Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (9 page)

“Got it,” the room service boy confirmed. “Be about ten minutes.”

“I like you,” Jeff said, cupping Tim’s neck and bringing him close to his face, blowing warm breath into Tim’s closed eyes.

Tim turned on the gas fireplace, and they sunk down onto the sofa in a warm embrace.

“This is not what I was expecting,” Tim smiled.

“Me either,” Jeff said as he kissed Tim on the lips.

The room service boy arrived a few minutes later, and spread out the club sandwich and salad on the coffee table. He opened the two Heinekens and poured the beer into chilled glasses.

“I’ll put the ice cream in the freezer in the kitchen. You’ll probably want that later.” The boy smiled, and then left the bungalow.

Tim divided portions of the chopped salad and club sandwich onto pink serving plates. The food was abandoned once Jeff began unbuttoning Tim’s shirt, running his hand up Tim’s chest. The two instinctively moved to the bedroom where Tim was soon receiving his promised massage. The half-eaten club sandwich and the remains of the McCarthy salad sat on the coffee table in front of the gas-burning fireplace. The vanilla ice cream and the lemon cookies stayed untouched in the freezer.

After the massage Tim curled up next to Jeff, resting his head on his chest. The two lay naked and embraced on the bed, the ceiling fan gently whirring overhead. Tim brushed Jeff’s curly blond hair. “Wow … that was something else!”

“Now I know why that lion wanted to eat you,” Jeff teased, as he put a finger between Tim’s lips. “Glad there was something left over.”

Julius’

December 1974

T
im was still trying to get used to his new freedom: being unemployed. He’d bitten the bullet and gone up to Westport to face his family for Thanksgiving. He’d told them what had happened—at least, he told them the edited version—and to his relief, they were very supportive.

“Tim, that happens all the time in advertising. You’ll be fine, and you’ll probably get a better job.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Tim said genuinely grateful. “It’s just hard right now.”

“Well, that’s life, but we all move on. And you know you always have a place here, if you need it.”

“I think I’ll just go up to bed and take the early train back to the city in the morning.”

“I’ll drive you to the station,” Tim’s mom volunteered. “Are you taking the 7:17?”

“I want to get back early.”

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “Tomorrow’s my day at the hospital, and I like to be there before the night nurses get off.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he said giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You’ve both been great.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dad said. “When you get a new job, you won’t even remember this.”

Tim undressed and got into his single bed, the one his parents had ordered with a special extra-long mattress, because they thought he was going to grow up taller. Instead, Tim had stopped growing at age thirteen, a reasonable five feet ten, and he never grew an inch more. But there was the extra-long bed—just one more expectation his parents had had that wasn’t realized. Tim and his parents had a historically somewhat strained relationship. Tim knew that he was not the son they had dreamed of—at least not the son of
his dad’s dreams. Things improved a bit when Tim got a job in advertising and his career started taking off. The final acceptance came when Tim was named a vice president. His dad could now flaunt his son’s achievements with his golfing buddies at the country club. Now, even though the bubble had burst with Tim getting fired, his parents were accepting and even surprisingly supportive. Tim slipped into sleep, content that some level of peace treaty had been achieved with his family, particularly with his dad.

“Tim!” There was a gentle knock on his door. “It’s six o’clock, if you still want to get on the 7:17.”

“Yes,” Tim yawned from under the covers. “Thanks for waking me up. I’ll be ready in a minute.” Tim pulled on his jeans, quickly brushed his teeth, and was down to the kitchen, waiting for his mom to drive him to the station. As usual, she had packed a shopping bag full of canned goods and groceries, exactly like when he was in college.

“Just in case,” she said, patting him on the back. “You can always use these.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Tim said, taking the shopping bag. Some things never changed.

They drove along Riverside Avenue to the station. Tim cradled the groceries between his legs with his knees. He wondered whether his mom would ever stop pretending he was just going off to college and maybe someday realize he was a grown man.

“I’ll call,” he said, getting out of the car to board the incoming train and then giving his mom a kiss on the cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Tim,” his mom said, biting her lower lip.

