Destination Unknown, page 15
Yes, I realized. For a minute or two, maybe. To have guys look at me like I realized I was looking at CJ.
My heart twisted.
* * *
After, backstage, I told CJ about getting grounded and ditching my ushering job for the day, and his eyes lit up.
“Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s allowing himself to be mentored by the worst.”
We both laughed.
“Don’t worry, kid,” he said. “Stick with me, and in a few months, you’ll be living under a bridge.”
But happily, I thought. Happily and freely.
As if to prove his point, CJ came down with a quick flu (ha-choo, ha-choo) and we wandered up to Central Park, taking a pit stop at Rockefeller Center to look at the humongous Christmas tree. It towered over us, dressed up in red, white, and green lights with a white star on top.
“Did you know that elves created that?” CJ asked. His breath was visible in the chilly early-evening air.
“Elves?”
“Yes.”
“It’s very tall. Elves are very short. This seems like a poor match.”
“Well, it’s for their self-esteem,” CJ explained. “Occupational therapists have created a program for elves to build tall things. It’s really a win-win. They do beautiful work, and they come out of it feeling really great about themselves.”
“Awesome,” I said.
Once we got to Central Park, we beelined to the skating rink, which was not a destination I normally would have chosen, but when a friend offers to pay and you would do just about anything with that friend, it’s not the time to tell that friend that you last skated when you were six.
The blades felt comfortable right away, and maybe having thick ankles is good for something, because within minutes it felt like I’d been skating forever.
“You’re good!” CJ said as we glided in a circle, our arms bumping into each other.
“What, did you think I’d suck?”
“Kind of, yeah.” The song “Make It Real” by the Jets began.
“So you wanted to lord over me yet another thing you’re better than me at?”
“Duh,” he said, and then he glanced over at me. “I don’t think you have any idea how good-looking you are. You’re chunky, yeah, but you’re classically handsome. Swarthy. You have no idea, do you?”
I shivered all over. Was he lying to make me feel better? I knew my mom thought I was good-looking—at least she did before this new phase—but really no one else had responded to me like that. Napoleon and Lucas wanted sex with me, but I was pretty convinced that they were just looking for someone who was willing, and I was the guy they saw as gay. Sometimes when I stared in the mirror in the bathroom, I came up with a good angle that wasn’t hideous, I guess.
When I didn’t answer, he smiled and skated ahead of me. I watched his brown hair blow in the chilly evening breeze, and I allowed the song to blow through me. I thought about moments in my life. And how if I told Deena that I had a moment while that song was on, she’d laugh at me, because she thought it was funny that I liked such cheesy songs. But I did, and the moment unfolded in that way where time slows and you know that you’re making a memory that will never fade, like a tiny night-light in the corner of your brain that will stay bright for eternity.
* * *
After a late dinner at Gray’s Papaya, we wandered up to the Planetarium and watched “Laser Genesis,” which paired a psychedelic light show with the music of Genesis, Peter Gabriel, and Phil Collins. We sat in a round auditorium, all of us looking up at the domed ceiling where lasers danced along to “In the Air Tonight,” and then “I Don’t Care Anymore.”
“This would be better stoned,” I whispered to CJ. I’d never been stoned, and this almost made me want to try.
“I love it just like this,” CJ said, and I turned my head and watched as he took in the jumping laser patterns with wide eyes, like a child, almost, and I had this weird urge to kiss my best friend.
“Yeah, me too,” I said.
* * *
The show let out at midnight, and I knew I was going to be in big trouble at home, but also I didn’t care. For once, I was living. For once, little Micah Strauss was peeking out of his bubble and seeing the world as it was, and I wanted more, and I wanted immediacy, and I wanted it to never, ever end.
“Do we need to get you home?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said, and that was good enough for him.
We subwayed downtown, and CJ took me to what he called “THE bar.” On the subway, I watched as he clearly was getting excited about whatever was going to happen there, and soon I couldn’t wait to check out “THE bar,” either.
Uncle Charlie’s was on Greenwich Street, a diagonal street I’d traversed to get from Sixth to Seventh Avenue a million times. I’d never known that I’d been walking past the apex of gay life, but apparently, according to CJ, I was.
Also according to the size of the crowd, which spilled out onto Greenwich.
Inside, shirtless bartenders with bow ties served drinks to a wide array of men, many of them preppy. My heart thumped because there were so many good-looking guys, and this was the first time we’d been somewhere where I’d seen that. CJ, in character, hugged several guys old enough to be his father, and I, a bit out of character, tried to catch the eye of a guy around our age. He wore a bright blue sweater under a burgundy down jacket, and he had dark blond hair. He either didn’t see me or he wasn’t interested, because I couldn’t catch his attention.
“You’re cruising,” CJ yelled into my ear.
I looked at him, smiled impishly, and shrugged.
“Good boy,” he said. “They’re gonna eat you up.”
A tremble shook my body when he said that. Did I want to be eaten up? There was a disease that was metaphorically eating people up. How could I possibly be sexual when the outcome could be death? And then, as I looked at some of the guys there, I kind of got it. How could a person NOT be sexual?
