The Trouble Boy, page 26
“A lush?” I said.
“Right.” I wasn’t even offended. Brett was just trying to be helpful. “And don’t smoke,” he continued. “Andrew hates smoking. His mother’s a smoker, and he’s trying to get her to quit.”
I wondered if it was time for me to quit as well.
I was determined to make a better impression on Monday than I had on Saturday. I cleaned my apartment, throwing out my pornography and hiding the books on transsexualism I had used to research the Lola screenplay. I scrubbed Gus’s litter box and aired out the apartment of smoke and sex and sin. I took long baths on Sunday and Monday, went to the gym, gave myself an at-home facial, moisturized constantly, and applied four sets of teeth-whitening strips. Andrew and I were the same age, but he was so beautiful that I was sure he would notice every imperfection.
I did everything to hide the way I felt: like damaged goods.
It was warm on Monday evening. When I arrived at the restaurant, Andrew was already standing near the entrance. He was wearing glasses, tortoise shell frames that made him look studious and intellectual. From his tousled hair and wrinkled khakis, it was clear he had just come from work.
I greeted him, leaning forward to give him a kiss on the cheek, but he seemed stiff about it, embarrassed.
We sat down in the dark dining room amidst tapestries and throw pillows. There was Moroccan music playing and the owner’s children were playing hide-and-go-seek among the tables.
“It adds to the ambiance,” Andrew said, shrugging. He asked if I had enjoyed my birthday party.
“Sure,” I said. “But that wasn’t my actual birthday.”
“When is your actual birthday?”
I paused. “Tonight,” I said, blushing.
“I’m flattered,” he said.
“I spent so much time thinking about that dinner, I didn’t make any plans for tonight,” I explained. “But I guess it worked out perfectly.”
Andrew filled me in on everything I had heard and forgotten on Saturday night. He had grown up outside Boston and had gone to boarding school at Andover. By loading up on classes, he had managed to skip a grade and finish in three years. He had gone to Brown, where he had been an English major, writing a thesis entitled “Political Influence in Science Fiction and Fantasy.” After taking internships each summer with various publishers in New York, he had been offered his current editorial job when he graduated. I felt proud of his achievements, even though I barely knew him. Maybe it was because he was shy about it, almost ashamed at his precociousness.
“When did you come out?” I asked him.
“I don’t know if you could really call it coming out,” he said. “After sophomore year of college, I guess. But my parents don’t know yet.”
I had always considered a guy’s gay adult life to begin after he got over the inevitable task of coming out to his parents. By this estimation, he was still a teenager.
Andrew was turning out to be a very different person than I had imagined Subway Boy to be.
“How about you?” he asked.
“I told my parents after I started my freshman year of college,” I said.
“How did that go?”
“It was fine,” I lied. “They were pretty much okay with it.”
We ordered our entrees and split a bottle of red wine between us; I promised myself I would make this bottle last, that I wouldn’t drink more than two glasses. When our food arrived, we both dug in, grateful for the momentary lapse in conversation. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a lot to ask him; it was just that first dates were such hard work.
“Did you have any hobbies as a kid?” he asked after a few minutes.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I liked to read a lot.”
“I had three listed in my elementary school yearbook: bonsai trees, comic books, and model railroading.”
It was nerdy, but I found it charming. Most guys would have answered, “Not really,” or, “I liked to hang out at the mall.”
I imagined his apartment: bonsai trees in the living room, stacks of comics in the bedroom, and a giant model railroad set running between them.
We split the bill after drinking mint tea and sharing a filo pastry. I was dying for a cigarette, but I knew I couldn’t have one, not if I wanted this to work.
As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, I suddenly felt like the city was a new place, a place I had never been before.
“What do your parents do?” Andrew asked me as we walked east.
“My dad’s in venture capital and my mother’s a fashion designer.”
“Really?” He frowned. “I don’t know much about fashion.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Most real people don’t.”
We came to an intersection and crossed.
“How did you lose your job?” he asked when we got to the other side.
I told him about the accident, in the vaguest terms I could.
“I read about that,” he said. “I was waiting for you to say something.”
I realized how strange the situation must seem to an outsider.
“You don’t think it’s weird?” I asked.
“You seem like a good guy,” he said, “and I’m sure you’re doing the right thing.”
