A White Coat Is My Closet (8 page)

Though I didn’t understand why the guy had suddenly become put out, I knew I’d completely blown my chances of even shooting the breeze with him. I sank back into my chair and exhaled a sigh of defeat. Without really giving it any consideration, I absentmindedly whispered, “Hope your iPod still works.”

“What?” He turned slightly toward me and pulled one of his earpieces out.

I was kind of surprised because I didn’t think I had actually vocalized my thought.

I looked at him more intently than perhaps I would have liked but answered very unemotionally, “I was just saying that I hoped your iPod still worked. It made a pretty loud crash when it fell onto the cement.”

“It’s okay.” He lay back against his chair and closed his eyes, but didn’t attempt to reinsert the earpiece. He was quiet for a few more seconds, then offered, “I’ve dropped it a million times. Damn thing just refuses to break.” He went quiet for so long I figured he’d just answered me to be polite, but then, out of the blue, he asked, “What kind of music do you like to listen to?”

I tried to contain my euphoria. He’d asked me a question. Granted, there was no enthusiasm in his tone, and he might not have cared whether I answered, but at least he was taking the initiative.

I couldn’t help to be a little guarded, however. Once bitten, beware. I didn’t want to risk saying something that would cause him to withdraw again. Then I found myself getting irritated at my own caution. Why was I so worried about being careful? It wasn’t like I had been overtly obnoxious before. I had just asked an innocent question. Inquiring about where someone was from wasn’t like reaching into their pants.

My brain was already a train wreck of conflicting thoughts, and no more than fifty words had thus far been exchanged between us. I made the decision to relax. Despite thinking he was drop-dead gorgeous, second-guessing myself in an attempt to impress him would only result in making me look like an idiot. Nothing to be lost by being honest.

“You’re going to think my taste in music is totally lame,” I said with a sincere chuckle.

He glanced over in my direction and seemed to be genuinely curious. “Try me.”

“It sounds so clichéd. I like classic disco, and I like songs by Streisand, Celine and”—throwing one more in for good measure—“Bette Midler.” I smiled. “So, it’s either the soundtrack from a pride parade or a gay piano bar. Take your pick.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Add Judy Garland to your list, and I’ll paint a pink triangle on your forehead.”

“Hey,” I protested, “they’re icons! I bet you were singing their songs from your mother’s knee when you were a child in Italy.”

I froze for a second. Damn if I hadn’t again referenced his country of origin. If it was a sensitive subject, I was persisting in poking at it with a stick.

This time however, it didn’t seem to faze him. His smile remained steadfast on his face and he began to conjecture. “Let me guess, Whitney Houston has a dozen entries on your playlist.”

“Who doesn’t love Whitney? Don’t you wanna dance with somebody who loves you?”

He continued to smile. “As long as it’s just one moment in time.” He rolled to his side and looked directly at me. “So, you’re a diva. What else do you do for fun?”

I wrinkled my brow. “I’m not the only one who knows all of Whitney’s greatest hits. You’re probably president of her fan club.” I fell back against my chair and lazily pulled up one knee. “What do I do for fun?” I repeated his question rhetorically. “Well, I’m kind of a sports enthusiast. I jog, I bike, and I like to hike and rollerblade. Also, I used to snow ski a lot. In fact, I used to ski professionally. And”—I paused for dramatic effect—“I’m a hell of a swimmer.” I barely got the last words out before I started laughing. “I really am thinking about applying for a job as a lifeguard.”

He laughed too, then said, “I guess some pool somewhere is going to see an increased body count.”

I looked at him seriously. “Does that mean you think I should withdraw my application to be on the US men’s Olympic swimming team?”

“No, don’t withdraw it.” He continued to smile. “They probably need a towel boy.”

“Hmmm.” I thought contemplatively. “I can think of worse things than working in the Olympic locker room. Where do I apply?”

He huffed. “I knew the minute I saw you that you were a pervert.”

I just smiled more broadly. “May I offer you a towel?” After a minute, I said, “Seriously, I also like to read. Murder mysteries are my favorite. I’m a pretty fair cook, and as soon as I live someplace with a yard, I’m gonna get a dog.” I smiled again. “It sounds like a list from a personal ad, doesn’t it? I give up. Your turn. Other than obviously staying in great shape,” I said as I appraised his body again briefly, “what do you do for fun?”

He flopped back on his chair. “Everything I do is fun. I’m Italian. Life is a party.”

I was confused. Suddenly his heritage was no longer a dangerous topic. I decided not to press my luck. “That’s not fair. You have to at least give me a partial list. You can’t default by saying ‘everything.’ That’s cheating.”

He pushed his glasses up to the top of his head captivating me with his amber eyes and offered me a cocky grin. “It’s not cheating if I make the rules.”

Looking at him made it difficult to concentrate, but I was determined to hold my ground. I replied with unequivocal certainty, “Italian rules are invalid here. We’re governed by the international playbook. If you don’t list at least three things you do for fun, you automatically forfeit, and the medal goes to the American.” I smiled at him expectantly.

He tried to look indignant for a minute, then returned my smile. “I tease blonds, I’m a swimming judge, and,”—he lay back and pulled his sunglasses back down—“I’m a professional sun worshipper. Is that three?” He assumed a pose of utter relaxation.

“Yeah, that’s three,” I said with joking defiance. “But I’m still going to contest your answer to the judges. I’m betting you’ll get points off for being too vague.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “I tease American blonds.” He rolled his head slightly in my direction. “Is that specific enough for you?”

“It will still be a violation of the rules unless the blond American gets to know your official name.” It had occurred to me that I could turn our innocent little exchange to my advantage. What better way to learn his name? I teased to be a little more coercive. “Come on, gold medal is on the line. Will the Italian go for the glory or go down in flames?”

