Turning Idolater (8 page)

Philip looked to Flo, and then to Thomas. “No. It’s
to run up your credit card.”

“Three-Card Monte,” Flo said. He pushed the parcel
under Thomas’ hand.

Thomas frowned for the first time since this
encounter. Was that what this was about? A further extension of a
One on One
— a punt at
ye olde credit card
.

“Highway robbery,” Thomas said. “You are bursting my
fantasy, dear boy.”

Philip stroked Thomas’ arm. Flo trembled, obviously
judging these maneuvers in a less than tepid light.

“Does this feel like a fantasy to you?” Philip
said.

“I do not know,” Thomas mused. He was in less
control, a feeling he did not relish. “You can touch fantasies. For
example, when you read books, you step into another world, yet it
is just something held in the palm of your hand.”

Thomas sensed Flo’s discomfort, but he didn’t care.
This charming young man — this captivator was sparring with him on
his own terms. Intelligence. It was there. Logical and resolute,
even if it puddled under a pool that reflected significance like
the moon borrowing its candle from the sun. Philip was suddenly
illusive, yet attainable.
In the palm of your hand
.

“Our One on One,” Philip whispered, “was wonderful.
I didn’t think once to extend your time for the good of
manluv
. If we went into overtime, it was because I wanted to
give you more of me.”

“You danced like Salome,” Thomas reflected.

Philip smiled, registering the reference. “Did you
lose your head, Mr. Dye?”

“Intelligent boy.”

“Boy with candy,” Philip said, holding up the
turnover remnants.

“I think I’m going to puke,” Flo said, this time
shuffling the parcel directly under Thomas’ forearm. “We have an
offer for
Bright Darkness.
” He slapped his hand on the
package. “Contract’s here. I need you to look it over.”

Philip retracted his hand. Thomas kneaded his brow.
“You have never been sharp when it came to this sort of thing, Flo.
Is it not evident that I am on a date?”

“Is that what you call it? Looks like coffee to
me.”

“Do you see coffee?” Philip snapped, and then
giggled.

Flo twisted about. “I know that I’m an untimely
interruption in
your
business, but this contract might help
defray your cost.”

Thomas slammed his hand down. “Enough, Flo.”

“I mean, Tee, this is important.”

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

Flo stood. “I don’t know why I even bother.”

Thomas stood. “Sometimes I question that also.”

Flo sat down again. “So, are you guys going out
dancing? I won’t be in the way.”

Philip’s eyes showed panic.

“Actually, Flo,” Thomas said, “We are going for a
late dinner.”

“Great,” Flo said. “Some Chinese food, perhaps?” He
gripped Philip’s shoulder. “Do you like Chinese?”

“Actually,” Thomas said. “We will be discussing
Philip’s latest read —
Moby Dick
.”

“That old fish tail.”

“He isn’t a fish,” Philip said, brushing off Flo’s
grip. “He’s a mammal.”

“He’s ancient history and required reading in High
School. Do you remember High School?”

Thomas spit. “Excuse us a minute, Philip.” He glared
at Florian. “A word with you.” Flo reached for the parcel. “Leave
it be.”

Thomas was as steamed as a New England clambake, but
he held his temper well. This didn’t mean that he hadn’t temper. In
fact, when his blowhole went, woe betides the Pequod and the entire
fleet. Still, he had managed Florian Townsend for many years and
they were friends. It might have been difficult to divine
friendship
from the current action, but this was only one
event in many scores. Thomas knew that Florian would not relent
until he made his point —
what’s a man like Tee doing with a
girl like Philip?
Thomas knew if it got to that point, Philip
would probably drift out the door and home to
wherever
home
was.

Flo didn’t fight the notion of a private talk, but
Thomas was not inveigling to invite Mr. Townsend back to the table.
He was about to eject him — with explanation, but ejecting him he
would. He walked him to the large glass doors with the heavy brass
handles. There he stopped and rounded on his friend.

“I understand your need to conclude business at all
hours of the night, Flo, but you have never had a sense of
propriety.”

“I know what you’re doing. It’s that Internet
business still.”

