In the Middle of Somewhere (24 page)

And he’d make light of it when he paid, joke around about how he liked that he could be the first one to take me for sushi or to a Korean steak house, even as he laughed at the faces I made as I tried raw eel for the first time. Then we’d go back to his apartment and he’d tell me exactly how he wanted me to fuck him. He liked it hard and fast and clean, and he’d come with me behind him, catching his own release in his hand so it wouldn’t get on the sheets. Something about the fact that he wanted
me
to fuck
him
made it feel less like I was a charity case or a kept toy. Ginger said that was a fucked-up way to think about it, but it made a difference. I’m not exactly sure why.

I never spent the night; Richard was always at the lab by 8:30 a.m. because he said any later than that and the best equipment was taken. He never came to my apartment, which he referred to as “the crack house,” even though he’d never been in my neighborhood, just heard things on the subway and read things in the online police blotter, which he checked religiously, as he did the weather. He was one of those people who truly believed that forewarned was forearmed—he taught me that proverb, along with “he who pays the piper calls the tune,” which he trotted out in response to my embarrassment when he sent his food back twice at a restaurant on a busy Saturday evening.

I saw Richard maybe twice a week, and honestly, I didn’t think about it that much. If I wasn’t at the library, I was at the bar, and if I had any found time I was hanging out with Ginger at the shop, reading behind the counter with the comforting buzz of tattoo machines inking the words into my memory. Ginger hated Richard. She only met him twice. It’s not that I was trying to keep them apart… exactly. More that I didn’t even think of them as existing in the same universe, much less as able to interact.

I brought her with me to meet Richard and some college friends of his for a drink. I was only stopping in for one drink because Richard had asked me to, and then I was on my way to work. Ginger was going to the show at the bar that night, so I convinced her to tag along. It was a mistake. Richard was running late and wasn’t there when we arrived and the bar—excuse me, cocktail lounge—had a ten-dollar cover. Ginger offended the bouncer and amused me by muttering about it being a pay-to-play, and when we walked in it was clear we were extremely underdressed. I was wearing black jeans and boots and a red T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off because I made more tips the more skin I flashed, and though Ginger was wearing a tight black tube dress, the tattoos that cover every inch of her arms, legs, chest, and back made her the center of attention.

We got drinks (twelve-dollar martinis flavored with herbs and served in tiny glasses) and stood at a table, waiting for Richard. The place was crowded, so I didn’t think much when Ginger’s shoulders tensed. She was constantly getting people coming up to her to touch her tattoos and ask her what they meant—or, less flatteringly, tell her that she’d be so pretty if she didn’t have them—so I’d grown accustomed to running interference. I swung around to sit next to her, but she waved me back across the table and started talking about a tattoo she’d done that afternoon.

Later on she told me she’d sat down just in time to hear a man with an upper crust-y New York accent say, “I can’t wait to clap eyes on Richie’s rough-trade trailer trash. Richie says he’s like a jackhammer.” The table behind us had been, of course, Richard’s college friends. Needless to say, we didn’t have much to talk about and I was relieved when it was time for us to leave so I could get to work.

Richard walked us out and kissed me. “Thanks for putting up with those guys,” he said. “You know how it is. They were probably nervous around you because you’re so hot.” He winked at Ginger and she just walked away.

After a year and a half or so of dinners and fucking that I thought of as dating, though I guess I never used the word to Richard, I stopped by Richard’s apartment on my way to work because I’d left a book there the night before. I stepped out of the elevator—Richard lived in one of those posh buildings in Center City with a doorman and everything—and jogged down the hallway. I don’t remember why I didn’t call first. As I turned the corner to knock on Richard’s door, I saw him standing in front of it. At first, I thought I was catching him just getting home and had a moment of being thankful for my good timing. Then I saw the arms wrapped around his neck.

Richard was making out with another guy right in his doorway. I must’ve made a sound—coughed, or gasped, or said his name—because Richard turned around. What I remember most about the moment his eyes met mine is that there wasn’t any surprise in them. Not even a microsecond of shock, or guilt, or shame. His hair was mussed and the collar of his shirt askew, and he just smiled at me.

