I rang Parker D. Brooks’s doorbell, I tried to pretend I was somebody else. An escort. But not all escorts put out, right? A gigolo would. But the word gigolo sounded stupid. Nobody talked like that anymore. I’d be a rent boy. A rent boy named—
“William?” Parker D. Brooks said when he opened the door. “What are you doing back here? I thought you left in a snit.”
“No. I left in a huff. I came back on the elevator. Can I come in?”
“No,” he said. “Why would you want to?”
“I changed my mind,” I said. Although I still wasn’t sure. I felt icky.
“So have I. Get out of this building, or I’ll call security. I already phoned your boss. If you give me your home number, I’ll call your parents, too.”
I felt sick the rest of the day. I went to my last client’s apartment and tried to lose myself in work. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what I almost did. Was that what life was all about? Money? Greed? Blow jobs?
I cleaned the toilet relentlessly because I kept seeing Parker D. Brooks’s face in the bowl. No matter how many times I tried, the scrubbing bubbles wouldn’t take him away so I wouldn’t have to.
My cell phone began to vibrate against my leg while I was walking home. I answered it by saying, “Benny, I told you I didn’t think I should take that client in Chelsea.”
“What happened, Nick? Come in to the office and tell me your side.”
“No. What did he tell you? Whatever he said is a lie.”
I heard Benny sigh. “He said a guy named William stole from him. I can only assume you’re William.”
“I didn’t take anything.”
“He claims he has it all on video. Do I need to see that? I don’t want to think of you stealing. Don’t make me watch it,” Benny begged. “I’m so disappointed in you. I thought you were a nice kid. This is the age of surveillance, Nick. Mr. Brooks has nanny-cams all over his apartment. I didn’t think I’d have to explain things like this to you, of all people.”
“What can I do to keep my job?” I asked warily.
“If you pay him back—give back whatever it was you took from him—I won’t have to fire you. Or you can quit.”
I nearly dropped my phone. I hadn’t taken anything. But Parker D. Brooks had video of me riffling through his drawers and closets. It was my word against my actions. Parker D. Brooks didn’t have to screw me. I’d already screwed myself stupid.
“I didn’t take anything,” I repeated. “I guess I’ll have to quit.”
“I’m sorry, Nick,” Benny said mournfully.
I didn’t want to be a snitch, but I decided to take someone else down with me. “Deshaun is sleeping with Mr. Brooks.”
“Sweetie, I know. I’ve bought all their videos. Good-bye, Nick.”
When Roberto came home, he found Kendra and me in the living room. She was plying me with hot tea and telling me about the times she’d been fired. She had a lot of stories.
“Half the town got botulism. Could you just die?” she was saying.
“Did they?”
“What’s going on?” Roberto asked.
“Poor guy lost his job,” Kendra said. She patted my hand and I snatched it away. I didn’t deserve coddling.
Roberto sat down. I told him what happened, without using names, and he said, “I’m glad you didn’t do it. You would’ve hated yourself afterward. Or you would’ve hated yourself if you got a disease from him. Where does this pig live? I’ll kill him.”
“I was propositioned once,” Kendra said archly. We waited for more, but she just stared at the table and nodded.
“What now?” Roberto asked.
“I guess I look for another job.”
“You’ll get one. Something better,” Kendra predicted.
“I hope so. I don’t want to have to borrow money from anyone.”
Of course that was the moment Morgan walked in. Why wasn’t she as noisy coming home as she’d been when she left that morning? Her eyes narrowed, as if she was willing a truth-seeking laser to fire at me, and she asked, “Why would you need to borrow money? More importantly, where are those boxes that were in the kitchen?”
Roberto exclaimed, “I knew something was different around here.”
“I needed something to do, and those boxes were annoying the crap out of me,” I explained. “I put your stuff in your room. I lost my job.”
Morgan said, “That sucks,” then went into her room.
“Was that her being comforting?” Roberto asked. “She probably had to lie down after being so warm.”
“She probably meant it sucks that you went in our room,” Kendra said.
“No,” I said. “She meant it sucks that I went in your room and the snakes didn’t kill me.”
March 26, 2003
Hey, Nick,
Hope you don’t mind that Blaine gave me your address. I had to send you this brilliant drawing from Emily. She was at the office with me, and my assistant gave her markers and paper. When I admired the drawing and asked what it was, she said it was from the day she was with you at the “buseum.”
Isn’t it good to know that your day at the buseum to show Emily the Picassos wasn’t wasted? I can’t believe she remembers. I think it’s because she wants to be an artist like Cousin Nick. Not that I’m implying that your work looks anything like the enclosed!
Hope you’re doing well.
Love,
Gwendy
4
Nervously
“I don’t like men who dress as women,” the waitress said as she slammed our salads on the table in front of us.
When she walked away, I noticed that Martin was looking down at himself with bewilderment. Although he’d once made his living as a female impersonator, tonight he was just Martin, dressed in black from his cashmere sweater to his faux combat boots.
“Did I overlook a spot of stage makeup?” he asked, tilting his head to the right, then to the left so I could examine him. When I shook my head, he called after her, “I’m a dancer!” Then he shrugged and pushed his lettuce around with his fork.
I didn’t know if the waitress had put him off his food or if my choice of cheap restaurants made him feel like he was slumming. I’d secretly hoped Martin would suggest a better place, giving me the opening I needed to tell him that I was now jobless and nearly broke. Even if Martin didn’t offer me a loan, he talked to Daniel several times a week. The news would eventually get to Uncle Blaine. Considering that our most recent contact had been my appeal to be kept out of Fake ID Jail, Blaine probably needed time to cool down before he and I actually talked.
“And you dance so well,” I said to Martin. “Thanks for the ticket.”
“The show is crap,” Martin muttered. “I always swear I’ll never let another aspiring choreographer persuade me to dance in a fresh, steaming pile of it. Then I do.”
I pretended I couldn’t talk because of a mouth full of tomato, but I agreed with him about the gloomy musical I’d just squirmed through. Asphalt and Battery was the story of Edward J. de Smedt, a Belgian immigrant who invented asphalt. Among the places it was first used was Battery Park, and according to the show’s Playbill, Edward’s ghost