There were a couple of Nick Millers in the UT directory, but only one Nicholas Miller, who was a third-year law student. I copied his phone number then hit the yearbooks. Last year’s Peregrinus, the law school annual, featured him on two separate pages. His individual second-year headshot was mighty fetching, but not as nice as him in the Human Rights Activism Committee portrait. He stood at the far left of the group, which I knew had a pretty gay agenda, not exactly smiling, but looking kind of amused and almost serene, except for those penetrating eyes. I closed the book and tried to snap out of it.
This was way out-of-character for me, the saucy smart-ass who went to the Bonham Exchange in San Antonio and danced wildly to Stock Aitken Waterman hits but stuck oh-so close to his female clubbing friends, never reciprocating male glances. The kid who hated sports but had been having locker-room fantasies since age seven and spent high school jacking off to three or four chapters of Nancy Friday’s Men In Love and a couple of strategically stashed Playgirl special editions. The sensitive, lonely twenty-one-year-old virgin so terrified of being just another stereotypical drama-fag, he had the love life of a lawn-jockey (sorry, it was Texas… they were ubiquitous.)
✽✽✽
“Hello?”
“Nicholas?” I asked. It was two weeks later. Things had not been going well. I had a crummy supporting role in the department’s big fall production of Measure For Measure and had recently been chastised by the petulant grad-student director for “not being innovative enough.” I wanted to ask him if wearing the same Antioch College sweatshirt each fucking day of rehearsal and pronouncing every third word with a British accent made him an expert on innovation but, instead, bottled up my frustration and so was doomed to suffer further stress. Also, my dad had been ambushed and beaten up in his office by one of the rich coke-addict patients he counseled at an exclusive rehab center, necessitating a fast drive south to San Antonio, where Dad was resting comfortably in between bouts of indignant rage; the worst injuries confined to his macho ego, luckily. And to top things off, the clothing-averse rowing team dude in the apartment across from mine finally installed window shades.
“Hold on. I’ll get him,” some guy said.
I was lying on my stomach in bed, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles were white. An eternity… then: “Hi, this is Nick.”
“Hi, Nick. This is Alex Young. We met at a Human Rights Activism thing. You may not remember me…”
“No,” Nick cut in. “Alex Young. The name sounds familiar.” Liar. But a sweet one.
“Anyway, I’m thinking of going to law school and I was hoping we could meet… and I could talk to you about it.” I held my breath.
“Sure,” he said. He sounded so nice, and quite butch. I quivered, as: “What’s a good time for you?” Today. This minute. Get over here right now.
“Maybe we could meet for dinner,” I suggested, not innocently. “Friday night?” It was now Sunday.
“Let me check… that sounds fine. I’ll call you later to ink it in.”
He took my number. I hung up, incredulous. I had a date with a gorgeous man. Just by – to quote Bananarama’s “Dream Baby,” – “scheming ways for us to meet.” Grateful for their inspiration, I grabbed their second album on cassette and went to the gym, where I’d spend the next five days hitting all major muscle groups. Just in case.
Monday I went to the Measurement and Evaluation Center at UT to pick up a Law Services Bulletin and filled out the registration. I’d been toying intermittently with selling out my acting talents to the courtroom since my humorous monologue from Little Murders bombed at district competition in tenth grade, so I didn’t feel like a complete fraud. I studied the bulletin on the shuttle bus and aced the practice test backstage at rehearsal. Getting to know Nick would be worth actually taking the LSAT. I imagined the study-dates I could look forward to. Emphasis on stud.
Wednesday morning the phone rang. I snatched it up, a shag-carpet of sleep still stapled to my head. “Hello?”
“Alex? It’s Nick Miller. I woke you up. And don’t tell me I didn’t.”
He sounded like a forest ranger in some comforting children’s fire-prevention film. ‘Hi, Nick,” I replied, instantly wide awake and sporting a coincidental but appropriately bone-stiff erection. “I have to get up in ten minutes, so it’s okay.”