I was instantly relieved.
We were approaching the East Village, so I decided to face the inevitable.
I asked him if he wanted to see my place, and he said yes.
We walked east on Thirteenth Street and then down Second Avenue. I steered him away from Avenue A so we wouldn’t have to pass Blow Pop. I didn’t want him to think of me as that person, the Toby who stayed out all night and propositioned boys he had just met.
As we walked, I thought about what I was doing. Andrew wasn’t the slickest guy I’d ever met, but I liked that. In order to be with him, I was going to have to shape up. How much was I willing to give up of myself, of my former life?
“I’d been meaning to tell you—I have to go out of town tomorrow,” he said. “To a science fiction convention in San Francisco. A total geek fest.” I had a vision of him running into my parents in the city, though I knew that would be unlikely. “I get back on Friday, though I might be able to change my flight so I can see you sooner.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. I didn’t want him to know I would be eagerly awaiting his return, that the sooner he came back, the better.
We arrived at Seventh Street and he followed me upstairs. From the hallway, I could hear Gus crying.
“I love cats,” he said. “I want one, but I’m hardly ever home.”
I unlocked the door and Andrew immediately got down on the floor and started petting Gus. “Good kitty,” he said. “Good girl.”
“He’s a boy,” I said. “This is an all-male establishment.”
We sat together on my tiny couch. He let me run my fingers through his hair.
“Have you read any good books lately?” he asked.
This is stupid, I thought. Either he was incredibly nervous or was an expert on stalling techniques. I would have to make the first move.
I pulled him towards me and kissed him, first strongly, to make sure he was really mine, then a little more lightly. He tasted like spices and red wine.
“Do you want to go into the bedroom?” I asked, and he followed me.
We lay down on my bed, which, thankfully, I had made before I left that evening.
It was the best make-out session I had ever had. We rolled around for almost ten minutes and then I lay my head on his chest after kissing him lightly on the nose. I wanted him badly, but I knew we should wait. I was becoming a prude before my own eyes. I decided chastity was the new sluttiness.
I got up to go to the bathroom, where I discovered that Gus had puked his dinner onto the floor. I cleaned it up quickly so Andrew wouldn’t notice.
I lay down next to him on the bed again.
“I would love to, you know . . .” I said. “But it probably isn’t a good idea.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I should get going.”
We kissed for several more minutes. We couldn’t get enough of each other.
Eventually, he got up. “You have my numbers,” he said. “I’ll be back Friday.” He paused. “There’s something you should know about this trip.” He stood by the door.
I took in a quick breath. Even Gus sat near the door, listening expectantly.
“I’m interviewing with a publisher that wants me to move out to San Francisco.”
“Are you looking for a new job?” I asked. He had his hand on the doorknob, was ready to leave.
“Not really,” he said. “But it’s always good to interview, you know, to see what’s out there.”
I nodded dumbly.
He opened the door and then turned around. “If I get offered something, I’ll just have to tell them I need to bring my new boyfriend with me.”
I was so taken aback that I just gave him another kiss on the lips and shut the door behind him.
Boyfriend? Already? Was he more clueless than I was? Did I have the upper hand without knowing it?
I grabbed a cigarette from the pack in my desk drawer and lit up. I needed to process this information. I sent an email to Jamie, Donovan, and Brett.
“He is already referring to us as a couple,” I wrote. “I think this is a good sign.”
My phone at home remained unplugged, so whenever I checked my messages, there was a slew from various reporters. On Clifford Bronstein’s instructions, I didn’t return any of the calls.
On Wednesday, I was at home when I got a call from Jamie on my cell.
“Have you seen the Observer today?” he asked. “There’s a big story about you. Check the Transom section.”
My palms were clammy as I looked up the paper online. The Transom was a column that reported on Manhattan media and entertainment gossip. The article was the first item of several.
THE SPINACH HITS THE FAN
Employees of whiz kid gay producer Cameron Cole have described his office as alternately “hectic” and “laid-back,” but never as downright hostile. The tide of opinion changed, however, last Friday morning, when Mr. Cole’s assistant, Toby Griffin, quit “under duress,” an anonymous source said.
