Читать книгу These Things Happen - Richard Kramer - Страница 4

Alot can happen in a day, sometimes. Not every day, of course. Most have one event, and that's if you're lucky.

Many have less, which seems especially true in our school, which is hard to get into and committed to serving the community but is also, as a rule, unthrilling. Maybe things pick up in eleventh grade, which is when Mr. Frechette, a teacher we like, says our brains have developed to the point where we can grasp irony, accept ambivalence, and acknowledge the death's head that lurks at the edge of all human endeavor. His exact words; I put them in my phone. We'll see, although I trust him. Mr. Frechette can get sour, but he's also pretty wise.

Maybe today's a preview of next year, then, because a lot has happened in it, even without the death's head. School's out. Theo and I are on our way to tae kwon do. Wherever you look, whoever and whatever you see seems glad to be a New Yorker, not just people but buildings, and pigeons, and signs. As for tae kwon do, we've been going since we were seven, and we're sixteen now, or will be. We're both excellent at it, which our gyosa Marshall says isn't bragging if you really are and can truly own it. Theo's my best friend, and always has been. He says that's just because he's the only boy in my school who's not named Max or Jake, but that's not it at all (which he knows). It's simple. He bores easily. So do I. But we don't bore each other, and that's since in utero, practically, as our moms met in Lamaze class and got to be friends. He got his name because his mom wrote a book about the loser relatives of famous artists. Theo Van Gogh was Vincent Van Gogh's brother; Mrs. Rosen, Theo's mom, pronounces the name (I quote Theo here) "like she was choking on a rugelach." Theo V.G. knew Vincent was the talented one and worked hard to make sure the world knew it, too. I admire that, and hope I would do the same, if I had a brother who was an insane depressed genius, which I don't. I'm an only child. He died, though, Theo Van Gogh, that is, chained to a wall and crazy due to the effects of syphilis, which was quite popular at the time. I asked Theo if he was worried that something like that might happen to him. "Are you being facetious?" he said. There was a time, not long ago, when we used to ask that after we pretty much said anything; we mostly just liked the word. He said he wasn't scared, especially. His mom just wanted him to sound special. But he saw my point. He always does, as I see his. And his are solid, I feel. I don't know what he thinks of mine, but one can only assume that he finds them solid, as well, because we hang out, text frequently, and dislike the same people.

Now that we're out and free I'd like to get right into the things that changed the day from ordinary to interesting. The first is that Theo was elected president of our grade, swept in on a sea of change, like Obama was, which always made me think of an ocean of dimes and nickels. I was his campaign manager and am proud to say we never went negative, although we could have against his opponent, Shannon Traube, who posted pictures of herself on Facebook giving out cookies her maid had baked to homeless guys, in boxes. Other things happened, too, historic ones, even. But even on a day like this you still need the stuff of an ordinary day, too. Maybe you need it more. So before I get into what took place as recently as lunchtime, we do what we do every day, without fail. We call it Facts. Just simple, like that. Because it's a simple thing, and one we've been doing since we were ten. We each are responsible for one Fact that the other guy wouldn't have known but would be interested in, a fact that has no other purpose than to be a) cool and b) somewhat disturbing. One might guess, and one would be right, that Nazis tend to get overrepresented, not to mention the Japanese ( prisoner-of-war camps, not the economic miracle). But you have to work with what's out there. There are certain truths that are universally acknowledged, and you're a moron if you don't know them.

"Fact," I say.

"Awesome," says Theo, which is a word frowned upon in our school, especially by Mr. Frechette. He feels it should only be applied to Balanchine, whatever that is.

"The Nazis made it illegal for Jews to buy flowers."

"Fuck." He stops walking. He has tears in his eyes, and he's not a sentimental person. "That really depresses me."

"Dude," I say, "that's mankind."

"I know. It's still fucked, though."

"I promise: nothing to do with Germany for a week. So what's your Fact?"

"It's French." We both like maps, so I'm sure, pretty much, that he's doing what I am, which is seeing Europe, the map of it, that is, picturing Germany, France touching it, Belgium and Switzerland mixed in there in chunks, as with a Ben and Jerry's flavor.

"France," I say. "Good. France isn't Germany."

"No, Wesley," says Theo, "it's not." He punches my arm. I punch his. "Fact: at Versailles, they used to shit on the stairs."

"You mean the king and everyone?"

"I think it was more friends and family."

"I like that."

"Yeah," he says. "It's good. So now that we've done historic Facts—"

"We need to get into today's."

"My speech."

He means his acceptance speech, given today after he won the election. I helped him write parts of it, the future pledges material, in which he promised universal health care, sustainable snacks in vending machines, and an end to the settlements (our school likes us to pretend that we're real people). Then came the part I didn't help with. Theo put down his notes. He drank some water. Then he said, "I thank you for this mandate. I shall try to lead wisely, but not annoyingly. And now, in the spirit of full disclosure and governmental transparency, I would like to share with you that not only am I your new president but I am also, to be quite frank, a gay guy."

