Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (10 page)

“Thanks,” Tim said appreciatively.

The back door thudded again as a young delivery boy carried in a huge vase of red roses. “Tim Halladay?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“For you.” The boy beamed, placing the extravagant bouquet on the bar. “Enjoy.” He winked and was out the door.

Tim did not know what to think. He opened the card, addressed to him. “Welcome to Julius’. You’re front stage now!” It was signed “Happy,” one of the nighttime bartenders. Tim was speechless. Jamie was grinning.

“I said you’d be a star.” Jamie laughed, knowing how uncomfortable Tim was feeling. “Just put them on the back bar and enjoy. Happy always liked you, and he couldn’t believe that you’d actually be working here.”

Tim got through the first day, pouring shots and draft beer, nothing fancy or complicated. He was getting the hang of it, and he was amazed at the generous tips. Jamie was right: the tighter the jeans, the better the tips.

The next morning, right at eight o’clock, Tim got into his uniform and took his place behind the bar.

“You’re on your own today, kid,” Jamie announced. “You can handle it. I’m going home. I have to work tonight and I need some sleep. Call me if you get into trouble.”

So there Tim was, alone in charge of the legendary saloon. Actually it felt good—so different from his corporate career. Maybe there were other things in life than a corner window office.

The back door thudded shut, but Tim didn’t pay much attention as the man took a place at the bar. The other regulars were reading newspapers or the
Daily Forum,
drinking coffee, or ordering an occasional shot. Tim had learned quickly what each man drank and didn’t have to ask. The tips continued to be generous.

“Yes, sir, what can I get you?” Tim asked as he approached the new customer.

“Just a draft beer,” the man replied. Then he looked up at Tim in disbelief. “Tim! Is that you?”

“Hey, Mr. Ferguson … what a surprise!” Tim extended his hand. “Yeah, this is my new career.” Tim laughed. Ferguson had been Tim’s client on the US Plywood account. He was the marketing director and had once taken Tim to the South Carolina manufacturing plant to watch how plywood was made. They’d spent an evening at the Holiday Inn bar getting drunk, as there was nothing else better to do in Jackson, South Carolina. Ferguson was obviously uncomfortable running into his former agency account executive in a gay bar in Greenwich Village in the middle of the afternoon. He was the typical client: a wife and two kids living in Orange, New Jersey. Obviously, he had another life, now exposed to Tim.

“Well, good luck,” Ferguson said awkwardly, sliding a ten-dollar bill across the bar and leaving without touching his beer.

Tim worked the day shift for the next two weeks, getting to know the cast of regulars, their quirks, and what they drank—which was a lot. Tim was settling into his new job, thinking it was not so bad, even though it was a far cry from what was expected of him, given his Westport upbringing, his prep school education, and his degree from William and Mary. But it felt good. The money was all cash and more than he could have imagined, as long as he continued to shrink his jeans.

Then, one morning when Tim was setting up, cutting lemons on the bar, Jamie came in unexpectedly.

“Hey, guy,” Tim greeted cheerfully. “What brings you here at this hour? I thought you’d be home getting your beauty sleep.”

“We have a slight change in schedule,” Jamie said, sounding serious.

“Am I being fired?”

“No. You’re being promoted to night shift.”

“What?” Tim asked incredulously. “Isn’t that seniority, the top spot?

“Yes, and the money is good. Mr. F likes you, even though he’s never met you. He has a good instinct about people. You’ll start tomorrow. Come in at four and I’ll help you get ready. It’s basically the same routine, except a lot busier. And of course you’ll have to cash out and deliver the money to Mr. F at closing. Think you can handle that?”

“I guess,” Tim said, not quite sure.

“You just have to count the cash from the day’s receipts, check the register tape, and fill out a deposit slip. Put it in the pouch and hand it to Mr. F. The limo will be pulled up to the side door at 2:00 a.m. He trusts you to handle the money and not steal from him.”

“I would never do that,” Tim said honestly.

“I know,” Jamie said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at four. You’re out front now, in the big time, honey!”

Museum

December 1974

T
im was in the Museum of Modern Art on West Fifty-Third Street when reality came crashing down. He had just been fired a month ago from a high-paying job at one of the most prestigious advertising agencies in New York. And here he was, at a museum, a few days before Christmas.