Mr. Griffin, a twenty-three-year-old aspiring screenwriter, was a passenger in the automobile driven by actress Jordan Gardner that hit eight people, injuring seven and killing one. Mr. Cole and Ms. Gardner’s publicist Ariana Richards were the other two passengers in the car. The extensively chronicled incident occurred on April 19 outside the nightclub Mirror.
Mr. Cole and Ms. Richards reportedly told Mr. Griffin not to reveal any information to police beyond the initial testimony he gave on the night of the accident. Rumors have abounded that Ms. Gardner was under the influence of drugs and alcohol that evening.
Mr. Griffin decided to break free of his boss’s informal gag order on April 30, when he reportedly gave testimony to Detective Ronald Shiro of Manhattan’s Tenth Precinct. The contents of that testimony have not been released, but insiders say Mr. Griffin revealed Ms. Gardner was indeed under the influence of drugs and alcohol, evidence that would severely increase the penalties she faces for the current charges of involuntary manslaughter, first- and second-degree assault, and reckless endangerment, among others.
If Mr. Cole and Ms. Richards did try to prevent Mr. Griffin from giving evidence, they could both be guilty of witness tampering and obstruction of justice. Insiders have speculated that Mr. Griffin will most likely be given immunity on the count of giving false evidence in exchange for his testimony.
After the New York Post and other local papers revealed Mr. Griffin had been witnessed giving evidence, Mr. Cole reportedly became nasty towards his assistant.
In addition to tripling Mr. Griffin’s workload, Mr. Cole apparently threw a container of steamed spinach at Mr. Griffin’s desk in an effort to reprimand him for bringing him his spinach steamed, as he usually takes it, as opposed to creamed, as he wanted it that day. The next day, Mr. Griffin quit working for Mr. Cole.
Though Mr. Cole’s office denies the incident ever took place, a call to the Organic Delights deli in Tribeca revealed that steamed spinach is indeed Mr. Cole’s vegetable of choice.
“I’m not worried about Toby. He’s an incredibly talented writer, and I know he’ll find something,” said Mr. Griffin’s Beverly Hills agent, Sherry Merrill. “Cream always rises to the top.”
As long as it’s not in spinach.
—Eli Kostenbaum
I called Sonia on her cell phone. “Who is this Eli Kostenbaum?”
“Just a friend from college,” she said. “He loved the scoop.”
“The story makes me look like an idiot.”
“No, it doesn’t! You’re a hero. It’s great. I think he spun it really well.”
Spun it. Sonia had been spending too much time working in PR.
“What are you doing with that Bradshaw interview?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’d like to sit on it for a little bit. It would be just like Ariana to call every editor she knows and tell them not to take it.”
“I could sell it for you,” Sonia said. “But suit yourself.”
“Are you at the office now?” I asked.
“Nope,” she said. “I quit.”
“I hope you didn’t do that on my behalf.”
“I needed to get out of there,” she said. “I needed to stop being so afraid.”
“Another defector from the downtown bullshit machine. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m not out of the business entirely,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve decided to start doing some PR consulting, freelance, with a little event planning on the side.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“It’ll be easy,” she said. “I’ve got Ariana’s client list.”
For the rest of the week, I was floating over the memory of my date with Andrew. We emailed back and forth several times.
“I am surrounded by guys who consider a wild night out to be a discussion of Star Trek reruns over pizza and Coke,” he wrote. “I can’t wait to see you.”
He signed his name ANDREW, all caps.
As happy as I was, I had to face that I was still unemployed. I had left a message with Sherry’s office to check on the status of my screenplay, but hadn’t heard back. I started preparing my resume to send out.
On Friday morning, Andrew wrote me another email from the airport. “I think I’m going to be exhausted tonight. Can we do something tomorrow?”
I was dying to see him, but I left him a voice mail saying Saturday would be fine. I had never waited so long to sleep with someone.
I suddenly had the fear he wasn’t really gay, or was squeamish about actual sex. There were some guys who had so little experience that they were afraid of sex. Maybe I would have to survive several months of clothes-on makeout sessions before we were comfortable with each other. I wasn’t sure I could wait. For me, sex sealed a relationship, made it permanent. I had to remind myself that it also had the potential to drive people apart, to give either person a reason not to see the other again.
We made plans to meet at Flea Market in the East Village. I arrived a little early this time and fortified myself with a glass of red wine as I let my eyes wander over the bric-a-brac decorating the walls. I was determined to relax. We would sleep together or we wouldn’t, and either way, it would be fine. He wasn’t going anywhere, I reminded myself.
