate his dinner in front of the TV. His disgust at the schadenfreude he was witnessing was undercut by his own sense of shame at allowing himself to get caught up in it. But he couldn’t seem to tear himself away. It really was like driving past a bad car crash. You couldn’t help slowing down to gawk.
It wasn’t long before the reporters and camera crews caught up with Rick, intercepting him on what Ken recognized as a street in downtown Los Angeles.
Wearing his trademark baseball cap and amber-tinted sunglasses, and looking tight-lipped and strained, Rick fended off the barrage of questions about Eva.
“Can you forgive her?” one reporter asked.
“I don’t know yet if there’s anything to forgive,” Rick replied tersely. “I have to hear her side of the story. Until she gets here and we’ve had a chance to talk, I have no comment.”
The reporters, of course, refused to let it go at that and continued to ask the same questions over and over again. Rick’s answers were guarded and in fact rather gentlemanly, given the circumstances.
But Rick abandoned his reticence when the name of the German industrialist came up.
“What kind of a man talks a woman who’s engaged to be married into sneaking around with him behind her fiancé’s back?” Rick fumed. “I’ll tell you what kind of a man. A rich son of a bitch who thinks his money can buy him anything, who thinks that the rules of decent behavior don’t apply to him, who thinks he can get away with anything, and who doesn’t care who gets hurt.
“Well, he can take his money and stick it up his ass and fuck himself with it. I hope he chokes on it!” In the heat of passion, Rick had made an anatomically improbable suggestion, which was quickly commented on. The clip of his outburst, with the words son of a bitch, ass, and fuck sometimes blipped out, seemed to pop up on every evening news program on television, and also, of course, made the rounds of the Internet in uncensored form.
Belatedly, Ken wondered if he should try to contact Rick. He tried Rick’s cell number. There was no answer, which was understandable. Ken decided to send him a text message, and after pondering what to say, he finally let himself be guided by the reliable principle of “keep it simple, stupid.” He punched in Here if u need me and sent it.
About an hour later, he got a call.
“Ken? It’s me, Rick,” Rick said peremptorily.
“Uh, hi, Rick. How’re you doing?”
“Lousy.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“I’m exaggerating. I’ll be okay.”
“I can hear some traffic noises. Are you outdoors?”
“I’m parked in my car. I was driving around aimlessly. And then I was on the phone with my agent when a cop pulled me over. He was going to give me a ticket for talking on my cell while I was driving, but then when he recognized me, he felt sorry for me. Do you believe it? Even the cops know all about this shitstorm and are talking about it! So he let me off with a warning. Just told me to pull over and park in a safe place before I pull out my cell again. Who’d have thought there’d be something positive to come out of this mess, after all? Listen,” Rick went on breathlessly, without giving Ken a chance to respond. “I don’t want to impose on you, but if I don’t find somebody to talk to, I’m going to go right out of my frigging mind.”
“Understandable.”
“I’m afraid to go to my place, because I bet those press sons of bitches are already camped out in front of it. Are you at home? Can I come over to your place?”
“Yes. Yes to both questions.”
“Oh, you’re a real pal. See you soon.”
It didn’t take Rick long to get to Ken’s apartment. The moment Ken let him in, Rick took off his baseball cap and flung it aside, then sank down into the nearest armchair.
“Do you have anything to drink?” was the first thing Rick said.
“Sure. What would you like?”
“Do you have any hard liquor?”
“I’ve got a bottle of whiskey.”
“Get it. Please. I really need to tie one on.”
Rick followed him into the kitchen and—before Ken could offer him a glass to drink from, let alone ice to put in it—grabbed the whiskey bottle from Ken’s hand and drank straight from it.
“Fuck! I needed that,” Rick declared.
“Maybe you’d better go easy on that stuff,” Ken cautioned.
“I don’t see why. At least I haven’t been drinking and driving. Every bar and liquor store I passed, I wanted to stop and load up, but I just kept driving. I do give myself some credit for that.” Rick took another swig. “I suppose you saw me on TV.”
“It’s been kind of hard to avoid.”
“I made a complete fool of myself.”
