Cross Dressing (5 page)

“Thanks, bro, but I’ve got all the asshole I need.” The man stepped into the light. Simple black pants topped by a black shirt and a white collar with religious overtones. A priest. He was the same height as Dan but slightly thinner. If he grew a
beard and put on a suit, he could have walked into Dan’s office at The Prescott Agency without turning a head.

Dan broke into a broad smile. No wonder the voice was familiar. It belonged to his identical twin. “Michael!” he blurted. “I’ll be damned. The patron saint of deadbeats. What are you doing here?”

“It’s good to see you too,” Father Michael said. He went to hug his brother, but Dan hesitated. He didn’t hug a lot of men in his line of work, so he extended his hand to shake, then pulled it back. Michael smiled like a saint and embraced his emotionally impaired sibling, pulling him close.

“I thought you were in Africa,” Dan said from behind his brother’s ear.

“Just got back.”

Dan broke the embrace and put his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “Well, it’s good to see you.” Dan turned to unlock the door. “I don’t suppose you’re here to make a loan payment?” His tone was halfway between
you still owe me the money
and
I’m just giving you a hard time.

“That was a long time ago.” Michael waved a hand to imply how many years had passed.

“A thousand bucks, bro. Whatever happened to thou shalt not steal?” Dan arched his eyebrows before opening the door. He bowed and made a doorman’s gesture. “After you.”

“Why, thank you.” Father Michael walked in and set his small suitcase on the floor.

Dan and Michael had been raised Catholic. The Church’s structure and moral guidance filled a void created by their disorderly home life. They were altar boys during junior high, even though they attended public school. Whenever they moved to a new town, Dan and Michael would go straight to the local parish to join the CYO in the hope of making friends. After high school they went to different colleges and earned their undergraduate degrees, but they entered the seminary
together. After one semester Dan began to have his doubts, while Michael, having found his calling, slipped into a state of bliss. After a second semester, Dan couldn’t take it anymore. He got his own calling, one for a steady and significant income. He went back to school, took some marketing and advertising classes, and got a job.

During Michael’s last year of seminary, Dan loaned him a thousand dollars for tuition and so he could fix up his old VW bus. Michael swore he’d pay back the loan, but he never even started to, assuming that his well-employed brother would let it slide. However, Dan refused to forgive the debt. He said there was a principle involved, not to mention the interest.

Michael looked around Dan’s spacious living room, then flopped onto the plush sofa. “I understand why you’re mad,” he said, “but you’re the schmuck who loaned money to a guy bound by an oath of poverty.”

“I figured you’d skim from the collection plate until you repaid me.” Dan crossed to his extravagant entertainment center as automatically as breathing. He flipped on the television, muted it, then hit Random Play on his one-hundred-disc CD player. “I didn’t think you’d disappear into Africa.” As the music began to flow from hidden speakers, Dan headed for the bar. “How ‘bout a drink?”

Father Michael perked up a bit. “Got any scotch?”

“Only the best.” Dan pulled out a handcrafted wooden box with an etching of the Glenlivet Distillery and its founding year prominently displayed on the inside lid. He held it up as if it were a holy relic. “This is a limited-edition collection of five vintage-dated single-malt Scotch whiskies produced by the world-renowned Glenlivet Distillery.” Carefully, almost religiously, Dan pulled the 1968 vintage from the box. “This is as good as it gets,” he said as he uncorked the bottle. He nosed the opening, inhaling deeply. “Deep and complex nutty aromas enhanced with a dryish fruitiness.” He poured some into a crystal
tumbler and tasted it. “Soft, rich flavors and aromatic fragrances, balanced by a gentle sweetness.” Dan held the glass up to the light. “Say Seagram’s and be sure.”

“Sounds terrific,” Michael said. “Can I get a shot of that or are you just going to stand there doing an ad for the stuff?”

“All right,” Dan said. “Just a shot. Then we’re switching to a blend.”

Michael pointed a finger at Dan. “Sharing was always one of your issues, wasn’t it?”

“I shared the womb, didn’t I? All that amniotic fluid and whatever.” Dan poured a couple of fingers of scotch into thick crystal tumblers. “That doesn’t entitle you to half my income. Community property laws don’t apply in utero, or at least they shouldn’t.” He crossed to the sofa and handed Michael his drink. They toasted and drank. “So how are things on the dark continent?”

