Gossip (9 page)

“My publisher. They said I could have whatever I wanted on this trip. I wanted to feel like F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

“They must love your book.” Knowing how miserly most publishing houses were, I wondered if someone else provided this perk. I seemed to be one more luxury item on a visit to New York.

I popped open his computer, its anonymous gray lid personalized with a little air force decal from an airplane model. After much hunting and fumbling, I found the switch and flicked it on.

There was a chiming of coat hangers around the corner as Bill quickly dressed.

“What file do you need?” My finger played with the mouse, a buried ball rolling like a testicle.

“I’ll get it.”

“Who’s this guy you’re seeing?”

“A political consultant but more. A one-man think tank. A very helpful, useful fellow. A good friend, in fact.”

Bill returned to the room in gray wool slacks, blue suit jacket and a candy-striped shirt without a tie. He caged his eyes with his black-wired glasses and the look was complete: a pampered, casual, Republican look.

“You must be freezing,” he scolded. “Get back in bed.”

I did but the covers were not as warmly narcotic as before.

He bent over the desk and diddled the keyboard. “Right!” he told his screen. “Shoes. Where’re my shoes?” He saw the loafers by the bed and came over. He thrust his crisply combed head in my face. “Can you smell us in my hair?”

I smelled only scented gel. “You’re safe,” I said, a barb in my voice.

He grinned obliviously. “You won’t go away?” he teased, as if that were unimaginable. He leaned in for a quick kiss.

I kissed back hard and tried to throw an arm around his neck, suddenly annoyed with him and wanting to spoil his appointment. He ducked away, laughing.

“Business before pleasure. This will take thirty minutes. Maybe less. I promise.” He stepped backward, blushing and beaming, sincere in his regret to leave me like this.

The door clicked shut and I was alone. Stranded in an enormous bed in an expensive room in a once distinguished, now gaudy hotel. What the hell was I doing here?

I grimaced and snorted at myself. I could still feel guilt, but the weight amused me, even excited me, as if I were cheating on a lover. I had no lover, but I did have my political principles. Cheating on those was as exciting as cheating on a boyfriend. But what were my principles? A distrust of wealth. A fear of Republicans. A desperate, Godot-like faith in the Democrats. All seemed irrelevant to a few hours of fun with a horny young journalist. I was not afraid for my virtue. I was the older man and could hold my own. And shifting the guilt, adding to the thrill, was the idea that Bill cheated on his principles by sleeping with me.

I regretted that I hadn’t sucked a lurid hickey on his neck, so his important visitor might know what he’d interrupted on a wintry Saturday afternoon. What were they discussing downstairs anyway? Money or politics or public relations, which passed for politics after the age of Reagan.

I grew restless lounging in the warm corruption of soft sheets and heavy blankets. I got up and pulled my scratchy ski sweater over the gummed hair of my stomach. The Powerbook remained open on the desk, its screen full of electrified mother-of-pearl. I parked my bare ass in the chair to look at it.

Bill had left a calendar file open. “February 24: Flight 2734 to Miami 2:35 pm.—AFC Conference, Omni Hotel.” I scrolled back up, wondering if there’d be diary entries on days already past. No, it was all appointments and upcoming events: “February 19: Dr. Leavis, tooth cleaning.” “February 5: Mama’s birthday.” “January 15: Plaza Hotel, Ralph E. noon, Jeb 5 pm.” Did I require an initial because he had another Ralph in his life?

I made a quick dissolve into the main catalog, wondering if there was anything about me here. I found no listing for “ralph” or “eckhart” or “tricks.” There was a string of “regimentl,” “regiment2,” on up to “regiment5,” and a file labeled “thersites.” Maybe there? I went in. It was just a page with his pseudonym, codes and basic instructions on how to use a chatline.

The laptop was so explorable that I was tempted to peek at “regiment”—notes for his book?—but I suddenly felt ashamed over rifling in his digital drawers. I quickly closed down, feeling first virtuous, then glad that I’d found nothing to spoil my visit, whether stale prose or bad ideology.

