Turning Idolater (13 page)

Thomas relaxed again. “I just think that after all
you have been through, you need a break — a good break. That does
not mean a free ride.”

Philip clasped his hand. “I’ll think about it. Let
me go back to Avenue A . . .”

“After waffles . . .”

“After waffles, and if you see me later, I’ll come
and stay.”

“And if I don’t.”

“You’ll see me on the computer.”

Thomas frowned. There was a knock at the door.

“Shit. That would be Flo.”

Philip shook his head. “Do you have enough
waffles?”

“Not to worry. I shall take care of this. Leave your
clothes off.”

Thomas undid the apron, letting it slip to the rug.
He marched to the door, snapping it open. Mr. Townsend panted
eagerly on the threshold, but upon seeing the two naked men and
perhaps smelling the waffles, he nodded his head — dismissive, and
turned tail toward the elevator.

“In a few hours,” Thomas shouted in Flo’s wake. He
then turned, gave Philip a thumbs-up and slammed the door. “To
table, dear boy, before we have naught but horse leather to eat and
tar water to drown it down the gullet.”

Philip giggled. “To table.”

Belly filled with Belgian Waffles and head filled
with Dutch options, Philip Flaxen wended his way back to Avenue A.
He scarcely noted the route, new as it was — two transfers on the
subway — at 59
^th
Street and again at Times Square. His
mind raced like a boat hitched to a harpoon on white water. He had
regarded his life as freewheeling, at least since his expulsion
from his father’s table. Life was harsh at times, but Philip
regarded choice as inevitable. Now that this notion was jumbled, he
was puzzled.

As Philip absently jostled through Chelsea toward
the East Village, past the hubble-bubble of the narrow streets and
delivery trucks, he considered three things. He had a lordly offer
— a place to stay that afforded space, comfort and soft
companionship. A hustler’s dream. However, there was a price for
everything. There always was a price. Sprakie had taught him that,
because Sprakie charged for the very intake of air. It was the
price that Philip pondered — pondered, because it was veiled,
negotiable even. Thomas was wonderful, but the refinement he exuded
could become confining. Philip could adjust. How did Melville state
it —
turn idolater
. Nice phrase. Philip smiled at the
thought, but —

Honk
. Brakes screeched.

“Watch where the fuck you’re goin’.”

Philip had wandered into the trajectory of a yellow
cab — right smack in the line of fire. Fortunately, the cabby’s
brake foot was as fast as his mouth. Philip drained to white and
stepped back on the curb. The taxi sped passed, and then Philip
flipped him the finger figuring that the hack was sufficiently
distant to take issue.

“Who you flippin’ off?” came a voice.

Philip, stunned, was confronted by a short chubby
character, who looked like Danny DeVito’s brother. He shook his
fist at Philip.

“No one.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You’re just askin’ for
trouble.”

Philip shuffled. He didn’t ask for this. “It was for
the cab.” Then his logic kicked in. “I tried to hail him, but the
fucker just passed me by.” He flipped his finger again in the
direction of the cab.

“Likely story, kid. Just watch where you aim that
thing or you’ll loose your hand, if you know what I mean?”

Philip nodded. “Understood.” As he crossed the
street, the new weight of
the book
in his backpack became
evident. What if one of these bozos hit him? What if they stole his
backpack? Would they even know that he now carried golden pages?
One thing he did know. This little gem would make a difference in
his bank account.
What bank account?
He could finally open
one.
And Tee had mentioned credit.
That might be the avenue
to leverage a first edition rather than hoisting the mainsail on
eBay and hope people liked
inka . . . inkanabu-whatever.

As he rounded the corner of East 2
^nd
Street, he had a glimmer of a plan. He would need to work it out
with Thomas, but if somehow
the book
could get him enough
credit to pay his own way, he’d feel a lot better about moving in
with the author. Suddenly, he stopped. The Apartment building was
fifty yards away, when it dawned on him that he might not need
the Porn Nazi
and all those torrid cyberspace voyeurs. His
heart leaped — not with joy, because he had become sufficiently
jaded to have job satisfaction, but by the prospects of doing
something else. A scary prospect. Worthy of a heart leap.

