The Miles (11 page)

Read The Miles Online

Authors: Robert Lennon

BOOK: The Miles
6.67Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“It's still the warm-up music,” shouted Zane, motioning for everyone to settle along some stools that flanked the dank bar. A trio of emaciated hipsters still sporting remnants of adolescent patches of acne self-consciously rolled and unrolled the sleeves of their flannel shirts. They twirled the skinny straws in their mixed drinks while discussing the distinctions between Verlaine and Rimbaud. The bartender flipped through the copy of
Honcho
he had resting on the knicked and worn surface of the long bar.
“Tequila shots for everyone!” screamed Mitch, throwing down a hundred-dollar bill on the bar before anyone had the chance to protest.
The bartender jolted awake from the centerfold of a furry farmhand pitching hay while stroking himself off, and he quickly lined up more than a dozen shot glasses. Liam despised tequila shots. All the sane people he knew felt the exact same way when sober, and yet it seemed to be the rallying cry of drunk people everywhere—the first and last resort in barroom camaraderie.
“To victory!” Mitch yelled as he raised his glass up high. His voice echoed through the mostly empty bar.
With the exception of Zane, everyone downed their shot quickly and quietly. Mitch snatched the shot out of Zane's hand and gulped it down while the others still cringed from the repulsive burn of their first shot.
“It'd be a shame to see four bucks go to waste,” Mitch said, wiping a dollop of drool from his lip.
Gary threw his arms around Mitch and Liam and yelled at Zane to come over for a group huddle.
“Let's always remember the way the four of us are right now,” Gary said. “The Four Musketeers! We can do anything if we band together.”
Liam wanted to drink in the syrupy sweetness of Gary's words but felt that he had not paid the dues of friendship that such a sentiment required. As they all emerged from the stranglehold of the group hug, Zane announced that they needed to hit the dance floor. Mist from a dry ice machine snaked through the room, roping the shirtless torsos on the dance floor. “Kids in America” thumped overhead.
“Push your way over to the side by that raised platform!”
“What?” Liam screamed at Zane as loudly as he could and tried to read Zane's lips as he repeated himself. Finally, Zane motioned toward the area where guys were dancing on a cube above the crowd.
After a few minutes of elbowed slithering, the group of fourteen runners hovered close together in the far corner of the dance floor. As soon as a drunk dancer stumbled off the makeshift podium, Zane jumped excitedly and veered toward the platform. Just when Zane broke through the crowd and reached the stage he had been eyeing, Gene planted his foot onto the wooden cube and hoisted himself up so that he was hip-to-hip with the three other gyrating men reigning over the sweaty dance floor.
Gary rubbed Zane's shoulder consolingly, and several in the pack rolled their eyes as Gene tossed his thin-ribbed tank top into the crowd in the manner of a guitarist appeasing his adoring fans. Liam marveled at Gene's unchecked self-confidence. If he had a rim of fat jutting out over his belt, Liam would never have danced shirtless in front of dozens of hot young men. But Gene had his eyes closed and flailed his arms from side to side arrhythmically as though he were alone in his living room.
Everything was just a little off with Gene's body. He carried only about three extra pounds (he was a distance runner, after all), but his core did not hold this weight in a compassionate manner and left the extra fat to wiggle around his waist. And though it would be impossible to do tactfully, Liam wished he could suggest a series of yoga poses and abdominal exercises to tighten up Gene's stomach. To add insult to injury, Gene's chest caved in on itself, drawing the eye to a little grove of hair that begged to be plucked. A wider or longer frame would have forgiven these shortcomings, but Gene had a short body that could not handle more than one aesthetic challenge. Liam averted his eyes, not because he feared making Gene insecure but because he knew Gene would be searching out any sign of potential interest and encouragement.
Mitch and Gary each pulled out two beers from their back pockets and split the Heinekens with Liam and Ben. As intense body heat enveloped the dance floor and all the different booze he had consumed flooded his system, Liam felt the quick slip into drunkenness. “Bad Romance” bled into “Freedom 90,” and two friends who had been dancing together on the raised island jumped into the crowd. Zane grabbed Liam and bounded toward the platform.
The music raced through Liam's blood; his skin pulsed with the heavy bass. From the elevated vantage point, Liam realized that the crowd was not all beautiful. Amid the gorgeous men with gymmed bodies mixed bachelorette parties from Long Island who had read the recent reviews in
New York
magazine and wanted to play “edgy” for the night or seek some vicarious thrill or relive some misspent past. Liam replayed the video for “Freedom 90” in his head as he rocked with his arms waving up to the sky. The famous models of 1990—Naomi Campbell, Linda Evangelista, and Christy Turlington—lip-synched the words of the song while bathing in bubbles and fretting across apartment floors in oversized sweaters. As the chorus began, Liam lifted off his T-shirt in one quick pull and jammed it into the back pocket of his Diesel jeans. Now he
was
George Michael dancing to the music.