There were a couple gasps, but people seemed okay with it, pretty much, except for Jake Krantz, who has a rage coach, and shouted, "I never would have voted for you!" And Shannon had some doubts. "You're sure that wasn't just to get the gay vote?" she asked Theo, when it was over. "You're actually, truly gay?"

"Well, in the interests of clarity," he told her, "you're looking at the gay vote. Me. Which I did get, because I voted for myself. And let me add I did what I did after I won, which you might be aware is unusual in politics. I'm just saying. So keep that in mind."

"Oh, I will," she said. "Don't worry." She laughed in a way that I think was meant to sound chilling and sophisticated but wasn't, really. Then she turned to me. "So, are you?"

"Am I what?" I asked.

"Gay," she said. "Bi. Anything."

I didn't know what to say. No one had ever asked me anything like that. I mostly get asked things like have I finished The Bluest Eye, or am I really planning to wear that shirt, or would I like to go to the Frick on Sunday. But to have a person ask me what I am? I dealt with the question as best I could.

"Fuck you," I said, which is more or less where we left it.

"More later," said Shannon, going into a cupcake place.

So now here we are, and all that's behind us.

"I completely want to get into all that," Theo says, "about what I did and what happened. But first I have to ask you some things, if that's cool. They're really important."

I can pretty much guess what his questions might be and, of course, I know what mine are. Why didn't he tell me ahead of time that he was going to come out in his speech today? That's one. Or, for that matter, that he was gay? But enough. He should go first. The big day is really his.

"So," I say, "you want to ask me something."

"It's easy," he says. "What are old gay guys like?"

My guess was right.

"Seeing as how I'm surrounded by them," I say then. "And by old gay guys I take it you refer, obviously, to my dad and George."

My dad's gay, but wasn't always, and George is his partner. George was an actor once, but gave that up and now owns and runs a restaurant in the theater district, in a brownstone. He and my dad own the building, and we live on the top floor. I've been there the past two months, for this school term, so my dad and I can get to know each other as men, since the belief is I might soon become one.

"Like what do they talk about, for example?" Theo asks. "What kind of things come up in gay settings?"

I think of things. It's easy. I'm a magnet, it seems, for a hundred gay paper clips, flying at me and sticking. "There's so much."

"For example?"

"Well," I say, "benefits are a big topic."

"Like in health care, you mean?"

It's nice, for once, to be the Expert Guy on a subject, as we're usually Expert Guy on the same things. "Benefit concerts," I say, "to raise money, for various gay things. Like marriage, say, or suicide, or trannies. They like to talk about who's going to sit at whose table. George makes a lot of charts. And there's awards dinners, too. They talk about that."

"Awards for what?"

" Their courage, pretty much," I say. "And compassion."

"Is there cash involved?"

"Just plaques, usually. There's these plastic shapes, too, that are like symbolic of something. My dad has dozens." He probably has a hundred, but I don't want to brag. I'm proud of him. He's given his life to the general gay good, and he had a late start.

"Huh," Theo says. "Interesting. What else comes to mind?"

I realize, in this time with my dad and George, that I've been listening pretty closely. " Costa Rica has been big lately," I say.

"What about it?"

"Old gay guys go there. In groups, it seems. They talk about houses, and maids. George keeps a list on the refrigerator. They do that, old gay guys. They make lists on paper. They don't put things in their phones."

Theo grabs hold of this, like a CSI guy staring at a carpet fiber. " Costa Rica," he says. "What makes it gay and Nicaragua not? That's rhetorical. I'm interested, but it can wait. So what are some other subjects?"

"Well, there's food, obviously, with George's restaurant. Old or dead actresses. And they talk about Dutch things, like how streets got their names. It seems that to be an old gay guy in New York you have to really love it and know some Dutch facts. George is big on that, anyway."

"I'm more interested in gay things than Dutch ones, though," he says. "Today, anyway. No offense."

"None taken. And marriage is a major thing they talk about, obviously," I say. That's my dad's big cause, or one of them, anyway. He's always on tv talking about it, because not only is he an impressive and persuasive guy, he's articulate and handsome, too, all the things I'm not. When marriage equality passed in New York Governor Cuomo specifically thanked my dad for all his work. The next day, people left flowers for him at the restaurant. One guy knitted him a scarf.

I think of one more thing. "And there's something called Merman."

"Merman? What is that?"

I'm not really sure, but I don't let on, as I like Theo thinking I might know things he doesn't.

"That's more a subject of George's than it is my dad's," I say. "He gets into that a lot with Lenny." Lenny is George's oldest friend. They met at theater camp, when they were eleven. He runs the restaurant with George.

" Lenny the gay guy, you mean," says Theo.

"Well, they're all gay guys," I tell him. "But to varying degrees, which you'll find out about. Same with Merman."

He looks a little worried. "It's probably a sex thing, right?"

"Gross," I say.

"What is?"

"Gay sex. Obviously."

"Like you know so much about it," he says.

"How much do you know?" I ask. "Have you even had sex? Like where you actually hook up with a real person and have it?"

"I really think that's my personal business." He chuckles, with a tinge of sadness that is obviously meant for me.

"So you haven't, then."