I went to my coat and fished
The Eustace Diamonds
from the pocket. I climbed back into bed to read, but my eyes slid off the page into my thoughts. Why didn’t I either confront Bill’s politics or ignore them? What kind of game was I playing with myself? What did I want from him? What did I fear? This was more complicated than sex, wasn’t it? I tried out the idea that I was falling in love, yet that seemed too ridiculous. I lowered my face to his pillow, but Bill was like any good aroma, that of an orange, for example, which you can smell only so long before your olfactory nerves are saturated and the nose goes blank.

I returned to Trollope and was actually following Lucy Greystock’s conniving when I heard the key. The door opened and shut softly around the corner. Bill did not come into the room. The fluorescent light in the bathroom sputtered on. I heard him pee and flush. I waited a minute, then got out of bed and stepped to the door. Had he forgotten I was here?

He stood in the pink quartz bathroom, a solemn young man studying his faces in the triple mirrors around the sink.

“How was your meeting?”

He jumped, slapping a hand to his chest before he turned and saw me. “Oh God. You startled me.”

“You forget you had a guest?” I was annoyed, even hurt that my presence could take him by surprise.

“No, I just—I thought you were asleep. I needed a minute to change modes after—” He frowned at me. “The meeting went fine. Much news and useful information. Although I was slightly distracted.” He tried to smile, but he still seemed distracted, blinking at a man who was rudely nude from the waist down. “I wanted you to be asleep,” he complained. “So I could slip back into bed and we’d never know I was gone.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” His air of annoyance annoyed me. I was full of petty, inexplicable irritation. I didn’t know what to do with my aggravation except step up and embrace him from behind.

“No. Wait. Oh.” He fearfully watched the mirror as I ran my tongue in a blushing gutter of ear.

“Where’s your head now?” I whispered.

He relaxed against me and I instantly felt better. I peeled off my sweater to rub against his wool and buttons while we kissed. I kept us turned toward the mirrors so he had to see who we were: two men necking, one of us raw, the other in a hypocrisy of nice Republican clothes. The mirrors replicated and extended us in long chambered curves. My nose kept knocking his glasses so I took them off and set them on the sink, forgetting how blind he was. He couldn’t see us when I steered him to his knees, but I watched, enjoying the classic image of a naked thug arching his back and dimpling his ass while he was serviced by a well-dressed superior. Then I looked down and saw Bill, his eyes trustingly closed, his mouth open and vulnerable. I tenderly pulled him up, away from the obscene mirrors and back to bed.

We went down to the East Village for dinner, at Bill’s request. He wanted to see my neighborhood, he said, wanted to know my life. His curiosity pleased me, although he was alarmed when I suggested we take the subway. He had an out-of-towner’s horror of the underground and insisted we catch a cab.

Not until we got out at East Eleventh Street did I think about running into people I knew, but nobody idly strolled the icy sidewalks, and it wasn’t like Bill had a swastika on his forehead. He wore a presentably collegiate sweater and jeans under his new parka. I decided to risk the Ukrainian Polish restaurant I frequented with friends, a bright, high-ceilinged place full of cabbage steam, young artist types and solitary diners who scribbled poetry while they ate. It suggested a working-class bohemia with roots in the thirties, a Hart Crane–Jack Kerouac New York that was more wish than reality nowadays, but I needed it after the Plaza.

We found a table by a plate-glass window zigzagged with ice crystals. Bill took in the noise and grubby faces and the Russian primitive mural with a polite smile. “But the food’s good?”

“Very. And cheap.”

“I wanted this to be my treat.”

“I don’t want you spending money on me. But thank you.”

He looked miffed. I couldn’t let him buy me, but I didn’t want to insult him either. I gently explained what items on the menu were good. When he ordered, he adopted the bossy tone of a businessman who feared that strangers would get second best.

It was odd seeing Bill in my terrain. His face looked thicker, an opaque mask of baby fat. All that remained from our hours in bed were the brown pupils peeking between fat eyelids. We’d spent more time together naked than clothed. I could not decide if nudity was the reality or another disguise. We needed to talk when we were dressed and vertical. I needed to know how deep his interest in me went, if he was playing a game similar to mine.

“You like me, don’t you?” I said.

He laughed as if I’d made a silly joke. “It’s possible.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Why do you like
me?”
He made it sound as childish as “Why is the sky blue?”

