When You Don't See Me (7 page)

“Okay,” I answered. “‘Bye.”

I barely realized that I rode down in the elevator. I felt like ants were crawling up my arm. I remembered having the same creepy feeling after I was mugged. The helplessness, fear, and nervousness that lingered after the fact. At least that time the only thing taken from me was twenty dollars. This time, I was going to lose my job. I hadn't asked to be mugged, but I'd pretty much begged to be fired. Why did I try on his clothes? Why did I look through his drawers? What was I thinking? Rent was due again soon. So was the ConEd bill. Would I have enough to cover that? Would giving Parker D. Brooks a blow job really be so bad? How long could that take? A half hour?

The doors opened at the lobby and a woman got in the elevator with me. Seconds later, when I realized she'd asked me something, I said, “Huh?”

“I asked which floor you want.”

“Penthouse.”

“Really? You don't live here, do you?”

“I'm the maid,” I said. She smiled and nodded. What else could I be doing there? I added, “I was about to go home for the day, when it dawned on me that I forgot to give the master his blow job. Silly me, huh?”

“Gross!” she exclaimed. When we reached her floor, she said, “Next time, use the service elevator.”

As the doors were closing, I said, “Good idea. We haven't done it in there yet.”

After I rang Parker D. Brooks's doorbell, I tried to pretend I was somebody else. An escort. But not all escorts put out, right? A gigolo would. But the word
gigolo
sounded stupid. Nobody talked like that anymore. I'd be a rent boy. A rent boy named—

“William?” Parker D. Brooks said when he opened the door. “What are you doing back here? I thought you left in a snit.”

“No. I left in a huff. I came back on the elevator. Can I come in?”

“No,” he said. “Why would you want to?”

“I changed my mind,” I said. Although I still wasn't sure. I felt icky.

“So have I. Get out of this building, or I'll call security. I already phoned your boss. If you give me your home number, I'll call your parents, too.”

 

I felt sick the rest of the day. I went to my last client's apartment and tried to lose myself in work. But I couldn't stop thinking about what I almost did. Was that what life was all about? Money? Greed? Blow jobs?

I cleaned the toilet relentlessly because I kept seeing Parker D. Brooks's face in the bowl. No matter how many times I tried, the scrubbing bubbles wouldn't take him away so I wouldn't have to.

My cell phone began to vibrate against my leg while I was walking home. I answered it by saying, “Benny, I told you I didn't think I should take that client in Chelsea.”

“What happened, Nick? Come in to the office and tell me your side.”

“No. What did he tell you? Whatever he said is a lie.”

I heard Benny sigh. “He said a guy named William stole from him. I can only assume you're William.”

“I didn't take anything.”

“He claims he has it all on video. Do I need to see that? I don't want to think of you stealing. Don't make me watch it,” Benny begged. “I'm so disappointed in you. I thought you were a nice kid. This is the age of surveillance, Nick. Mr. Brooks has nanny-cams all over his apartment. I didn't think I'd have to explain things like this to you, of all people.”

“What can I do to keep my job?” I asked warily.

“If you pay him back—give back whatever it was you took from him—I won't have to fire you. Or you can quit.”

I nearly dropped my phone. I hadn't taken anything. But Parker D. Brooks had video of me riffling through his drawers and closets. It was my word against my actions. Parker D. Brooks didn't have to screw me. I'd already screwed myself stupid.

“I didn't take anything,” I repeated. “I guess I'll have to quit.”

“I'm sorry, Nick,” Benny said mournfully.

I didn't want to be a snitch, but I decided to take someone else down with me. “Deshaun is sleeping with Mr. Brooks.”

“Sweetie, I know. I've bought all their videos. Good-bye, Nick.”

 

When Roberto came home, he found Kendra and me in the living room. She was plying me with hot tea and telling me about the times she'd been fired. She had a lot of stories.

“Half the town got botulism. Could you just die?” she was saying.

“Did they?”

“What's going on?” Roberto asked.

“Poor guy lost his job,” Kendra said. She patted my hand and I snatched it away. I didn't deserve coddling.

Roberto sat down. I told him what happened, without using names, and he said, “I'm glad you didn't do it. You would've hated yourself afterward. Or you would've hated yourself if you got a disease from him. Where does this pig live? I'll kill him.”