"Well," he says, "I did meet this one guy online. We chatted and stuff. He goes to NYU, to Tisch. He wanted to trade pictures? So he sent me one of him, sort of nude, but not showing his junk."

I didn't know any of this, but I try not to seem surprised. "Did you send one? Do you have pictures of your junk?"

"Well," he says, "no. I sent a picture of me as Tevye." Last year, at our school, Theo played Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. He was excellent. "I didn't hear back from him."

"But he was the only one?"

He chuckles again, in that sad-for-me style. "Oh, no."

"Anyone from our school?" I try to picture who it might be.

"I must say, Wesley," Theo says, sounding just a little bit English, "that I do think that's private."

"So you've never had sex, then."

"I didn't say that."

"You've done things? Like let guys fuck you in the ass and stuff ?"

He looks worried again for a moment, looks down and lowers his voice. "The thing is?" he says. "I'm sort of a top." He sneezes. "I think. I could be wrong, though. I've never actually hooked up. Maybe I never will! I don't know. Who has time? Why would I want to hook up when I could be learning new SAT words or giving back to the community?" Our school is famous for the concept of giving back, which they start beating into our heads in third grade. "We're here," he says.

We are, at Eighty-sixth and Second, right outside tae kwon do. I'm just coming back to it, as I had to take a few weeks off. I broke a toe at 2:00 A.M. at Dad and George's, from a stubbing I endured when I woke up hungry and went in the dark to the kitchen, where there are always eleven cheeses and foreign crackers and cookies made of ground-up nuts. I said, "Fuck!" very quietly, but George heard me and got up. He didn't even say anything; he just made an ice pack and grilled half a sandwich for me in his panini press. Then we talked for a while, also very quietly. We didn't want to wake my dad.

I'm fine now, though. "We should get in there," I say to Theo. I see a muffin on the steps, with no owner in sight, sitting there like it's just enjoying the day.

"Wait," he says. "Everything you say seems to be about George, pretty much. What about your dad?"

"What about him?"

"He's an old gay guy, right? So what's he like?"

"My dad." I look at the muffin again, and realize I'm starved. "Well, he's got green eyes, like mine, and a similar chin." I touch mine. We have clefts, my dad and I; Ben, my stepdad, says we could both keep change there. "And he's a fine person, of course."

"That I know."

"Like who doesn't." Sometimes I think I could mention my dad to a cop on a horse, or the horse itself, and they'd say, Oh, yes, I admire him immensely. "And there's squash," I say. "The game, not the vegetable. He plays at the Yale Club. He might teach me, even, when he's got time."

"Did George go to Yale?"

"He didn't go to any college. He was just in shows."

"I'll have to learn all this stuff, I guess," says Theo. "Not to mention new gay stuff. Maybe your dad would talk to me."

"So can I go now, with what I want to ask you?" I hear the chant that starts tae kwon do, but I don't care. "You can probably guess what it is."

"Why didn't I tell you I was going to do all that today."

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to do that today?" I ask.

"I totally would have," he says. "Definitely. Unquestionably."

"Stop using adverbs." I've picked this up from Mr. Frechette, who is passionate on the subject of their overuse. "Just answer."

"I would have," Theo says again, and more, too, but at just that moment girls pass, the kind of girls I think of as New York girls, although they can be from anywhere. I stop listening to Theo, or hearing, anyway. They're all texting and talking and smiling at their phones, like they were better than boyfriends. The girl with the fastest fingers stops for a moment. She smiles, not at me, I'm sure, but it's a smile in my direction all the same. And suddenly, standing there, I'm not there. I know just where I am, though, where I've gone, which is to a park, in my mind, where I lie on clean, warm grass while the fast-fingered girl texts all over me, my whole body and my cock, too, little secrets everywhere. And then I hear Theo again, and come back.

"And I guess the biggest reason I didn't tell you," he says, "is that I didn't know it was going to happen. It came out on its own, one might say. Like it had been waiting, for the right event."

"So have you been gay all along, do you think?"

"Probably," he says. "I don't think it was sudden, like a hive or a nosebleed. I don't think that happens, but there might be recorded cases. There are always recorded cases of things."

"But not yours."

"Well," he says, "this thing happened once." He puts up his hood, steps into the street, looks both ways as if he's shown up early for a gunfight. "If I told you anything, which I'm not saying I'm going to do, it would have to be really private."

"You came out in an assembly!"

"It involves a person you know."

" Really?" I try not to look too eager, but I can't help running through names in my head, like flash cards. Crispin Pomerantz. Micah Kinzer. Jared Zam. I don't know what makes them seem possibly gay. Maybe it's because I don't like them. But Theo's gay, or he is now, and I like him. I'll bring this up with him, but later. "Who?"

"Noah," he says, in a whisper.

We know one Noah. He can't be gay. I don't know why. But he can't. "Are you serious? Really? Noah Duberman? Really? Noah?"

"You sound like Fartemis." Fartemis is Theo's sister, Artemis. She's nine, and enthusiastic. "So forget about it."

"Sorry. I promise I'll be cool. Really."

He looks at me. He's going to trust me. "And when the specific thing took place? You were there."

"I was?"