“I don’t know,” I said bluntly. “I thoroughly enjoy being in bed with you.”

He frowned as if I’d said something dirty.

“And you’re a good kisser. And—” I was surprised by how quickly I ran through his attractions. “You’re happy. You’re cheerful. Maybe that’s it. Everybody else I know is bitter or melancholy. It’s nice to be with someone who enjoys his life.”

“I can be very cheerful,” he admitted. “Especially now.”

Me? I hoped not. “Your book?” I said.

“That’s part of it. The most recent episode of how far I’ve come.” He warmed to the subject of himself. “You met me at the right time, Ralph. If you had met me in college, you would’ve found a very different fellow. Miserable and neurotic. A Gloomy Gus who hated everyone, himself included. A great big
nerd”
—he had to spit the word to get it out—“whom the cool gay guys never noticed. I was afraid to want anything, as if I didn’t have the right.”

“Not even sex? The paperboy’s hustler?” I reminded him.

He chuckled and lowered his eyes. “I went through a, um, latency period in college. Stupid Catholic guilt. But nothing succeeds like success. I needed accomplishment, something to stand upon before I could be myself. I found it as a journalist and it unlocked me. Ambition isn’t a bad thing, Ralph. It gives one purpose, makes life an adventure. It’s exciting to want things and go out and get them. Fame and riches,” he said with a sheepish grin. “And the company of attractive men.”

He made his success sound so healthy and liberating that I wished I could celebrate it with him.

“I’ve looked at
American Truths,”
I said.

“You’ve read me?” His eyes widened.

“Not yet. Recent issues with nothing of yours.” Why hadn’t I read him? It would’ve been easy enough to find back issues at the library. “I still don’t understand how you, as a gay man, can write for those people.”

He kept his smile. “Their bark is worse than their bite. They’re an intelligent, well-educated bunch.”

I had to break through the courtesy even if it ended my fun. “But the magazine is written by and for straight white men. Everyone else is the enemy.”

“That’s not true. Which writers did you read?”

“It wasn’t one in particular. It’s the general tone, the assumptions under the tone.”

“I don’t agree with everything they print.” He was not nearly as defensive as he’d been two months ago. “They’re not antigay.”

“No?”

“Critical,” he admitted. “But not of all gay people. Just a certain element.”

“What if I’m a member of that element?”

Not even that fazed him. “Then you skip those articles. I do. I write for
Truths
because the editors let me write what I want to write. I’m an investigative reporter. My beat is corruption. The only axe I grind is the truth.”

“Republican or Democrat corruption?”

“Both.”

“Whose corruption is your book about?”

“The Democrats. Because they’re the ones in power. Surely you don’t think the Clintons are paragons of virtue?”

“No. But they’re the best hope we’ve had in the past twelve years.” I fell into his habit of referring to Clinton as if his wife were president too.

“Wait until you read my book,” he said.

“When can I? Are there bound galleys?”

“Not yet. They’re treating them like gold when they are available. They don’t want too many people seeing it before pub. I don’t even know if I’ll get one.”

“All right. I can wait and read it when everyone else does.” The truth was I dreaded reading his book, not just for its politics but for the fact that it would be journalism, gray and dreary, acceptable for newspapers but numbing in book form. I wondered if I’d be able to finish it.

Our food arrived. Bill did not condescend to his cutlet and potato pancakes but ate with obvious enjoyment. There was nothing fussy about his table manners.

“Ralph? What are these questions really about?”

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. “I want to know who you are.”

“Why?” He was grinning again.

“I like to know who I’ve been—kissing.”

“My book and the Clintons have nothing to do with us.”

Was there an us? Did he take my questions as a declaration of love? “They have something to do with you. I’d like to know more about you.”

“This is a real New York conversation, isn’t it?” He shook his head and laughed. “What do you want to do with
your
life?”

“Pardon?”

“What are your ambitions?”

I was surprised to have myself made the subject.

“I know so little about
you,”
he explained. “I’m curious too. What do you want from life?”

I shrugged. “Just to live. To be happy.”

“To what purpose?”

“No purpose.”

“You’ve never had ambitions for success or fame?”