When You Don't See Me (15 page)

“Plenty of people don't go to Pride,” I finally said. “It's hot. It's crowded. You either have to get there hours early for a good spot, or you get stuck watching it with the haters near St. Patrick's.”

“What are you talking about?” Morgan asked as she walked in. She did a quick scan of the kitchen. Morgan, like the Terminator, saw the world through infrared sensors that triggered stolen food alarms even when she didn't catch us in the act.

“He says he's not going to Pride,” Kendra said.

“No!” Morgan gasped. She was wearing a shapeless black dress with big pockets on the front. She reached into one of these and took out a business card. “This guy writes a column for the
Village Voice.
He'll probably want to interview you.”

It was easier to ignore Morgan than my friends. I felt like I was part of an experiment on peer pressure. The more pressure I got, the more I resisted. Only I knew how guilty that made me feel, until I confessed to Isaiah.

We were delivering a ceramic pink flamingo to a town house near Sheridan Square. No one was home, but the owner had left a key with his neighbor. When we went inside, both Isaiah and I recoiled.

“Dios mio,”
I imitated Adalla and looked around at ten thousand tchotchkes and a wall that was covered by a mural of Barbra Streisand. A rainbow flag fluttered from the ceiling. “So this is where 1970s San Francisco has been hiding.”

Isaiah pushed aside strands of beads to glance in the kitchen. He turned around and said, “Trust me, you don't want to look in there. Gently dock the flamingo, then exit the apartment. Make haste, young man.”

Once we were back in the van, we burst out laughing, and he said, “I am one proud motherfucker! How 'bout you?”

“Really proud,” I said. “Now I can stop feeling guilty about skipping the parade this year.”

“It's not mandatory,” Isaiah said, flipping off a cab driver who took offense when Isaiah intimidated him into another lane.

“You're the first person who's said that. You're not going either?”

“Are you kidding? I'm marching with the Full Gospel Gay and Lesbian Choir. We're gonna win the award for outstanding musical contingent.” He laughed when he glanced over and saw my expression. “Yeah. You may as well turn in your queer credentials now.”

“I'm queer. I'm here. Fuck you,” I said.

July 4, 2003

Dear Nick,

Today Adam and I are at this huge PFLAG cookout at his parents' house. Every gay, lesbian, and bisexual person his mother knows is here, I think. I'm so disappointed in Aggie Wilson; she wasn't able to find anyone transgendered this year, but she sure tried.

You know how she is. Her theme: No One Is Free Until All Of Us Are Free. And to illustrate, her Weimaraners have been forced into costume: thus the American flag stovepipe hats and rainbow vests they are wearing in the enclosed photos. Usually I'm more than willing to indulge Aggie in her shenanigans. And so are the dogs, if there's food involved. But have you ever seen two dogs look more embarrassed?

Anyway, I made the mistake of telling her that you work with red and blue poodles. She immediately downloaded these photos and made me print them for you. Keep them if you think Sadie and Marnie may run for office in the future and they'll be useful to you. God knows if I were a dog, I'd do anything to conceal these.

And oh yeah—happy Independence Day. Now that we're halfway through the year when Nick Dunhill declared his independence, I hope you're celebrating!

Love you,
Jeremy

G
rowing up in Wisconsin had taught me that cream of chicken soup, not variety, was the spice of life. Wamsley & Wilkes taught me that one spice, or one kind of soup, wasn't enough. Because I was always doing something different, I loved my job. There was never a moment to feel bored. There was always something to do, or someone who needed an extra pair of hands on a project. Most importantly, I was always learning something new.

I'd never used a sewing machine in my life, but I quickly learned how to thread a machine and follow patterns. I started to see the beauty in custom draperies, pillows, and upholstery. Terry, the self-proclaimed Fabric Bitch, lauded my newly acquired ability to identify fabric from twenty paces.

I almost couldn't wait to talk to Chuck on the phone again, because Jisella had taught me how to use a band saw. I still had all my fingers, to boot. Chuck had almost failed shop class in high school. So had I, but I decided that the teacher hadn't made class interesting. Working with Jisella had become my favorite activity. If they needed me, everyone knew to find me in her workshop. Anytime there was a lull in my day, I'd walk in and she'd toss me a pair of goggles and say something like, “Okay, kid. Ever made coopered doors? No? Let's get to it.” Or, “Okay, kid. Ever milled your own lumber? No? Pass me that six-quarter.”

Helping Jisella build custom pieces of furniture for Wamsley & Wilkes's clients became like assisting a postmodernist sculptor. At first I had trouble reading her blueprints. Every piece she made was carefully planned out to the finest detail. To me, it was like another language. Nothing but lines and numbers on paper. I never liked math. But the more pieces we made, the more the plans made sense. It wasn't long until I felt brave enough to question the plans and wonder aloud if they fit the design scheme.