“I was propositioned once,” Kendra said archly. We waited for more, but she just stared at the table and nodded.

“What now?” Roberto asked.

“I guess I look for another job.”

“You'll get one. Something better,” Kendra predicted.

“I hope so. I don't want to have to borrow money from anyone.”

Of course that was the moment Morgan walked in. Why wasn't she as noisy coming home as she'd been when she left that morning? Her eyes narrowed, as if she was willing a truth-seeking laser to fire at me, and she asked, “Why would you need to borrow money? More importantly, where are those boxes that were in the kitchen?”

Roberto exclaimed, “I knew something was different around here.”

“I needed something to do, and those boxes were annoying the crap out of me,” I explained. “I put your stuff in your room. I lost my job.”

Morgan said, “That sucks,” then went into her room.

“Was that her being comforting?” Roberto asked. “She probably had to lie down after being so warm.”

“She probably meant it sucks that you went in our room,” Kendra said.

“No,” I said. “She meant it sucks that I went in your room and the snakes didn't kill me.”

March 26, 2003

Hey, Nick,

Hope you don't mind that Blaine gave me your address. I had to send you this brilliant drawing from Emily. She was at the office with me, and my assistant gave her markers and paper. When I admired the drawing and asked what it was, she said it was from the day she was with you at the “buseum.”

Isn't it good to know that your day at the buseum to show Emily the Picassos wasn't wasted? I can't believe she remembers. I think it's because she wants to be an artist like Cousin Nick. Not that I'm implying that your work looks anything like the enclosed!

Hope you're doing well.

Love,
Gwendy

“I
don't like men who dress as women,” the waitress said as she slammed our salads on the table in front of us.

When she walked away, I noticed that Martin was looking down at himself with bewilderment. Although he'd once made his living as a female impersonator, tonight he was just Martin, dressed in black from his cashmere sweater to his faux combat boots.

“Did I overlook a spot of stage makeup?” he asked, tilting his head to the right, then to the left so I could examine him. When I shook my head, he called after her, “I'm a dancer!” Then he shrugged and pushed his lettuce around with his fork.

I didn't know if the waitress had put him off his food or if my choice of cheap restaurants made him feel like he was slumming. I'd secretly hoped Martin would suggest a better place, giving me the opening I needed to tell him that I was now jobless and nearly broke. Even if Martin didn't offer me a loan, he talked to Daniel several times a week. The news would eventually get to Uncle Blaine. Considering that our most recent contact had been my appeal to be kept out of Fake ID Jail, Blaine probably needed time to cool down before he and I actually talked.

“And you dance so well,” I said to Martin. “Thanks for the ticket.”

“The show is crap,” Martin muttered. “I always swear I'll never let another aspiring choreographer persuade me to dance in a fresh, steaming pile of it. Then I do.”

I pretended I couldn't talk because of a mouth full of tomato, but I agreed with him about the gloomy musical I'd just squirmed through.
Asphalt and Battery
was the story of Edward J. de Smedt, a Belgian immigrant who invented asphalt. Among the places it was first used was Battery Park, and according to the show's
Playbill,
Edward's ghost felt guilty about his role in the “proliferation of automobiles, urbanization, pollution, and global warming.” Most of Martin's time onstage had involved a dance in which he unrolled bolts of black fabric until it covered the floor, the backdrops, and the props, before he finally smothered all the actors with it. The last had gotten the most enthusiastic applause of the night.

“What's that?” Martin asked, looking at my wrist.

“This bracelet? Do you think that's what the waitress was talking about? It's a man's bracelet,” I said defensively.

“It's gold. You're not a gold person. Silver or platinum. I shouldn't have to explain these things to you.”

“It isn't mine. The clasp broke, and I had it fixed for my roommate.”

“Julio?”

“Roberto.”

“What happened to Julio?”

“There was never a Julio. His name is Roberto.”

“I remember when I was the new boy in town,” Martin said, staring into the distance as if watching a newsreel of the olden days. “I crashed anywhere I could and had a constantly changing cast of roommates. And jobs. I was always broke.”

“Me, too,” I said, thinking that was as good a segue as any.

He focused on my face and said, “Maybe you should let your roommates pay for their own jewelry repairs.”