“It may have been, but give me a break, Flo. I have
just met Philip, and I think I would like to know him better.”

Flo bit his bottom lip. “Taking notes is one thing.
This is another.”

“I do not follow.”

“Christ, Tee. You’re twice his age . . . or more. Is
he jail bait?”

“No.”

“How do you know? Have you asked him for
identification?”

“You are being an ass. He strips on a pay site and
he needs to be eighteen or older to do that. It is the law.”

Flo pouted. “I guess it’s your business, but if you
ask me . . .”

“I did not ask you. Nor would I.”

Flo trembled. “I thought I knew you better than
that.”

Thomas sighed. Flo had softened now into some
dreary, wistful pose, like a pouty girl — an ungainly, ugly, pouty
girl, but an imploded female nonetheless.

“Flo, this is not about us, you know. The old days
are gone. We are friends. You are the best agent I have ever had,
but if you cannot let it go, I will need to reevaluate . . .”

“No,” Flo said, raising his hand, halting Thomas’
train of logic. It was clear that Florian did not want that train
to leave the station. He never did, and Thomas knew it. It was a
wreck waiting to happen. Flo sighed.

“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.”

“You sound like a fucking bongo.”

“You said
fucking
. You must mean
business.”

“I do. I shall see you tomorrow. Stop by the flat.
Not too early, now.”

“I just hate to see you get hurt,” Flo said.

“I am a big boy.”

Flo’s head drooped. Thomas patted his back, opened
the door, holding it until Flo slinked through and away.

Thomas turned back to the table.
The Imperial
Coffee Mug
had thinned out. It wasn’t the hour, but a lull in
the ceremonials. He paused, watching the young man who fidgeted
before the great window. A pang bit Thomas to the core. It was a
cross between guilt and desire. Florian was right. This was not an
age appropriate coupling. Beyond that, Philip was curious and
precocious, but nothing like the college lads that Thomas liked to
date. Philip might be sucking on Melville’s misplaced teat at the
moment, but what next — Shakespeare? Rabalais?
Who am I
fooling?
Thomas thought. However, this thought was trumped by
the matter at hand — the sheer beauty of the boy. He felt a bit
like Aschenbach in
Death in Venice,
watching Tadzio running
naked on the strand. What had that gotten Aschenbach? A passel full
of plague and a gondola ride with the grim reaper.

No
.
This was different.
Philip could
be trained up, and if not, Thomas would turn idolater and kiss the
nose of the pagan god. He decided
.
He strutted to the table
watching his own reflection in the window as it blotted Philip’s
out.

“I hope I didn’t cause any trouble,” Philip said.
“You know, you asked about Sprakie and me. I never asked you if you
were with someone.”

Thomas sat and pondered this question.
Good
question
, but pointed. “Do you mean Flo and I? No. I cannot see
that.”

“Somehow, I think he might. See it, I mean.”

Perceptive
lad
.

“No. You need to know Flo. He is my oldest piece of
furniture. He does not like change, but he will come around.”

Pregnant silence. A palate cleansing moment, which
on some occasions are fraught with nerves and a need to fill the
void with chatter. In this case, it was welcomed and lasted a full
three minutes. Finally, Thomas dashed it. “Well, what shall we do
next?” he asked.

“You mentioned dinner. I’m famished.”

“Dinner it shall be. I know just the place.”

Philip smiled, and then winked. “And then you said
we could go to your place and discuss . . . Dick.”

“You mean Melville’s Dick,” Thomas said. He laughed.
“I mean Moby’s.”

“I like your laugh,” Philip said.

“Well, you
do
make me laugh. You make my
heart feel so . . .”

“Young?”

“Young.” There we have it. They arrived at the issue
and Thomas was not ready for a serious discussion, so he cleaved to
the rigging and scraped up some old barnacles. “What is age anyway?
Just another number to live up to?”

“Just a number,” Philip agreed, but his voice was as
tentative as Thomas’ thoughts. “No other meaning.”

“Quite clinical. Even when we feel our age, it only
serves to make us restless. We still need to . . .”