When he arrived, he kissed me squarely on the lips. We sat down and he ordered a gin and tonic.
“Glad to be rid of the science fiction geeks?” I said.
“Hey, I’m one myself, you know!”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “At least, you don’t look like one.”
“That’s true. I feel like a freak at these things because I look like I don’t belong there. I don’t wear ripped jeans and X-Files T-shirts.”
We ordered our food and a bottle of Merlot. I splurged and got steak frites, extra rare.
“How did the job interview go?” I was hoping it was a bust, but I wanted to appear enthusiastic.
“It was fine. But I’m not going anywhere. All the publishers outside of New York are so small. I’m much better off where I am now.”
I smiled. It was the answer I wanted to hear.
“You haven’t told me about your parents yet,” I said.
“There’s not much to tell,” he said. “They’re boring, they live in the suburbs.”
“Well, what does your dad do?”
“He sells life insurance.”
“And your mom?”
“Takes care of me and my little brother and my dad. Worries about us.”
“She must do something else.”
“I don’t know. Plays bridge. She works at the vet ten hours a week.”
I nodded. I was having trouble relating. My parents considered games like bridge a waste of time and hadn’t set foot in a vet’s office since I was twelve years old and our cat was put down.
“You know,” Andrew said, “I was a little scared of meeting you.”
“Why’s that?” I grinned.
“Brett said—he said a lot of great things about you—but he sort of made you out to be this party boy. I mean, he is, too, so I guess I—”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”
“It was funny, the first night when we met, you couldn’t seem to remember anything I told you. I think you asked me where I grew up three separate times.”
“Too many martinis,” I said.
“But you just seemed so comfortable with, you know—”
“Being gay?”
“Yeah, that. I mean, I’ve only had three boyfriends, two at college and one several summers ago in New York.”
“Who was the guy in New York?”
“It was nobody. Just someone I met through friends.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think you have it pretty good. You’re not jaded, you’re not over it all already. I mean, the more you’re out, the more shit you see. It’s not always a good thing.”
“Right.” I wasn’t even offended. Brett was just trying to be helpful. “And don’t smoke,” he continued. “Andrew hates smoking. His mother’s a smoker, and he’s trying to get her to quit.”
I wondered if it was time for me to quit as well.
I was determined to make a better impression on Monday than I had on Saturday. I cleaned my apartment, throwing out my pornography and hiding the books on transsexualism I had used to research the Lola screenplay. I scrubbed Gus’s litter box and aired out the apartment of smoke and sex and sin. I took long baths on Sunday and Monday, went to the gym, gave myself an at-home facial, moisturized constantly, and applied four sets of teeth-whitening strips. Andrew and I were the same age, but he was so beautiful that I was sure he would notice every imperfection.
I did everything to hide the way I felt: like damaged goods.
It was warm on Monday evening. When I arrived at the restaurant, Andrew was already standing near the entrance. He was wearing glasses, tortoise shell frames that made him look studious and intellectual. From his tousled hair and wrinkled khakis, it was clear he had just come from work.
I greeted him, leaning forward to give him a kiss on the cheek, but he seemed stiff about it, embarrassed.
We sat down in the dark dining room amidst tapestries and throw pillows. There was Moroccan music playing and the owner’s children were playing hide-and-go-seek among the tables.
“It adds to the ambiance,” Andrew said, shrugging. He asked if I had enjoyed my birthday party.
“Sure,” I said. “But that wasn’t my actual birthday.”
“When is your actual birthday?”
I paused. “Tonight,” I said, blushing.
“I’m flattered,” he said.
“I spent so much time thinking about that dinner, I didn’t make any plans for tonight,” I explained. “But I guess it worked out perfectly.”
Andrew filled me in on everything I had heard and forgotten on Saturday night. He had grown up outside Boston and had gone to boarding school at Andover. By loading up on classes, he had managed to skip a grade and finish in three years. He had gone to Brown, where he had been an English major, writing a thesis entitled “Political Influence in Science Fiction and Fantasy.” After taking internships each summer with various publishers in New York, he had been offered his current editorial job when he graduated. I felt proud of his achievements, even though I barely knew him. Maybe it was because he was shy about it, almost ashamed at his precociousness.
