Gulliver Takes Five, page 7
Now I’m regretting doing so well in today’s audition. Because when Gully fever sets in, I am overcome by the idiotic hope that he might come back from the ether. And what if he did? What if I weren’t here? What if I were on tour? In my mind, he returns at night in the pouring rain, like it’s a classic movie. He’s outside my apartment, hitting the buzzer over and over, screaming my name. Then I rush outside, and he takes me in his arms, kisses me long and hard, and begs me to give him one last chance. I say, “But of course, you fool!” (In this fantasy, I sound like Katharine Hepburn.) And while none of this is very realistic, it’s a much more definite impossibility if I’m in San Francisco or Charleston or New Orleans with a show rather than at home, waiting for him. If it weren’t for Gulliver, I wouldn’t even have had an audition today. I wouldn’t have Stanford as the quarterback for Team Marty. On the other hand, I also wouldn’t have contracted my first case of chlamydia, wouldn’t still feel disgusted with myself and the things I am apparently capable of. And hell, I might actually be HAPPY about blowing away the casting directors at my audition.
God. What am I doing? I didn’t land this part, I haven’t heard a word from Gulliver. Fuck. Too much Gulliver. Gully OD. Get me home NOW. The train pulls up to my stop and I bolt for the doors before they’ve even begun to wheeze open.
I sprint the five blocks from the train to my apartment and reach my room just in time to open the floodgates. Thank God my roommates are out, because I’m pretty loud when mess status overtakes me. I slam my door and blast “Halo,” making sure it’s on repeat so I can’t be heard if anyone comes back. Now I will saturate myself with Gulliver to purge him from my system, like he’s too much tequila and the consequent spins are keeping me from falling asleep.
I do, sometimes, have trouble sleeping. Because of him.
Remember these walls I built? There’s a box hidden in my drawer that holds all that is left of Gulliver. E-mails from when I was still at school, promising a new relationship to wipe away past shitty ones (especially that horrifying bout with bat-shit crazy Brayden Castro). Movie ticket stubs from disappointing summer blockbusters I enjoyed more than Oscar winners because he was there to laugh at them with me like we were silhouettes from Mystery Science Theater 3000. Playbills from shows we student-rushed because his college ID didn’t have an expiration date. He’s everywhere—even though nobody knows where he is. I should tell them: he’s right here, in this box. In my head.
I should throw the box away. I was close to doing so, until Gulliver pulled his Houdini act. I didn’t even know he had vanished until two weeks after the fact, when Brayden clued me in. I still have that text:
“Gulliver is gone btw.”
That was it. I sent Brayden fifteen replies that first day alone:
“What do you mean gone?”
“Please tell me! Is Gulliver okay?”
“BRAYDEN ANSWER ME NOW DAMMIT. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!?”
But that was Brayden’s sweet revenge. He still isn’t over the secret relationship I had with Gulliver behind his back, and probably never will be. He gave me just enough rope to hang myself with and not a millimeter more, leaving me to pry the rest of the information (what little there was) from his friend Shane when I ran into them at a party one night. Gulliver just disappeared. Left his apartment in Astoria without a word, without a trace. Back to California? Off to another new city? Or maybe still hanging around the concrete jungle, maybe a mere mile away from me, or even just around the corner? I still look for him, trying to imagine how I’d feel if I saw him. If he looked at me. If he smiled.
We were so close. Almost there. Almost happy. If only we hadn’t been sneaking around so much. If only Gulliver had been honest with his friends, or me, or anybody. Gully isn’t a bad guy, but he’s not good at owning up to the truth if it means someone is going to be mad at him. And when that person has a temper like Brayden, well, I can’t say I really blame him. It was bad luck that he was friends with my psycho ex—bad luck and worse timing. I see that now.
And if I never get a chance to see him again and tell him all this, I will never forgive myself. What I did to Gulliver was not something I’d wish on anyone. I ruined his life—without thinking, without knowing what would happen. I just did it. And there’s no excuse.