He was undeterred. “I can sit here without saying another word and still take silver. That’s enough glory for me. You can keep the gold, and I’ll even throw in the flames as a bonus.” He rolled back to a more comfortable position and sighed contentedly, as if his triumph had been effortless.

I had to admire his stubbornness. He sure wasn’t going to allow himself to be backed into a corner not of his choosing. Not wanting to jeopardize the light mood, I resisted pushing him to divulge any more information about himself. I, too, let my head fall against my chair and pretended my teasing had never had an ulterior motive.

“Too bad,” I said. “Crowd had their money on the Italian. Never figured the blond would capture the gold.” I was quiet for a minute, then felt compelled to throw out one last try.

“Zack.” I said. “His name was Zack.”

Taken a little off guard, the guy turned back toward me. He looked genuinely baffled. “Whose name was Zack?”

“The guy who took home the gold. His name was Zack.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Same as mine.”

He shook his head, and though his face offered an expression of impatience, his voice was warm. “Silver went to Sergio. Nice to meet you, Zack.”

O
NCE
the ice between us had been broken, conversation became much more fluid. Initially, we both exhibited a fair amount of restraint and avoided asking questions that could be construed as being too personal. Slowly, however, we became more comfortable with one another, and as a result were less guarded. Our dialogue became more spontaneous, my feelings of self-consciousness evaporated, and we spent the next hour laughing, joking, and slowly getting to know one another.

“So,” I said hesitantly, watching him out of the corner of my eye to gauge any indication of discomfort, “how long have you lived in the United States?”

He answered without hesitation and as casually as if I’d ask him for directions to the corner store replied, “About seven years.”

“Really?” I said. “What brought you west? No, wait. Don’t tell me. You had dreams of becoming a big star in Hollywood.” I initially suppressed a grin—I was confident he would interpret my question as being a joke—but I became a little anxious when I considered that wanting to break into acting might very well have been his motivation for coming here. His looks certainly qualified him as a tall, dark, handsome leading man. As far as I knew, he might actually have been either a successful actor or an actor wannabe.

I continued to smile but realized I was holding my breath to disguise my anxiety. Things between us had been going well, and I didn’t want to inadvertently fuck things up by insulting him. Actors had a tendency to take their craft very seriously.

If he’d considered even for a second that my question had potentially been offensive, it didn’t register in his expression. He launched into his response without a second thought. “No, I came here without a specific plan. My youngest sister, Lala, had moved here a year earlier. I was still living in Rome, and I was looking for a change. She told me that Los Angeles was great and that I would love it here. If you want to know the truth, I think that she was actually a little homesick and would have said anything to convince me to come join her. I arrived without a plan and was unable to speak much English.” He eyed me a little defensively. “I speak English a lot better now, but guess I do still have a slight accent.” He emphasized the word “slight,” though he smiled in acknowledgement that his accent was in fact still pretty thick. “That was seven years ago.” He rolled onto his back and relaxed as if he was fatigued from having narrated an entire biographical documentary. “The rest is history.”

I smiled too. I was smitten. In the time we’d spent together, he had proven himself to be charming, humorous, and warm. He undoubtedly had an edge, but I was learning it usually only revealed itself when he felt threatened or ill at ease. He used his defensiveness as a shield to deflect discomfort. Beneath a confident, cocky exterior, I was beginning to believe there lay a genuinely nice guy. Or maybe I was choosing to believe that because I was developing a crush on him.

“Man! Coming here under those circumstances took incredible courage. You’re, like, an Italian superhero.” I grinned to assure him I was being facetious. “No, really, it did take balls. To leave your native environment and move to a country where you didn’t speak the language and without the guarantee of a job. You must have been scared shitless in the beginning.”

He let the corners of his mouth creep up as if he was reminiscing. “Well, it’s not like I was going it alone. When I first arrived, I stayed with my sister. Her English had become pretty fluent by then, and she helped me land a job pretty quickly.” He smiled fully. “You’re making it sound as if I traveled over here on a banana boat and was forced to live on the streets.”

“You’re Italian. I know you didn’t come over on a banana boat.” I grinned like I was going to clarify what I knew would have been the more likely scenario. “It was probably in a pizza box.” He threw his rubber sandal at my head but couldn’t stifle a soft chuckle.

“So what did you do?” I asked curiously. Though Sergio was playing it down, it seemed apparent, to me, anyway, that he had somehow managed to succeed despite a fair amount of adversity.

“What do you mean, what did I do?” He looked at me as if he expected my question to have some hidden element of complexity.

“For work? What kind of job were you able to get without being able to speak English?”

“Oh.” He relaxed with the realization that my intention hadn’t been to extract some deep-seeded personal information. “I started working in an Italian restaurant. Lala—my sister’s name is Laura but we call her Lala—was pretty well connected in the Italian community, so when I arrived, helping me to find a job wasn’t too difficult. As a matter of fact, because I had waited tables before, it was easy. The trouble was not speaking English. I had to start as a busboy, and everyone assumed I was Mexican. Pissed me off.” He sneered when he looked at me. “Do I look Mexican?”

“No.” I tried to keep a serious expression. “With your accent and dark features, I would have guessed that you were Swedish.” I grinned. “Who cares if they thought you were Mexican? How long did it take you to work your way up? How long before you became a waiter?”

His tone gave the unmistakable impression that I had again touched on a sensitive subject. “There’s a big difference between Mexicans and Italians.” Then, apparently deciding not to make it an issue, he continued. “I bussed tables for about six months, then became a waiter. I worked at the same restaurant for about a year, then was recruited to the restaurant where I’m working now. I still wait tables but am also the floor manager.” His voice definitely resonated with a tone of pride. “Osvaldo’s on La Cienega. Have you been there?”