When he opened his eyes, Liam noticed that Ben had parked himself directly in front of him. Ben feigned a look of disinterest as soon as Liam realized he was standing there in patient rapture. Feeling the rush of the reverberating music and the clammy tingle of the sweat that rolled down his pecs and over his nipples, Liam felt energized by the moment and grabbed Ben by the hand and guided him to the quieter edge of the dance floor, far away from the deejay and the speakers.
“Look, I know I was a dick to you, but I am pretty messed up right now.”
Ben raised him eyebrows in faux-amazement.
“We're all damaged, Liam. You wear your psychic plight better than most.”
Ben ran his fingers down Liam's nipple, and Liam felt his dick swell in his pants for a brief moment. He swatted Ben's hand away.
“Oh, come on, Mister Liam. You rip your shirt off but you don't want anyone to touch your beautiful chest. What are you, some piece of art that we're just supposed to admire from afar?” Ben slurred his words a little and gulped down the remainder of his vodka tonic.
“Be careful not to mix too may liquors tonight. Tequila can really mess you up.”
“Thanks for the helpful advice, Liam. You are so fuck-ing sweet. You are syrup. We should put you in a bottle and call you Aunt Jemima.”
“Got it.” Liam began to turn away. “I am getting another drink. I'll catch up with you later—if you aren't hurling in the bathroom by then.”
As he headed for the bar, Liam noticed that the crowd had nearly tripled in size since the Fast Trackers had arrived. Sidling up to the bar, Liam heard a familiar voice boom from somewhere off by the dance floor.
“That's it! I'm taking you home!”
Liam could identify the words quite clearly, even through the thundering volume of the music and the din of the club. Gary stabilized Mitch momentarily, but then Mitch swayed again and fell into the group of young black men who now jumped up and down to “Vacation.” The guys whom Mitch leaned into appeared oblivious, but Gary had mustered every inch of his paternal instinct to shepherd Mitch off the dance floor and back into the main bar area. Liam jumped off the stage area and followed them to make certain that everyone was okay. Ben and Zane were close behind.
Maneuvering the dance floor proved somewhat tricky. Groups of guys had banded together tightly to block any strangers from trespassing. As Liam tried to slither through a group of skinny Hispanic teenagers, three of the boys decided to trap him in their web by bumping chests with Liam and with each other. As he turned to move in an alternate direction, a different kid from the same group leaped forward with his chest bulging out and knocked Liam right in the ribs. Seven or eight people in the surrounding area joined in and transformed part of the dance floor into a makeshift mosh pit. By the time Liam had successfully extricated himself and found his way to the front bar, Gary and Mitch were no longer there.
“Jesus, it's a jungle in this place,” Ben said as he made his way into the bar area. “Just my luck to try to escape while they're tempting the crowd with ‘It's the End of the World As We Know It.' ”
Apparently, Ben was still on speaking terms with him. Amazing what yet-another drink could do to the complexion of the evening. Liam stood searching for Mitch and Gary among the scores of patrons left, most of whom looked as though they would need to be ushered home in a cab at any minute. Zane had apparently made eyes with one of the mosh-pit gang and had no intentions of leaving the dance floor any time soon.
“I suppose they'll be fine,” Liam mumbled, to himself more than to Ben.
“Please, the drunk get home more easily than the sober in this town.”
Liam liked the pithy way that Ben reeled off aphorisms, even if half of the time, like now, they didn't make much sense. Ben lifted his shirt to scratch his stomach, exposing spotty clumps of body hair around his navel and across his slightly chubby belly. The feeling of sex rushed over Liam. With the lights off and another drink, couldn't Ben be a suitable pastime for the lonely hours before dawn? No, he needed to focus on something else—and quickly.
“Poor Gary!” Liam summoned a cautiously concerned tone; he wanted to seem legitimately interested without being reactionary. “One of us should have accompanied him. Taking care of wasted friends is never a good time. He could have used the help.”
“Please. He would kill for alone time with Mitch. He's probably hoping that Mitch allows for some below-the-belt gropes in the cab.”
Liam sensed anger in Ben's tone and could not help but think of their drunken cab ride home.
“Don't tell me you have not noticed the puppy dog eyes, Liam? Haven't you figured out Gary's MO yet? He built this team under the pretense of caring about gay running when all he ever really wanted was a harem.”