"It was a day in gym, in eighth grade. Remember how we'd climb ropes and then drop down and do sit-ups, with a person holding down your feet? So I get Noah. And it was the time when—"

I can't help myself. That happens. "When that bird was trapped—"

"Dude? Is this your gay inkling thing? Or mine?" He doesn't wait for my answer. "So there he is."

"So it involved rope, and sit-ups?"

"That's the situation. The thing, itself, involved a ball. A testicle."

"Whose?"

"His."

"What happened to it?"

"Well," he says, "it dropped."

"From?"

"His shorts."

"Wow." I wish I had a wise or insightful comment, as I usually (ha) do.

"And do you remember in Citizen Kane? At the end, when he's holding the snow globe?"

We had a Masters of Cinema class last year; we saw Citizen Kane, Wings of Desire, All About My Mother. "Rosebud. It falls from his hand, in slow motion."

"It was like that." He waits. "Falling gently." He waits a little more. "With some hairs." He shuts his eyes and uses this odd voice, like Dylan Thomas reading A Child's Christmas in Wales, which I am forced to listen to each Christmas with my grandma. "And it was golden." His eyes stay shut. His nostrils move. I give him four seconds.

"Golden," I say.

His eyes open. "You heard me."

"The whole ball."

"It's a metaphor, you fucking idiot."

"A metaphor for what? And not to be Literal-Minded Guy?" We have a Hall of Guys, stocked from our observation of humanity in New York. Expert Guy, Lacks Irony Guy, Literal-Minded Guy; these are just a few. "But there's no way you could have thought of the Rosebud thing when the ball fell. We hadn't seen Citizen Kane yet."

"Wow. That's astute. I'd say you're ready for Brown." I'm not really clear on what the Holy Grail is, but whatever it is, it's Brown at my school. Brown, Brown, Brown, forced down our throats like broccoli, starting when we're still hitting each other over the head with blocks.

"Was Noah aware of all this?" I ask.

"Fuck. I hope not."

"So you didn't tell him."

"Well, no," he says. "It's not the kind of thing you point out, exactly. He just kept sitting up. And what would I have said?" I can't think of anything, which makes me sad; in all the time I've known Theo, which is all of both of our lives, I've never even had to think. The words were always just there.

"And that told you you were going to be gay?"

"It seems like it might have. Wouldn't you think?"

"I just thought of something."

"What?"

"I have cookies." George puts something in my backpack every day. I dig around and find the bag. "They're called ciambelline. They're Italian. They look like fetuses, but they're good." I give one to Theo, who eats it fast.

"Thanks." He takes another. "I like these."

"They're traditionally served with vin santo." I learned this from

George. He's taught me a lot. " Which is a sweet dessert wine. Made from Trebbiano grapes, if you're interested."

"And about the ball?"

"I won't tell anyone. I swear."

"That's not what I mean. I mean, have you ever had something like that?"

"A golden ball situation?"

"With a girl."

The texting girl. Minutes ago. I'm grateful. "Yes."

"Who?"

"You wouldn't know her."

A text. It's for Theo. "Shit."

"What?"

"My family. I texted them about it all? So now they all want to meet. At City Bakery, for fair-trade cocoa. My mom, my dad, Fartemis, my grandma. Someone from the New Yorker, probably. Maybe I'm a Talk piece. My mom says that a lot. You know what that is? That's a Talk piece."

"You should probably go," I say.

"Yeah, probably," he says. " Sorry about tae kwon do."

"Whatever."

"I should have told you before."

"You didn't know."

"What other secrets lie in store, right?"

"It is what it is."

He gives me a nickel. We do that when we hear a word or expression that, to quote Mr. Frechette, has led to the "ongoing gang rape of the language of Shakespeare, Milton, and Jennifer Weiner." There's a list, a long one, that we call the Nickel List. It is what it is is on it. As are skill set, farm-to-table, growing the business.

"Say hey to Fartemis," I say.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure."

"Several small ones, actually. I hope it's not too much."

"Let's hear them."

"One's about the Innocence Project. I thought your dad might have some views on the subject."

This is a school thing. We stage fake trials for real people who were executed and whose guilt is in question. Theo and I are defending the Rosenbergs (Donatella Gould and Morgan Blatt), who did or didn't give secrets to the Russians.

"I'm sure he does," I say. "He has a lot of views."

"The second favor involves your dad and George. It revolves around gayness."

"Like how to have sex and stuff ?"

"No," he says. " About when they knew they were gay. Their golden ball equivalent, one might say."

A new text now, for him. As he checks it I think once more of Texting Girl, her flying fingers, the possible smile at me. Then I think, for some reason, about Blake Lively, when she was young, anyway. And I think about jerking off, just last night, to the jacket photo of one of my mom's authors, a lady who writes short stories about her bittersweet colorful childhood on some island, somewhere, but is also, actually, hot. My mom's this big deal editor. Everyone around me is a big deal something. Except George, of course.

"That was Fartemis," Theo says. "To tell me she always knew. Astute, for nine. So you'll ask your dad and George?"

"Sure."

"And there's one thing more."

" Gay-based."

"Is this getting boring?"

