When You Don't See Me (24 page)

Fred, like me, wasn't fixated on a grooming routine, so he was already gone by the time I went out and took my clothes from Pascal. Pascal and I exchanged only a few words while he took me to Tara to settle my bill. I added all the appropriate gratuities, wondered what my mother would think of the total, then followed Tara's directions to the Tranquility Room.

“So,” Fred said when I walked in.

I'd taken two bottles of water from Tara. I drank about half of my first bottle to buy time. Then I said, “We should wait until Roberto gets here.”

Fred shrugged and went to look at a mirror in a mosaic frame, as if he gave a shit about things like that. I couldn't study him, since he could see my reflection, so I stared at the floor. I was still trying to deal with my mixed emotions when Roberto came in. He stopped short, obviously having thought he'd be the first one there, and Fred and I stared at him.

“Is it raining?” I asked. When Roberto gave me a blank look, I said, “Your hair.”

“Is wet,” Fred added.

“I got here a couple of hours ago,” Roberto said. “I took a spin class. Then I needed a shower.” He gave me a curious look when I laughed.

“I came early, too, for a massage,” Fred explained.

“I had an entire afternoon of beauty,” I said.

“Didn't work,” Roberto and Fred said together. They frowned at each other, then at me. I frowned back.

“Why are we even doing this?” Roberto finally asked. “Are you going to apologize? Because if you think what you did is okay, we've got nothing to talk about.”

“When I started the blog,” Fred said, “I never thought anyone I knew would read it. It was a way for me to vent about work. Or talk about what it's like living in New York. Or whatever else was on my mind. I never used people's real names.”

“You used my older brother's name,” I disagreed.

“Yeah, and he's the only Tony living in the Midwest.”

“I'm just saying.”

“I don't know how people began finding the blog. Or why they were interested in it. It just took off. My editor says—”

“The fact that you can even say ‘my editor says' is fucked,” Roberto said. “I don't give a shit about the history of your blog. I don't care how innocent your motives were. I. Don't. Care. Got it? You told secrets you had no right telling. You fucking told the world I'm HIV-positive. In the first place, you don't know whether or not that's true. If it is true, it's not your place to announce it. My little brother's freaking live on the Internet.”

“That's why I don't use real names,” Fred said. “Only a handful of people know who the Barista is, and
they
wouldn't have known if Melanie had kept her mouth shut.”

“Is the author of your book also going to be called the Barista?” I asked.

“Of course not. In case you haven't checked it lately, I've pulled a lot of posts from the blog. Anyone in my book will be composites of several people. No one will be identifiable.”

“Not the point,” I said. “Even if no one knows who I am, you trashed my family. Both my families. You talked about my brothers. My uncle. You talked about some of the most private stuff in my life. It doesn't matter whether or not people know that ‘Stick' is Nick Dunhill. It doesn't matter whether or not you're accurate or full of shit. You violated my trust. I used to think the reason you listened to me, paid attention to me, was because we were friends. All that time, I was just material for your blog. And you still haven't apologized.”

“I'm sorry.”

“That means so much now that it was dragged out of you,” Roberto said. “I know how Nick feels. I thought we were friends, but we're not, are we? I'm just Roberto, the dumb Latino kid who paints on walls and manages to get infected even after being
informed
about the risks. By the way, did you do my lab work? And do you plan to publicly diagnose all your so-called friends, or just me?”

Fred stared at him a few seconds, then said, “I knew you were HIV-positive because I saw you at Duane Reade one night. You didn't see me. The pharmacist was telling you stuff about your medication. I looked it up online and found out it's an HIV drug.”

“Maybe he was picking it up for a friend,” I said. “Maybe he was getting it for one of his brothers. Or for me or Kendra or—”

“You know what made me sure?” Fred asked, turning back to me. “Because of the way you suddenly fixated on Adalla and her little girl. That's what you did with Emily when Gretchen died. After that happened, you fucked around at school. You stopped hanging out with the rest of us. You got that hollow look in your eyes. It was over a year before you started acting normal. Or as close to normal as you'd been in a long time. Then, for no apparent reason, you dropped out of Pratt. You moved out of your uncle's place. You avoided people who care about you. Same pattern, so I knew something bad had happened. It wasn't much of a leap to figure out that Roberto must have told you the truth.”

“You're wasted on us, you should be working for the FBI,” Roberto said. “Actually, you don't know shit. And you were wrong to blog about it. I'm done here.”

Fred and I watched him walk out. Then I said, “You really, really suck.”