“I know they asked for a scrolled base for this end table,” I said one day, “but wouldn't bracket feet fit the overall scheme better? A parquet top would be really cool, too. Don't you think?” I realized Jisella hadn't answered and turned around to see her staring at me with a glazed look in her eye. “Paging Jisella. Jisella, please return to earth immediately.”

She blinked and looked around, as if she'd just woken up and expected to find herself home, in bed. She glanced at the riffler in her hand and looked like she was trying to remember why she'd picked it up, and when.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. Fine. Just tired.” She sat on a stool at the workbench and used the riffler to scratch the middle of her back. “Ever get lost in a moment?”

“Huh?”

“Close. But not that kind of lost,” she joked. Jisella placed the riffler on the workbench and said, “When you were talking about the table, you sounded just like Lou.”

“Who's Lou?”

“He used to work here. With me, here in the workshop. Lou was always challenging other people's ideas. He wasn't afraid to take risks, or of pissing off architects or designers if he thought he could do better. He usually could, too. The man was a genius. He made furniture look like art.”

“Why'd he leave?” I asked. “Did he get a better job?”

“He died,” Jisella said. “Liver and renal failure and PML.”

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing but “Oh.”

Jisella spelled it out for me. “He had AIDS.”

“But—”

I felt stupid as soon as I said the word, and stopped talking. I felt even more stupid when Jisella seemed to know what I was thinking and said, “The inhibitors don't work for everyone. Lou had strong reactions to them. He had all the side effects. It was awful.”

I thought of Roberto. Ever since he'd told me that he was positive, I was hyperaware of how I acted around him. I didn't want to treat him differently. I didn't want it to matter that he was positive. But if I was in our room when he took his meds, the sound of pills rattling in bottles would seem amplified a thousand times. I'd catch myself staring at him and wondering what life would be like without him. If he sneezed, I almost expected his head to explode. Worse, if I sneezed, I felt like I should check in to the nearest hotel.

“I'm so ignorant,” I complained.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jisella said.

“It's not that I think I'm invincible, like most people assume my generation thinks. I practice safe sex, but mostly because it's like…” I struggled to find the right words. “Sort of like following a set of instructions.”

“Step one. Arouse partner,” Jisella said and laughed.

“Step two. Magically produce condom at the right moment,” I added. “It's weird how safe sex is ingrained in my mind, but I really haven't thought about what HIV is, or what it does to a person. That's the best way I can explain it.”

“Do you think about cleaning products on a daily basis, and what effect they have on the environment?” Jisella asked.

“No.”

“How about breathing? Do you dwell on carbon dioxide and how plants need it to live?”

“No.”

“You're not a bad person, Nick,” she stated.

After a moment of silence, I said, “I'm sorry about Lou.”

“Me, too,” Jisella quietly said. Then she stood up and said in her normal booming voice, “Ever hand tooled a table leg? No? Let's get to it.”

 

My review after three months of employment lasted fifteen minutes. Bailey and I sat in matching Parisian Deco leather chairs and sipped cappuccino in her office. She tossed my file onto a nearby oak Parsons table and said, “There's nothing for me to say, really. Everybody here raves about you constantly. Cinnamon?”

“No, thanks,” I said. I really didn't like cappuccino. I only accepted it because I wanted to seem gracious.

“You work hard. You're polite. You help everyone,” she said. “I assume you want to keep working here.”

“Of course,” I said. I replied quickly, as though she'd suddenly scream,
Too bad, sucka!
if I paused too long.

“Good. Isaiah threatened to quit if you left us.”

“Isaiah rules,” I said.

“Yes, he does,” Bailey agreed. “Your salary increase will be reflected on your next paycheck. Your benefits kick in now. Be sure to get all the information from Eileen about the HMO. I don't understand a word of it, but she can tell you everything you need to know. Is there anything else?”

I thought she might be talking to herself, so I waited and thought about how nice it would be to buy actual Cheerios, instead of the generic brand. When she cocked her head slightly and raised her right eyebrow, I said, “I can't think of anything. Do I need to speak with Mr. Wamsley?”

“I don't know. Do you?”

Her answer was obviously meant to be humorous. But I couldn't help but grimace, because her choice of words was eerie. Just that morning I'd asked Morgan if I should replace the sheets hanging in the doorway of my bedroom with something nicer. Now that I had a steady income and a job that was all about fine furnishings, I kind of wanted to bring my work home with me. I couldn't imagine anyone from Wamsley & Wilkes seeing the rat hole we called an apartment. Morgan hadn't even looked up from her Alpha-Bits when she blandly said, “I don't know. Should you?”

As I had for months, I squinted hard and tried to blur Bailey's edges and see Morgan somewhere in her features. The nose was all wrong. But her mouth, even without the blackberry lipstick, was close. I couldn't tell if they were the same height, because Bailey always wore high heels. But even if they seemed dissimilar, I still got a feeling about them. I was reminded of something Jisella had said: Even though two mass-produced end tables seemed the same, they were always different. Even if it was the direction of the wood's grain. Or sometimes, a millimeter of difference in height could make a piece feel different.