"Lord Jim is boring." We had to read it. "So what's the question?"

"Is being gay a choice. Their opinions, of course."

"Have you looked online for any of this?"

"I've been trying something." He tells me this, like a secret. "If there's a thing I want to know, that actually matters to me, I do people."

"Do them?"

"Ask them. I like when someone doesn't know an answer right off, where what they say first is just a start, that can wind up anywhere. Where answers don't end things." He gets a text. It's from Shannon. He shows it to me. The tenth grade has spoken. Now, let us heal.

"But what about you? Do you think it's a choice?"

He says some words, to himself. They're new words. "Gayitude. Gayology. Gaydaism." He finishes his fetus cookie. "I don't know yet. I'm sort of tired. It's been a big day."

And there we are, about thirteen inches apart, when he raises his hand and waves at me, as if he is in a cab that is driving away and is about to disappear. I wave back, and soon he is gone. I remind myself of the other thing that happened today. "Theo's president," I say, "which makes me Secretary of Everything." I head for the 6 train and decide to shake it up by becoming the Blind Guy, this person I invented. You go as far as you can with your eyes shut tight until you hit someone, at which point you have to say, "Sorry, I'm the Blind Guy." It's more fun than it might sound. So I start, and I don't take more than a couple blind steps when I bump into someone. Someone who knows me, it seems, because they say my name.

"Wesley?"

When I unblind myself I see Shannon Traube, crushed by Theo just hours ago.

"What are you doing?" she says. "You looked crazy."

"I had something in my eye," I say. "It was excruciating. In fact, I may need medical attention. So I'd better get home. See ya."

As I turn back for the subway I hear her again. "Wesley? You live that way," she says, pointing east. "One thirty East End."

I laugh, not well; it's as big a dud as the laughing I did with Theo just a few minutes ago. "It so happens," I say, "that I have two residences."

"You do?"

"I've been at my dad's for the last like approximate two months."

"Your dad the gay guy."

I look at her while Theo's questions clop-clop in my head, whinnying a little like horses in front of the Plaza; all the answers he's asked me for. When did you know? Do you think it's a choice? "Yes. That dad. And he's a big deal, too, in gay circles. If you care."

"Whatever," she says. "I'm tolerant. Even about Theo. People are People, is my motto."

"That sort of sucks as a motto."

She sighs. "I know. I'm working on it. My college coach says I should have one, just in case. In another language, preferably. You want to know a secret?"

"It depends."

"Donatella Gould blew Morgan Blatt. Or blows him, actually. It's ongoing."

" Really?" I hear my own voice, piping embarrassingly. Then I lie—"I knew that, of course"—in the deepest voice I have; Chef's voice on South Park; that deep.

"Do you blow Theo?"

Somehow I don't mind her asking; maybe because she seems genuinely interested, like she's trying to figure out a thing bigger than blow jobs. "Actually," I say, "I don't."

She sighs again. "I believe you. Don't ask me why."

There's a ding; it's a text for Shannon.

"Fuck," she says. "My mom. She texts me all day, with potential SAT words. She says if I don't get a head start I'll wind up at B.U., or Bowdoin, or something. And then she'd have to jump from the roof of our building."

"What's the word?"

"Gnostic. G-n-o-s-t-i-c. The g is probably silent?"

We pass the word back and forth, like a puppy you're trying to socialize, when something happens that makes no sense. I have a boner, in the street, while trying to define an SAT word with Shannon. How could that be possible?

"I have to go," she says, as if she senses it, as if she's as alarmed by the boner as I am.

"Me, too. Sorry you lost."

"Oh, well," she says, as she walks away, "tell Theo to bring us together."

When I get to Grand Central I remember something George once said, that every person moving through it has one secret they believe they could never tell. I stand there for a moment, right in the middle of it, and wonder: What would my secret be? Is it something you know, or a thing you discover, but that's been there all along, waiting? And say you never discover it; what then? I worry about these things. I'll ask George; he's the one who brought it all up in the first place.

I hit the street and walk the few blocks west, and I'm glad I do, for just as I get near the theater district it seems all the lights go on. As I head up Eighth Avenue I hear someone say, " Young man?" and I turn to see, unfortunately, a large clown; he holds out tickets to me, which happens at least nineteen times a block around here. All I want is to get home so I can talk to my dad and George as Theo has asked, but I try to be polite to the clown, as he probably has a family and would prefer to be playing Tom in The Glass Menagerie or Tom in The Grapes of Wrath (which I happen to be reading in school), parts George says were his favorites in what he calls the Time of the Toms, when he was an actor, long ago.

"What's it for?" I ask, pretending to be interested.

"The circus!" he says, much too loudly. " Bring your kids!"

"I don't have any," I say. "I'm sixteen." And it's at this point, with a typical ticket giver, that I'd take the ticket and move on, but I can see that this guy is falling apart in front of me. He takes off his wig, and red nose, and tells me he went to Juilliard, where he studied commedia dell'arte, whatever that is. He never thought he'd wind up as a clown, handing out tickets to a circus where the animals are abused and the midgets hunch down to seem smaller. To top it off, he's HIV-positive, a condition I learn is rampant in the clown world.