There was an enormous canvas in the new acquisitions area just beyond the entrance—a very strange painting that seemed to move in slow waves. The colors were soft and liquid, almost hypnotic, as Tim stood studying it—if, that is, it weren’t for the busloads of kids from P.S. Somewhere in the Upper Bronx who couldn’t give a shit about being in a museum, except that maybe it was one less day of boredom in a classroom with ceiling tiles falling down when the elevated train rattled by outside every ten minutes.

Tim stood looking at the painting and then glanced at the typed description. The artist was from Argentina, and according to the biographical information given, was four years younger than Tim, and here he had a painting hanging in the Museum of Modern Art. He must have been working for a number of years while he was in his teens to reach this point. It hit Tim hard, especially since his own ad career had just gone down the toilet. The young Argentine had found what he wanted to do. He was obviously good at it, and now he had a painting hanging in a world-class museum.

“Do you like it?” Tim heard a warm-toned voice from behind him.

“Yes,” he said, “although I’m not sure what it’s all about.”

Tim turned around to face one of the handsomest men he’d ever seen: light-brown skin, jet-black hair, and a beautiful, white-toothed smile.

“It’s mine.”

“You’re kidding,” Tim stammered. “You’re the artist?”

“I am,” he replied. “The museum’s hosting a reception for me later today, with press and all. This is my first time in New York, and I’m a little … well, you can imagine,” he grinned shyly.

“Yeah, I can just imagine,” Tim offered, not quite knowing where else to go with the conversation.

“My name is Gustavo,” he said, extending his hand to introduce himself. His touch was warm and smooth, like a palm leaf.

“I’m Tim. Tim Halladay. Nice to meet you.” Tim felt like an awkward turtle trying to get out of the pond.

“Nice to meet you, Tim.” A long pause fell as they locked eyes. “Would you like to come to the reception later this afternoon?” Gustavo asked. “I don’t know anyone here except for the museum directors. It’s going to be a fund-raiser kind of thing, and I’m not interested in that. You can come as my guest. But I promise they will not ask you for money,” Gustavo smiled.

“You’re sure?” Tim asked.

Gustavo beamed. “It’s my show, remember?”

“Well, yes. I’d love to come. What time?”

“It’s not until six o’clock, and it’s now just a little after noon,” Gustavo said, checking his watch. “Can I ask you a favor?” he said, looking Tim square in the eyes. For someone Tim had just met, this young artist from Argentina, in New York for the first time, was strangely aggressive.

“Sure.”

“I’d like you to sit for me,” Gustavo said. “You have a wonderful, sensitive face, and very piercing eyes.”

“Well, I’ve never done anything like that,” Tim said, blushing at the compliment. “What would I have to do?”

“Come back with me to the hotel, and I’ll show you. There’s nothing to it,” he said, taking hold of Tim’s arm. “They put me up in this enormous suite at the Plaza. You won’t believe it.”

“Well, yeah, I guess I could. I have nothing else to do.”

Tim and the Argentine artist walked up Fifth Avenue, and at Fifty-Seventh Street, they passed under the big blue box Christmas decoration that Tiffany erected every year.

“New York at Christmas is like nowhere else,” Tim said to his new Argentine friend.

“Yes.” He laughed. “For us, of course, it’s still summer, and Christmas is a family kind of thing. This is very different.”

“How long are you here?”

“I’m going back tomorrow. My mother expects me to be home for the holidays, along with all my brothers and sisters.”

“You have a big family?”

“There are seven of us. I am the youngest.”

They continued to walk uptown toward the Plaza. The streets were crowded with holiday shoppers carrying bulging bags from Bergdorf’s and Bloomingdale’s. Tim found the holiday season excesses depressing, since all he was looking forward to was the prospect of getting his first unemployment check.

Once past the revolving doors of the Plaza, the enormous Christmas tree in the lobby, all in glowing red ornaments, greeted them. Gustavo got his key from the front desk, where the staff obviously knew him, since he didn’t even have to give his room number. The young man at the front desk gave Tim a knowing smile and a thumbs-up.

The suite on the twelfth floor, overlooking Central Park, was magnificent. It was decorated in grand Louis XV style. A marble foyer opened onto a living room with a fireplace. There was a separate formal dining room and what appeared to be a bedroom beyond French doors. A huge vase of long-stem white roses adorned the intricately carved writing desk in the corner bay window.