“Dark,” Michael said. “And getting darker.” He rubbed his stiff neck as he trotted out a dozen horror stories about the refugee camps in Africa. He talked about the hundreds of children he saw die every week. He talked about how local military groups routinely stole their supplies. He painted a grim picture that he said was only getting worse. He said it didn’t matter how many toothless condemnations the UN issued against the local governments; decrees simply had no fiscal or nutritional value. “What the people really need is food and money.”

Dan shook his head. “When are you going to learn that no amount of charity is going to help? These people have to learn to help themselves. Teach a man to fish, that sort of thing.”

“Blessed is he that considereth the poor and needy,” Father Michael said.

“Yeah, yeah, and you deserve a break today,” Dan said. “Have you considered yourself lately? In the light, you don’t look so hot. Are you all right?”

“That’s one of the reasons I’m back. I’ve had some health
problems. One of the Red Cross doctors said I needed some rest and a decent diet.”

“I bet I can fatten you up,” Dan said. “Got a place to stay?”

“I was hoping to crash here for a couple of days while I look.”

“Sure, no problem,” Dan said. “Just don’t get too comfortable. This ain’t a flophouse for wayward priests.” His verbal jabs notwithstanding, Dan was glad to see his brother. He was Dan’s only real human connection and the bond was strong. Dan couldn’t say it, but he felt it.

Father Michael raised his glass. “And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.”

Dan leaned over and clinked his glass against Michael’s. “Speaking of charity,” he said. “Remember Mom?”

Father Michael downed his drink. “Mom? The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

Dan leaned back in his chair. “Sure, you remember.” He held his hand three feet off the ground. “About yea high. That sweet little nutcase I’ve spent forty thousand a year on for the past five years. How’s your math?”

Michael made a face at his brother. “She’s not a nutcase, Dan. She’s free-spirited.”

“Uh huh. Just wait ’til she shoots you with a paint gun before an important meeting.”

“Okay, she’s a free-spirited manic-depressive. How’s she doing?” Father Michael moved his jaw from side to side, stretching the rigid muscles.

“She’s fine, long as she gets her medication. But even then she’s not exactly June Cleaver.”

They talked about Ruth for a while, and before long they started to recall some of their childhood stories, the good ones mostly. They drank some more and the conversation branched from one tangent to another, as conversations about a shared
past tend to. They knew each other’s buttons and they pushed them just for fun. After a couple of hours they had come full circle and were back to talking about their mother.

Father Michael sat up on the sofa. “She’s the other reason I came back.”

Dan got up and poured another round of drinks. “Oh?”

“You’ve done your part,” Michael said. “I’m here to do mine.”

Dan smiled. “Well, pardon the expression, Father, but it’s about goddamn time. How exactly do you plan to pay for it?”

“A Monsignor Matthews from the L.A. diocese hooked me up with a place called the Sylmar Care Center. I’m going to work there and take Mom with me.”

Dan eyed his brother with suspicion. “You mean I’m off the hook?”

“Free as a bird,” Father Michael said, flapping his hands.

Dan couldn’t believe it. This was like a 30 percent raise. Combining it with the bonus he expected for the Fujioka campaign, Dan might actually be able to get ahead now. “So what’s this Care Center like?”

“Not sure,” Michael said. “All I know is it’s run by a nun named Sister Peg and they’re underfunded like all charitable organizations trying to take care of the poor.”

Dan looked into his glass, rolled the ice around, and shook his head. “Why do you do this to yourself? Why don’t you get one of those fat-cat Vatican jobs instead of mucking around in the squalor all the time?”

Michael tilted his head toward Dan, looking almost bewildered. “I do it because my soul demands it.”

“Your soul?” Dan sounded as bewildered as his brother looked. “I don’t believe you sometimes,” he said. “What makes you think you even have a soul?”

“I can feel it.” Michael smiled sweetly. “And I can feel yours too.”

“This is pointless.” Dan didn’t want to discuss metaphysics,
or charity, or the poor, so he turned the discussion toward himself. He spent twenty minutes bragging about his writer/producer position on COD and the advantages of a double income.

Father Michael looked around the well-appointed apartment. “I suppose that explains your pleasure palace here at the Sodom and Gomorrah apartments.”