"That sucks," I say.

"Have safe sex," he tells me.

"I do. Or, in the interest of clarity— I hope to."

He asks if I have a minute, and I nod; I'm not sure why. He tells me he saw the Towers fall and that nothing's been the same, really, since. I'm not sure I believe him, but I have a motto that if someone tells you they saw the Towers fall, then they saw the Towers fall, and that's how it is. Period.

"So that's my minute, I guess," he says.

"You can have another."

"No," he says, putting his nose back on. "This is New York, right? We're all so close. You have to breach boundaries and respect them at the same time. Do you know what I mean?"

"I'd like to think about it," I say, "but I think so." This happens all the time in New York, people on the street saying what New York is, like it was a daily tax you paid to earn your right to be here; I hope when the time comes for me to do that, I can come up with something to say. "And thanks for the tickets." He presses a few more into my hand, and then starts following someone else.

So I turn west on Forty-Sixth, and there it is, Ecco, halfway down the block, five steps down from the street and across from one of the boardinghouses where, some people think, John Wilkes Booth planned the assassination of Lincoln. Even though it's early, people are going into the restaurant, which I'm sure pleases George; people haven't been spending in the theater district since the recession started, and he feels this is sad as in times like these a show and some correctly fried calamari is just what people need. As I come in I see Wally at the bar, George talking to Armando in the kitchen, and Lenny, George's best friend, who owns and runs the restaurant with him, setting out pumpkins and maize.

"Hey, kid," he says when he sees me, "how's the meth lab coming?"

Lenny thinks, given my age, that I must yearn for wry and daring comments from adults, so he's got a few stored up for every time I see him. Lenny's gay, of course, but in a different way than George. Actually the issue, for me, is more about funniness than gayness; Lenny says funny stuff so you'll think, "Wow, Lenny's funny," whereas George does because that's where he is at the moment, and you can choose to be with him there or not. He sees me as he comes from the kitchen and waves, heartily, like he's meeting an ocean liner; it's my second big wave in an hour. I wave back and watch as he goes to greet this lady, Mrs. Engler, who comes in just about every day. She's always alone, and always has the osso bucco, which we're pretty well known for as it's always unusually good. And even though she always has it, she still always asks if it's good today and if it's tender. He says, "Yes," then she says, "Well, I'll trust you this once," as if she hadn't a thousand times before. George says people come to a place like Ecco not for the food but because they trust the guy who runs it, that he'll take care of them and understand, even if they don't, what they need.

He gestures for me to join them. I want to get to Theo's questions, of course, but George must want me for a reason. Diner Relations, I'd guess. We have a deal; I make a little money helping in the kitchen— chopping herbs, crisscrossing rosemary sprigs in dishes of oil, torching the tops of crème brulées for that well-known crackly effect— and George lets me in on aspects of the business, like his trust thing; he feels I have a future in food if I want one. I just need to let him know. And I've never actually met Mrs. Engler before; I've only heard the stories. George has lots, and somehow they're mostly good.

"Hey," George says.

And for some reason I start to speak with an English accent. I don't know why; sometimes I think I'm like forty different people, sometimes not quite one. "Hello, George," I say, then, turning to Mrs. Engler, "Madam."

The English thing seems to really turn her on. "Are you visiting us from England, young man?" she asks.

"This is Nigel," George tells her. "He's my nephew. My sister Victoria married a baronet."

George doesn't have a sister Victoria, nor am I his nephew. But that's our secret. "I hail from London," I say. "In England."

"I adore London," Mrs. Engler says. She beams, chuckles, then cocks her head, like Frances, our dead border terrier, would always do whenever you said the word peanut. "What was it Dr. Johnson said?" This isn't a real question; there are adults— sadly, often my own mom— who ask questions they know the answer to, usually revolving around a quote from some dead witty English guy or Mark Twain. "If you're tired of London, you're tired of life."

"One must agree," I say. "N' est-ce pas?"

She is now officially beside herself with joy. "Well, clearly you've lived in France! Now, tell me, Nigel. Have you tried the osso bucco?"

I take it a step further. I'm still English, but now I'm practicing my American accent. "It's awesome," I say.

We all laugh, enjoying me. "Well," Mrs. Engler says, "I'll trust you both. Just this once! And while you're here, dear, make sure not to miss the Frick." Her salad comes; she sighs, as people do here when food is set in front of them, and starts to eat. George walks me to the bar, nods to Wally, then nudges me, which is my cue to demonstrate something else he's teaching me, the hand gestures, secret restaurant code. I raise a thumb: ginger ale. Snap my fingers: potato chips. The snap used to mean nuts, but we've had to cut corners; everyone has. Wally sets out my stuff.

"So how was school?" George says.

"Thrilling," I say, "when it wasn't enriching. Donald Rumsfeld came and read to us from The Red Pony. And Micah Kinzer saw a black person, and even got pictures, with his phone." I see that Mrs. Engler, probably picturing me walking on some London street, is waving at me; I wave back. " Could I maybe ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"What the fuck is the deal with the Frick?"