“Do you have a sister?” I suddenly asked.

Bailey's nose wrinkled and she set her cappuccino on the Parsons table, a foot away from a waiting coaster. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Just curious, I guess.” I tried to sound casual, even though I was suddenly worried about getting fired. “I have two brothers. They live in Wisconsin.”

“That's nice,” she said. The way she said it told me she didn't care. “Nick, I'm sorry, but I only talk about work at the workplace. I find it cuts down on the sexual harassment claims. Okay?”

Just a few days before, we'd had a long conversation that went from Broadway musicals, to Jekyll and Hyde, and then to her secret crush on Sebastian Bach. None of which had anything to do with work.

“Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Sorry.”

There was a tapping on her door. Eileen stuck her head in and said, “I hate to interrupt, but Sheila Meyers is here.”

“It's okay. I think we're done. But you could've called,” Bailey said. “I'll be right out.”

“She's not here to see you. She's asking for Nick.”

Both women stared at me with curious expressions, as if the reason why a famous model would visit me at work might be stitched on my shirt or tattooed on my arm. Eileen was smiling, as if she'd known from the moment we met that I'd be full of surprises, like a spunky child in a Disney movie.

Bailey's expression, on the other hand, didn't need interpreting, because she said, “How do you know Sheila Meyers? Why are we just finding this out now? Who else do you know? But more importantly, how do you know Sheila Meyers?”

“You already asked that,” I said.

“You haven't answered me.”

I decided to take a risk. “She's a friend. It didn't seem appropriate to bring her up in workplace conversation.”

Bailey smirked and said, “Good one.”

I found Sheila caressing the leather armrest of a wing chair in the waiting area. A Yankees cap covered her blond hair. She wore white shorts and a tank top emblazoned with a crown, obviously the insignia of a designer I knew nothing about. Her sneakers were gleaming white, as if they barely ever touched the ground. I stared at her white purse and wondered if Jisella would go for the idea of an alligator ottoman.

“Like that?” I asked. Sheila started and her sunglasses fell from the tip of her nose, bounced off the chair's seat, and fell under an Art Nuevo end table. I found them for her and said, “Sorry.”

“I'm such a klutz,” she said. She banished them to her purse and then looked at me as if we were starting over. “Hi! You're so thin. Are you eating?” Before I could answer, she hugged me. Over her shoulder I could see Eileen and Bailey staring at us from halfway down the hall. Sheila released me and said, “I'm mad at you.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven't seen you since—”

“I know,” I interrupted.

“It's been a long time,” she said. “I know I've been busy. But you know that I'll always make time for you.”

Sheila took my hand, as if sealing a deal. Jisella walked by, saw us holding hands, and grinned wickedly. She mouthed the words “hot stuff” at me, behind Sheila's back, then gave me the thumbs-up and walked on.

“I know you would,” I said to Sheila.

“And you've moved. You haven't invited me to your new place. Or any of us, for that matter.”

“I wouldn't. The place is disgusting. Trust me, you don't—” I stopped talking when I noticed Terry and Susan standing near the elevator and holding a yard of printed silk charmeuse between them. They were having a very quiet and overly animated discussion, like extras in a soap opera. I turned my attention back to Sheila and said, “You don't want to see my apartment.”

“I do. By not inviting me, you're denying me my right to bring you a casserole,” Sheila joked.

“Trying to feed me? Out of everyone, I never expected you to jump on the bodyweight bandwagon.”

Sheila cringed and said, “Ugh. I did that earlier, didn't I? I didn't even realize it. Sorry.”

As I waved away her apology, Tassel trotted up to Sheila, sniffed her sneaker, and sneezed. He pulled on her shoelace until it was untied, barked once, then left the waiting area. Sheila propped her foot on the wing chair so she could retie her laces and said, “Cute dog.”

“He had an appointment to get to,” I explained. “There's another one around here somewhere, in blue.”

“Speaking of appointments,” Sheila began, “what does a girl have to do around here to get one?”

“You need a designer?” I asked. Nigel, who'd stopped walking by long enough to stare at Sheila's ass while she tied her shoes, suddenly looked up with a hopeful expression. “One of my bosses, Bailey Wilkes, was very excited when she heard that I know you. I'm sure she'd love to work with you. She does amazing work.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nigel frown. “If she's not available there's this other guy, Nigel. He's pretty good.”

“Whoever,” Sheila said.

Nigel took that as his cue, cleared his throat, and introduced himself. While they talked, Eileen returned to her desk. Five seconds later, Bailey walked up to her with some files. She frowned at Terry and Susan, who both looked embarrassed as they folded the charmeuse and slunk to their offices. I worried that I was about to be lectured for talking to friends on company time, but Sheila's hand landed on my shoulder and I heard her say, “That sounds great, Nigel. I really appreciate your doing this on such short notice. Can Nick come with us?”