Grand Central was the expected crush of people on the first workday after the Thanksgiving holiday. Tim put his backpack on his shoulder and lugged the shopping bag of groceries down the stairs to the subway. He looked at all the guys dressed in business suits, heading to their offices, as he descended to the subway platform to board the downtown local.

Back in his apartment, the third-floor walk-up on West Tenth Street, he wondered why he had rushed back to the city. He had no appointments, no job interviews. Still, it was better than being in Westport with his parents. He sorted the mail on the gateleg table in the front entryway as he always did, collecting his bills and junk mail—and catalogues from Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s, selling things he could no longer afford.

Tim put the bag of canned goods and cookies on the kitchen counter; he’d put everything away later. He stretched out on the sofa, looking up and out the skylight at the brownstone roofs across the courtyard gardens. Glad to be back in the safety of his small Village apartment, he fell into a light sleep.

It was after one o’clock when he woke up, feeling as though he had a hangover. He was hungry, having eaten nothing since dinner last night with his parents. Except for the bag of canned goods and cookies still on the counter, there was no food in the apartment. A quick shower and clean clothes made him feel a bit better. Then he was down the three flights of stairs and back onto Tenth Street in the cold December air. He walked the few blocks to Julius’, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. Jamie was working the day shift, which was unusual for him during the week.

“Well, look who’s back!” Jamie snickered. “Too much Westport?”

“You could say that,” Tim answered. “Too much family.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jamie replied sarcastically.

“It was fine. Actually, they were very understanding and supportive.” Then, trying to change the subject, he added, “I’m just glad to be back.”

“How’s the job search going?”

“It’s not. No one wants to see you until after the holidays. It’s like the whole advertising world comes to a stop in December. So, to answer your question, it’s going nowhere.”

Jamie mixed a shaker of Bloody Marys.

“Here, kid. Looking at you!” he said, sliding a Bloody Mary toward Tim.

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I should start drinking during the day, especially since I’m unemployed.”

“All the more reason,” Jamie assured him, topping Tim’s glass with the remains of the Bloody Mary out of the shaker. They sat without talking for some time. Not having eaten, Tim was already feeling the drink.

“Have you heard from that guy you met out on the West Coast?” Jamie asked.

“He’s called a couple of times and even wrote me a nice letter.”

“Sounds promising,” Jamie pressed.

“I really like him a lot,” Tim confided. “The first person I’ve met that I think I might want to have more than just a one-night fuck. But there are problems.”

“Like what?” Jamie asked.

“First of all, he lives in California.”

“There are planes,” Jamie said dryly.

“And he’s going through a messy divorce.”

“You always liked the married ones.” Jamie smirked.

“He got married really young while he was in the navy, before he knew he was …”

“And you woke him up?” Jamie asked ironically.

“No. I wouldn’t say that. He realized he was gay in the navy. I wasn’t the first.”

“I guess a ship full of horny boys will do it.” Jamie laughed.

“He’s got this great job, international marketing director or something, for some big company in the electronics industry. He travels all over the world on business. He said he might be in London just before the holidays and might stop off in New York on his way back to California.”

“You mean you might get a little stocking stuffer this year, instead of coal?” Jamie teased.

“I don’t know,” Tim said wistfully. “I’d really like to see him again, but nothing’s definite.”

The two nursed their Bloody Marys without speaking. Jamie could see this was a sensitive topic, so he decided not to tease his friend more.

“You ever think of working the bar?” Jamie broke the silence after a few minutes.

“What?” Tim asked, coming out of his thoughts confused.

“I’m serious.”

“Me … a bartender!”

“Why not?” Jamie was serious. “You’ve had enough experience on the other side.”

“I don’t know.”

“Honey … it doesn’t take a college education to throw a few ice cubes in a glass and pour booze on top.”

“Why now?” Tim asked, intrigued.

“Micky is going in to have open heart surgery next week and will probably be out a few months.” Jamie let the thought float. “We’re going to need someone to fill in day shifts. I can’t do it all the time and still work at night. Maybe a few days, but that’s all for now.”

There was a long silence while Tim thought about what Jamie was suggesting. Being a bartender at a gay Greenwich Village saloon was a big stretch from having been a VP at a high-profile Madison Avenue ad agency. But the idea was intriguing.