"Hey! Excuse me, please?" I'm sort of sorry I said it; I can see he's actually pissed. " Watch your mouth. People eat here. Not many, but there are still some."

"Sorry," I say. "I mean it."

"Not that I have the right to correct you."

"You can. Many do." Which is true; I feel like a spelling test, sometimes, with every word wrong, each part of me circled in red.

"Aren't you home a little early?" George says. He gets a text, says, "Shit," and I do what you do in these situations; I nod to him, and he turns away. The nod; Theo has pointed out that nodding, to give permission to "take this call" or "answer this text," is a key compromised modern gesture. And in this four seconds I have to myself I think that George is right; I am home early. Because I'm never not busy; I'm always working, like everyone I know, to seem more amazing and well-rounded and interesting than I actually am, or could ever be. The weird part is: no one's ever actually said that to any of us. It's more like it's on all our devices, stuffed forever into all of our Clouds; like prune paste in hamentaschen, Theo says. So I do tae kwon do, play soccer, coach soccer, and tutor homeless kids; I'm on yearbook, in the Spanish Club, and in the Bob Dylan Society. And now that Theo is president I'm the entire cabinet, and would be Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff if we had a military. And I enjoy all this stuff; some of it I even love. What I don't love is that I'm not expected to enjoy it; I'm expected to list it. Again, no one has said that, but it's in the Cloud. So when it's time to talk to guys in ties in New England about why they should let me go to their college, my secret plan is to say what I do extracurricularly is text and masturbate, and see where I get in. Wesleyan, maybe; the rumor is they value authenticity.

George is back now. "Sorry. Bernadette." He whispers the word like it's a code name for a spy.

"Bernadette? Is that good?"

"Wonderful," he says. "Even in the wrong role."

"I don't know what that means."

"You don't need to."

"Anyway, you were right," I say, "about my being home early."

"Everything okay?"

I am often asked that. "Everything's fine."

The door opens. Laughing gay guys come in, with scarves, looking like a photograph of laughing gay guys with scarves. They laugh harder when they see George, and wave to him. I can almost sense him start to whir, like one of the Japanese robots Theo's dad collects. George, when he needs to, can be Delightful Guy Robot, or Funny Guy Robot; any kind people need. He's not that way upstairs, though, with us. Up there, he's more just George.

"Hey," he says, "want to eat down here? Armando's got those pork chops you like, with the sage butter—"

"George—"

"—From that green pig farm, where the pig signs a release. And there's burrata, and those potatoes you like—"

"Theo won," I say. He looks puzzled. "The election? It was today?"

"He did?" He high-fives me, which I think he thinks I like; I'm waiting for the right time to tell him I find it vaguely annoying and he doesn't do it right, anyway. "Congratulations, Wes!"

"Me? Why?"

"You worked your ass off for him. You don't give yourself credit, you're hard on yourself—"

"Please don't say what you're going to say next, which is that you don't have a right to say that. Which maybe I don't have a right to say to you. It's just that when you do say stuff, it's okay with me, really, because it's never about finding me basically extremely disappointing. "

"Deal," George says.

"But here's the thing," I say. "I need to talk to you guys, about some stuff."

"Is it urgent?"

" Semi-urgent."

"You sure everything's okay? Should I call your mom, or dad—"

George always wants to know if he should call my mom or dad. "No. Really. I told you about the Innocence Project, right? Me and Theo are a defense team, and we got assigned these guys the Rosenbergs. I just wanted to get both your feelings about them. Did they, didn't they, America, hysteria."

"I just hope you don't want me to say smart things. Your dad's the brilliant genius, with opinions. I recite specials."

"You think he's a brilliant genius?" Everyone says this about him, along with remarks on the extent of his humanity. I'm surprised to hear George say it, though. "Does he think that about you?"

He laughs. "Come on. Would you?"

"You're so hard on yourself," I say.

"Hey," he says, "it's a living. Does your dad know about this?"

"I left voice mails, and I texted."

"I'll send dinner up," he says. "So you guys can have privacy." More laughing guys with scarves come in. George laughs, in preparation; that's a trick of his; he says people always like to think you've just heard something funny, and might share it with them. "Pray for me," he says, as he always does, just before he hits the floor.

I stop him, though. "It's not just school I need to talk about."

"Okay."

"And I need you both. If you can."

Lenny passes, his arms full of little pumpkins, looking confused. "Isn't Ruth Gordon dead?"

"Of course she is," George says.

"She's reserved for ten fifteen," says Lenny.

"You're busy," I say to George. "So—"

"Hey," he says, not letting me finish, turning his back to all the waving guys in scarves. "I'm there."

So I climb the stairs, passing 2A, where the Galligan girls live. They never got married and both have osteoporosis, which George says means if they fall they could snap, like chopsticks. For fifty-six years they've been ushers at the Majestic Theatre, around the corner, where they've never missed a show. In 3A is Henry, who writes children's musicals and is into leather. His sister committed suicide, so he's bringing up his niece, Hannah; my dad went to court to make sure it all worked out. And it did, of course; they had my dad. Hannah screams at Henry all the time; she sort of sucks at bonding, apparently.