“When did you come out?” I asked him.
“I don’t know if you could really call it coming out,” he said. “After sophomore year of college, I guess. But my parents don’t know yet.”
I had always considered a guy’s gay adult life to begin after he got over the inevitable task of coming out to his parents. By this estimation, he was still a teenager.
Andrew was turning out to be a very different person than I had imagined Subway Boy to be.
“How about you?” he asked.
“I told my parents after I started my freshman year of college,” I said.
“How did that go?”
“It was fine,” I lied. “They were pretty much okay with it.”
We ordered our entrees and split a bottle of red wine between us; I promised myself I would make this bottle last, that I wouldn’t drink more than two glasses. When our food arrived, we both dug in, grateful for the momentary lapse in conversation. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a lot to ask him; it was just that first dates were such hard work.
“Did you have any hobbies as a kid?” he asked after a few minutes.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I liked to read a lot.”
“I had three listed in my elementary school yearbook: bonsai trees, comic books, and model railroading.”
It was nerdy, but I found it charming. Most guys would have answered, “Not really,” or, “I liked to hang out at the mall.”
I imagined his apartment: bonsai trees in the living room, stacks of comics in the bedroom, and a giant model railroad set running between them.
We split the bill after drinking mint tea and sharing a filo pastry. I was dying for a cigarette, but I knew I couldn’t have one, not if I wanted this to work.
As we stepped out onto the sidewalk, I suddenly felt like the city was a new place, a place I had never been before.
“What do your parents do?” Andrew asked me as we walked east.
“My dad’s in venture capital and my mother’s a fashion designer.”
“Really?” He frowned. “I don’t know much about fashion.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Most real people don’t.”
We came to an intersection and crossed.
“How did you lose your job?” he asked when we got to the other side.
I told him about the accident, in the vaguest terms I could.
“I read about that,” he said. “I was waiting for you to say something.”
I realized how strange the situation must seem to an outsider.
“You don’t think it’s weird?” I asked.
“You seem like a good guy,” he said, “and I’m sure you’re doing the right thing.”
I was instantly relieved.
We were approaching the East Village, so I decided to face the inevitable.
I asked him if he wanted to see my place, and he said yes.
We walked east on Thirteenth Street and then down Second Avenue. I steered him away from Avenue A so we wouldn’t have to pass Blow Pop. I didn’t want him to think of me as that person, the Toby who stayed out all night and propositioned boys he had just met.
As we walked, I thought about what I was doing. Andrew wasn’t the slickest guy I’d ever met, but I liked that. In order to be with him, I was going to have to shape up. How much was I willing to give up of myself, of my former life?
“I’d been meaning to tell you—I have to go out of town tomorrow,” he said. “To a science fiction convention in San Francisco. A total geek fest.” I had a vision of him running into my parents in the city, though I knew that would be unlikely. “I get back on Friday, though I might be able to change my flight so I can see you sooner.”
“There’s no hurry,” I said. I didn’t want him to know I would be eagerly awaiting his return, that the sooner he came back, the better.
We arrived at Seventh Street and he followed me upstairs. From the hallway, I could hear Gus crying.
“I love cats,” he said. “I want one, but I’m hardly ever home.”
I unlocked the door and Andrew immediately got down on the floor and started petting Gus. “Good kitty,” he said. “Good girl.”
“He’s a boy,” I said. “This is an all-male establishment.”
We sat together on my tiny couch. He let me run my fingers through his hair.
“Have you read any good books lately?” he asked.
This is stupid, I thought. Either he was incredibly nervous or was an expert on stalling techniques. I would have to make the first move.
I pulled him towards me and kissed him, first strongly, to make sure he was really mine, then a little more lightly. He tasted like spices and red wine.
“Do you want to go into the bedroom?” I asked, and he followed me.
We lay down on my bed, which, thankfully, I had made before I left that evening.
It was the best make-out session I had ever had. We rolled around for almost ten minutes and then I lay my head on his chest after kissing him lightly on the nose. I wanted him badly, but I knew we should wait. I was becoming a prude before my own eyes. I decided chastity was the new sluttiness.
I got up to go to the bathroom, where I discovered that Gus had puked his dinner onto the floor. I cleaned it up quickly so Andrew wouldn’t notice.
