The Old Man in the Club (3 page)

“About what? How an old man looks naked? What I can do in bed?” Elliott asked as he kissed her on her ear.

Tamara nodded her head. “Yes. Aren't you curious about me?”

“Not at all.” Tamara looked confused. “But,” Elliott said into her ear, “I am fascinated by you.”

Tamara flashed a big smile. “I'm gonna be ready to go soon. What you wanna do when we leave here?”

“Move the party to my house. Private party.”

“Just me and you?”

Elliott nodded his head. “Me, you and some candles and champagne and gourmet cheese.” He picked up a champagne flute and tapped glasses with Tamara, who then moved to the other side of Elliott and told her girls she was about to leave.

“Y'all can stay,” she said. “We're gonna leave in a few.”

Elliott could not hear her friends' responses, but he paid the bill and asked the server to add a third bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

Tamara told Elliott she was ready. “Okay,” he said, “but let your friends know I have another bottle coming. If they're going to stay, they might as well have something to sip on.”

“You're so sweet.” Tamara shared that information and her friends turned to Elliott and waved as they mouthed “thank you.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Tamara said. “Wanna meet me by the front door?”

“Meet you there.” He made his way through the crowd and posted up near the front exit, which also was the entrance. He watched the young people come and go—a fun pastime for him. Sometimes he would go out to places in Atlanta and not say a word to anyone; he'd just watch. And that was a good night for him.

So he was not mad that Tamara had to make a bathroom run. It was his opportunity to get some sightseeing in without feeling like he might disrespect her in the process. The women came and went in impressive fashion, one young lady's skirt shorter than the next.

Tamara was gone for up to ten minutes because of the inevitable
line in the women's bathroom. Right before she returned, Elliott noticed someone out of the corner of his eye approaching from the entrance. When he turned to see, he almost lost his breath.

Standing before him were Daniel and Danielle. They were twenty-one and Elliott had not seen them in almost two years. But they were not particularly happy to see him, which was evident since there were no smiles and no hugs.

“What are you doing in here?” Danielle asked, looking him over.

“Hi, Danny,” he said. “Hi, Dan.”

Neither responded. They looked at him with disdain.

“What are you doing here?” Daniel asked. There was anger in his voice and posture.

“I'm so glad to see you,” he said. “Have you received my letters or e-mails?”

“Yeah, we got 'em,” Daniel said. “And…?”

“And how are we going to get beyond all this if we don't communicate?” Elliott said. “It shouldn't be this way.”

“What are you doing here?” Danielle wanted to know.

Before he could give an answer, Tamara walked up from the bathroom. “Okay, I'm ready.”

Elliott looked at her and then the other two young adults.

“Tamara?”
Danielle said.

“Danielle, I didn't even see you,” she responded. They hugged.

“You know Elliott?” Tamara asked.

“You're leaving?” Daniel said to Tamara. “We came here for your party. And how do
you
know
him?”

The awkwardness was palpable, and Tamara sensed it.

“Everyone is still at our section over there,” she said, pointing. “There's another bottle coming. But I've been here a long time, so we're leaving.”

“How do you know him?” Daniel asked again.

Tamara was confused. Daniel's and Danielle's reactions was more than about the age difference. It was something else.

“What's going on?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Elliott said. He clutched her hand and started toward the exit. “Let's go.”

Daniel grabbed Danielle's hand and pulled her in the opposite direction.

“Are you dating him?” Danielle yelled.

“Why does it matter?” Tamara asked.

“Don't worry about it,” Daniel said. He pulled Danielle into the crowd.

Elliott stood there looking in their direction as Tamara looked up at him.

“What was that about?” she asked.

He continued to look off in the distance.

“Elliott…
” Tamara said.

He turned to her and had a look on his face she had not seen, a look of humiliation, which was big because he seemed to be impervious to embarrassment.

“That was my son and daughter,” he said.