My throat is hoarse from coughing and crying. God, I feel like such a baby. I slap myself across the face. Hard. Again. Over and over in front of the mirror until my cheeks are hot and red. The crying gradually ceases like a case of hiccups.
I need to get my shit together, put Gulliver in the back of my brain where he belongs. Because I have a date in two hours. No—one hour?
Shit. Fifteen minutes.
What? Have I been playing “Halo” that long? Just sitting here, stewing about my fucking ex?
Now I’m going to be at least half an hour late. I should just cancel. I WANT to cancel. In fact, I never wanted this date in the first place.
Oh, his pictures are cute enough—including the slightly slutty MySpace-era one of him shirtless in the bathroom mirror, showing off a tattoo of a pocket watch on a chain that winds around his belly button. Normally this would have been enough for me to avoid spending time with him at all costs, but our consequent e-mail exchanges changed him from a definite no to a potential yes. He’s charming, funny, sweet. And he “doesn’t mind at all” that I’m an actor, launching him to the front of the line.
But he’s also a boy. The first I’ve agreed to go on a date with since Gulliver. I guess, in a way, that means I’m accepting the possibility that Gulliver may not be coming back, and the more likely possibility that we won’t be getting back together even if he does show his face in this town again.
Do I want to accept that? Do I want to meet this random boy who, let’s face it, is not my type (except maybe in the looks department)? His name is Chase, and if his OKCupid profile and our conversations are a true representation of who he actually is, he may be the first guy to help me get Gulliver to disappear from my heart as cleanly as he did from Manhattan itself.
But do I want him to?
Yes, I decide, while scrambling to find and put on something cute that doesn’t make it look like I’ve put too much thought into it. I’m not getting any less single crying in my room, pining for Gulliver. There are thousands of gay boys in this city, and as any casting director knows, you’ll never find the right one if you don’t hold a big ol’ cattle call to weed through ’em.
So bring him in. After this morning’s audition, maybe I’m on a winning streak. Let’s give today a 2 and 0 record, shall we?
Stupid rain! I didn’t even think about bringing an umbrella—it was hot as hell when I was rushing back to my apartment post-audition. But now, as I reach Manhattan, the sun has ducked out and left the door open for a blanket of fat, smog-stained clouds. Seems nobody expected this sudden turn, because everyone is scurrying for cover like subway rats just before the 5 train pulls in. Leave it to New York—nothing predictable. Ever.
I duck under a scaffold on Fourteenth Street, which doesn’t help at all. I still end up drenched by renegade streams of dirty city runoff. I send Chase a text apologizing for being late, plenty of extra exclamation points dedicated to four-letter words addressing the rain. His text comes back:
“I thought we were meeting an hour ago? Already went home.”
Am I a whole hour late? Gulliver strikes again. Bastard.
“I’m so sorry! I’m here now, can you still come out?”
Five soaking minutes pass without a response. During this time, I am treated to a homeless man ranting that the CIA is putting chemicals in our drinking water to turn our children gay. I am just about to head back to the subway when my phone beeps:
“Why not...give me twenty minutes?”
“You got it!!!”
Too many exclamations. The excess enthusiasm isn’t going to make up for my flakiness. Dammit dammit dammit. That’s strike one, and I’m sure the fact that I look like a twinky swamp monster in my sodden blue-and-yellow-striped button-down and jeans will most likely be my strike two. ARGH. The rest of this date better be the smoothest of sailings, or I’m dead in the water.
I took it upon myself to pick the restaurant—a Thai place on the northwest end of Union Square. I expected us to dine outside on the sidewalk, granting us a scenic view of the comings and goings of the small park and its many occupants to provide handy conversation pieces. Of course, that’s shot to shit. The park is now just a small rectangle of grass and concrete filled with murky puddles, its only inhabitants of the homeless and pandering variety. I give change to as many of them as I can, like I’m the weather’s personal publicist on damage control. I’m desperately trying to build back my karma.