I lay down next to him on the bed again.
“I would love to, you know . . .” I said. “But it probably isn’t a good idea.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I should get going.”
We kissed for several more minutes. We couldn’t get enough of each other.
Eventually, he got up. “You have my numbers,” he said. “I’ll be back Friday.” He paused. “There’s something you should know about this trip.” He stood by the door.
I took in a quick breath. Even Gus sat near the door, listening expectantly.
“I’m interviewing with a publisher that wants me to move out to San Francisco.”
“Are you looking for a new job?” I asked. He had his hand on the doorknob, was ready to leave.
“Not really,” he said. “But it’s always good to interview, you know, to see what’s out there.”
I nodded dumbly.
He opened the door and then turned around. “If I get offered something, I’ll just have to tell them I need to bring my new boyfriend with me.”
I was so taken aback that I just gave him another kiss on the lips and shut the door behind him.
Boyfriend? Already? Was he more clueless than I was? Did I have the upper hand without knowing it?
I grabbed a cigarette from the pack in my desk drawer and lit up. I needed to process this information. I sent an email to Jamie, Donovan, and Brett.
“He is already referring to us as a couple,” I wrote. “I think this is a good sign.”
My phone at home remained unplugged, so whenever I checked my messages, there was a slew from various reporters. On Clifford Bronstein’s instructions, I didn’t return any of the calls.
On Wednesday, I was at home when I got a call from Jamie on my cell.
“Have you seen the Observer today?” he asked. “There’s a big story about you. Check the Transom section.”
My palms were clammy as I looked up the paper online. The Transom was a column that reported on Manhattan media and entertainment gossip. The article was the first item of several.
THE SPINACH HITS THE FAN
Employees of whiz kid gay producer Cameron Cole have described his office as alternately “hectic” and “laid-back,” but never as downright hostile. The tide of opinion changed, however, last Friday morning, when Mr. Cole’s assistant, Toby Griffin, quit “under duress,” an anonymous source said.
Mr. Griffin, a twenty-three-year-old aspiring screenwriter, was a passenger in the automobile driven by actress Jordan Gardner that hit eight people, injuring seven and killing one. Mr. Cole and Ms. Gardner’s publicist Ariana Richards were the other two passengers in the car. The extensively chronicled incident occurred on April 19 outside the nightclub Mirror.
Mr. Cole and Ms. Richards reportedly told Mr. Griffin not to reveal any information to police beyond the initial testimony he gave on the night of the accident. Rumors have abounded that Ms. Gardner was under the influence of drugs and alcohol that evening.
Mr. Griffin decided to break free of his boss’s informal gag order on April 30, when he reportedly gave testimony to Detective Ronald Shiro of Manhattan’s Tenth Precinct. The contents of that testimony have not been released, but insiders say Mr. Griffin revealed Ms. Gardner was indeed under the influence of drugs and alcohol, evidence that would severely increase the penalties she faces for the current charges of involuntary manslaughter, first- and second-degree assault, and reckless endangerment, among others.
If Mr. Cole and Ms. Richards did try to prevent Mr. Griffin from giving evidence, they could both be guilty of witness tampering and obstruction of justice. Insiders have speculated that Mr. Griffin will most likely be given immunity on the count of giving false evidence in exchange for his testimony.
After the New York Post and other local papers revealed Mr. Griffin had been witnessed giving evidence, Mr. Cole reportedly became nasty towards his assistant.
In addition to tripling Mr. Griffin’s workload, Mr. Cole apparently threw a container of steamed spinach at Mr. Griffin’s desk in an effort to reprimand him for bringing him his spinach steamed, as he usually takes it, as opposed to creamed, as he wanted it that day. The next day, Mr. Griffin quit working for Mr. Cole.
Though Mr. Cole’s office denies the incident ever took place, a call to the Organic Delights deli in Tribeca revealed that steamed spinach is indeed Mr. Cole’s vegetable of choice.
“I’m not worried about Toby. He’s an incredibly talented writer, and I know he’ll find something,” said Mr. Griffin’s Beverly Hills agent, Sherry Merrill. “Cream always rises to the top.”
As long as it’s not in spinach.
—Eli Kostenbaum
I called Sonia on her cell phone. “Who is this Eli Kostenbaum?”