“W
hat? Danny and Danielle are your children?” Tamara asked as they walked past the line of people outside that extended along Peachtree Street to Eleventh Street. “I went to college with them.”

And that fact shook her. It was one thing to cavort with Elliott around people who did not know him. It was quite another for her to know his kids. It was a connection she did not embrace.

Neither did Elliott. He placed his hand on the small of Tamara's back and guided her across Eleventh Street and into Café Intermezzo, a light-night dessert place that was an after-party haven.

“I thought we were going to your house?” Tamara asked.

Elliott responded without looking at her: “We should talk first… and then see if you still want to go.”

She nodded her head as they were led to a table on the patio that ran along Peachtree Street. Tamara decided she would not say anything and let Elliott take the lead. She was frustrated that the events had diminished her birthday buzz.

“How about some champagne?” Elliott surveyed the extended menu.

“More champagne?” Tamara asked. “What are we celebrating?”

“It's still your birthday.”

“Yeah, but it's not like what happened didn't just happen.”

“I'm glad it did, in a way.”

Tamara gave him a look.

“I haven't seen them in two years,” he said. “That's not the good part. They looked good, didn't they?”

“You know how crazy this whole thing is for me?” Tamara asked. “How can I look them in the face again?”

“Easy,” Elliott said. “What you and I do is none of their business.”

“That might make sense for you,” she responded. “But it's bigger than that for me. Danielle and I are friends. And I know Danny. And I'm running around with her dad?”

“When you put it that way, it doesn't sound so inviting for me, either,” Elliott said.

“Let's get to the real point then,” Tamara said. “I like you. I do. You're very intriguing. The fact that you're older—much older—has not bothered me that much, until now. I need to know: what do you want from me? I mean, what do you
really
want from me? No bullshit. Why are you pursuing someone close to your daughter's age?”

Elliott ordered champagne, and then he got right down to it.

“What do I want with you?” he started. “Sex. Fun—”

“Did you say
sex?”
Tamara jumped in, sounding insulted.

“If you're going to be in a grown-up situation, you can't be surprised that a man wants to engage in sex with you,” Elliott said. “I'm not trying to be your mentor on relationships or anything. We both have something to offer each other. But if you think I'm not interested in sex with you, then you're being naïve. You're pretty, sexy, smart, fun…why wouldn't I want to have sex with you?”

At twenty-five, Tamara's relationship experiences were far less than Elliott's, but she had never heard a man (or boy) admit his sexual intentions. The funny part was that it turned her on. His
candor justified why she believed guys her age were not ready for her. She wanted something different from her girlfriends, something that would open her up and enlighten her. Grow her.

She wanted the truth.

Tamara shook her head while staring into his eyes. “I can't figure you out.”

“No need to try,” Elliott responded. “We're all more complicated than we realize. Figuring me out would only confuse you.”

Tamara smiled.

“What I was going to say,” Elliott continued, “was that besides sex, I want fun times, interesting conversation. I want to be taken out of my comfort zone, to have new experiences. I don't want to feel my age or do things people my age do. That, for me, is living my life.”

“So what have you been doing up to this point?” Tamara asked. “Sleeping?”

“Sleepwalking,” Elliott said. “In some cases sleepwalking, in some cases, struggling…Where do you want me to begin?”

“You know what? Can we save this conversation for your house? I get the feeling you're about to go in, and we should be chillin' at your spot instead of around all these people.”

“I'm about to ‘go in.' Is that what you said?”

“Yes. It means, in this case, to get really deep,” she explained.

“See, this is what I'm talking about,” Elliott said. “You can keep me up-to-date and I can show you old-fashioned things. Balance. I'm not young and hip, but I like to be around young and hip people.”

“But why?” Tamara asked.

“Because it keeps my spirit young,” he said.

Tamara had no response, and after several minutes of chatter
about passersby and her birthday, they made their way to Elliott's car and took the five-minute drive to his high-rise condo in the W Hotel in downtown Atlanta.