Despite my proximity to the restaurant, Chase has still somehow beaten me. He looks miserable, ducking beneath an awning that isn’t generous enough to keep his entire body dry. The result is a Jekyll-and-Hyde effect: half of him crisp, the other dripping. My God.
“I am so sorry!” I shout as I run across the street. A car brakes and sits on the horn, just missing me. I let loose a scream that belongs in the mouth of a busty blonde in a slasher flick. By the time I reach him, I am both soggy and emasculated.
Oh, boy. I can smell that second date already.
“I am SO sorry, Chase! I lost track of time. I’ve just been so messed up and stressed out today.”
“It’s okay,” Chase says, squeezing out his shirt and putting little energy into his performance. The result is a less-than-convincing tone letting me know that I’m already skating on thin ice.
“I swear, usually I’M the punctual one waiting on everyone else. That’s why I always carry a book with me. Except tonight.”
“I said it’s okay. Enough with the apologies.” He smiles, but it’s still forced. Which I guess is better than not making the effort.
When we get inside the restaurant, I discover yet another reason to curse the rain: since the outside seating has been decommissioned, all the tables inside are filled. We have a thirty-minute wait ahead of us. Terrific. Our fellow diners are equally miserable, shifting uncomfortably in wet and heavy skirts and suits. The waiters are perturbed because the drippy customers are tipping less and their bills are wilted from water damage. The entire restaurant smells like a gigantic wet shoe.
I sigh. “Maybe we should...”
“Reschedule?” Chase incorrectly anticipates.
“...try somewhere else?” I eke out just after him.
“Oh.” He looks embarrassed. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Then I’m blurting: “Look. Clearly this was a terrible idea. It’s my fault for screwing up the timing.” There are tears sneaking out of my eyes. Not necessarily because of Chase, but man, has today been a trip. “Maybe we should cancel. Our first date hasn’t even started and I’ve already messed it up five different ways. I knew this would happen. I’m a little out of practice...”
“Oh, come on, Marty. It’s fine. I didn’t have plans anyway. I mean, you’re cute enough to take my mind off my wet clothes and the stench of this place. For half an hour, at least.”
“It does smell terrible, doesn’t it?” I laugh, wiping away my tears. “God, sorry for the waterworks. Like I’m not wet enough already?”
“Nah. I like that you’re crying. I mean—it’s endearing. Most gays in this city killed off their feelings when they crossed the bridge into town. So. Did you have a bad audition or what?”
I forgot I’d mentioned the audition in an earlier text. “Actually,” I sniff again, “they loved me.”
“Well, gosh, you poor thing! I’d hate to try and console you after you won the lottery!” Suddenly, I become aware that Chase’s smile is gorgeous. Full of bright-white teeth.
“This calls for a celebratory meal in a place that doesn’t smell like a ripe scrotum, pardon my French,” he says. “I actually know a better place around the corner. And it looks like the rain has stopped. Wanna make a run for it?”
“After you.”
Chase sprints a lot faster than me, but he has a firm grip on my hand, dragging me a few blocks to a restaurant that sits below street level. It’s designed to look like the backyard of a trailer park and the menu is all deep-fried foods filled and/or covered in Velveeta. The waiters are smiling and friendly, the customers grinning like Buddhas as they try to overcome their food comas. It’s like I died and went to deep-fried heaven.
“You’re not one of those gays who says they don’t eat, are you?” Chase asks once we’re seated at a table along the sidewall by the kitchen. I raise my eyebrows and point at the over-buttered slice of Wonder Bread sticking halfway out of my mouth. A waiter arrives with two drinks served in frosty glasses, with little plastic alligators sticking out, tails up, drowning in the booze.
It’s a whole new date. Conversation is flowing at hyperspeed. We talk about Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City and how we had to spend half of our time on Google to understand all of the now-outdated references. (“Almost as much time as I spent in the companion guide to Joyce’s Ulysses!”) We both hate reality television. Neither of us is on the best of terms with our parents, but we both have kick-ass sisters. Then, even though it’s not proper date etiquette, we somehow end up on the topic of guys we’ve recently gone out with.