“I apologized,” Fred said. “I'll do everything I can to mask your identities in the book. It's not like it's all about you anyway. You're just a tiny part of a big picture of life in New York. The book is about the challenges of living here.”

I stared at him and thought of all the times I'd imagined being the one he finally fell for. Of his being the one I could fall for. It was sad to let go of that possibility. It was even sadder to feel like there was an exact moment when I could pinpoint the end of a friendship.

“I think you just clarified things,” I said. “To me, the city's a tiny part of everything that's big. Friendship. Trust. Loyalty. You were a huge part of my little picture. I'm not mad anymore. I'm just…what Roberto said. I'm done.”

“Yeah, that's what you do when people let you down. You walk away.”

“If your book isn't a big success, at least you've got your degree in Starbucks psychology to fall back on. I can't control what you write about my family. But I won't be giving you any new material.”

Roberto was sitting on the edge of the futon when I got home. The girls weren't there. The TV was off. He hadn't even turned on music. He was staring down at his hands when I walked in. He gave me a little smile, then looked down again.

I sat next to him, nudged him with my shoulder, and said, “Okay, so it was you who gave me a hand job in the sauna, right?”

He kept staring down, but I could tell he was intrigued. Finally he looked at me and said, “Seriously? Somebody did that?”

“Come on, admit it. You wanted me bad.”

“If I wanted you bad, I could have you any night of the week in this bed,” he said.

“You think I'm that easy?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Maybe it was Fred with you in the sauna.”

“The thought crossed my mind. I guess we'll never know.”

“Unless he blogs about it,” Roberto said.

I gave him a dirty look. After a few seconds, we both cracked up.

“It's not funny,” I insisted.

“I know.”

“Why are we laughing?”

“What else can we do?”

“Fred said I always walk out on people who let me down. Do I? Is that what I did with Chuck? With Uncle Blaine?”

“Don't let Fred fuck with your head,” Roberto said. “You left Wisconsin before you and your brother could kill each other. You left your uncle's to figure out what you wanted to do with your life. There's no door you've walked through that isn't still open.”

“You're kind of sexy when you talk smart,” I said and nudged him again.

“Never gonna happen,” Roberto said.

“It's because you're straight, isn't it?”

“It's because you're a sauna slut,” he said. “I've got my principles.”

November 3, 2003

Dear Nicky,

Let me know if you want to come home at Thanksgiving. You can charge a ticket on the credit card, or I can charge one from here. But it would be a good idea to do that soon. The airlines are always crazy during the holidays.

As far as I know, there are no plans here yet. But you know how your father and your grandparents are, so that could change. I'd love to see you, but I don't want to pressure you about it. If you have other plans, I understand.

I love you,
Mom

“C
rap,” I muttered and dumped everything from my bag onto my bed again. I'd repacked it three times already, because the sweaters took up too much space. I only wanted to take one carry-on with me. The less time spent in airports the better. The thought of standing and waiting for a suitcase to arrive on a slow-moving carousel made my knees weak.

Stupidly, I'd decided to go to Wisconsin to see my family. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision I'd made after Mr. Wamsley informed us that the office would be closed for a week at the end of November. Not because of Thanksgiving, but because of a rodent problem in our building. The entire place was scheduled to be gassed, and Mr. Wamsley decided it would be the perfect time to go to the Bahamas. I made the mistake of letting it slip that I'd have the week off while talking to my mother. It was her duty as a mother to drop a guilt bomb on me, so she did.

“Are you having Thanksgiving dinner with your uncle?”

“I doubt it,” I said. “I haven't seen much of Blaine. We've both been really busy, and he's out of town a lot.”

“That's a shame. He's been good to you.”

“Yeah. I guess. What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving this year?” I asked, hoping she'd tell me she had plans to run off to Greece with a shipping tycoon who'd feed her olives while she lounged on his yacht.

“Whatever your father wants to do, I suppose.” She sighed and added, “I'd rather see you. I miss you, Nicky.”

I pushed my anxiety away and said I'd come home. I hoped the visit would be one of those impulsive schemes that could turn out okay for everyone. I had a picture in my head of a Hollywood Thanksgiving: the family surprised and happy to see me when I got there. They'd drop everything to give the prodigal son a hug. Eyes would brim with tears and we'd all have a good laugh. My dad would clap me on the back. Then I'd sit in the kitchen while my mom put the finishing touches on Thanksgiving dinner. Later, when we sat down to eat, I'd say a blessing while a light snow fell on the quiet night.

I threw two sweaters into the corner of my bedroom and said, “Yeah, right.”