“You live
here
, at the hotel?” she said, trying but failing to conceal her amazement.

“There is a resident portion to this place, too,” he said, trying and succeeding at sounding unimpressed with his digs.

They took the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor, where Elliott opened the door to his condo that had a breathtaking view of the Atlanta skyline, and beyond, via floor-to-ceiling windows. Tamara was mesmerized.

Elliott threw the keys on a table and offered her a drink.

“Whatever you have will be fine,” she said.

He lit some scented candles that rested on a pair of shelves next to photos of family members. “Make yourself comfortable.” He turned on some music. “You can get what you want. I've got to take a shower. Take off your shoes. Relax. Be right back.”

Elliott disappeared to the right of the kitchen into his bedroom, eager to discard his urine-stained pants and freshen his body. Tamara slipped off her heels and took in the majestic view of his place and the city. She opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the balcony. A breeze cooled the summer night air and added to her calm.

She looked down at the traffic flowing on Interstate 85 and out at the buildings that illuminated the sky. She was a long way from her hometown of Waycross, Georgia, which was closer to Florida than it was to Atlanta. It was a friendly place, a wonderful place to grow up—but a place one had to escape to truly grow. At least that's how she felt.

Because her family had relatives in Detroit, Tamara's father insisted
she look at schools in Michigan. It was a major point of discord between her parents, her mother preferring that their only daughter stay close.

But Tamara saw beyond life in Waycross and told her mother a month before her senior high school year: “Daddy is right. What is there here for me? I love it here. But for me to not resent it, I have to get away.”

Her mom, even in her disappointment, considered that a mature approach and eventually acquiesced. Tamara received a partial academic scholarship to Michigan State, where she met Elliott's kids in her junior year. After graduating with a degree in political science, she volunteered on Barack Obama's 2008 presidential campaign and later earned a job in the Atlanta mayor's office.

Tamara was ecstatic about her professional life. But she was tortured by her family life. Her dad had developed dementia. One summer during a visit from college he was as he always had been: soft-spoken but firm, funny and sentimental about his daughter. The next summer, he hardly could be trusted alone. His memory deteriorated and he went in and out of awareness more and more frequently. He attended her younger brother's high school graduation, but no one was sure how much he actually absorbed or remembered.

Seeing him that way pained Tamara, who had always been held up by her father's strength. She admired him more than anyone. And he was a girl's daddy. The only time she saw him at conflict with her mother was when he stood up for her in the face of her mom's overprotection. Thinking about her dad on Elliott's balcony brought tears to her eyes.

“It's nice out here, isn't it?” Elliott said from behind her. He startled Tamara, who wiped the corners of her eyes.

“Beautiful out here,” she said, turning around. “Can we sit out here for a while?”

Instead of answering, Elliott pulled a chair closer to the one Tamara sat down in and retrieved a candle from inside and placed it on the table in front of them.

“I'm into creating a nice atmosphere,” he said.

“No complaints here,” Tamara responded.

Both looked off at the view for a moment. Tamara broke the silence.

“So, what's up with you, Mr. Thomas? You're old enough to be my father or maybe even my grandfather. Why do you like hanging out at spots around young people? What's your story?”

“What's my story?” he repeated. “It's a mystery, a drama, a tragedy, a comedy, in some cases. And, I guess I'm trying to get it to be a fantasy.”

“You said a lot but you didn't say much,” Tamara said, “if you know what I mean.”

She was young, but smart, which made Elliott interested. He had dated many twenty-somethings. Only a few of them held his interest.

“You mean you want specifics,” Elliott said. “Okay, in general, I'll explain it this way: I have no interest in being a senior citizen. I'm not at that age yet and I don't like what it seems to mean, which is you're old and, therefore, have to live a lifestyle that consists of a rocking chair, a sweater even when it's hot outside, and watching old Westerns.