I Am Not Myself These Days (5 page)

M
aybe I could do what you do?” I say to Jack.

“No, period. Way, period,” he replies between slurps of ruby red borscht.

“It says the next correspondence will be from their law firm.” I'm rereading the letter I had gotten this afternoon for roughly the thirtieth time, trying to find a loophole.

“They can't kick you out for at least a year. New York City laws are all written in favor of the tenant. I know people who haven't paid rent in more than five years,” Jack says.

The idea of people mooching off their landlords for more than a half decade deeply offends my inner-midwesterner. Of course my situation is different. I make money; I just don't make enough to pay my full rent. I have just barely enough cash flow to pay my half of the monthly bill, and even if I never ate or drank (shudder), I still wouldn't have enough take-home pay to cover my deadbeat roommate's half.

“Is Tempest even looking for work?” Jack asks, moving on to a plate of pierogis. We're at what's fast becoming our favorite Polish diner in my East Village neighborhood. I'm so nervous about being evicted I can't eat.

“Unless he's looking for it facedown in the laps of random cabdrivers, no,” I reply. My roommate has a thing for having sex with most every penised person he comes across.

“That's inexcusable,” he says.

“Not having a job or blowing cabbies?” I ask.

“Both. Because he's not getting paid for either.”

When I got this job in New York five months ago, I wasn't confident enough to come to the city without a roommate. When I first saw
Miracle on 34th Street
as a child, I knew there was an apartment overlooking Central Park with my name on it. But then
Welcome Back, Kotter
got me worried that I'd have to take an elevated train covered in graffiti to get to it. Eventually, after watching
Fame,
I realized that I might just be scrappy enough to get by if I learned a heartfelt song or two and wore the right leg warmers.

But when the opportunity to move to New York finally presented itself, I froze. Atlanta was the first real city I'd lived in, moving there right after college in Michigan. And although I'd lived in Atlanta for only two years, I was pretty much Queen of the Hill, living in a little rented pink cottage in Virginia Highlands. I had my first advertising job, was doing my weekly drag show, and had a close circle of new friends. One of whom was my now-roommate, Tempest.

When I first met Tempest, he was going by the name “Piddles.” Tempest had a different name every month or so. Soon after “Piddles” he became “Sarge,” then “Charm,” then “Grit”—each new name came with an appropriate story. One night, my group of friends and I were trapped inside our favorite club waiting out Hurricane Opal, which was raging outside. Crystal Cox, the emcee of the club's drag show, was giving periodical weather reports from the stage. She'd just finished a joke about Opal having passed through Alabama, causing “forty-five million dollars' worth of improvements” when the lights went out.

No one was quite sure what to do next. The hurricane was growing louder and more violent each passing minute. Without the club's music, we became aware of the heavy rain lashing against the outside of the building. What we thought was a heavy bass beat moments earlier was now revealed to be a near constant rolling of thunder. A huge crash startled everyone as something very heavy blew onto the roof of the club. No one had any idea what to do next. Going home, either alone or with whoever was grabbing your ass in the pitch black, was quickly ruled out as the hurricane audibly gained strength.

In the midst of this turmoil, Tempest grabbed a candle off the bar and headed up to the stage. Most everyone in the bar had their shirts off, since the air conditioner had gone out with the power. Tempest's skin was so pale he seemed nearly translucent as he held the candle to his chest. As he passed, it seemed as if one would be able to see the flickering candle glowing right through him. His bright red hair glinted like flame itself in the strobing emergency lighting.

He took the stage, and in the faint pool of candlelight surrounding him, he began to sing an a cappella version of “Stormy Weather.”

Why I thought I'd be more secure moving to New York with a man who changes names more often than his sheets is a question only five or six vodkas can answer. And after a mere four months in the city, my folly was apparent. I had yet to receive even one month's half-rent from him. Since I was the one with the stable job, it was my name that had to go on the lease. And subsequently, my name on the threatening eviction letters.

“I can give you some money,” Jack said through a mouthful of pierogi.

“Thanks, but I'll figure it out. My birthday's coming up—I'll ask my parents for cash.”

“Do you want to stay in my place while I'm gone?” Jack asks.

Hmmmm. Let's see. A two-bedroom penthouse with marble baths and rooftop pool? Or a shared studio apartment in a building with hallways that are permanently infused with the scent of rancid sausage and Chinese old lady pee?

“Thanks. But I'm afraid they'll move my stuff out if I'm not there,” I say. Actually, I'm afraid that Tempest will sell my things for club money. “When do you come back? Tuesday?”

“Tuesday night. Late. I'm going to give you a key. I'd love to have you home when I get there.”