“Well, perfect. I wanted to catch up with you before you left for class, so we could firm up Friday night.”
I’ll give you firm, mister. “Do you want to come by around six thirty?” I asked.
✽✽✽
My stomach was in knots. I flicked my eyes down at the massive amount of food I’d ordered, then back up to meet Nick’s. He was telling me about a psychotic professor he’d had the first year of law school (since fired, he assured me.) My mouth was on autopilot, smiling, asking pertinent questions, while my brain luxuriated in sensory overload.
I drank in his deep Texan voice. What would it sound like in a low whisper? I stared at his incredibly sensual lips and had never wanted to kiss anyone more in my life. I watched the tendons in his hands as he cut his chicken-fried steak and imagined the gentle pressure of that hand on my shoulder… or my thigh. I couldn’t eat another bite. My digestive system had been disabled by lust.
He asked me if I wanted to be a movie star. I told him how I’d always loved acting, the plays I’d been in — what I’d said a thousand times before to most people I met; this spiel was the only link between my grinding daily existence and the reality of this amazing fantasy dinner.
He didn’t bring up the Human Rights Activism Committee and neither did I. We talked instead about the academics of law school. “It’s such an all-consuming thing,” he said, “especially that first year. It can be pretty rough if you have a girlfriend.”
A what? Oh, my God, was this it?! Was he covertly asking if I was, too? Hoping there was no food in my teeth, I looked directly at him and said, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
He took a bite. What response was I expecting? That’s good to hear? Who needs ‘em? How’d you like to be mine? This was all new to me. We continued to chat, although dinner was rapidly drawing to a close. I had to make a move.
“Do you have plans for later tonight?” I asked.
“I’m seeing a movie at ten with my roommate and some friends.” I smiled expectantly, half-thinking he’d invite me, half-feeling my gut free fall at the word roommate. Any chance he lived with a demure Hindu girl? He didn’t ask me to join them. We left the restaurant. But hope sprang again when we got to my building and he suggested we go inside.
I made Black Russians and showed him my video collection, hoping the presence of Pink Flamingos, or surely My Beautiful Laundrette, would tip him off. He remarked politely on everything then asked to use the phone. I pretended to retrieve a notebook while peeking over his shoulder. He dialed his own number. “Hi, how y’doin’? I’m still over at Alex’s… We’ve got plenty of time… Barney, it’s only a few minutes away…. Okay. Bye.” He hung up.
“Out of time?” I asked, knowing damn well he was.
“Afraid so, Alex,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. I somehow resisted the urge to grab it then show him other places to put it. “I did enjoy talking to you, though. Hope I didn’t scare you off law school. It’s really not so bad. Especially for a bright guy like you.” He headed for the door.
“Nick?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s do something again really soon.”
“You got it.” Then he was gone.
I was shocked at how suddenly crushing loneliness descended on me. Desperate for companionship, I picked up the phone and left messages for four or five friends who were out having a good time somewhere. I sat backward in the chair Nick had just vacated. It smelled like him – this light but intoxicating fragrance that could’ve been cologne or shampoo or maybe body lotion he smoothed over his naked hairy to
rso after stepping out of a steaming hot shower. I pressed my face against the upholstery and breathed him in.
Barney?! Nobody was named Barney. Except Barney Rubble.
✽✽✽
Dear Alexander, I knitted this sweater because you are so cold-hearted. (Ha ha!) I hope you like reindeers. I do. (My cat is even named Rudolph!). If it doesn’t fit, please give it to Cary Rietta who I think is shorter. Love, Narda Hudson. Duluth, MN
San Antonio, where folks know what picante sauce should taste like, is a charming potpourri of historic Tex-Mex culture, right-wing religious zealotry, and sleek suburban development. Its perfect representational image is a Vacation Bible School class lunching at The Sombrero Rosa, a pink adobe sombrero-shaped restaurant with drive-through option located smack-dab on Walzem Road.