“Hey, Dan,” he said. “Not a great time.”

The man he was with was the opposite of me in every way: a gorgeous little twink, thin and blond, with big blue eyes and apple cheeks and an arm slung around Richard’s waist with the casualness of long habit.

I had no idea what to say or do and, suddenly, what seemed like the absolute most important thing was that Richard not have the slightest inkling that I cared at all.

“I need my book,” I said, and my voice came out scratchy and high. The twink shifted a few inches to the left, so I could squeeze through the doorway.

At work that night, as I mechanically poured drinks and stared at the lights strobing over the crowd, I played the conversation Richard and I had over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of the pieces.

Things Richard said:

“Well, it isn’t as if we’re exclusive,” and, at my shocked expression, “I’m sorry if you thought that, Daniel, but we never had that conversation.”

“Don’t look at me like I’ve betrayed you. I would never cheat on a boyfriend, but when did we ever decide that’s what we were?”

Socking me softly in the shoulder, “Come now, if you were my boyfriend you would’ve had to spring for a real birthday present.” In fact, I’d spent more money on Richard’s gift, a first American edition of John Dalton’s
A New System of Chemical Philosophy
, than on any other gift I’d ever given.

Months later, I learned that I was about the only one at Penn who didn’t know Richard and I hadn’t been exclusive. Months later, I learned that Richard had been fucking his way through the entire city of Philadelphia and everyone had known. Months later, too, I realized that I hadn’t ever even liked Richard that much, that the reason I’d never noticed that he saw other people or cared that we spent so little time together was because I was fairly indifferent to his company. Months later, I mostly felt incredibly stupid to have it pointed out so clearly that I had no idea what it was to be in a relationship, and quite ridiculous to realize how easy it was to be living a life completely different than the one of the person in bed beside you. But that night, I just felt shocked.

And it was probably because I felt shocked that I didn’t pay better attention as I was leaving work and walking to the subway. The bar paid us in cash—one of many reasons I liked working there—and I had years of experience being careful walking around with it late at night. It usually helped that I didn’t look like I had anything to steal: shitty old iPod, disposable pay-as-you-go phone, and my keys.

They might have seen me move the cash from my wallet to my front pocket outside the bar, they might have seen a bulge in my pocket and hoped it was a nice phone, or they might have just jumped me randomly. I don’t know. But when I was a block away from the subway entrance, its awning awash in friendly light, two guys grabbed me and dragged me into an alley where a third man waited with a knife. They punched me in the face so I knew they were serious, and threw me against the wall where the guy with the knife leaned, looking on dispassionately. Gang initiation? Debt paid? I don’t know. They found the money in seconds and broke a few ribs anyway. They shoved my face against the dirty wall and even took the time to rifle through my wallet, dropping it when they found nothing worth taking. Took one look at my ancient iPod and shitty phone and didn’t even bother once they had the cash in hand.

I called Ginger and she came and picked me up, silent tears running down her face as she drove me back to her place and put me to bed under her covers.

And when I told Ginger about Richard the next morning, she said I should go to the police.

“Nah,” I said. “I don’t want to deal with it. What’s the point anyway? They were probably just kids.”

“No,” she deadpanned. “Not about the mugging. About Richard. You should see if you can file an incident report for rampant douchebaggery,” because she is the best friend in the history of the world. We both started laughing, which killed my ribs, so I tried to push Ginger, who, in trying to dodge me, fell off her chair. A regular Three Stooges routine.

I had nightmares about it for months afterward—no surprise there—but they went away for the most part, and I hadn’t had one in two years.

So why the fuck am I having them again, especially starting on a night when I was really happy? My brain supplies a flash flood of answers, most of which are automatic analysis: you feel like Rex stole something from you, you feel like your world has been turned on its side, everything’s collapsing, etc.

Before I can settle on any one of them, I turn the volume on the TV up and click over to the food channel that Rex mentioned liking, and I fall asleep to the sound of chiffonading, creaming, emulsifying, and zesting—or so the narration tells me.

