The Trouble with Bliss

by Douglas Light

Morris doesn’t argue. It’s too ridiculous to argue. It’s like racing for closing elevator doors; catch it or not, you look like an idiot. “Listen, whatever,” he tells N.J. “The market can be whatever you want it to be.” The Red Thread. The Bloody Eagles. Colors and birds. Jetski and N.J. are playing with me, Morris thinks.

  They’re working together, he thinks, then realizes that it’s impossible. Jetski isn’t that smart; N.J.’s too erratic.

  “Got to run, man,” N.J. tells Morris. “Gotta meet Hattie.” He takes off, jogging down the street.

  Morris waves him on. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “My flight’s at noon,” N.J. calls over his shoulder. “I’ll stop by early.”

  “Right,” Morris says, shaking his head. Tomorrow’s noon will arrive. It’ll pass. N.J. will still be here, talking the next plan, the next woman, the next day.

  N.J.’s lies aren’t lies to N.J. They’re all hope, a true innocent belief. He believes he’ll do what he says he’ll do.

  At least he still believes, Morris thinks. Still hopes.

  Not wanting to go home, Morris wanders a bit, then decides to stop in Mr. Charlies. See if he’s there.

  He’s there.

  “Mr. Charlies,” Morris says, walking in.

  Mr. Charlies glares at Morris, his eyes tight. “Yes, Mr. Charlies, hello, Mr. Charlies.”

  “I’ve heard you’ve been out and about, doing up the town.”

  “I’m here, twenty-four hours, yes, everyday,” Mr. Charlies says, wearily studying Morris.

  Mr. Charlies’ hair looks the same, foppish and black. It looked like it hadn’t been combed in days. Morris asks anyway. “A friend said they saw you getting your hair done.”

  “There’s something you need, Mr. Charlies?” he asks. “Anything you need you tell me, Mr. Charlies. I’ll get it for you.”

  “I was thinking tea, Mr. Charlies,” Morris says. “Something nice, fancy, something like what they might serve at the Plaza hotel,” Morris says, watching Mr. Charlies closely to see if there is a reaction to his mention of the Plaza. “You ever been to the Plaza, Mr. Charlies? Ever been in a limo?”

  “Tea, yes, Mr. Charlies,” Mr. Charlies says, coming from behind the register. “We have tea. Fancy tea, Mr. Charlies, I have that,” he says, coming back with a large, orange and yellow box of tea. It’s Liptons. “Fancy, fancy, like they serve in the Hamiltons,” he tells Morris.

  “The Hamiltons?”

  “Yes, Mr. Charlies,” Mr. Charlies says, ringing up the box of fifty tea bags for $3.99. “The rich, rich. They drink it iced in the summers.”

  “What’s the Hamiltons?” Morris asks.

  “Where the rich, rich drink the tea, Mr. Charlies,” Mr. Charlies says. “The movie people and the rich people. The place they go in the summer, on the island, Mr. Charlies.”

  “You mean the Hamptons?” Morris ventures.

  “That’s what I said, yes,” he says, bagging the tea. “Anything else, Mr. Charlies?”

  “A dance club,” Morris states. “In Chelsea. My friend saw you there. And you apparently saw him, too,” Morris says, recalling N.J.'s tale.

  “A club of dance, Mr. Charlies?” Mr. Charlies asks, a look of confusion on his face.

  “One of those”—Morris searches for a word to describe it—“macho places.”

  “Macho, Mr. Charlies?” Mr. Charlies asks. “What is a macho?”

  “The Leather Muskrat,” Morris says, naming the club.

  “Ah, yes,” Mr. Charlies says, his face lighting up. “Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Charlies.” He comes from behind the counter. “I know, I know what you speak of.”

  “So it’s true?” Morris is surprised.

  “Yes, very true, Mr. Charlies.” He passes Morris and heads to the back of the store. “Very true and very popular. A lot of men like it,” he calls. “I, myself, like it, Mr. Charlies.”

  Lurid images of Mr. Charlies jigging on a dance floor in the midst of young, shirtless men shoot painful through Morris’s mind. “Does Mrs. Charlies, your wife, know?” Morris asks, watching him scoot down an aisle.

  “She knows. She insists on it,” he says, coming back to the counter. He hits the cash register for $6.50. “This makes them wild, Mr. Charlies,” he says, placing an item counter. “You’ll like very much, Mr. Charlies,” Mr. Charlies says, tapping a dusty bottle.

  Morris picks it up. Leather Musk, the label reads. Cologne.

  “Ten forty-nine,” Mr. Charlies says. He snaps out a plastic bag, puts both items in.

  “No,” Morris says, “I wanted to know if you’d ever been to a gay club—”

  “Yes, Mr. Charlies,” Mr. Charlies says. “Ten forty-nine.”

  “I don’t want this stuff,” Morris says, realizing what he’s just purchased.

  “Ten forty-nine, yes.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Yes, ten forty-nine.”

  Morris gives up, hands Mr. Charlies a ten, then sees if he has change. The tea he’ll drink. The cologne he’ll give to N.J. A going away present for not going away.

  Morris doesn’t have change. All he has is another ten, and twenties, money from the focus group. “Can I owe you, Mr. Charlies?” he asks.

  “Ten forty-nine, Mr. Charlies,” he says, pointing to the register. “Ten forty-nine. Ten forty-nine, please, Mr. Charlies.”

  Reluctantly, Morris hands him another ten-dollar bill.

  “Out of twenty,” Mr. Charlies says, ringing out the till.

  The drawer pops open. Mr. Charlies places the two bills in, then shakes his head. “Oh, problems, Mr. Charlies,” he says. “No change.”

  Chapter 34