We ate the last of their Family Fajita Feast at home while I explained to my cynical dad that a three-year soap contract means four 13-week and four 26-week option cycles — the show’s option, not mine.
“That’s fucked,” he said.
“It’s standard,” I told him, stuffing my face.
“What’s to stop them from canning you in 13 weeks?” Dad got right to the point, refreshingly.
My mother intervened. “They’re not going to can him. If you were watching the show, you’d see they’re setting up a huge plotline for him.”
“Hey,” my father protested, “I watch it. I saw the one where you tricked the blonde bitch into drinking the poisoned SlimFast. That shit was great.”
The phone rang. My mom got up and answered it. For me. It had to be Sara. Or that Juliana girl. What if it was Nick? Christ! I couldn’t believe I’d rehearsed nothing to say to him. It had been eight months since we last talked. How the hell did he expect us to jabber on about my life as if we were nothing but a couple out-of-touch college buds? But what if he were trying to reach out to me? What if —
It was Sara.
✽✽✽
“There she is. Juliana Butts.” She pointed to a plain blonde with upswept winged bangs and a dreamy smile. We were sitting on the rooftop deck outside Sara’s apartment, the top floor of a converted Victorian house near Trinity University.
“She looks high,” I remarked.
“Her?! Not possible.” Like all the girls in the full-color senior section, Juliana was wearing one of those tired graduation wraps and displaying ample cleavage, I might add. Sara and I were in the “Not Featured” column. She’d gotten an alternative haircut at Curl Up & Dye the week before senior pictures, and her mother hysterically forbade her to appear in the yearbook “like that!” So we skipped school together on the day and saw an Italian splatter triple feature downtown at the rat-and-gang-infested Aztec Theatre.
“I really don’t remember her. At all,” I said. The night was warm and humid, even though it was already October.
“I do,” said Sara. “She was in my homeroom ninth and tenth. And really into Duran Duran. She was always writing their names on the sides of her tennis shoes and notebook covers.”
“You used to do the same thing.”
“Yeah, but it was The Smiths! Major difference. So, are you going to call her?”
“No,” I said. “I wrote her four times and sent her a photo. That’s enough.”
“Whoa,” she said, stroking my back obsequiously. “I forgot how important you are.”
I took her arms and squeezed them to her sides, laughing a little. “I don’t think I’m being an asshole. Am I?”
“Well…”
“Okay! I’ll call her. But if I have to do anything else with her, you’re going to come and pretend to be my luv-uh.”
“Wait a minute — “
“Hey!” I interjected with mock spontaneity. “Nick said he talked to you.” Sara squirmed away and went into the kitchen to load up a plate of just-baked tollhouse cookies.
“Yeah, he called me last weekend. I guess he’s been watching Hearts Crossing. I told him when you’d be here. Is that okay?”
I nodded. “Did he say he wanted to see me?”
She poured me a glass of almond milk. “Yeah, I think so. He was really vague about all of us getting together. You know Nick. He’s not going to tell me, or anyone, what he’s feeling. But Alex, can you blame him for wanting to be your friend? He sounded so proud of you. We all are, y’know?”
“I’m so incredibly excited about this job, Sara. I love it.”
“Then cheer the fuck up.”
My mouth popped open in protest, but she knew me really, really well. “Look… to make you happy, I know you need more than success and money and being a celebrity guest on the daytime TV charity version of Family Feud. You need romance. So do I. So does everybody. But I just don’t think it’s going to be with Nick. And if seeing him is going to be that hard for you? To hell with it. Let’s not go to Austin.”
“Okay. You and I can hang around downtown instead. I could pick you up at your office.”
“You mean my cubicle.”
“The Editorial Coordinator doesn’t get her own suite?” I teased.