“You serious? You think I could do it?”

“Sure, honey. You’d be a natural.”

“I don’t know anything about making drinks. What if somebody ordered something like a margarita or a fancy drink?”

“Darling … you just tell them we don’t make that shit here. Beer, booze right from the well—that’s the kind of bar this is. You see any blenders back here?”

“I guess I could handle that,” Tim mused.

“Sure you could,” Jamie assured. “Of course, you’d have to join the union. We’re all union members here.”

“What union?”

“I’ll take care of that. We’ll even pay your initiation fees. I just have to run this by Mr. F first,” Jamie added mysteriously.

“Mr. F being?”

“The owner … and don’t ask any more,” Jamie said flatly.

“Well, maybe. If you really think I can do it.”

“Honey, you’ll be a star.” Jamie winked. “Just let me handle Mr. F
and the union thing.”

“Jamie, you’re a true friend. I really appreciate your help. I’ve been feeling pretty fucked lately.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to make it up.” He smirked.

“And this Mr. F? Who is he?”

“You don’t need to know,” was Jamie’s curt response.

“Okay,” Tim said uncertainly.

“Leave it to me, kid. You’ll be fine.”

“If you say so. I can’t tell you—”

“You’d do it for me, if the shoe was on the other foot.” Jamie clasped Tim’s hand.

“Yes. Of course.” Tim blushed.

“I’ll see Mr F tonight when he comes by to pick up the day’s receipts. I’ll be cashing out at two; that’s when he always collects the money.”

“Sounds strange.”

“That’s the way it is … and nobody asks questions. The city owns the building, a fucking historic landmark. But Mr. F owns the liquor license, and it’s a goddamn cash cow.”

“Well, this is an adventure,” Tim said, laughing. “When do you think I could start?”

“Be here tomorrow morning at eight. I’ll show you where everything is and how to set up. You’ll be responsible for opening the bar. I’ll work with you the first day or two. Then you’re on your own. You’re a smart kid, and this isn’t brain surgery.”

“Okay. If you think it’s all right.”

“Don’t worry, honey. I’ll take care of everything,” Jamie said reassuringly.

“Great. See you tomorrow morning.” Tim was out the door onto Tenth Street. He couldn’t believe he was about to launch a new career as a bartender in a gay saloon in Greenwich Village.

As agreed, Tim showed up at eight the next morning. Jamie was cutting lemons on the bar.

“Welcome to the real world, honey.”

“I guess,” Tim said nervously.

“First thing, I’ll take you upstairs to get a clean white shirt with short sleeves and a white apron. It’s what we wear here. They provide clean shirts and aprons every day. Your jeans are fine … and the tighter the better, which will help tips. Especially with that cute ass.” Jamie patted Tim on the butt.

Tim got into his new uniform and then followed Jamie down the creaky wooden stairs and behind the bar, a new viewpoint—for five years he’d been on the other side. Jamie took him through the rounds, pointing out where all the liquors were set up, everything very specific, where the ice machine and the sink were, and most importantly, how to work the ancient cash register. The back door thumped shut as one of the daytime regulars shuffled through the sawdust on the floor and pulled up a stool at the bar.

“Hey, Tony,” Jamie greeted the customer. “This is Tim. He’s starting today to fill in for Micky, who’ll be out a few months. Be nice to him. He’s a good kid, even if he’s a little green. Okay, Tim. Your first customer.” Jamie dismissed him, going back to cutting lemons.

“Hi,” Tim said shyly. “What can I get you?”

“The usual.”

Tim looked blank, and then Tony added, a bit amused, “Jack with a Bud backup.”

Tim nervously studied the lineup of bottles behind him, located the Jack Daniels, and proceeded to pour a generous shot in a tumbler. Then he carefully drew a beer from the tap, which overflowed the glass, spilling on the floorboards.

“There goes the profit,” Jamie joked at Tim’s clumsiness.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Tony said kindly. “You’ll get the hang of it. If Miss Jamie can do this, I’m sure you can. And the daytime crowd here is nice … if a bit odd.”