“It’ll blow over.”
“My agent told me to keep my mouth shut from now on, which is good advice. ‘Play the dignity card’ is the way he put it. So from now on, ‘no comment’ is going to be my middle name, every time those motherfucking vultures shove their cameras and their microphones in my face.”
Ken found two glasses, filled them with ice, and added a combination of bottled water and whiskey, going easy on the latter. “Here,” he said, handing Rick one of the drinks.
“This looks kind of light.”
“I don’t think sucking it down undiluted is the smartest thing you could be doing right now.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“No, I’m your friend.”
“Sorry. I’m in such a lousy mood. I’m all keyed up. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”
“Forget it. But come on, let’s go sit down in the living room. This is the first time you’ve been here at my place,” Ken pointed out. “I want you to make yourself at home. Let me play host.”
They sat, and Rick sipped his drink—taking it slow, Ken was relieved to see.
“What a farce this whole thing is. If only Viktor was here,” Rick lamented. “I could talk to him about anything.”
“I’d like to think you’d feel comfortable talking to me about just about anything.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I can talk to you. God, I seem to be doing a lot of apologizing, ever since I got here.”
“If you ask me,” Ken dared to suggest, “it’s Eva who owes you the apology. Have you spoken to her at all?”
“No.” There was a certain fierce satisfaction in Rick’s voice. “I was supposed to pick her up at the airport.” He consulted his wristwatch. “I didn’t. Her flight should be coming in right about now. And I haven’t answered any of her phone calls or responded to any of her text messages.”
“So she’s been trying to contact you?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Maybe you ought to talk to her. Hear her side of it.”
“Not right now. Not the way I’m feeling. I need to work through some of this anger first. And when we do talk, I want it to be face to face.” Rick emptied his glass. “I need more booze.”
“Maybe you don’t want to get too drunk too soon. Hey, do you want something to eat?”
“No thanks.”
“Have you had anything to eat today?”
/> “I don’t know. Breakfast, I guess, before all this shit came crashing down on me. Now I don’t think I could keep anything down. My guts feel all knotted up.”
Rather desperately and, he feared, ineptly, Ken tried to redirect their conversation to other topics. As he and Rick babbled at great length about matters of no great consequence, Ken lost track of time.
At last, though, he did have to excuse himself to go to his bathroom.
When he returned, he saw at once that it had been a mistake to leave his guest alone even for a few minutes. Rick had not only refilled his glass with straight whiskey and was swilling it down, he had also suddenly turned decidedly lachrymose.
“The bitch,” he sobbed, scarcely seeming aware of Ken’s presence. “The dirty, whoring bitch. She broke my heart. I wish I was dead.”
“Come on, now. You don’t mean that, Rick.”
“You bet I mean it. Do any of these windows open? Let me throw myself out. That’ll teach her. Then she’ll be sorry.”
“We’re on the second floor,” Ken reminded him. “You wouldn’t fall far.”
“Then let me go downstairs and run out into traffic and throw myself in front of a truck.”
“Okay, that makes it official.” Ken took the whiskey bottle, which was nearly empty anyway. “I’m cutting you off.”
“Too late,” Rick gloated. “I’m already good and drunk.”
“So I see. Well, I suppose you’re entitled to one binge after what you’ve just been through. But take my word for it. No woman is worth it.”
“How would you know? You’re gay.”
“Thank God I am. If this is what heterosexuality leads to, I want no part of it. Not that gay life is always a day at the beach. Let’s face it, some gay men can be assholes. You meet a guy, the two of you have a good time in bed, you think it might lead to something—but the minute you let on that you might be looking for more than a one-night stand, the guy makes a run for it and loses your phone number. I suppose I shouldn’t expect the kind of dude who jumps into bed with me at a moment’s notice to be anything but promiscuous.”
“Promiscuous, huh? Like you?”
“I don’t deny it. I’m a slut, I admit it. A man slut. When I say some gay men can be assholes, I’m not necessarily excluding myself from that category.” Ken was saying anything he could think of to lighten the mood and combat Rick’s alcohol-fueled depression.
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