When You Don't See Me (10 page)

“Oh God. Is this a female thing? Why do women feel compelled to tell their gay friends everything that happens
down there?”

She blushed and stammered, “Oh. I guess you're right. You probably don't want to—I'm sorry.”

I sighed. “Go on. What is it? Does it burn when you pee?” Kendra looked as though I'd just slapped a scarlet
P
on her crotch. “Really? Gosh,” I said. “I was just kidding.”

“Believe me, it's not that funny,” she whispered.

“Does Morgan have any cranberry juice? Isn't that supposed to help?”

Kendra folded her arms and said, “Right, Nick. It burns when I pee, so I'll drink something that's going to make me pee even more.”

“I don't know! I'm not a doctor!” I shrieked.

“Shut up!” she hissed. “I don't want the whole building to know. This is so embarrassing. What am I going to do? I don't have insurance. I can't afford to see a doctor. I don't even know if I can pay rent. Again. I still owe you for last time.”

“It's okay,” I mumbled. Suddenly I didn't feel as bad about my life as I had earlier. “My final paycheck from I Dream of Cleanie arrived in the mail the other day. I'll float you a loan until you get paid again.”

A knock on the door made us both jump. I nearly fell off the toilet seat. Kendra cautiously opened the door. Roberto's hand came into the room, holding a slip of paper. As Kendra took the note, I heard Roberto say, “They're open for another hour. It's not far, but if you get a cab, you'll get there in plenty of time for someone to see you.”

“Okay,” Kendra mumbled. Roberto's hand popped into the room again, this time offering a twenty-dollar bill and a condom. Kendra stuffed them both into her pocket and weakly said, “Thanks.”

“I'll go with you,” I offered.

Halfway down the stairs, I realized that I'd forgotten my wallet. I told Kendra I'd meet her on the corner and ran back for it. Roberto and JC were watching a game on TV. As I searched a pile of dirty jeans for my wallet, I heard JC say, “That chick you live with's hot. You hittin' that?”

I stopped what I was doing and waited for the answer.

“Nah,” was all Roberto said.

I found my wallet on top of a milk crate by the futon. I stuffed it in my back pocket and ran downstairs.

 

The address Roberto had given Kendra led us to a clinic near Columbia University. It wasn't a free clinic, but they charged on a sliding scale. Kendra tried to haggle with them, but changed her tune when they referred her to the free clinic and said it wouldn't be open until the next day. She mumbled something about it being a burning issue and followed a nurse into an examining room.

I flipped through the magazines in the waiting room. A picture of Sheila Meyers caught my eye. Sheila was one of my uncle's best friends. I read the box of text and smiled.

“Nick?”

I looked up, expecting to see a nurse or doctor who'd come to inform me that Kendra's condition had taken a turn for the worse. They'd have to operate, but needed the consent of Kendra's family. Which, of course, would be impossible, since I knew nothing about her family. Kendra would lapse into a coma and—I shook my head clear of
ER
-induced fantasies and said, “Hey, Mark. How've you been?”

“Okay,” he said. He looked concerned. “How are you?”

“Oh. I'm waiting for a friend to come back out,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“Good,” he said and smiled. Then he asked the dreaded question. “What's new?”

He looked good. As bed buddies went, Mark was the best. He could be sweet and gentle, or rough and hot. Whatever I wanted. But out of bed he was Dr. Mark: successful, organized, together. Everything I wasn't. Who wanted to look at a bed buddy and see a role model? I wanted the two of us to be on an even plane. Out of context—out of bed—we were in different universes. Judging from his anxious expression, Mark felt it, too. I wished I had good things to tell him. I wished we were in bed, so I could tell him everything that was bothering me. Instead, I said, “Fine. Hey, this isn't the clinic where I met you.”

“That clinic was a real zoo,” Mark joked. “No, you're right. I'm meeting—”

“Mark, hi,” a man in a white coat called and interrupted our boring conversation. When he was near enough, his hand reached for Mark's shoulder, but when he noticed me sitting there, he shook Mark's hand awkwardly. “I got held up in the lab. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” Mark said. He introduced me to David, a radiologist, who didn't have much to say to me. David said he'd change and meet Mark outside. He then speed-walked away with the long strides favored by eight out of ten New Yorkers on a time schedule. When we were alone again, Mark said, “That was David.”

“I see. I mean, I saw. He came and went so fast, I wasn't sure. Are you sure he's not an illusionist?”

“He's definitely a radiologist.”

“How long have you guys been dating?”