“It wasn't much,” I said, on the defensive again. “Besides, Roberto buys all the groceries, especially since I lost—”

“Maybe Julio was one of
my
roommates,” Martin cut in, his eyes glazed over again. “He was allergic to MSG and swelled up like a puffer fish whenever we got Chinese takeout. Wait. That was Wing Lee.”

“Someone named Wing Lee was allergic to Chinese food?” I asked. I could never tell when Martin was serious.

Instead of answering, he continued to reminisce. “Wing Lee's boyfriend, Yu, also lived with us. It made answering the phone problematic. ‘It's for Yu!' ‘Me?' ‘No, Yu!' Or I'd yell to Julio, ‘It's for you!' and Yu would pick up the extension. It was like Abbott and Costello.”

“Who?” I asked.

Martin glared at me and said, “Is that some kind of age crack? I'm only twenty-six.”

I knew for a fact that Martin was at least thirty, but I said, “I thought you were twenty-two.”

“Yes, four years ago I was twenty-two, but aren't you sweet for thinking so? Maybe I should tell people that. If I thought I could pull it off, I would.” He paused. Then his face cleared and he said, “I'll just say I'm twenty-three.”

It seemed cruel to distract Martin from his favorite topic: himself. But these were desperate times, so I said, “I wouldn't normally ask you to meet me on a Thursday night, but I'm in kind of a bind, and—”

“Is this
Thursday?
” Martin interrupted with a horrified expression. “I think I had a date tonight.” He jumped up. “I'll take care of the check on my way out.” He mimed the “call me” signal as he backed away from our booth. I saw him thrust cash at the waitress. Then he was out the door. As a frantic tactic to avoid being hit up for money, it was still a more graceful dance than the one he'd performed earlier onstage.

The waitress stopped at my booth, looked around, then scooted into Martin's place. After I blinked at her a few times, she said, “I'm guessing he wasn't leaving me a huge tip for two house salads and water, so he must want you to have the change.”

“How much did he give you?” I asked.

“A fifty. You made out okay, even if he dumped you.” She pushed the fifty across the table toward me.

“He didn't dump me. We weren't on a date. He's a friend. How come you insulted him?”

“It's not an insult. Lots of good men dump their dates.”

“We weren't on a—I mean when you said you don't like men who dress as women.”

“Oh, jeez, him?” When I nodded, she rolled her eyes. “Everybody thinks everything's about them. It was the end of a story I was telling the busboy. He was right next to your booth and I was
staring at him
while I spoke.” She looked at someone behind me and blared, “I'm on a break!”

“Lucky me,” I said. Since she showed no sign of leaving, I asked, “What was the story?”

“If you can believe it, it was about a time
I
got dumped.” When she saw my face, she said, “Yeah, I know. He didn't dump you because it wasn't a date. Mine was a boyfriend and a Halloween party in college. Barry went as my roommate, Holly Waisenhaus. She had long, lanky red hair and nerdy glasses. She always wore a green-and-brown-striped sweater. She looked like a beetle. Barry got a wig and some glasses, and I snuck the sweater out for him. He was a big hit at the party. Why didn't I get it? Why didn't I know that imitation is the sincerest form of ‘I want to ditch my girlfriend and fuck your brains out'? They live in Connecticut now. They have a duck pond and three kids, and I try to make decent tips in a diner. Bastard.”

“I lost my job,” I said. “Plus I almost got arrested for using a fake ID.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, looking irritated as she slid out of the booth. “You're one of those guys who only pretends to listen to other people so they'll feel obligated to listen to
your
problems. I don't need a tip that bad.”

 

“Why are people always doing that to you?” Roberto asked later as we lay in the dark. Or what would have been the dark if there weren't two or three cop cars at the entrance to the alley behind our building. Our room was bathed in flashing lights. If we'd had a disco ball, we could have danced the night away.

“Doing what? Getting pissed off at me?”

“Confiding in you.”

“It's the way I look.”

“Like you've got a face that says, ‘Free therapy'?”

“More like a body that says, ‘I can't outrun your story of devastation and ruin.' I should put on weight. Work out. Get muscles and look menacing. Like you. Nobody ever tells you hard-luck stories.”

“Except you,” Roberto said and giggled at himself. His giggle was endearing because it was so at odds with his virile appearance. “You didn't have to get my bracelet fixed.”

“I'm the one who stepped on it,” I said. “Martin rebuked me for wearing gold.”