A
blessing?
Who was I kidding?

I missed my family in a weird sort of way. I wanted to be around them, but I couldn't figure out why. Maybe to let them know that I was okay. Maybe to prove that I was making it on my own. I always felt like their expectations of me were being dashed. If they could see how well I was doing, hopefully I'd get their respect.

I stuffed clothes back into my bag and again said, “Yeah, right.”

I knew what would happen. I'd go home and my mother would be the only one to greet me. My brothers would have been out late the night before. They'd have gotten up early to join people from church delivering Thanksgiving dinners to shut-ins. This would earn them hours of being slugs in front of the TV with my father. Unless he was out on an “emergency call” for work. Funny how those always happened on holidays. My mother would have ordered food from one of the two or three area restaurants that did a complete Thanksgiving meal. She'd stay in the kitchen warming it all up while drinking a bottle of wine. I'd hide in my room until my grandparents and Uncle Wayne arrived for dinner, return there afterward, and pretty much stay there the entire time I was home to avoid confrontation.

“I must be crazy,” I muttered as I zipped my bag closed.

“I could've told you that,” Roberto said, coming into the room. He laughed when I jumped and said, “Didn't mean to startle you. But you're cutting it close if you're gonna make that flight.”

“Right.” I looked around, wondering if I'd forgotten anything. “Have you seen my sanity? It's been missing for a week. Ever since I let my mother book that ticket.”

“If you don't want to go, then don't.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is.”

“No. I have to do this.”

Roberto sat on the futon and said, “You don't
have
to do anything but remain true to yourself.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked, annoyed.

He shrugged and said, “I don't know. It sounded good. Forget Wisconsin. Come home with me. You know my mother's cooking is better than anything you'll get in Dairyland. We'll have fun. We'll get high. We'll eat good. Whatever you want to do, we'll do. Come on, man. Cancel the flight. You know you're going to, anyway.”

Roberto had always been the brother I wished I'd had, but suddenly he sounded like the brothers I already had. His words seemed like a challenge. Worse, they were almost taunting, as if he was implying that I was weak. In my heart, I knew that wasn't what he meant, but I instantly thought of my brothers, Fred, Morgan, and everyone else who'd picked on me or thought I was crazy. I grabbed my bag and walked out of the room.

“Aw, Nickito, come on!”

“Have fun with your family, Roberto.”

“Estúpido,”
he muttered. I decided he was talking to himself and didn't respond.

Kendra stumbled from her room and into my path. Her hair was a rat's nest. She squinted at me. “What time is it?”

“Five in the morning.”

“Good. I still have time.” Whatever else she said was lost in a loud yawn. “Shouldn't you be gone?”

“I'm on my way out. When does your bus leave?”

“Eight. There's another one at noon, if I don't make it on time. As long as I get home by dinner, it's cool. I have to make the salad. It's a tradition in my family. My parents would be so disappointed if I didn't come home. I almost didn't make it last year.”

“Do you guys have to have this conversation outside the door while I'm trying to sleep?” Morgan yelled from the bedroom. Roberto, Kendra, and I cringed in unison and tiptoed to the kitchen.

“What's Morgan doing for Thanksgiving?” I whispered.

“Who knows? She and the other Gorgons are probably getting together so they can—” Kendra's sentence turned into another unintelligible yawn. When she finished, she shook it off, rubbed her right eye, then stared at us.

“I think she said she's going home,” Roberto whispered.

“Morgan has a home?” I asked, forgetting to be quiet. I thought about canceling my trip so I could discreetly follow Morgan. Since they were fumigating the office, Bailey had said she might as well go home for Thanksgiving, but she never said where home was. If I trailed Morgan, maybe she'd wind up at the same place as Bailey. Then I'd know once and for all if they were related. I'd have to be careful and extra sneaky, but I knew I could manage it. I was very observant.

I was also obviously searching for any lame excuse to cancel my trip. Roberto knew me better than I knew myself.

“Of course I have a home,” Morgan said from behind me, causing me to jump and drop my carry-on bag. “Do you think I came from Mars? You'd better not answer that, or I'll kick your ass.”

“I didn't mean anything bad. It's just that you never talk about personal stuff,” I said.

She pushed by us on her way to the coffeemaker. “That's because it's personal.”

“Good point,” I said.

“Who used my mug without washing it?” When nobody answered, Morgan nodded at me and asked, “Aren't you supposed to be at the airport?”

“I'm going! I love how you're all trying to get rid of me.” I looked at Roberto and added, “Except for those who think I'm too much of a pussy to—”

“That's not what I said!”