Liam needed to get away. Feeling inundated by innuendo, he no longer knew whom to trust or what to believe.
“I'm going to step out for a smoke,” Liam said, taking a pack of Camel Lights out of his back pocket. “I need some fresh air.”
“Smoke? Liam, you're a distance runner. What are you doing with a pack of cigarettes?”
“It's a drinking thing ... let it go.”
“I'll head out with you.” Ben rubbed Liam's neck, and the tension in his upper back began to dissipate. He almost moaned in relief.
A taxi had stopped in front of Sugarland as they walked out onto the street. Ben rushed to the door and held it open for the couple inside who were still waiting for change from the cabbie. Liam had a habit of lingering in taxis when people tried obnoxious moves like that to get him out faster. But the couple thanked Ben as they exited the car.
“So you want to share a ride?” Ben asked, still standing in the same position with the taxi door open. The driver shook his head and waved his hands before finally honking.
“You know that I am headed in a completely different direction than you are, Ben.”
“C'mon, I'm putting myself out there.” Ben put his hands in his jacket pockets and looked down at the ground for a second.
“I just need to clear my head. I am going to walk for a little while, maybe catch the subway home,” Liam replied.
As Liam turned and headed in the opposite direction, he heard Ben bark at him to stop and listen.
“I should have known better than to stick my nose in the boy-nip.”
“Excuse me?” Liam took a step back and gaped at Ben in confused disbelief.
“
Boy-nip
—the cute young flavor of the month that sends everyone into a tizzy but offers no real sustenance ... A mirage not an oasis.”
“Really, Ben? I am supposed to be a source of water in the desert?” Liam made no attempt to hide his disgust and anger.
“Ha! That's the message you would hear.” Ben now dramatically hailed a different taxi and opened the car door. “Never mind, Liam ... I don't beg for sex.”
Ben stood looking at Liam, and Liam knew that Ben wanted sex more than ever. He could hear the desire hot in Ben's words and see the anger in his boxer's stance by the intersection of Ninth Street and Roebling. If they were to go home and fuck right now, Liam sensed that the hostility and disappointment would translate into a fantastic orgasm. But then he would be writing the script for another of these soap opera moments. Even if it meant losing a new friend and earning a bad reputation, Liam had to do the right thing. And this was the right thing for both Ben and him. Liam headed west for the solitary trip home.
MILE 11
“L
iam, there are no extra-smalls on this rack!” Monroe catalogued through the tank tops one last time before handing Liam a small. “That's probably better anyway ... you
do
want to be able to breathe in the damn thing.”
“I want it to be snug across my chest so that runners can see my nipples ... well, at least the suggestion of my nipples. This one will swim on me. I'm just going to ask the clerk if they have anything else in the back of the store.”
The few gangly men wearing singlets who appeared to be the salespeople on duty had suddenly disappeared. It occurred to Liam that he and Monroe were the only two customers on the floor, which seemed odd for a Saturday afternoon. The economics behind running stores baffled Liam. They tended to occupy considerable square footage in premium locations and had to pay rent commensurate with their size, and yet how much money could an owner ever make on $120 pairs of Asics running shoes?
The three employees all emerged in unison, carrying with them the various stock and apparatus to build a display tower for some new polypropylene socks. As he walked over to ask for assistance, Liam noticed that the men looked familiar. Clearly, they were competitive athletes he had seen at races in Central Park. Turned off by their entitled manner, Liam wanted to remind them they were working for $10 an hour to help people try on shoes.
“I'm sorry to interrupt, guys, but I need one of those Nike singlets over there in an extra-small. Are there additional sizes in the back you can check?”
“Sorry, what we got in right now ... it's all on the floor.” It was the tallest of the three men who answered; his Island accent allowed him to appear more helpful than he was.
“Oh, can you order it from another store?” Liam asked.
“Sorry, Running Fever ... it's not a chain, mon. What you see is what you get. We have plenty o' small t'ings here for you, though.”
The racks of brightly colored running apparel made Liam giddy despite himself. Six months ago, Liam would have never believed that he could spend half an hour deciding which pair of shorts would allow for faster leg turnover or what materials breathed best for long runs or the appropriate socks to prevent blistering. But the days of ratty cotton shorts and stained college T-shirts had evaporated with a few months of Fast Tracker workouts and some successful races. Not realizing there were scores of invisible photographers out there on the race course, Liam was mortified to receive an e-mail message attaching a series of photos of himself grimacing through the final minutes of a race in baggy wind pants and a nappy fleece pullover. With the local running boom in New York City over the last decade, a cottage industry of photographers had cropped up to capture weekend warriors achieving personal victories on the race course. In the future, Liam would not be caught off guard. Today, Liam would purchase some tight singlets and running shorts with slit sides. When the weather got a little warmer, he would turn heads out there. With that thought in mind, Liam scooped up two pairs of sun-orange shorts and a few navy singlets—the Fast Tracker colors—all in extra-small, and carried them to the counter.