Sex defied logic. It was biological, and when sex happened, it was like a screen came down and blocked out all semblance of reason. I knew it because of Napoleon. None of the things I’d done with Napoleon made sense, exactly, except that in the moment they totally did. It was a question of context. Two men screwing was—at best—bizarre out of context. But in context, it could be absolutely beautiful. I could imagine, anyway. With love involved.
I had never had that thought before.
I broke free of my deep thoughts to find myself lost in a sea of gay guys, and I couldn’t swallow or breathe because it was so immediate. Sex and life and death and joy and sadness, and suddenly I understood opera, and those big moments those singers have, because I felt like singing out all the pent-up energy inside me.
Who even was I tonight? And could I be whoever this was without being unsafe, so that I could wake up tomorrow unscathed, even if I were in trouble with my parents?
We found ourselves in a circle with a college guy named Art from NYU, who wore a black peacoat and eyeglasses that made him look like a hot nerd, and Sammy, who was probably thirty-five and dressed about fifteen years younger, with shiny, Dippity-Do’d black hair and a tight white All American Boy T-shirt hugging his large chest and thin waist.
Art was talking about taking classes in creative writing, which I thought was cool, and I asked him a lot of questions about what college life was like. He asked questions back, and, taking my cue from CJ, I became someone else.
“I’m Carter,” I said.
“Hey, Carter. You in school?”
“In college, but. Taking a year off. I’m a … paralegal,” I said, looking at CJ for guidance. “I have my own apartment, but. Also a roommate, so we couldn’t go there, even if you wanted to.”
CJ rolled his eyes, gave me a sarcastic thumbs-up, and went back to Sammy, who seemed to bring out this part of CJ that was doting and solicitous, as if he were auditioning for a part, and trying to figure out exactly who he had to be to get it. It was a little fascinating, but I didn’t want to be rude to Art.
“Do you come here a lot?” I asked.
“And other pickup lines from the seventies,” Art replied.
“If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?” I asked.
He smirked. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
I leaned in. “I’m terrible at this.”
“I know. You’re in high school.”
“How did you know?”
“The weird paralegal thing. Smacks of someone who has just about no street smarts and lives at home with his parents on the Upper East Side.”
I smiled sheepishly. “West.”
“Close. What’s your real name?”
“Micah.”
“Hi, Micah. I’m actually Art.”
“Sorry, Actually Art. I have what is known in the business as a TERRIBLE mentor,” I said, raising my voice so CJ could hear the important part, but even though he gave me another thumbs-up, I could tell he had other priorities. I wanted to reach out and grab him. To shake him and tell him to pay attention to me, but I couldn’t.
Art and I went and sat on a bench in the corner, in a place where I could keep an eye on CJ. We talked about writing and books, then music. He was bullish on George Michael’s new album, and expounded on Wham!’s Make It Big album, both of which I loved.
“You like him,” Art observed.
“Who? George Michael? Yeah.”
“Your friend,” he said. “You can’t take your eyes off him.”
“What? No … I just want to look out for him.”
He chuckled. “Sure. You’re a cute guy, Micah. But seeing as I want to take someone back to my dorm room tonight, and I don’t feel like competing for your affections, I think I’d better take my leave.”
I looked at him, ready to refute, but something in his eyes was final. He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. “In the next lifetime,” he said, and the crowd swallowed him up as he walked off toward the back of the bar.
I sat there feeling the wetness of Art’s kiss on my cheek, trying to douse out the part of my brain that was illuminating that saliva, as if it were a death kiss. That wasn’t how you got it, but. Didn’t matter. I took my mind off it by watching CJ’s illuminated face from across the floor, and I wondered if what Art said was true.
How could it be? We definitely didn’t do sex well together, and that was important, right?
But also, CJ. Who made me light up every time I talked to him. Who everyone important called my boyfriend. Everyone except me. And him.
“What’s your sign?” a voice asked, and I smiled, because I was looking down and I’d lost track of CJ, and this was just the kind of cheesy line he’d give me.
But it wasn’t him. It was a guy with a grizzly mustache and a ponytail. I was barely able to hide my lack of interest, and then I remembered things I’d heard CJ say to guys, and I realized I didn’t have to.
“Yield,” I said, and that did the job.
I rejoined CJ and Sammy, and I kept my eyes averted from CJ, lest he realize that I was fawning over him.
CJ smiled widely when he saw me. My heart jumped.
“Did you at least get a number?” he asked.
I shook my head, and both he and Sammy booed me.
“He wasn’t the one,” I said.
CJ guffawed. “The one? Mr. Right? This is Uncle Charlie’s. Sometimes we settle for Mr. Right Now.”
Sammy said, “You’re young and cute. You know how many guys are looking at you?”
My shoulders tensed. I did not.