“Funnily enough, my most recent date’s name was Marty too,” Chase says. “We met at a club, went home together, had a great night. Then, nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound like a date to me,” I say. “Going home from a club together?”
“I guess,” he shrugs. “Maybe what made it feel like a date is how into him I was. Stupid, I know.”
“To fall for someone you just met? Nah. It’s pretty common, actually.”
“Just not often mutual.” Chase smirks. “Anyway, we had...fun. And I don’t know, even though it was what it was, I felt a connection. Ever meet someone for the first time and just feel like you’ve known them before?”
“Sure,” I say. “But I have a theory that any relationship that begins in a club is automatically doomed. That’s where I met my ex, Brayden. And that was doomed with a capital D.”
“Brayden? That’s weird. Brayden was MY Marty’s LAST name!” Chase laughs, already tipsy from whatever drink he ordered us.
“That IS weird!” I laugh. “Yuck. Marty Brayden. Sounds like a porn name.”
“Yeah.” Chase is quiet for a moment before assaulting his straw again.
I opt not to go too deep into details about bat-shit Brayden. Just enough to give Chase a flavor of the insanity I put up with. In the end, my conclusion is it was a learning experience. I will never go back to Brayden, and now I have about twenty different signs of crazy to look out for on new dates.
“Notice any in me?” Chase winks.
“Not yet. But we haven’t gotten to the Rorschach tests yet.”
Now I have a new problem: I’m trying as hard as I can not to dream up our kids’ names. How I’ll get him out to Jersey to meet my sister. The outfit he’ll wear to the opening night of whatever show I get cast in. Maybe he’ll travel out of state to see me in the Wicked tour if I land it?
This is a problem I can’t stand: my proclivity to mentally and emotionally jump ahead forty steps with a guy I’ve just met. The point where the dumb fresh-love romance is dead and we’re picking out what toothpaste we want at Duane Reade or bitching about our double date with that boring couple from Morningside Heights.
Chase slurps his drink down to the bottom. “Oops! Refill time?”
I’m nowhere near done with mine, but I shrug and suck the entire thing down. Brain freeze commences, and I have to grit my teeth, squint my eyes, and breathe roughly out through my nose to fight back the searing explosion in my head. Which Chase finds adorable enough to crack up.
“Gee, thanks. You’re really Mr. Sympathy over there. You seem to like me best when I’m in pain or under duress?”
“I can only hope you’ll end up in some sort of hostage situation before we say good night. Then I may just fall in love with you, Marty.”
Love, hmm? I’m letting that go. Finally, food comes, along with our second round. My God, I’ve never seen so much macaroni and cheese before—a mountain of it spilling over the trough-sized ceramic bowls plopped down in front of us. Chase digs in and I try to match his vigor.
“Let me say,” Chase starts through a cheesy mouthful, “I usually have a no-dating-actors rule.”
“You and everybody else in New York,” I sigh. “Actors included. We can’t STAND each other. Granted, that doesn’t stop us from hooking up on tour. I was with Jersey Boys as a swing last year. I swear, the Four Seasons was more like the Four-way Seasons.”
“What a lonely existence,” Chase laughs. “You won’t date each other, no one will date you. How do you deal?”
“We’re actors. We’re good at pretending we’re not bitter, jaded, and miserable. So are you anti–ALL theater? Or just the talented boys that bring it to you?”
“I have seen a few shows. Some Broadway. A bunch of my friends go to NYU, so I make a habit of seeing their showcases.”
“So do I make a worthy exception to your rule?”
“Hmm. You’re not NOT a worthy exception—yet,” Chase says, taking another sip. He’s drunk. So am I. Apparently, we’re both giddy drunks, which is yet another commonality I am enjoying immensely.
“Well, you should stop by a Musical Mondays sometime. It’ll help you get more accustomed to actors and theater queens,” I say.
“Musical Whatdays?”
“Mondays. It’s my favorite party! Every week at Splash. Cheap drinks. Free to get in. And there’s a live performance by a touring or Broadway actor at midnight.”