“Don’t let appearances fool you.” Dan snorted. “I’m in hock up to my hairy little ass.”

“Congratulations. What about romantic entanglements?” Michael asked.

“Fuck!” Dan bolted from his seat and dove at the telephone on the bar. “No no no no no no,” as he punched wildly at the keypad. He had completely forgotten about Beverly. “Come on, come on, come on,” he urged the phone. “Paleeezze!” He was ninety minutes late already. Still, maybe he could get some phone sex. “Pick up pick up pick up!” He felt sick as fleeting images of Beverly’s imagined kinks winked out like a dead TV. “Yes, room 703! Fast!”

Father Michael watched this desperate display for a moment before closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. He enjoyed the spell the scotch was casting. The tension in his jaw eased slightly. Still, he felt like something was wrong with him. He tried to dismiss it as a psychosomatic response to the “episode” in Africa with Cardinal Cooper. Michael self-diagnosed that he had transferred his temporary mental instability to a physical one that would pass once he had rested up and resumed a good diet. It was hard to believe that his mind could do this to his body, but his psyche wouldn’t allow any other explanation. Psychosomatic would have to do.

Instead of phone sex, Dan got voice mail. He launched into a desperate, stammering message but soon realized he was wasting his time. He dropped the receiver into its cradle
and looked at Michael. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You’ll never know the multitude of sins you prevented,” he said. “And what’s worse is I’ll never know them either.” Dan drained his glass and poured himself a double. “Dammit! This girl is why they invented sin in the first place.” Dan couldn’t help himself. If he couldn’t participate in any depraved sexual activities, he would at least get the satisfaction of telling another man about how close he had come to doing so.

Michael listened patiently, and not without interest, about Dan’s setup with Beverly. When Dan finished, Michael looked at him thoughtfully. “I take it then that you’re not exactly close to settling down and having a family?”

Dan snorted his reply. “Oh, that’s rich,” he said, walking to the closet at the near end of the hall. “Until very recently I had a crazy mother who cost me forty thousand bucks a year and a brother who took a vow of poverty.” He pulled a pillow and some blankets from the closet. “I need more family like I need prostate cancer.”

“No, you need a family,” Michael assured him. “Somebody who depends on you, makes you want to get up every day and get out there.” He pointed at his doubtful brother. “You’ll see, someday …”

Dan thought about his Fujioka presentation, then tossed the pillow and blankets at Michael. “With all due respect, Father, I’ve got a hundred million reasons to get up tomorrow, so I’m hitting the rack.”

T
he next morning at six Dan was sipping coffee while standing on his balcony overlooking Santa Monica Bay. He was trying to convince himself that all wasn’t lost with Beverly. He’d send her roses and hope for the best. Dan’s optimism was buoyed by his ocean view and his imagined future. The sky was clear. The water’s calm was disturbed only by dolphins
surfacing for air as they made their way up the coast. It was the perfect beginning to Dan Steele’s perfect life.

In a couple of hours he would give his boss a slam-dunk presentation for a one-hundred-million-dollar account. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Dan suddenly hit upon the perfect idea for his COD law-firm spoof. He wrote the spot in thirty minutes.
Damn
, he thought,
it doesn’t get any better than this.

Dan made some phone calls to set the day in motion. Locations would be scouted and sets would be built. The COD casting people would audition the actors and have them hired and rehearsed by two. After making the Fujioka presentation, Dan would spend the rest of the day shooting and editing the COD spot. The next day he and Oren would present the “More Is More” campaign to Fujioka and Dan would join the Advertising Hall of Fame.

Scott Emmons was the only potential turd in the punch bowl. Dan had stolen Scott’s idea because of his financial desperation, but with Michael taking Ruth off his hands, his finances would improve significantly. Dan started to consider sharing credit with Scott; that way he wouldn’t have to worry about Scott going postal on him. Besides, Dan figured if COD’s popularity continued to climb, his future was limitless. Still, if he could just come up with a way to take full credit for the “More Is More” idea … The decision was a tough one for Dan.

He got to Oren’s office at eight and made the presentation. Dan waited for Oren’s response. If he hated the idea, Dan could—at least partly—blame Scott. If Oren liked it, maybe the best thing was to share the credit.