Philip also had another sobering thought. Although
the age gap with Tee didn’t faze him, the sudden application of the
office rule did. Philip wouldn’t have thought twice about a
writer’s foible to hide his current work in progress from hungry
eyes had not Jemmy’s face peeked up from the news clipping. More
than curiosity piqued. However, if this question was set aside
unanswered because Philip was squeamish of the rule, he might as
well stop here at Avenue A and forget the world of change that
loomed before him.

“So,” he mumbled, sniffing the sewage and gazing up
at the apartment window, “it’s uptown for me.” He smiled, sighed
and then proceeded to close the gap

Sprakie wasn’t at home or at least in the apartment.
Philip let himself in and gathered his scant belongings into two
plastic KeyFood bags. There wasn’t much to pack. Mostly laundry and
a few keepsakes from his night-hawking — a rabbit’s foot, a
scrimshaw tooth (which might have been synthetic for all he knew),
a stack of various swizzle sticks and coasters, and a Gay Pride
pen, complete with pink feather plume. It wasn’t much, but each
item brought back silent smiles when touched. Philip often wondered
why such valueless objects yielded such fond attachments. It was
like the frayed wallet in his back pocket. It rasped his soul,
because it was his father’s. Still, the aura of his mother’s touch
made it the last familial straw in his childhood jerkin.

Philip secured his wallet, and then emptied his
jeans.
What’s this?
An index card:

Dennis H.

212.432.2272

nice

“Won’t need this anymore.” He tossed it in the empty
laundry basket. Suddenly, he heard Sprakie’s voice. Unmistakable.
High pitched and whiney, but blending with the crackle of an old
women’s — a second voice. Philip paused to listen. It wasn’t coming
from the hallway, but through the wall. If Philip didn’t know any
better, he would guess that it came from the apartment next door,
from the nosey neighbor who was always peeking through her peephole
surveying the hallway traffic. To his knowledge, Sprakie had never
exchanged a word with her, but now there were many words —
indistinct, and nasty. Philip did not need to understand the words
to know Sprakie’s nasty tone. Then, silence. One door slammed — in
the hallway. Then the latches clicked and Sprakie came through the
door, muttering something about
interfering old bitch
.

“Sprakie,” Philip said, springing into the living
room.

“Oh,” Sprakie stammered. “You’re back.” He was
flustered, clearly trying to erase any distress on his face. He
plastered on a broad smile as if he had just come from
make-up
. “So how did you make out with that senior
citizen?”

Philip shrugged. “How did you make out with yours?”
He nodded toward the wall.

“Oh, that. Don’t bother yourself with it. She’s been
a source of stress since I moved in. She’s always poking her nose
in where it doesn’t belong and some day . . . well, I just needed
to tell her like it is. It’s our annual discussion. Don’t give it
another thought.”

Philip shrugged again. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Sprakie said.
“Talking is something you don’t do well. You should stick to the
strip — your claim to fame. Silent and naked.”

Philip sighed. “Really, we need to talk. I’m . .
.”

Sprakie marched into the bedroom, his arms splayed
like a Dallas cheerleader. He gave a yelp, and then returned, hands
on hips and attitude in full flight.

“You’re packing.”

“Yes.”

“One night with James Hilton and it’s
Goodbye Mr.
Chips.
”

“He’s a good man.”

“Jesus Marie. How can you tell that from a one-night
stand?”

Sprakie was right and Philip knew it, but after two
years, he knew that Sprakie was far from perfect.
Good
may
have been an overstatement. Philip, who had been prepared to argue,
decided to retreat back to the packing, although those requirements
were more than fulfilled.

“I love you like my best piece of luggage,” Sprakie
said, his tone changed to forced-civil. “I’ve come to care about
you.”

“I know,” Philip said, hoisting his backpack on.
“This has nothing to do with us. We’re friends.” Sprakie raised an
eyebrow. “Please say that we will always be friends.”

“Friends — yes, but you could have given me some
notice. I still need to pay the rent.”

“I’ll get you this month’s share.”

“I don’t want
his
money. I’ve seen too many
of these elder gents spoon out the shekels to keep their piece of
ass, but if you leave, our obligations are over.”