“Just a friend from college,” she said. “He loved the scoop.”
“The story makes me look like an idiot.”
“No, it doesn’t! You’re a hero. It’s great. I think he spun it really well.”
Spun it. Sonia had been spending too much time working in PR.
“What are you doing with that Bradshaw interview?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’d like to sit on it for a little bit. It would be just like Ariana to call every editor she knows and tell them not to take it.”
“I could sell it for you,” Sonia said. “But suit yourself.”
“Are you at the office now?” I asked.
“Nope,” she said. “I quit.”
“I hope you didn’t do that on my behalf.”
“I needed to get out of there,” she said. “I needed to stop being so afraid.”
“Another defector from the downtown bullshit machine. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m not out of the business entirely,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve decided to start doing some PR consulting, freelance, with a little event planning on the side.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“It’ll be easy,” she said. “I’ve got Ariana’s client list.”
For the rest of the week, I was floating over the memory of my date with Andrew. We emailed back and forth several times.
“I am surrounded by guys who consider a wild night out to be a discussion of Star Trek reruns over pizza and Coke,” he wrote. “I can’t wait to see you.”
He signed his name ANDREW, all caps.
As happy as I was, I had to face that I was still unemployed. I had left a message with Sherry’s office to check on the status of my screenplay, but hadn’t heard back. I started preparing my resume to send out.
On Friday morning, Andrew wrote me another email from the airport. “I think I’m going to be exhausted tonight. Can we do something tomorrow?”
I was dying to see him, but I left him a voice mail saying Saturday would be fine. I had never waited so long to sleep with someone.
I suddenly had the fear he wasn’t really gay, or was squeamish about actual sex. There were some guys who had so little experience that they were afraid of sex. Maybe I would have to survive several months of clothes-on makeout sessions before we were comfortable with each other. I wasn’t sure I could wait. For me, sex sealed a relationship, made it permanent. I had to remind myself that it also had the potential to drive people apart, to give either person a reason not to see the other again.
We made plans to meet at Flea Market in the East Village. I arrived a little early this time and fortified myself with a glass of red wine as I let my eyes wander over the bric-a-brac decorating the walls. I was determined to relax. We would sleep together or we wouldn’t, and either way, it would be fine. He wasn’t going anywhere, I reminded myself.
When he arrived, he kissed me squarely on the lips. We sat down and he ordered a gin and tonic.
“Glad to be rid of the science fiction geeks?” I said.
“Hey, I’m one myself, you know!”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “At least, you don’t look like one.”
“That’s true. I feel like a freak at these things because I look like I don’t belong there. I don’t wear ripped jeans and X-Files T-shirts.”
We ordered our food and a bottle of Merlot. I splurged and got steak frites, extra rare.
“How did the job interview go?” I was hoping it was a bust, but I wanted to appear enthusiastic.
“It was fine. But I’m not going anywhere. All the publishers outside of New York are so small. I’m much better off where I am now.”
I smiled. It was the answer I wanted to hear.
“You haven’t told me about your parents yet,” I said.
“There’s not much to tell,” he said. “They’re boring, they live in the suburbs.”
“Well, what does your dad do?”
“He sells life insurance.”
“And your mom?”
“Takes care of me and my little brother and my dad. Worries about us.”
“She must do something else.”
“I don’t know. Plays bridge. She works at the vet ten hours a week.”
I nodded. I was having trouble relating. My parents considered games like bridge a waste of time and hadn’t set foot in a vet’s office since I was twelve years old and our cat was put down.
“You know,” Andrew said, “I was a little scared of meeting you.”
“Why’s that?” I grinned.
“Brett said—he said a lot of great things about you—but he sort of made you out to be this party boy. I mean, he is, too, so I guess I—”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”
“It was funny, the first night when we met, you couldn’t seem to remember anything I told you. I think you asked me where I grew up three separate times.”
“Too many martinis,” I said.
“But you just seemed so comfortable with, you know—”
“Being gay?”
“Yeah, that. I mean, I’ve only had three boyfriends, two at college and one several summers ago in New York.”
“Who was the guy in New York?”
“It was nobody. Just someone I met through friends.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think you have it pretty good. You’re not jaded, you’re not over it all already. I mean, the more you’re out, the more shit you see. It’s not always a good thing.”