As the cashier began to scan the tags on the items, Liam remembered the club discount and pulled out his Fast Tracker membership card.
“This entitles me to twenty percent off,” he said to the ostrich-necked man busily ringing up the purchases.
“Fast Trac
kers,
” he said, a question mark rising in his voice as he spoke. “Our coach has a challenge out with your team this year. The point was to help our second string feel a little competitive spirit. You know anything about that?”
“We're in the thick of it,” Liam said and laughed self-consciously. He hadn't a clue that he was in Urban Bobcat country. “I'm sure it'll be an interesting year.”
Liam noticed a sprawling team photo taped to the wall behind the register. The picture had obviously been taken in the summer, as almost all the men were shirtless and glistening with sweat. Liam couldn't help but search out Didier. In the front row, fierce as ever, Didier stretched his arms across the backs of two friends, the pose tightening his stomach so that it was taut as a drum.
“That's us after the Club Championships last summer,” the man offered. “We try to get everyone together at least once a year, but it can be like herding cats.”
The expression stopped Liam. Since he was a child, he had a tendency to wonder about the genesis of sayings. Liam liked this one as it was visually evocative; he imagined the team photographer tracking down one long-limbed runner only to find upon return that three more from the pack had skittered off on their own.
The cashier threw in the latest issue of
Running Times
magazine along with a new flavor of energy gel that Clif Shots had concocted.
“These are on the Bobcats,” the man said as he totaled the transaction. “You guys had a good showing at the first race. I know our men are hungry to keep their lead.”
While Liam wanted to probe for more details, he could see that Monroe was growing visibly agitated by the conversation. This was supposed to be their makeup shopping excursion—Liam's penance for being even later than he had said for his meeting with Monroe after the race a few weeks ago. Liam knew that he should have known better than to think any Fast Tracker event—let alone a brunch with a gaggle of gay men—could happen in a timely fashion. Today, Monroe had agreed to hit one running store but the next three stops on their agenda were Bergdorf, Barneys, and Bloomingdale's, regularly referred to as “B-Cubed” or the “The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost” by Monroe.
“See you out on the course,” Liam said, taking the large shopping bag into his hand.
“Thanks for catching Running Fever!”
Liam laughed at the tagline to be polite and then hurried out of the store to meet Monroe, who was smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk. As Liam approached, Monroe turned and began to walk ahead briskly. Monroe continued to sulk as they made their way east through Columbus Circle, heading along the southern end of Central Park. At the intersection of Seventh Avenue and Central Park South, Monroe raced across the street as the light was changing, and Liam broke into a light jog to catch up to him. A taxi honked and swerved to alert Liam that he had narrowly skirted an accident.
“Are you going nuts on me?” Liam asked as he regained his composure on the sidewalk. Monroe continued to motor along without looking back.
“What is up your ass, Miss Marilyn? I am not letting one of your tantrums turn me into roadkill.”
“It's so like you to not even realize.” Monroe was losing his breath from walking so quickly. “We can't even have one afternoon where racing and
the team
don't intrude.”
“Look, I'll buy you a Cobb salad at Bloomies. You can't stay mad at me over Cobb salad. It's simply not possible.”
Though Monroe was clearly trying to keep his jaw locked in anger, Liam could see a smile creep across his friend's face. By the time Monroe was eyeing a row of overpriced blazers, all would be forgiven.
They decided to hit Bergdorf first and took a diagonal through the courtyard outside the Plaza. A boisterous crowd waited outside The Paris for the opening of some new film starring Daniel Day-Lewis. The night fell in amber over Manhattan and the buildings of Fifth Avenue twinkled like rubies. Liam felt overwhelmed by how romantic the city could be.
Once inside, Monroe played the proverbial queen in a couture shop, prancing around from the display of cashmere knit scarves to a wall of suede jackets on over to the case of Hermes ties. There were no other customers on the first floor of the store, which made Liam feel conspicuous, as though at any second a salesperson would pounce on them with overzealous offers of assistance.
Monroe led Liam to an escalator hidden behind a tall mannequin in the corner of the floor. The second floor housed all the designer collections that Monroe wanted to check out that afternoon—Jil Sander, Theory, and rag & bone—and Liam sensed an immediacy to his friend's need for some retail therapy.