Jack's heading to Dallas for a long weekend at a circuit party. A certain subset of wealthy gay professionals travel around the world from circuit party to circuit party simply to get high, dance, and have sex. One of Jack's clients goes to every single one, and has hired him for the entire weekend. Fourteen thousand dollars and all expenses paid.

“I already told the doormen to let you up whenever you come by,” Jack says.

I don't say anything. Maybe it's the stress of my apartment situation, or maybe it's because I'm worn out by being either drunk or hungover every day for the last several months, but suddenly I'm extremely tired and have nothing more to say.

“Hey. Don't let it get you down,” Jack says, acknowledging my exhausted silence. “This is part of what it means to be a New Yorker. There's not a single person who's come to this city in the last three hundred years who hasn't spent at least one day worrying about where he was going to sleep that night. And no one's kicked you out yet.” He hands me a set of his keys. Even his keys feel more luxurious than my keys.

“Thanks,” I say. “Don't worry, I won't come by till Tuesday.”

“Come by whenever you need to, blubberhead,” he says. “That's the point of me giving them to you.”

“Do you think we might be able to fuck when you get back?” I ask.

We've had this particular conversation almost every day for the last month. I haven't gone this long without sex since I came out of the closet. I'd like to say the same about him, but I'm there every night, and I hear his pager go off and see him head out to satisfy some stranger's urges. Sometimes I'm still there when he comes back and I smell someone else's smell on his skin.

Typically the conversation goes something like this:

Truth be told, he probably has the right idea. The longer we wait the more I fall for him. I can't think of anyone else who can coerce me into denying myself something I want. Here's a guy who can tell me when I've had enough to drink, and that I shouldn't have sex at the drop of a hat with him or random strangers, and for some reason, I actually listen.

It's not like I've been craving a Svengali in my life. Plenty of people have tried to get me to straighten up, sober up, whatever. It's just that at the end of the day, I don't want to end that day with the sort of people who urge others to straighten up. I want to end it with fun people. Fun people who don't want the present day to end until it's the next morning.

But waiting for Jack is, for some reason, perfectly okay with me. It feels kind of safe. A comfortable sense of inevitable gratification has been settling over me since the moment we met.

I open a packet of crackers and crumble it into the little bit of borscht he's left in his bowl. I pick up the bowl and slurp directly from it. Loudly.

I pretend to be oblivious to the obnoxious, wet sucking noises I'm making. I look up to see him staring at me.

“What?!” I ask him, mock-annoyed.

“Dickweed.” He smiles at me.

I
drop my keys onto the sidewalk for the second time. I try to laugh it off so they think I'm just clumsy and not realize that I'm so drunk and high that I can't hold on to a set of keys.

Miraculously, the keys find the hole, jiggle the exact perfect way. I try holding the door for them. The door is too heavy. I can't keep my balance on my heels and stumble back into the row of mailboxes. I cover by breaking into a quick jog to the elevator.

“Elevator's slow,” I slur. “This building is crap. Not bad rent, though. The owner is on the
Village Voice
's top ten worst landlords in New York City.”

I should stop talking so much. I'm just illuminating how drunk I am. They'll go away. They won't fuck me. I'll be alone. I'll be stupid and ugly and unfuckable.

The elevator arrives. One of the boys puts his hand out to hold the door back.

“After you,” he says.

“Do you have anything to drink?” the other one asks. He's a bit shorter. Both are good-looking. They are brothers. Twins? Can't remember. I think they might have said they were twins. They don't look like twins. Similar, but not twins. Didn't one mention something about playing basketball at some college? Duke? Some place down South. Both had their shirts off on the dance floor. They came up and sandwiched me on top of the speaker I was dancing on. God, I hope Tempest isn't home. I can't wait for Jack anymore. It's too much. He doesn't even have to know. After being chaste for over a month now, I want these two like I've been in prison for years. Actually, at least in prison I would have had plenty of action. Fuck Jack. What the fuck do I owe him anyway?

“Yeah, I think I have some vodka. And maybe some scotch or rum.” Thank God they want more to drink too. Now I won't have to sneak sips out of the bottle in the freezer in order to keep going. Not too much more vodka, though. I need to get up in, what? An hour and a half? What time is it now? five thirty? The gig finished at five, I talked with them for a bit, had another drink, then walked home. Maybe it's six-ish. Did I walk home? No. Couldn't have. The Tunnel was twenty blocks away. Was I in a cab with these two? Try to remember. How did I get in the elevator? Did I press the floor button? Yes. I did. It's stopping. Sixth floor. Home.

“You got a lot of other wigs and stuff?” It was the shorter one again. Fuck off, you little faggot, I think to myself. I don't really want to spend the evening playing dress-up for these guys. I've spent the last six and a half hours in drag entertaining a room full of Long Island club trash and the very,
very
last thing I want to do is teach him how to put on makeup. I just want to drink a little more and fuck. The taller one looks at me over the shoulder of his brother and smirks. He's not going to play with lipstick and pantyhose. He wants me. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

“Here we are. Home. What do you want to drink?” I ask.