CJ and Sammy kept their flirting going, with CJ touching Sammy’s arm repeatedly and Sammy throwing his head back and laughing even when CJ said stuff that was less than his typical A-game material. I decided I hated Sammy. I decided Sammy probably spent hours in front of the mirror, making sure he looked just right, and that in reality he wasn’t really that good-looking, and also he was old, and at some point, someone was gonna have to tell CJ to cool it with the old guys. There were guys his age, guys who got who he really was inside, not whatever bullshit he was putting on to get whatever he thought he wanted.
Guys like me.
“Can you excuse me?” I asked. “Gonna go find the bathroom.”
“Shake it more than three times and you’re playing with it!” Sammy called out, but I kept my eyes hidden from them, because in a flash I realized that everyone was right.
I loved CJ. Messed up, occasionally extremely dishonest CJ.
Because he alone shined bright in my galaxy. Because there were so many guys there who were just fine, and I guess if I’d wanted sex, I could have made that happen.
But I didn’t want sex. I wanted CJ. Whatever that meant. And yeah, at some point we’d try again, if he’d let me. That was what I wanted.
And the need in me pressed against my rib cage and shut out every other man in the place, and no one’s eyes on me mattered, because I just had to get back to CJ.
Who wasn’t there when I got back.
I looked to the door and I started pushing my way through. Why would he leave without—
“Micah? Where are you going?”
CJ had grabbed my shirt collar from behind. He was standing with Sammy, and I realized that I’d been looking in the wrong place. He’d been there all the time, and I chalked it up to the beer.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” I asked.
He looked to Sammy. “Right now?”
“Yep.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“Um. Okay. Sammy, meet me outside in five?”
Sammy winked, and I wanted to claw his stupid eyes out.
We went outside, where a frigid wind gusted up the avenue, which was emptying of people, as it was now two. I had never been out this late before.
“So,” I said as we huddled near the wall of Uncle Charlie’s.
“So. Not to be awkward, but I’m gonna—”
“Don’t,” I said, my voice pleading.
“Micah.”
“Don’t, because you don’t know him. And he doesn’t know you, okay? It’s dangerous. And … I just. He doesn’t know how great you are. He never will.”
CJ averted his eyes from me, and I moved my head to try to search them out again, to no avail.
I kept going anyway. Maybe it was easier not to see his eyes.
“I know we did sex badly, but. I love you, okay? You should be going home with me, not some old guy with Dippity-Do’d hair.”
CJ looked me in the eye again. He held my gaze for a few seconds and then dropped his eyes to the ground.
“Micah,” he repeated softly.
“CJ,” I said, matching his tone.
“I love you too, kid. And I’d give this all up for you. But you don’t want that. I’m damaged goods.”
“No, you aren’t.”
His voice, when he responded, lacked a certain pretense that had always come with his voice, every single time he spoke. It was like this was the voice under the bullshit. “Yeah, I am. And it does no good to pretend that I’m not.” He crossed his arms over his skinny chest.
I wanted to tell him that I knew. That I didn’t understand fully, but I knew. And I loved him anyway. And I wanted to save him, save him from himself. I wanted to be the one who tamed CJ, who took that wild fire in him and didn’t tamp it out, exactly, but more like focused it into something brilliant, a diamond that shined in a way that could be seen by everyone, by more than just me.
“I don’t care,” I said.
He blinked several times and chewed his lip. A cab rolled down Greenwich. Across the street, a woman with a buzz cut leaned down to pick up after her poodle.
“I don’t know how,” he whispered, his voice still painfully un-CJ-like. “If I knew how, I would. You don’t know the whole story. Really, Micah. Go find yourself someone who isn’t me. Who hasn’t—who likes himself, okay?”
Sammy came out then, and CJ’s entire demeanor changed. Quickly he said to me, “Call you tomorrow, buddy?”
I wasn’t CJ. My demeanor couldn’t just shift on the spot. So I said nothing. He gave an imperceptible nod that I took to mean I understand you can’t play this game. And then they walked off toward Seventh Avenue.
As they walked away from me. I watched their silhouettes retreat in the distance and it felt like a part of me was splitting off.
When I could no longer see CJ’s skinny frame in the distance, I had this feeling that it was like a mirage had come and gone. Like I’d never see him again. And I wondered if that were true, if I’d be able to handle it.
December 1987
When I got home, it was nearly three a.m., and my mother was waiting in the same chair as the night before, my knapsack in her lap, her face a mask of fury—lips so tight they could rip apart, eyebrows so high they were almost cartoonlike.
“We came down to the theater to check in on you,” she said.
“What? Why would you do that?” I marched right by her and she popped up from her chair and followed me into my room. Their bedroom door was closed. Dad must have been asleep.
“You reek of cigarette smoke. I did it precisely because of this. Because ever since your little announcement, you’ve been impossible. Are you becoming a drug addict? A—a—smoker?”
I wanted to laugh, because the way she said it made it sound like the second was worse than the first, but I held my tongue.
When I got to my room, I turned around and told her, “I’m becoming a person, Mom. I’m becoming someone who doesn’t live for his mommy and daddy, and I like it, okay? I’m not twelve anymore.”