“Oh, we're not—” Mark broke off and collapsed on the seat next to mine. “Shit, I guess we are. We call each other a lot. We've had three dates. There was talk about a share in the Pines.”

“You're dating,” I said seriously. “I could prescribe something for that. An injection, maybe? If you'll step into the bathroom for a few minutes and drop your pants—”

“I don't think so,” Mark said and grinned.

“Right. You're the doctor. I guess you know what's best.” I added, “Besides, he really likes you.”

“How do you know?”

“He obviously wanted to touch you. He didn't like me being near you at all. He couldn't wait to get out of here and have you all to himself. And he's pacing outside now, glancing through the window and staring at you like you're a puppy he wants to play with.”

Mark turned, saw David through the window, and said, “Whoops. I guess I'd better go.”

“I guess you'd better.”

“Look, I—”

“We've had fun,” I said quickly. “You're a great friend. See you later, right?”

“Right,” Mark said. I had a good view of Mark and David as they greeted each other outside, all smiles. David hailed a cab, opened the door for Mark, and touched his back as they maneuvered inside. They reminded me of Uncle Blaine and Daniel; how they always found ways to make contact like that. To the untrained eye it seemed casual, but I knew it was much more. It was love.

 

When Kendra returned to the waiting area, she could barely look me in the eye. She mumbled, “Can we get out of here?”

There was only five dollars left over from our earlier cab fare, so we bought big cookies at a deli and walked home. After a few blocks, Kendra finally said, “It's NGU.”

“I almost went to school there,” I joked. “What's that mean?”

“It's an infection of the urethra brought on by chlamydia.”

“Hot,” I said.

She glanced at me and shook her head. “Not so much.”

“No, it's not,” I agreed.

“Go ahead,” she said. “After hearing about your uncles and their endless safe sex speeches, I'm sure you have quite a bit to say.”

“Nope. It's your life.”

“That's it? That's almost worse than a lecture.”

If she knew that Roberto was probably cured of his need to flirt with her, Kendra might have thought that was worse. But I didn't say anything. Instead, I gave her the other half of my cookie and held her hand the rest of the way home.

April 18, 2003

Nicole,

Your uncle and I were having dinner with Sheila and Josh recently. As usual, I went digging through Josh's pile of photos to see if I could find any of “former soap actor Daniel Stephenson” that needed to be destroyed. Instead, I found an old one of you and Blaine standing side by side at Rehoboth Beach. Normally I'd say you look nothing alike, but your expressions are identical here. The two of you seem so disapproving. I have no idea what you were staring at when Josh took the picture, but I hope you didn't make anyone's head explode. I thought you might like the photo, so I'm enclosing it.

Come by sometime. I have no one to torment.

Yours,
Danielle

I
quickly learned that trying to find a job in New York City could be as bad as finding an apartment. I combed all of the ads in newspapers, but was beaten to the punch by people who read them first on the Internet. I took to wandering the streets of random neighborhoods, looking for HELP WANTED signs in windows. I asked friends, hoping that word of mouth would come through for me again, but nobody knew of anyone hiring. Fred couldn't even get me on at Starbucks because no one was leaving. Apparently actors and musicians were having trouble finding work, too.

After two weeks, I started to take it personally. Maybe I was dressed wrong. I made it a point to dress in my most boring clothes: plain black pants and a button-down shirt. Whenever I'd talk to store owners or managers, I could always see their eyes quickly drop and scan me from top to bottom when they greeted me. I had a feeling they were looking for labels and mentally calculating how little I spent on my appearance. My family had long since given up on trying to take me shopping. I knew nothing about fashion. I only cared about expressing myself creatively. Not following some trend like a mindless sheep.

Unfortunately, the East Village thrift stores I frequented weren't hiring, either.

I hid from reality in movie theaters. Sitting in a dark, frigid theater and avoiding my problems with a box of popcorn was better than dealing with rejection. So was playing pool. Or reading in bookstores. Unfortunately, escapism wasn't cost-effective for the unemployed.

That was when I started leaving the house in the mornings, pretending I was going to spend another day looking for a job. I'd wait in the Korean deli across the street until I saw Kendra leave for school. She was always the last to go, so I knew the coast was clear. I'd have the apartment all to myself until she returned around two to change for her waitress job. Originally, I ducked out for an hour while she was there. Then I got daring and just stayed quiet in my room until she left again.

Staying at home was better than roaming the streets because I was afraid of running into someone I knew. I quickly learned that the unemployed were like lepers. All conversation would turn to the dreaded question:
Any luck with the job search?
My negative reply would always receive sympathetic looks, as if my ear had just fallen off, followed by their assurances that I'd find something soon.