It's a mess inside. Every surface is covered with wigs, costumes, shoes. The only thing missing is Tempest. Thank God for small favors. Clothes from my day job are thrown in a pile on the kitchen table and chairs. In just two hours I'll need to pick out a vaguely matching pair of pants and shirt from the jumble and go to work. Jack's flight back from his circuit party job in Miami is probably just now touching down at LaGuardia. Screw him and his “I want you in my bed when I get home.” For what? More cuddling? I won't be sober until after lunch. And then I'll be useless the rest of the day. Useless except that hopefully I'll have an entertaining story about the two brothers I took home and slept with the night before. Everyone at the agency will laugh at my forthrightness and lack of shame, and congratulate themselves that they are liberal and creative enough to have a drag queen to count among their acquaintances. And I will clean up the story a bit so that I was not quite so drunk, and not quite so unsafe, and I will wallow in their attentions and convince myself that they are jealous of my life, and then I will do it again tomorrow night and the next night until I am dead.

The shorter one has already picked up a dress off the floor and is slipping it over his head. It's black Lycra with strands of glittery thread sewn throughout it. He's pulling off his jeans and he looks incredibly stupid.

“You look great,” I say. “Beautiful. Honestly. Here, take a wig. There's all the makeup you need in the bathroom. On the back of the toilet. It's over there.” I just want to get rid of him so I can have a little time with his brother.

The taller one has gone into the living room, which is really just a small area partitioned off from the kitchen by an armoire I found on the street, which is further partitioned off into my bedroom of sorts. He starts playing with the stereo. I remember—happily—that he asked for a drink, so I fill two mismatched glasses with vodka, taking an extra swig straight from the bottle, and take them into the living room. I can barely walk and need to lean against the door frame.

“Do you have any rock?” the tall one asks.

“I don't do that,” I reply. Should I offer the blow I have in the kitchen instead? No. I need that for tomorrow night. I won't have any chance to sleep until Saturday.

“Do you mind if I take off some of this costume?” I ask. It's that weird moment. Does he want to have sex with me the drag queen, or me the boy? And do I really care one way or the other? At least he wants to have sex with me. Fuck Jack.

“Yeah, sure. Do whatever,” he says.

Thank fucking God. The beautiful vodka haze blocks out most feeling, but no amount of alcohol can block the pain from the corset forever. The oppressively hot skin-tight vinyl costume is so soaked with sweat that my clammy dehydrated body chafes with every tiny movement and I thank fucking God that I can take it all off. Please let me be able to take off most everything without falling over.

So far so good. I lose my balance slightly while taking off my pantyhose, but that seems completely understandable, right? It's tricky. I balance against the armoire and take another swallow of vodka. Is this robe sexy enough? Does it ride the line between looking like me-the-guy and me-the-drag-queen he brought home? I hope that my makeup is covering any stubble grown through the night. My grateful untucked dick starts getting hard. I'm proud of this and remember the time one guy told me that even though I'd blacked out from drinking an entire bottle of vodka, I'd never lost my erection the whole time I was having sex with him and his two friends. I'm a champ. A great sport.

The taller one seems a little nervous now. No. Don't. Don't run. Don't. Leave. Me.

The shorter one comes in from the bathroom. He's wearing one of my other wigs. Its platinum shine looks completely out of place against the dark skin of his face. He makes a faggy spin to show off, and swivels his hips as he walks over to his brother. He's seducing his brother. It becomes clear from their easy familiarity with the scene that the taller brother has been having sex with the shorter brother for probably their entire postpubescent lives. I realize slowly, dully through the vodka muddle in my brain, that this is their life story. And I realize that it should be very sad, but I think that it's kind of sexy, and wrong, which makes me want to be a part of it even more. If Jack can beat the crap out of old men for money, then I can be part of a threesome with two brothers. The older one sips at his drink and peers at his brother seductively.
This is his normal
.

“Touch each other,” he says very seriously, nodding at his brother and me.

And the younger one reaches over and brushes his hand across my bare chest under the robe. Suddenly, even though a second ago I was repulsed by the sight of this feminine boy, I'm now sucked into his world of wanting to do anything to please the taller, sexy brother. Even if it means taking part in some crazed pseudo–lesbian transvestite sex show.

It's hard to stand. I reach to caress him back, more than anything to keep my balance. My hand grabs his crotch through the dress. It's hard and huge and I think that maybe he's hot after all, and the room is spinning a bit and I've reached that point where between every action I take and the time I register what I'm doing is a moment of slow motion lag, and I'm not going to be able to stay upright much longer, and I lean in to kiss him to try to steady myself and my sloppy lips meet somewhere near his nose and he pushes me with all his strength into his brother and I hear the taller one scream.
“FAGGOT! YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!! DON'T KISS MY BROTHER, FAGGOT! I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!”
Why is the femme boy laughing?