“Easy now, Sprakie. I’ll send you a check. My
money.”

Sprakie raised two eyebrows now. “Win the lottery,
did we?”

Philip almost said
yes
, but decided to treat
it as a rhetoric question.
The book
was singing from the
recesses, but it was not a song that Sprakie would necessarily
understand.

“I’m taking some risks,” Philip said. “I’m changing
careers.”

Sprakie closed his eyes. “What am I supposed to tell
Kurt? He’ll chew my ass out, you know. You were hired on my
recommendation. You don’t know the fury of
the Porn
Nazi
.”

“I think I do.”

“You
think
you do, but you’ve never seen him
in full
blitz-krieg
mode.”

“Thanks for the warning. I won’t do it in
person.”

“You’re a real pain in my ass,” Sprakie said. “Don’t
bother. I’ll tell him.”

Philip placed his hands on Sprakie’s shoulders, and
then gave him a cheek kiss. “Thank you, mommy.”

“Don’t mommy me. I’ve done everything but wipe your
ass, and sometimes I think I’ve done that.”

“Friends?”

“No doubt there,” Sprakie said, “but that doesn’t
mean I can’t be damn angry with you. I mean, you’re giving up a
sure thing for an old bugger who’ll toss you over the minute he
realizes that you’re the result of some mid-life crisis or too many
doses of Vytorin. And now I need to get a new roommate.”

“Max has been looking for a place,” Philip
suggested.

“That gold digger. He’s looking for my place at
manluv
. He thinks he’s me, but nobody, and I mean nobody,
can be me. I have a hard time being me, Jesus Marie. And how could
I replace you, Philip? You’ve been a perfect tenant.” He touched
Philip’s chin and pouted. “I was even hoping we could take a little
vacation — a few weeks at P’Town.”

“We still can. I think I might be going to P’Town.
We could still hang out.”

Sprakie smiled, dimly. “You
did
hit the
jackpot, didn’t you?”

“I have prospects.”

“Well, excuse me for breathing, but I need to get
this body scrubbed and gold plated for the nickel pricks that cough
up the cash to keep me in the state of which I am accustomed.”

Philip toted a KeyFood bag in each hand. “I’ll call
you tonight, Sprakie. Thank you for . . .”

“Go. Go, before I decide to banish you from court
altogether.” He strode toward the bed. “Oh, I need my . . .”

Philip dug into the left bag and slipped out the
gold shirt. “I was going to get it cleaned and send it to you.”

“No, you can keep that. I meant my cell phone
charger.”

Philip pouted. “Sorry. That’s still plugged into the
. . .”

Sprakie rolled his eyes back. “We hope. Go, little
Ishie, before I decide to drown you in my bubble bath.”

Philip shuffled to the door. Three latches clicked,
and then out into the hallway.

At the top of the stairs, Philip paused. He would
not miss the putrid air, especially when the humidity baked it as
tart as a Buffalo turd. The narrow stairs bid him farewell, but
without regret. He felt the neighbor’s eyes on his back as she
surveyed him through the peephole. His hands were occupied or he
would have flipped her a farewell finger. So, he turned
instead.

The door was open. On the threshold the old woman
stood, cane in hand and scowl on face. Her ashen hair was tied in a
bun. Her milky eyes lanced through thick oval glasses. Her
appearance startled Philip. He had never seen her before, although
he had never given her much thought except for her nosey scanning
through the peephole. He sensed that she wanted to say something,
but was resisting. Philip wanted to say something also, but what
would he say?
Nice knowing you
or
So you’re the scary hag
next door.
Finally, she raised her cane and pointed toward
Sprakie’s door. Slowly she nodded. Philip swallowed hard. He had
lingered here too long. He righted himself, and then coursed down
this reeking stairwell for the last time. He was clear of Avenue A
and any implications from the old woman’s cane.

When Philip returned to
the Papillon Arms
,
the
concierge
wouldn’t let him in. The uniformed bouncer (in
Philip’s mind he was a goon in a monkey suit) phoned up for
clearance, but did not receive a green light.

“Shit,” Philip said. “Are you sure you got the right
apartment? Thomas Dye.”