distinctions found their way into my words. Some days, I would catch myself staring into the cracked bathroom mirror, wondering what there was about the person staring back that an incredibly beautiful and fascinating man like Ted could possibly find to love.
I forced myself to confess that, yes, I was a good-looking man. The wear and tear I had put on my body hadn’t caught up with it yet. I still had a full head of naturally brown hair with occasional golden highlights, and my skin still had a healthy glow, although admittedly, Oil of Olay played its part. Good fortune and good genetics had provided me with a healthy physique while sparing me the rigors of the gym.
But still, I was no Ted.
Ted’s love should have made me feel good about myself, but instead it consumed me in self-doubt. I felt unworthy of his attention and affection.
That irony didn’t escape me.
I got over it. Mostly.
Three months later, when his lease was up, Ted moved into my apartment on the Upper West Side at Eighty-sixth and Amsterdam, which consequently became a lot more cramped. But I didn’t mind, because I was in love and we were acting out the ritual of domestic bliss.
Six days after Ted moved in, I presented him with a carefully wrapped final draft of the manuscript for Allentown Blues.
“You did it!”
“I did it,” I replied, quite proud of myself and thrilled I’d made him proud of me. “Grant finally told me what he wanted to do with his life.”
“And what’s that?”
My finger softly traced a line from his forehead down the bridge of his nose. “He decided to move to Manhattan and meet a nice accountant.”
On the following Monday, I walked into the offices of David R. Carlyle IV, who was the black sheep son of David R. Carlyle III, who was one of the founders of Palmer/Midkiff/Carlyle. That was enough to keep him in a lot of money and entitle him to the position of senior editor, which in David’s case was more or less a part-time position.
Although he was quite a bit older, David was the closest thing I had to a social acquaintance at PMC for many of the same reasons that he was the black sheep of his family. He was unapologetically—sometimes flamboyantly—gay, he loved to spend money, and he often acted as if he considered PMC little more than a place to hang out between parties and pick up a paycheck.
In short, he was my kind of guy…but with more money. A lot more money.
“Andrew,” he gushed when he saw me. His wide, pink face broke into a smile. “Good to see you. And how are things with you and your accountant? Ted, isn’t it?”
“I’m in love,” I replied without thinking twice.
“Good for you.” He fussed around his office. “God, look at this place. Dust an inch thick. And nobody’s been watering my plants.”
“Can’t get good help nowadays.”
“Don’t I know it,” he said before he brightened and added conspiratorially, “Well, that’s not totally true. I met the cutest young thing the other night. I think he’d make an excellent house boy.”
“Can he dust?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He threw his hands in the air with a dramatic flourish. “Perish the thought! I certainly wouldn’t want him to get dirty.” He fussed some more and motioned for me to take a seat. “So, what can I do for you? Have you finally had it with PMC? Are you here to tell me you’re quitting?”
“Of course not.”
“God, I wish I could,” he snapped. “But I suppose it’s good for me to have a place to go that gets me off the streets for a few hours every week. So…if you’re not quitting, and I know you’re not here to do something foolish like ask for a raise, what can I do for you?”
Without a word, I handed him my manuscript. He took it from me as if it were breakable and glanced at the title page.
“‘Allentown Blues by Andrew Westlake,’” he read, settling his overstuffed frame into an overstuffed chair. Then he glanced up and jokingly asked, “Any relation?”
“I thought I’d give PMC the first crack at it.”
“Why not? Our slush pile is as good as anyone else’s.” He slipped me a quick and somewhat indulgent smile. “I’ll read it myself, Andrew. But”—and now his voice slid into a deeper octave, which was, I presumed, supposed to connote professionalism—“I hope you understand that we can’t publish it just because you work here.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
“But remember,” I said, as I rose to leave, “I know where you live.”
One week later, just as I was reaching the point where I thought I was going to be rejected, David Carlyle called me.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to finish your book,” he said, “but I took it with me to Fire Island and I didn’t have as much free time as I’d expected. Please don’t ask me about that lovely German boy who was dominating my time.”
“So, what’s the verdict?” I asked, hoping to bypass a self-indulgent soft-core account of his week in Cherry Grove.
“You’re on. I thought it was delightful. A little light, but delightful.”
“Light?”
“When PMC has published novels in the gay genre in the past, we’ve tried to look for things with poignancy. I loved Allentown Blues, but I wouldn’t exactly call it poignant. It’s just a fun read.”
“Actually,” I said defensively, “I think there were some poignant parts in the book.”
“Whatever,” he said, not particularly caring what I thought was in my novel. “I’ve already talked to some of the other senior editors—you know, the ones who have the same title as I do but with the authority to actually do something around here—and I’ve convinced them that we should publish it. We’ll let the readers decide if they think it’s appropriately poignant or not.”
Ten months later, Allentown Blues was in the bookstores.
Well, not all the bookstores. It was in gay bookstores, and one or two copies sometimes found their way into the Barnes & Noble superstore on Upper Broadway, but I suspect that’s mostly because Ted and I made periodic anonymous calls to ask if they had it in stock.
The $7500 advance I received from PMC—the only money I made off Allentown Blues, by the way—paid for a one-week vacation for two in Key West and reduced a few credit card balances. And then it was back to the day-to-day drudgery of life in Manhattan.
Time seemed to pass at an alarming rate. One night I met Ted, the next night we had moved in together, the next night my book was published, the next night we were in Key West, the next night we were celebrating our first anniversary, the next night we were in a mall in Jersey City and I decided that I’d show Ted the new art book I’d helped edit and…
“Let’s go,” he said abruptly, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the front of the store.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, returning the book to the shelf.
“Nothing. I just want to go.”
He dragged me to Sears—such a Ted store—and pretended to look at stereo equipment.
“So, what was that all about?” I asked. “Does Waldenbooks bring back some repressed childhood memories or something?”
“No,” he said unconvincingly. “I just wanted to leave.”
“Okay. Fine.” I joined him in pretending to look at stereo equipment for a few minutes, then told him I had to find the rest room. When