“Guys, please don't argue,” Kendra pleaded. “Be thankful he cares, Nick.”

Morgan pretended to puke in the kitchen sink.

“All I'm saying is that if you happen to miss your flight, which is entirely possible if you hang out here much longer,” Roberto said, “then you're welcome to spend the day with my family.”

“Fine. I have to go. I hope you all have a great day.”

Roberto and Kendra hugged me. Morgan grunted and waved without looking up from the coffee mug she was scrubbing. Outside, I hailed a cab and asked to be taken to LaGuardia.

“Are you going home?” the driver asked. His accent, and the fact that I could only see the back of his head, compelled me to glance at his medallion number. Next to it was a photo of a smiling man with dark skin and the name Samir Singh.

“Uh, yeah,” I answered slowly. He made me nervous, which annoyed me. I didn't like it when people made assumptions when they learned that I was gay. I didn't want to be a hypocrite. “Where are you from?”

Samir Singh glanced at the rearview mirror. Somehow his eyebrows managed to look cautious. “I live in Queens.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know. I pull your chain.”

“My leg,” I corrected.

“I yank your leg?”

“Never mind,” I said. “Where are you from originally?”

“Why is it that you are asking? Why is there so many people driving today? I will take a shortcut, yes?” Without waiting for my answer, he made a sharp right turn that flung me against the door. I should've listened to Eartha Kitt and buckled up for safety. “You are wondering if I am from Iraq. If I am, will you shoot me in the head?”

“No!” I exclaimed.

“For that, I am thankful,” Samir Singh said. “We are similar, my friend, in that your color causes me fear, as well. Your people fear me and do not want me to drive them. Or they want to cause me harm when they think I am against them. I am not. I only want to drive this taxi, not harm people.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Why are you sorry? Do you send people to hate me?”

“I meant, I'm sorry if I acted like them.”

“No. You are right to be cautious. Better to be safe than dead, no?”

“You sound like my uncles,” I said and smiled. I noticed that we were approaching the Triborough Bridge. “Do I pay the toll now or at the end of the trip?”

“Now.”

I reached for my wallet and cursed when I realized it was missing. I ransacked my carry-on bag, thinking I might have dropped it into one of the compartments. It wasn't there, either.

“What is wrong? Give me the money.”

“I don't have it,” I snapped.

“You must!”

“I forgot my wallet.”

Samir Singh said something foreign and suddenly I was flying against the door again when he yanked on the steering wheel. The U-turn, shortly before the toll booths, thrust us into the path of several oncoming cars and trucks, but somehow we lived.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy? We could've been killed.”

“I will take you back to get your wallet,” Samir Singh said, “but you will most likely be missing your flight, if it is to leave soon.”

“I can't.”

“You cannot board a plane without your identification. You cannot pay me. Unless you have cash in your pocket? If you do, I will most happily turn the car around.”

“No, don't!” I didn't think my skull could handle another concussion. “I only have a couple dollars, I think. But I can't go home.”

“Not if you do not catch your plane, no,” Samir Singh agreed.

“I mean, I can't go back to my apartment.”

“I am most confused. Where am I taking you, and how will I be paid? What have I done to deserve this?”

If I went back to the apartment, I'd have to face the humiliation of Roberto assuming he was right. Maybe he was. Maybe I'd subconsciously forgotten my wallet because I was still afraid to fly. But I wasn't ready to admit that to him. I didn't want to go home until after my roommates left for their various Thanksgiving destinations. That would take a few hours yet. I couldn't have Samir Singh circling the city and racking up a cab fare I could never afford.

“I don't want to go home,” I finally said. “To either home. I was supposed to fly to my parents' house, but I'm still afraid to fly. And if I go back to my roommates, I'll feel ashamed.”

“Fear is a wall. It is not your guide. There is no shame in following your karma,” Samir Singh said. “You are not meant to fly home today. That is all there is to it.”

“My family's going to be very upset with me,” I said, dreading the call I'd have to make.

“Or they may not.”

“They will. I don't want to see anybody.”

“Close your eyes to what you do not want to see.”

“Now you're just making fun of me.”

“Karma brought me to take you to where you are supposed to go. Where would you like that to be?”

“I can't pay you.”

“There are rewards greater than the American dollar. Where am I to take you, my friend?”

I asked Samir Singh to stop on the far left corner of Columbus Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, but he let me out on the near right. I didn't care. I was thankful for his kindness and glad that someone jumped into the cab after I exited. Hopefully, she had money.