“Hold on, cowboy,” Liam laughed as Monroe began bounding up the moving escalator.
“So many shirts, so little time, my friend,” Monroe beamed.
Liam wanted to comment on how radiant Monroe looked when he smiled like this and to suggest that he do it more often but then thought better of it. Helpful observations like that had a tendency to be heard only in their negative, and Liam could imagine Monroe retorting with something along the lines of
“What, I look like a miserable troll most of the time?”
The clerk in the Marc Jacobs section convinced Liam to try on the aubergine sweater he had been fondling lovingly. He figured he may as well occupy his time while Monroe was flitting through the Etro sale rack—even if he knew that he couldn't plunk down the better part of a month's rent no matter how good the sweater looked on him. He took it and some pencil-legged blue jeans into the expansive changing room. After spending what felt like five minutes shimmying the jeans over his hips and buttoning the pants, Liam emerged to view the outfit in the series of mirrors the store had arranged.
“Why, who knew that James Dean had been reincarnated and brought right down to earth in the center of the Bergdorf Goodman men's store!”
Liam detected the voice right away and then saw in the angled mirrors that his ears did not betray him.
“Oh my, G-Lo! Are you everywhere? It seems my friend Monroe is right. You can't turn a corner in this city without slamming straight into a Fast Tracker.”
“And you listen to that tired queen? Where is she? Have her come over here, and I'll bitch-slap her right now.”
After successfully smoothing things out with Monroe once already, Liam did not have faith that their daily excursion could weather this surprise intrusion by Hurricane Gary. Liam's mind buzzed as he considered appropriate ways to shoo along the ever-pleasant club president.
“We're having quiet time together, Gary. I'm sure you understand. I'm going to change out of this overpriced outfit and help Monroe replenish his spring wardrobe. I'll see you at the track this week.”
“Those clothes were handmade for you, stud. You absolutely
have
to buy them. It would be criminal for anyone else in this city to be sporting those.”
Liam laughed and looked back in the mirror. He did love the way the jeans hugged his butt and the way the sweater ended just at his beltline, exposing the veins in abdominals when he lifted his arms. This is precisely why he never allowed himself to grasp at things beyond his reach—in clothing and in life.
“You're too kind, but my credit line is tighter than these jeans.”
“Please, I'll get them for you, babe. Consider it a very belated Christmas present or an early birthday present or whatever.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Gary. I just tried these on for fun.”
“If you don't let me do it, then I am going to hang around here until Monroe comes back and torment you both for the rest of the day.”
Liam looked around to see if he was in jeopardy of Monroe dropping by and then considered how much he would be compromising his principles to let Gary buy him an outfit. Given the outrageous lushness of his apartment, Gary could drop $600 for this outfit without batting an eye.
“Fine, I'll be right out, but this is only to appease you.” Liam darted into the changing room and swapped his clothing as quickly as he possibly could.
When he returned a minute later, Liam saw the train wreck head-on. There, by the cashier, stood Gary and Monroe, decked out in an Etro sports coat, chatting uncomfortably. Liam handed the salesclerk the jeans and sweater and steeled himself for the turbulence.
“Wow, quite a shopping day for Mr. Liam. And here I thought you had overspent at the running store.” Monroe eyed Liam defiantly.
“Oh, those are on me,” Gary chimed in. “I like to help out today's youth whenever I can.”
“That's quite a public service you provide,” Monroe said, smirking. “All twentysomethings should be so lucky to latch onto a do-gooder like you. And it would help the flagging economy to boot!”
“Liam's already given so much back to me by supporting Fast Trackers.” Gary looked off dreamily as he spoke. “More than money can buy really.”
“I think I may need to take a rain check on the Cobb salad, Liam. I have suddenly lost my appetite.” Monroe unbuttoned the jacket he had on and pulled it off in a huff. “I'm just going to find a hanger for this and get out of here.”
“Come on,” Liam said, trying unsuccessfully to get Monroe to look at him. “We're almost done here and we still have two more Bs on our agenda.”
“After I pay, I'll be out of your hair,” Gary offered. “I can tell you boys are having special alone time.”
“Don't rush on my account,” Monroe said. “Like I mentioned, I'll be leaving. It's been a long day, Liam. I'm just going to head home now.”

Other books

Cargo for the Styx by Louis Trimble
You Changed My Life by Abdel Sellou
A Man of His Word by Kathleen Fuller
Raven's Gate by Anthony Horowitz
Tantras by Ciencin, Scott