T
HE
NEXT
morning, I wake up with the television still on and am greeted by a plump, motherly looking chef making some kind of breakfast feast of challah french toast and something called shirred eggs. My stomach gives a growl and I fumble around for the tiny coffeepot. I didn’t eat much yesterday. My stomach was in knots every time I thought about my fight with Rex.

There are two sessions I should attend at the conference this morning, but I can’t do it. I’m exhausted from all my socializing yesterday, from the fight with Rex, from all of it. And I can’t help but think that I owe Rex an explanation. That, like Ginger said, I need to just tell him some shit about me and let him decide what to do with it.

And I think, maybe, I need to have the conversation with him that I never had with Richard. I’m not interested in Jay, but if Rex thinks I am then that must feel shitty. I never really thought of myself as jealous, but when I had that moment of thinking that maybe Rex used to date Jay and that’s how he knew Jay was gay, my stomach definitely felt the way people always describe jealousy feeling in books. Besides, what if he thinks I don’t care and he meets someone else? And, with that thought, I’m back on the jealousy wagon. The idea of Rex smiling his soft smile at another man makes me want to punch through the hotel wall. The idea of him cooking dinner in his kitchen with another man or finishing another man’s food makes me want to throttle someone—anyone. And at the idea of Rex kissing someone else, black creeps into my periphery.

I fumble with my phone and call him again. Again, there’s no answer. He’s really mad. I know Ginger’s right and he might just be busy, but I can’t believe he could be so busy he missed every call and couldn’t call me back. That’s just not Rex. He has to be avoiding me on purpose. And I guess he has every right to be mad. I did yell at him when he was just trying to be nice.

So, that’s that, then. I’m going to skip the morning sessions and just get the hell out of here. Go home.

Wow, I can’t believe I just thought of
Holiday
as home. But, actually, the picture that flashed in my head as I made my decision wasn’t of Holiday, or of my shitty apartment. It was of Rex’s warm cabin, the windows glowing with sunlight or firelight, the full kitchen where Rex looks so hot cooking, the cozy living room with Marilyn snoozing on the hearth, and the bedroom where Rex makes me feel things I’ve never felt before.

Christ, I’m such a sap. Ginger would be grinning so hard right now if she could see this train of thought; my brothers would beat the shit out of me.

I throw my stuff into my duffel, not bothering about my wrinkled jacket, pull on some jeans, and splash the weak, hotel-room coffee into one of their to-go cups. And then I do exactly that. I need to talk to Rex as soon as possible.

October

I’
VE
BEEN
psyching myself up the whole drive home, singing along to a tape that was in a John Hiatt case but turned out to be the Pet Shop Boys—score!—and I’ve played the whole apology over and over in my head like it’s a conference paper: introduction, claims, supporting evidence, conclusion, questions.

Driving through Detroit this morning made me homesick for Philly. I almost called Ginger just to hear a familiar accent, but it seems like every time I’ve talked to her lately she’s ended up listening to me whine, so I just turned up the volume and sang along, speeding as fast as my poor little car would take me. I mean, the best thing about Michigan so far is that the highway speed limit is seventy.

Around 2:00 p.m., ten miles from Rex’s house, I think practical thoughts like that I should go home and shower, or call again, or get something to eat, but I know if I stop to do any of that stuff I’ll lose my nerve, so I just drive straight to his house, hoping he’s home. My stomach flips in relief when I see his truck in the driveway. I barely register that his shades are down when they’re usually open to let in the sun.

When I get out of the car, I’m jittery from nerves and too much caffeine. I knock on the door, but he doesn’t answer. I’m pretty sure he’s home because I can hear Marilyn barking from inside and there’s nowhere he’d walk to on a Sunday without her. At least, I don’t think. But I guess I don’t really know. I try the door and the knob turns in my hand. I’m about to just push the door open and walk in, guns blazing, yelling that I’m sorry, but pictures of Richard making out with another man flash through my mind. What if I walk in on Rex with someone else? I seriously could not stand that.