CRACK.

And the light, the bright fucking light, and I am on the ground and the taller one is punching quick, sharp punches to my head. Is he hitting my face? I'm pretty sure he's hitting my face. And my head is full of pressure like when I used to swim to the bottom of the deep end of the pool and I see him—
actually see his fist hitting my eyes
—and I can't figure out why he's hitting my eyes and
FAGGOT FUCKING FAGGOT
and how can somebody be punching my eyes and yet I can still see the fist? And his knee is now pinning the side of my head to the floor, which is good because he can't quite get any more straight-on face punches, and I see the younger one grabbing my bag—my bag with the two hundred dollars I made from the club—and wigs and clothes off the floor and he turns up the stereo, why is the stereo so loud? My ear is smashed against one of the speakers and then the older one is up and kicking me in my back and I curl up with my arms over my head and he kicks the back of my head
STUPID FUCKING FAGGOT DUMB ASS FUCKING FAGGOT FUCKING FAGGOT FUCK YOU!
And he grinds the heel of his sneaker into my ear. And they are leaving. And they are gone. And they are gone.

 

I need to be at work soon.

The dull gray pink light of morning is starting to slither down the eight-story airshaft and sickly ooze into my apartment. The carpet under my nose starts to heat up slightly in the sun and smells of spilt vodka and hairspray.

Jack is probably just stepping into his penthouse and realizing that it looks exactly like he left it. I'd never been there, and wasn't going to be in his bed when he walked into his bedroom like he had asked me to be. I let him down. And he let me down. He wasn't here to stop me when I needed more than anything to be stopped.

I stand up and go into the bathroom.

I look at my face.

I decide to tell people at work that I was mugged. I decide that there's not enough time between now and the time I need to be at the agency for the bruises to darken enough and the swelling to rise up enough for the public sympathy I know I will need to get through the day ahead.

I take the nail scissors on the sink and slice an even line down the side of my temple. Blood. Nobody can refute the importance of blood.

It feels so clean, the drop on my cheek. It's so much brighter than what's left of my makeup.

In my head I'm replaying what it felt like to have the boy standing over me punching me. Every time his fist connected was a relief. A puncturing of façade. A blister lanced.

I lay on the bathroom floor and I masturbate.

 

“Why don't you pick up your goddamn phone?!”

Laura's standing in my doorway. Her office is four doors down the hall. Apparently she's been calling me. I've been ignoring the phone, assuming it was Jack calling, wondering why I wasn't at his apartment when he got home.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” she asks.

“I got mugged,” I answer.

“Idiot.”

Only Laura would blame someone for getting assaulted. Then again, only Laura would correctly guess that it actually had been my own fault.

“They followed me home from the club and mugged me when I got to the door,” I say.

“What'd they get?” she asks.

“My purse.”

“Was your money in it?”

“Makeup, drugs, money, and several phone numbers of cute boys,” I say.

“Your loss…cute boys' gain.”

“Bitch.”

My face has swollen nicely. I got into work early, since sleeping seemed anticlimactic. I had been planning my dramatic walk to the coffee machine since my arrival. I wanted to time it for the maximum size of audience. Probably about nine forty-five I figure, since advertising hours begin a little later than most workplaces. In lieu of sleep, pity would keep me going today once the drunken buzz had worn off.

I keep thinking about Jack, wondering how badly I'd messed things up with him. It was probably smarter just to ignore him. Let him call a few times, ignore him if he showed up at any of my shows, slowly let the whole thing die away. My normal process. It'd worked with dozens of guys I didn't like; why wouldn't it work with one I did? I could feel the pulsing throb in my left cheek.

“Your eye looks pretty grim,” Laura notes.

“It'll go down,” I say.

“You smell like scotch.”

“FYI Matlock: I was drinking vodka,” I say.

“Maybe the muggers were drinking scotch.”

We were supposed to be concepting new ideas for Independence Life Insurance. Actually, we were supposed to be done concepting and getting ready for the presentation two days from now. We'd had the assignment for over two weeks and hadn't even sat down together once, except for lunches and the matinees we would sneak away to see. We were probably the creative team most competent at procrastinating. Our misfortune was that we also generally came up with the agency's winning idea at the last moment. The other teams had already presented their ideas internally last week and were already busy storyboarding.

“I was thinking that maybe there's an idea in their acupuncture reimbursement program,” Laura begins, settling into a chair.

“Can't this wait until later?” I plead. “I'm in obvious trauma here.”