Roberto laughed again and said, “It's my Guido bracelet.”

The bars on the windows provided a shadowy contrast to the flashing blue and red lights. In Eau Claire, that kind of show would have lured the entire neighborhood out of their beds. People in robes and slippers would have gathered in groups until everyone knew every lurid detail. Now I couldn't be bothered to get up and look out the window to see what carnage lay at the end of our alley.

“You know I can cover your part of the rent,” Roberto said.

“I've got money for rent,” I assured him.

What I couldn't tell him was that I didn't have the money to cover Kendra's part of the rent, because she was short a few hundred dollars. I didn't want him to think that I'd asked him to move in because he was my only financially solvent friend. Besides, Roberto's extra money went to his mother to help feed and clothe his younger brothers.

I heard him sigh, always the last thing he did before he fell asleep. One long sigh; then his breathing would deepen and keep the same rhythm for the rest of the night. He never snored. He never snorted himself awake. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep, it pissed me off the way he could just drop off and stay that way until his alarm woke him. But mostly, it made me feel comfortable. Like a sleeping giant lay between me and whatever was out there.

The drama in our alley finally played itself out, and the lights went away. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing the way Gavin had taught me. Gavin was not only the man who took care of Uncle Blaine's household; he was a massage therapist who was big on the proper way to breathe. And on drinking water.

I tried to remember if I'd drunk my mandatory eight glasses of water for the day. My throat felt dry. My skin itched. I held off as long as I could, but I finally got up to slink into the kitchen. I wasn't afraid of waking Roberto, but I didn't want to draw Kendra or Morgan out of their room.

I drank a bottle of water, then made it back to my bed without having to deal with my roommates. A half hour later, still wide awake, I got up again to go to the bathroom. Kendra waylaid me in the miniscule hall.

“Did you get the money from your friend?” she whispered. “Because if you didn't, I'm totally screwed. I wrote a bad check today.”

“I didn't have a chance to ask him,” I said. Her face fell. “Don't worry. I'll think of something.”

“No, it's not your problem. Maybe I can get my boss to loan me money.”

According to Kendra, her slimy boss at Manhattan Cable was always making passes at her, so I didn't think that was a good idea. “He'll take it out of your paycheck. Then you'll end up short the next time rent is due. Just give me another day, okay?”

She nodded and furtively dissolved into the Snake Pit.

 

After crossing Martin off my emergency loan list, I decided to call Jeremy. As Daniel's ex-boyfriend, he'd be just as effective as Martin in getting the news about my destitution to my uncle. I'd only hesitated to call him in the first place because Jeremy's opinion mattered to me more than any of Blaine's other friends.

Jeremy shared a big farmhouse with his lover, Adam, in Eau Claire. It was hard to believe my parents lived in the same town; their worlds couldn't have been more different.

My father worked long hours to be able to afford golf and alcohol on the weekends. My mother worked to be anywhere but with him. Neither of my parents was ever at home. The last time I'd gone back to Wisconsin for a holiday, I'd overheard Tony making fun of Chuck for living at home while he was in college. Chuck explained how sweet the setup was. He and his buddies had the run of the house and all its features. The monster TV, DVD player, stereo, computers, pool table, fully stocked kitchen, and my parents' housekeeper to pick up after them. Girls came in and out, and kegs were set up on the deck. My parents generally steered clear as long as Chuck didn't break too many things. It was like living in a frat house without the hazing or the lumpy mattresses.

Adam and Jeremy, on the other hand, both worked from home. Adam owned his own business and put in as many hours as my father, but he was always doing things for other people. He designed free Web sites for artists. His computer company sponsored stuff like AIDS walks or breast cancer benefits.

Jeremy was an actor. He'd even starred in a sitcom in the nineties. But when he moved to Wisconsin to be with Adam, he went to graduate school so he could be an instructor in UW-Eau Claire's theater department. He also took classes in counseling and mentored teenagers.

That was how I'd met him, when I was still in high school. I was part of an acting workshop that gave peer support to at-risk teenagers. The only way I was at risk was possibly dying of boredom in Eau Claire. I hadn't turned into an actor, but I had eventually come out to Jeremy. He was the first adult I trusted with the truth, and he'd never let me down. I didn't want him to think I'd turned into a big loser.