And then there's us, on the top floor, the fourth. As I let myself in the first thing I see is that the one light that's on shines on a bowl of grapes, the kind that look dusty but are actually as nature intended. I wonder if this is a not-so-subtle reminder that I have a paper due next week on The Grapes of Wrath, which seems to obsess everyone in my orbit but me. Mr. Frechette is making us read a term's worth of books that will make us better people, as he feels the bitter, sarcastic irony that he often hears from us is something you should only come to in the autumn of your years, to use his words, when you have earned it from your swim in the harsh sea of life.

I take a grape, the kind I hate; with seeds. As I spit them out the phone rings.

"That's Dad," I tell the air, and I'm right.

"Wesley?"

"Hey, Dad."

"Wesley?" he says again; people are always saying my name again. "I got your voice mail. Is everything all right?"

He asks this every day, like he's waiting for something not to be. My mom's the same, unlike Ben and George, who assume things are good unless you bleed or throw up in front of them.

"Basically."

" 'Basically'? What does that— shit, I'm in a bad spot. Hello? Wesley?"

He's sort of shouting now, the way people do in old movies when they're calling long distance. Maybe he thinks shouting makes bad spots good.

"I'm here, Dad."

"So when you say, 'basically,' what do you mean?"

"Well," I say, feeling sort of angry, suddenly, "we're still fighting useless wars, our so-called system is like totally broken, and one in fifty kids in America is homeless." I get like this, sometimes. I can't help it; certain things just disturb me. "So, for the sake of argument, one might say, when I say, 'basically,' I mean—"

"Are you getting shit at school?"

I laugh, in a fairly weary way. "Ha! Why would I?"

He doesn't say anything. I don't know if he's in a bad spot again, or thinking. Then I hear him.

"Because of us. Because we're—"

He wants to say gay. He says gay all the time, when he's talking

about a group of people. When it comes to himself, though, he always stops right before the word.

"I'm okay, Dad."

"You're sure? Because George just called. He said you need to talk, to both of us?"

"I do. That is, if you can. Because if you can't—"

"The thing is—"

"So you can't, then," I say. " Which is good, Dad. I don't mean it's good. I mean it's not a problem."

"Oh, God, Wes," he says, "I hate to ask this, but can it wait till morning?"

What can I say here? It can't? I didn't know how amazing my dad was until I've been here with him and George. It even scares me, a little; how does a person become like that? Was he ever like me, schlepping along, as my stepdad says, foolish and disappointing and finding the world that way, too? In the kitchen I see flowers, vegetables, fruits. George goes to Green Markets. Everyone always knows him. People save things, special little somethings, that they think he'll like. And I think: how does a person become like that? How does a person become anything?

"Wes? Are you there?"

"It can wait, Dad."

"You're sure?"

I don't know how, exactly, but something tells me his phone will die before I can answer his question. And it does; I'm occasionally psychic, about phones. He calls back right away, and because I'm fucked up I let it ring through to voice mail. I'll listen later, to what I'm sure will be an interesting explanation, like the one last week where a crisis broke out on the gay block at Rikers Island and my dad spent the night defusing it; George said he pictured prisoners taking hostages and demanding to see Elaine Stritch, this old actress who comes to the restaurant a lot. The phone rings one more time, and once more I just let it.

And it's okay, because even though I want to keep my promise to Theo I have plenty of homework to do. This means the only tv I'll watch is the scene in The Wire where Jimmy and Bunk check out a crime scene and communicate only through the word fuck; I watch this daily, and always feel better afterward. Then I'll go down to the restaurant to see if I can help out, somehow. And in the morning I'll talk to him and my dad, unless, of course, my dad's needed somewhere. It would be amazing— as amazing as my dad is— if he isn't.

"But that's New York," I say out loud, to George's flowers, and cheeses, and butternut squash. "That's New York."

And then someone knocks at our door.

"Who is it, please?"

"No one." It's George.

"You're not no one."

"Me, then."

I open the door. There he is, holding a bread basket covered with a napkin.

"Focaccia," he says. "It's hot."

"Focaccia! Ah!" I try Theo's knowing laugh.

"What's the matter?"

The laugh needs work, I guess. I should practice. What if Brown likes laughing?

"It's personal," I say. "Thanks for the focaccia."

He doesn't go, though. "You reach your dad?"

"Not yet." Why did I just lie?

"You good?"

That's not like George, to forgo a helper verb.

"I okay," I say, also forgoing the helper verb, because I can be an asshole, sometimes, ha. More than sometimes. I know who I am; I have warts, and all.

"Just checkin'," he says. With no g; unlike him, again. What could that mean? One of my hobbies is close listening; Theo and I both believe in it. How many words are spoken in New York every day, just in Manhattan alone, say? And how many are really heard? Seventeen, maybe. On a good day.

"Okay," I say.

"I'm here."

"Okay, again."

"Just so you know."

He waves. Everyone's waving at me today, like I was someone actually going somewhere. I wave back, then I turn on Jimmy and Bunk. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. The bread is warm, delicious, with little bits of prosciutto baked into it. Which is my favorite. Which George knows.

*