He closed his eyes. He saw the pages as if he had
read the book a dozen times, which he may have, and spoke:

“
Whenever I find myself growing grim about the
mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever
I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and
bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; then, I account it
high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

“Loomings,” Philip said. “But Tee.” At this, Thomas
opened his eyes. “Can I call you Tee?

Thomas smiled. “It is music from your lips.”

“Come swim in the sea with me, Tee,” Philip said.
“Take a deep breath. What do you smell?”

“Coffee.”

“No. Do it again.”

Thomas inhaled with the vigor of an old mariner on
the docks. He smelled the sea.

“Salt in the air,” Philip said.

“I do smell it.” The aroma was from a different
place than this old beatnik dive.
Let me be a child again
,
he thought. He opened his eyes. “Lead on.”

Philip grinned. “I take MasterCard, Visa, and
American Express.”

“You make me laugh,” Thomas said. “Besides, I always
pay with cash.”

Thomas stood, his hand out to catch Philip at the
balance like a country gentleman escorting the shallow country maid
from the cotillion floor. They would take a late supper like
civilized folk, and then see what lay beyond Christopher Street.
Thomas did sense something in Philip’s pulse. Before the evening
was out, one or the other would be compromised, turning idolater
and kissing the nose of the pagan god.

“Which floor?” Philip asked.

He scanned the array of buttons in the immaculate
white elevator. They were arrayed from
L
to
25
. He
hoped Thomas lived high up — a penthouse perhaps, with a good view
of the East River, although they were closer to Central Park.

“Three,” Thomas said. “You look disappointed.”

“No. Three is good.” He grinned, and then pressed
the button. The silver door shut.

Philip was tired now. It was probably more the food
than anything else. Thomas had taken him to an intimate restaurant
overlooking Park Avenue —
The Gujarati Rose
— specialty,
Indian cuisine. Small and scarcely lit, the curry aromas had
intoxicated Philip, and although he avoided the super-hot
Vindaloo
, he managed the mild one, which was hot enough.
They ate in near silence, the waiter chattering in unintelligible
palaver about the dishes and that he hadn’t seen Thomas in many
weeks and something about the Dalai Lama. The food, spicy aromas
and the buzz of these ramblings lulled Philip into a state of
euphoria. In the dim candlelight, Thomas seemed more haven than
meal ticket.

Now Philip was on the short rise to the third floor
of a spacious apartment house — an older high-rise, but complete
with doorman and an ornately appointed lobby. Philip was impressed
that the place had a name —
Papillon Arms
and there was a
distinct lack of urine smell in the hallways. In fact, he detected
roses, which brought to mind the Turkish Delight dessert that had
just ended his meal.

The elevator door opened. Thomas, key in hand, waved
the direction. There were only three doors, and Thomas’ was to the
left. Philip brushed his hand over a huge flower arrangement
perched on a cherrywood side table reflected in a garish, gold
framed mirror. He caught a glimpse of himself and Mr. Dye. They
were not bookends, but rather misfit puzzle pieces — he in
Sprakie’s gold shirt and Thomas in blue poplin. This was unlike the
earlier visions he had of his own radiance tubside. He seemed
diminished now. He felt diminished now, but he wasn’t hungry, and
he
did
want to know more about this author, who would
undoubtedly strip away the backpack and dive into the covers of
more than
the Book.

“Are you coming?” Thomas asked.

Philip touched the arrangement again — a big
breasted peony. “Aren’t we forward?” he said.

“Cheeky monkey,” Thomas said, winking.

So it was into the breach without a doubt of the
outcome. Philip had not taken into account the depths below the
bowsprit.

Lights on. Philip was amazed. He had expected
something larger than Sprakie’s cramped boudoir PLUS, and indeed
something more spacious than his parent’s place in Brooklyn, which
leaned against the MacDonald Avenue El and rattled with every train
pass; however, Thomas Dye’s apartment (he referred to it as
the
flat
— how British), took his breath away. As Philip had not
learned the social responses that would suppress his exhilaration
(he might in time), he raised his hands and spun around the
foyer.

“This place must have cost you a fortune,” he
spluttered.