It would've been fine to be out of work if I was painting. But even sketching bored me. I could barely bring myself to doodle in the margins of job applications. I felt dead inside, creatively.

“Stop worrying about it. You're putting too much pressure on yourself because you don't have a job,” Davii said to me one day while he was cutting my hair. We were in the kitchen of his apartment, a small loft in the fashion district. “It's hard to be creative when you have outside forces putting demands on you. Once you find a job, I'm sure you'll start working on your art again. It's like this apartment. I grabbed it when I first moved to New York, assuming I'd trade up once I got established. But I'm hardly ever home, so what's the point?”

“What
is
the point?” I asked.

“It's easy to get stuck in a rut,” he answered.

“Maybe. The only outside force putting pressure on me is my roommate, Morgan. The dark force.”

“Problems in paradise?”

“I'd settle for purgatory.”

“I think you're already there. I think you enjoy being tragic.” A chunk of hair slid down the back of my neck, and I shivered. Davii pushed my head lightly and said, “Hold still.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be,” he teased. He moved in front of me and started snipping my bangs. His face was inches from mine. The intense look on his face and the way he bit his lower lip while he worked was sexy. Luckily, I had on a black smock that covered my crotch.

“You're so lucky. Your job fell into your lap.”

“Maybe. But I paid my dues, Nick. Beauty school, barbershops, mall salons.” He paused and visibly shuddered. “I guess I was in the right place at the right time. I suppose Sheila did pluck me out of nowhere. But ultimately, I had the skills and made them work to my benefit.”

I thought about that. What skills did I have? I could draw, sure. But how could I make that work for me if I was creatively dead? I felt like I was caught in a trap and I couldn't walk out. I frowned and pointed to the radio on the windowsill. “Do we have to listen to Elvis?”

“Yes. I'm going through an Elvis phase. It's all about the King.” I sighed loudly. Davii stopped cutting and said, “Fine. Brat.” He switched from the radio to the CD player, and suddenly Howard Jones was assuring me that things could only get better.

“I hate you,” I said.

“No, you don't,” Davii said, laughing.

“I do. I'm going through an I-hate-everyone phase.”

“You're too old for that now. Grow up. You're the one who wanted to live in the real world. Welcome to reality, my friend. It's not all fun and games.”

“This is what I get for confiding in my hairdresser,” I said. “Lectures and advice. Your hotness is fading fast.”

Davii stopped working and grinned. “What? You think I'm hot?”

My mouth fell open, but I couldn't speak. If I'd been a leper, that would've been when my dick fell off.

“Anyway,” Davii segued, “what's with this Morgan chick? What's her deal?”

“She's a cartoonist, I think,” I said. “I'm not really sure. But her main job is to make my life miserable. She's always ragging me about something. Rent, bills, food. She's evil.”

“That's a shame. I always got along great with my roommates. Why don't you get rid of her?”

“I don't know. At least she's got a job. She pays everything on time. Finding someone else would be too much of a hassle.”

Davii stood up and squinted at me. He reminded me of Johnny Depp in
Edward Scissorhands.
He pushed a lock of hair from my eyes and said, “There. You're done.”

He led me to his bathroom. I stared at my hair in the mirror. It was cut in a modern shag style and had blue highlights.

“I asked for give-me-a-job hair. This is form-a-new-garage-band hair.”

“No,” Davii corrected, “it's appreciate-me-for-who-I-am hair. Whether it's prospective employees, your roommates, your family”—he raised his eyebrows pointedly—“they all need to appreciate you for the unique and wonderful person that you are. But you can't expect them to do that unless you can do the same thing. Trust me, I know that can be tricky sometimes. Especially when you're having a run of bad luck. But—”

“Things can only get better?” I guessed.

“You're such a brat,” Davii said. He pulled me to him and hugged me quickly. Then he let go and said, “Get out of here. You've got a haircut. Now go. Get a job.”

 

I had to admit that my new hair gave me confidence. I walked down Eighth Avenue and could hear the Bee Gees playing in my head, as if I were in
Saturday Night Fever.
But I wasn't a woman's man, so I pulled out the iPod I'd borrowed from Roberto and listened to Rammstein. While I was passing the Chelsea Hotel, a hand grabbed my shoulder, causing my earbuds to be yanked from my ears. I shouted, “Hey!”

“Sorry, man,” a guy my age said. “Nick, right?”

He looked like half the guys at Pratt: baggy jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt with some random slogan printed on the front over a long-sleeved shirt. He had bad posture and smelled like a tomato. He seemed familiar, but I couldn't remember his name or how I'd met him. I dumbly said, “Yeah. Hey.”

