What the hell was it he had said, or tried to say, under the relative quiet of that unpopular Georgetown bistro? He rewound the tape and listened again.
G. Well…I guess you could say that I didn’t have to try any-C.:
more, because I became completelashuel.
Noah closed his eyes and concentrated. That’s what he had said. “Completelashuel.” Complete…something? Complete lashuel? No, that didn’t make sense. Lashuel…lashuel…a word that sounds like “lashuel.” And goes with the word “complete.”
Complete…asshole. G. C. had become a complete asshole. That would have almost made sense to Noah, given his work for a complete asshole of a United States senator from Ohio, except this particular Mormon would never use a word like “asshole.”
Noah rewound the tape once again, the recorder playing a brief wee-wee-wee, then hit the “PLAY” button. Again, G. C.’s midwestern drawl came to life, tinny through the small machine.
G. I tried. But then I went to work for Congress, and I,C.:
well…I guess you could say that I didn’t have to try anymore, because I became completelashuel.
Noah tossed the tape recorder down on a lushly padded chair and stared at it for a moment with contempt, as if the inanimate object was the problem, not G. C.
And then, his frustration boiling over, he kicked the wastepaper basket, sending those crumpled balls of paper scattering across the floor.
Even now, with twelve hours or so to put things in perspective, he was no less frustrated. It was hopeless. It was useless. G. C. would forever be a completelashuel—whatever that meant, it couldn’t be good—and there was nothing Noah could do about it, unless he disobeyed the interviewee’s request—was it a request, or an order? More an order, he thought—and followed up on their interview.
Completelashuel. Fuck. “Completelashuel” was starting to sound like a good word to describe this entire project. Nearly ninety hours of taped interviews, most conducted in a low mumble mimicking G. C., hundreds of pieces of paper—from notebook pages to cocktail napkins—with scrawls in his sober and not-so-sober handwriting, documenting the phenomenon of the gay aides to the most powerful men in the United States of America, all justifying their decision to stay in the closet. The only real revelation he had was that party and ideology didn’t matter in his decidedly unscientific survey. Noah may have been able to locate more gay Democratic aides than gay Republican aides, but they were closeted in what seemed to be proportionate numbers. More than a third of a century after Stonewall, career success for gay men—and a few lesbians—in Washington, DC was still all about passing as straight. Or at least asexual.
Asexual.
Noah reached for his bag, stashed under his legs, and rifled through it until he found the tape recorder. He searched the cassette until he found the offending part of the interview and hit PLAY and, yes, G. C. had obviously swallowed his words during the interview, fearful of being overheard. Finally, Noah heard him say that damn word, and closed his eyes in relief. “Completelashuel” was, in fact, “completely” (and he started swallowing on the “y”) “asexual.”
Yeah, that made sense.
He wanted to celebrate his detective skills, but Noah was suddenly gripped by a feeling that warranted no celebration. The whole project was useless. The Project was useless.
So G. C. had forced himself into asexuality. And he still couldn’t talk about it. Again, Noah stared down the tape recorder, blaming it for the state of his world.
G. C. would never come out and tell his boss, the distinguished gentleman from Ohio, that he was gay. G. C. would never even buy Noah’s book, should it ever actually be written, for fear of possibly being seen buying it in a bookstore, or having an online order tracked down, or having a guest see it in his home. Neither would L. G., Dennis (the real name), Dennis (the pseudonym), West Virginia Gary, Missouri Gary, Melissa E., Kay, the one-lettered K., or any of the others who had responded to his Blade ads or Craigslist solicitations.
Noah could document their existence, in an anonymous way, but it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. They would always hide in the shadows, either furtively homosexual or, well, completelashuel. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. His contribution to the advancement of gay and lesbian rights would be as futile as the insight he was not getting from his subjects.
The book—the book he once thought of as a career maker, an award-winner—might as well be a work of fiction, for all it would matter. His idea had bumped into reality and shattered. People who swallowed words like “asexual” would never allow themselves to be sexual beings. They could be leaders on arms control, the environment, war, peace, education, Social Security, Medicaid, health care, the pork barrel, the Brady Bill, NAFTA, and the nuances of constitutional law—and, on occasion, they could even guide their elected employers through a whole-scale defense of “traditional marriage,” trading a defense of their sexuality for votes—but they would never, ever…
With a groan, Noah sank back into the train seat, trying to force away his frustration, and thought, Why is this so fucking hard? It was a question directed equally at himself and his reluctant subjects.
When he was honest with himself, Noah Abraham recognized that a strong streak of self-righteousness ran through him. He blamed that equally on nature (especially those genes from his father) and nurture (especially the upbringing by his father). When he was honest with himself, Noah Abraham blamed a lot of things on his father.
When he was dishonest with himself, he blamed his father even more.
He had been condemned to a life of openness and affluence. From an objective standpoint, that easy life made The Project so much more difficult for Noah. After all, if Noah was self-righteous, it was because his father had made life so easy. Maybe, just maybe, if he had a bit more fear, he could somehow wrap his head around G.C. and the men and women who lived like G. C.
He put the tape recorder back in his bag and stared out the window, contemplating the adversities he faced because, ironically, his life held almost no adversity. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a young man unsteadily returning down the swaying aisle from the café car, flashing Noah a smile as he passed, which only served to remind him of yet another personal advantage. If it wasn’t enough that he was confident, intelligent, politically conscious, healthy, blessed with family money, and openly and comfortably gay, he also suffered with another intolerable lack of adversity: the knowledge that most people considered him quite good looking.
Gay, rich, smart, and good looking. Curse upon curse upon curse upon curse.
Noah didn’t think twice about his desirability. He knew better, after almost fifteen years as an openly gay man. He knew he wasn’t considered traditionally “handsome”: that designation went to the Adonises with the square jaws, broad shoulders, and height. But he was universally considered “cute,” and that was enough to guarantee him attention every time he wanted it, and often when he didn’t. At five foot seven, he was on the slightly shorter side of male physiology, but even that seemed to work to his advantage. The rest of the package—the olive complexion, deep brown eyes, full head of wavy dark hair, trim frame, and even those dimples that lit up his face when he smiled—sealed the deal.
Over the years, Noah had not been the only person to speculate that perhaps he had been adopted. After all, his parents were not only taller, they were also not quite as “cute.” But that speculation was put to rest by old family photographs, with their evidence of his remarkable resemblance to his maternal grandfather. Noah, of course, was disappointed, because if he had been adopted it would have meant that there had been one tiny bit of adversity in his life. But no. His family had even ruined that fantasy with those photographs. He was half Abraham and half Feldman, and he would have to live with that burden.
He wanted to struggle, but couldn’t find anything to struggle against…so he chose to struggle with himself. As well as those people who displeased him: the closeted completelashuels of Washington, DC.
Noah