“I’m lucky to get two paychecks a month. No, really… the magazine’s doing fine.” She worked for Paseo del Rio, a bimonthly targeting San Antonio’s “hip, culturally in-tune 21–47-year-old lifestyle” demo. It stunned the city a year ago by putting a nude Henry Cisneros (but for strategically placed bandolier and sombrero) on its first cover and had been serving up irreverent restaurant, nightlife and arts critiques ever since. “They keep promising me my own column. But I’m already in it a lot. Everyone was on vacation, so I ended up with four things in the August issue.”
“You’ll be running it a year from now.”
“I just got the assignment of editing the Calendar — you know, the huge center-section of every esoteric event between Austin and Corpus — so I guess they trust me. It’s a fun place to work. The only person over 32 is Maxine the receptionist, who’s 69. Next time Nate leaves town, I’m going to take her out to pick up men.”
“Working on anything big right now?”
“A feature on sexual compulsives. By the way, are you available for an interview?”
I gasped. “Meaning what?!”
“Um… that you’re a whore? Duh.”
The phone rang. I grabbed it. “Sara Richardson.”
“That’s not Sara.” It was Nick. “How are ya, Mr. Alex?”
“Okay… great, Nick.” I looked beseechingly at Sara. She raised both hands in surrender and shook her head. She hadn’t set this up.
“Your mom told me you were over here. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“No,” I told him. “We’re just catching up on a lot.”
“You’ll be coming up here before too long, won’t you?”
I was helpless. “Yes… we’re planning on it.”
“I’m finishing up a big project tomorrow,” he said. I heard pages riffling as he checked his Day-timer. “How ‘bout dinner the night after that?”
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want to meet at your office?”
Sara mouthed the word “whore” a la Amber Von Tussle in Hairspray then clasped her brow, giving up on me. I couldn’t help smiling. “Is six o’clock good for you?” Nick asked.
“Awesome.”
“Congratulations on your big break. I’m lookin’ forward to seeing you. Bye-bye.”
DECEMBER 12, 1989
By the sixth week of our acquaintance (six for me, four for him), Nick was on my mind every waking second. We’d gotten together exactly once since our first “date” — Drugstore Cowboy, followed by a long, leisurely dinner at Baby Acapulco, then a three hour chat at my place that avoided any mention of sexual orientation, his relationship with his “roommate”, Barney, or physical urges of any kind. But when Nick left at 2:00 a.m., I thought I finally knew the meaning of male bonding.
He wante
d to see Measure For Measure. I comped his ticket for closing night, thrilled the shitty production was ending and that he was alone in the audience watching me. My semester was done. The only final exam I had left was tonight, after the play. If I passed, it meant graduation from virginity. And, forgive me, it had to be said: I’d been boning up for it a long, long time.
I bowed out of the cast party and met Nick in the lobby of the B. Iden Payne Theater. “Bra-vo,” he grinned, shaking my hand vigorously. Electricity.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t bored out of your mind,” I said as we walked across the shuttle bus circle to Longhorn Stadium and the privacy of his car.
“No,” Nick insisted. “It was interesting. I’d rather watch Shakespeare than read it any day.”
“And I’d rather have my flesh shredded by gila monsters than be involved in such a pretentious mess again.” He laughed at my max-jaded tone, looking at me with what I could only hope was pure fondness.
We went back to my apartment and ate the cake Sara and her roommate, Vanessa, made me. We talked about Christmas, and I wished I had a present to give him; but I’d resisted, knowing how pitiful that would’ve looked if he rejected me later.
I got up and brought the dishes to the kitchen. As I rinsed them, he brushed behind me, and for a second I braced myself for arms encircling my waist and pouty Greco-Roman lip son my neck. But he was only going to the fridge for a soda.
I followed him into the dimly lit living room. “That was some exceptional cake,” Nick said.
I couldn’t take it any more. The line I’d rehearsed for days came spilling out:
“Nick, I’m so glad we’re friends. And I don’t want to screw that up. But I’m powerfully attracted to you, and it’s confusing because I don’t exactly know how to deal with it.”
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