“Do you like it?” Gustavo asked.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“The museum is very generous,” the artist said. “Would you like something to eat?”

“Sure, if you’re having something.”

“You like seafood?” Gustavo asked, and before Tim could respond the artist was dialing room service. “Yes, can I get an order from the Oyster Bar?” Gustavo waited while the operator checked. The special request must have been granted because Gustavo continued, “Great. It’ll be lunch for two people. Let’s start with some white clam chowder. Then can you fix a selection of seafood on ice? Lots of oysters, cherrystone clams, some shrimp, and a few lobster tails. Mix it up and make it nice. Some crusty French bread and those good bread salt sticks. And send up a bottle of the ’69 Alta Vista Chardonnay Premium.”

Gustavo waited while the operator repeated the order. “Great, twenty minutes will be fine.”

“Sounds pretty elegant,” Tim commented as Gustavo put down the phone. Tim was amazed at the Argentine artist’s fluent command of English.

“The wine is from Argentina, from Mendoza, in the north where I grew up. My father worked all his life in the vineyard at the Alta Vista winery. The wine is excellent. I hope you’ll like it.”

Tim sat on the windowsill looking out over Central Park, Christmas decorations blinking up and down Fifth Avenue.

“Are you nervous?” Gustavo asked.

“A little bit, I guess.”

“Don’t be. I don’t bite.” He smiled.

“This is so much,” Tim said as Gustavo pulled him forward and kissed him on the lips.

The knock on the door broke their moment. It was room service, quicker than expected.
Gustavo must have VIP status,
Tim thought, but then looking at the suite, anyone would have figured that out already.

“Thank you,” Gustavo said to the young Puerto Rican waiter delivering the order. “Put it on the table in the sitting room.”

“Do you want me to open the wine?”

“Yes. Just pour it. It’ll be fine.”

Gustavo signed the check, and the room service waiter left, leaving the artist and his guest alone in the opulent suite.

“Cheers,” Gustavo said, raising his wine glass. “It’s very nice to meet someone like you in this big city.”

“Likewise,” Tim said. “It hasn’t been the best time for me lately.”

“What’s the problem?” Gustavo asked, squeezing a gauze-wrapped lemon over the oysters.

Tim paused, not knowing if he wanted to get into this with a person he’d just met. But he was in a suite at the Plaza with a stunning young artist, drinking vintage Argentine Chardonnay.

“I lost my job at a big advertising agency a few weeks ago,” Tim said. “I’m now working as a bartender in a gay bar in Greenwich Village. It’s kind of fun, and the money is good, but I don’t think it’s my new career.”

“Don’t worry.” Gustavo patted Tim’s shoulder. “Look at you! You’ll get a better job. Who wouldn’t want to hire you?”

“I hope you’re right, but at the moment I’m not feeling so great.”

“Take off your clothes,” Gustavo said as they both gulped raw oysters.

“What?” Tim said incredulously.

“Yes, I want to paint you. I can’t do it while you are dressed.”

“Are you serious?” Tim asked, taking a sip of wine to wash down the oyster.

“That’s how I work,” Gustavo said, again looking straight at Tim. “And if it makes you more comfortable, I’ll strip too.”

After a long pause and another gulp of wine Tim said, “Well, why not?”

The December afternoon sun was fading over Central Park as Gustavo sat with his drawing board in hand. They had not spoken for over three hours.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I think this is done.” And with that, Gustavo put down his brushes and paints.

“I think I like it,” he said, “but I always have to live with art for a few days before I decide for certain.”

Gustavo did not show Tim the painting. Instead, he came over and wrapped his arms around Tim, both standing pressed against each other. “Tim, you are a wonderful sitter.”

After they showered together in the glass-enclosed marble bathroom and dried each other off with the oversized towels, they dressed.

“Do you still want to come to the reception?”

“Sure, if it’s okay with you.”

Gustavo kissed Tim on the lips and pulled him into a tight embrace. They were two strangers reaching out to each other.

As they exited the entrance of the hotel on Grand Army Plaza, the Lincoln Town Car was out front waiting for them.

“You sure about this?” Tim asked as the driver was opening the door of the limo.