“I haven't seen you in ages. Did you drop out?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Bummer. Got a job?”

Instead of screaming like I wanted to do, I said, “I got fired recently.”

“That sucks! That happened to my friend, Steve, back home. Only he quit.”

Suddenly I remembered him. Random Rick. He was constantly telling random facts about his supposed friends from back home. I always guessed that he was homesick and couldn't wait to go back since he talked about it so much. He was kind of pathetic.

A guy driving by in a truck suddenly yelled, “Hey, fag! Nice hair!”

“Sit on my face!” Random Rick shouted back, and threw his bottle of Coke at the truck. It bounced off the back bumper, and the driver hit the brakes. There was a loud noise when the cab behind it ran into the truck's rear bumper.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Run!” Random Rick needlessly said, pushing me to the nearby E subway entrance. We dashed down the stairs, and I grabbed Rick's jacket to stop him from jumping over the turnstile. I jerked my head toward a group of armed guards and pulled out my MetroCard. Rick said, “Good call.”

Only after we were on the E train and it began lurching uptown did we heave a sigh of relief.

“Man, that was crazy. It's like this one time, back home, Justin and I were cruising the main drag, and—”

“Dude,” I interrupted, “I don't care.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry, but I really don't give a shit,” I said. “Nobody does. We don't know these people back home that you're always talking about. It's not that interesting. What are you doing here?”

“I'm on the subway,” he said stupidly. “With you.”

“No. You don't get it. It's like you're stuck. Are you going back there? Or are you going to accept that you're here and move forward? Make up your mind.” We both sat silently. We watched the Thirty-fourth Street station come and go. Finally I said, “Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“No, it's cool. I get it.” Rick pulled a notebook from his backpack and scribbled an address on one of the pages. He tore it out and handed it to me. “Go here. It's a design firm. A friend of mine told me about a job there. They're looking for someone to run errands, or something. I was going to apply, but you need the job more than I do.”

“Hey, thanks. But I couldn't—”

“Yeah, you can. Do it,” he urged. “You're not in Ohio anymore, right? Isn't this city all about grabbing opportunity by the balls and taking advantage of situations? Using your friends and connections? Go right now, though. Someone might beat you to the punch.”

I didn't bother to correct him about where I was from. Instead, I smiled and thanked him. He got off the train at Penn Station after saying, “See ya round, Nick.”

I surfaced on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third, because I wasn't sure if there was another stop after that and didn't want to end up in Queens. After walking a few blocks I gazed around at the corner of Central Park and the Plaza Hotel. I flashed back in my mind to the first time I'd seen this part of Manhattan. All the white buildings, ritzy stores with things I'd never be able to afford, and stone-faced people stalking the sidewalks like they owned the city intimidated me.

They still do,
I thought, as I darted out of the way of a woman with too many shopping bags.

The address was for an office building a few blocks away on Third Avenue. It was across the street from a gaping hole in the ground surrounded by a chain-link fence. In the lobby, I struggled with Random Rick's handwriting and tried to match it with the directory on a wall near the elevators. Wamsley & Wilkes, I learned, was on the first floor. I took that as a good omen.

The reception area looked like someone's living room. There were bookcases lining the walls, their shelves crammed with books, plants, and various picture frames and other trinkets. The portraits on the walls were of smiling people in suits. I assumed they were people who worked at Wamsley & Wilkes. Instead of being arranged around a television set, the various love seats and chairs faced a desk. A woman dressed head to toe in pink sat behind it, knitting while talking into a headset. She looked like somebody's grandmother, in concert. When I stepped tentatively forward, she winked, smiled, and held up one finger, as if to say she'd be with me in a minute. Then she gestured with wide-eyed enthusiasm at a plate of cookies on the edge of her desk. I took one and nibbled at it. It tasted like chalk.

She put down the phone and said, “Hi! Welcome to Wamsley & Wilkes. How's that cookie?”

“Great,” I lied.

“I baked them myself this morning. They're sugar-free,” she said in a low voice, like it was a state secret. “I'm Eileen. What can I do for you?”

“A friend of mine told me there's a job opening here,” I said.

“You haven't finished your cookie,” she said darkly. She brightened again when I said a silent prayer, then stuffed the whole thing into my mouth. “Are you an interior designer?”

“No,” I answered. A few crumbs flew out of my mouth.

“Furniture designer?”

“Um, no.”

“Carpenter?”

I shook my head again.

“Contractor? Design intern? Accountant?”