Out of the Box

by Don Schecter

  “Belts go out of style?” Ben asked incredulously.

  “Sure. Just like shoes. Those white jobbies you wear are dated.”

  Looking for a shirt to wear, Tate was standing in his closet with shoulders back, rippling belly thrust forward. Ben looked at him for a while and decided to comment.

  “Sweetheart, as slender as you are, you’d look a lot better if you stood up straight. Look how your belt slips down below your belly like a fat man’s does.”

  “I stand straight.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t. You stand in a lazy slouch. And if you aren’t careful, you’ll hurt your back.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m very aware of my body.”

  “I’m sure you are, but take it from one who loves you, your posture is poor.”

  They didn’t stay long at the bar. Ben asked for a third Campari and Tate told him he didn’t need another drink.

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve already had two. You’re drunk.”

  Ben looked in puzzlement at Tate. “What are you talking about? You’ve never seen me drunk. I may get high on one drink, but the others simply sustain it.”

  “I can tell when you’ve had too much; you sound different.”

  “You mean I sound happy and relaxed.”

  “Let’s go home.”

  Ben wondered when Tate got a chance to relax since alcohol was off limits to him.

  His easy-going manner gave strangers the impression he’d had a few, but in fact it was a persona he had learned to adopt for the bar scene.

  On the way out, three inebriated elderly men were getting into an old Cadillac which had just been pulled up to the entrance. They watched one of them open the rear door and slide to the ground as though he had lost traction on ice. Ben heard the dull thud of the man’s skull hitting the pavement. Tate swung into action, ministering to the fallen man.

  Ben was more conservative: “Tate,” he pleaded, “What are you doing? This is none of our business. The management will take care of it.”

  “I can’t leave a fall-down drunk in the lurch. I’ve been one of them.”

  As the man revived, Ben fell victim to a strangely inappropriate pang of jealousy: he wished he were the one being cradled in Tate’s arms. Tate offered to drive the three drunks home, but they refused. Slurring his words, the driver told Tate he could manage.

  Ben and Tate drove home, got into bed and fell asleep without further comment. Things had happened during the day, but nothing was analyzed, nothing talked through.

  Fuck all. I lie awake at night and seethe while that bastard sleeps like a baby next to a lover who adores him. But the old goat got him good when he called him a girl! That’s hittin’ him where it hurts. He’s so afraid of showing weakness, and he’s so damned weak.

  He’s such a shithead. I need to get him out of my life.

  In the morning, with Tate’s weight pressing down on him, Ben asked why the television set wasn’t on last night.

  “I thought I would try to please you,” Tate murmured.

  “You do please me,” Ben said, and they got on with their routine.

  Ben mounted some shelves Tate wanted on the wall in the bedroom. Then he rewired the music system and got the CD player working again. He began installing Word 98 on Tate’s computer and, while the computer copied files, they went to lunch with Fred Flintstone at a Chinese restaurant.

  Fred was a jolly man in his late sixties who had an affinity for Tate not born of sex appeal. He had had his share of lovers and was proud to have as a friend so handsome and charming a young man. He welcomed Ben heartily, with not a whit of competitive spirit emanating from him. He seemed sincerely happy that Tate had found someone to love.

  When the bill arrived, Fred, who sat opposite them in a booth, announced he was taking them to lunch in honor of meeting Ben. There were three fortune cookies on the tray and they each selected and opened one. Fred’s and Tate’s were standard issue, but Ben’s fortune made his heart skip a beat: Your search is over. The one you seek is sitting beside you. Ben handed Tate the slip of paper. “Very clever, these Chinese,” Ben said, somewhat bemused.

  They napped, had their afternoon tumble, and Ben completed the software installation. Tate shook his head in amazement. “Is there anything you don’t know how to do?” he asked.

  Ben thought about it. Sure, there were plenty of things he couldn’t do. He worked no magic; it was just that Tate seemed to have little practical experience outside the gym and school: he used his car and computer like most people do, as an operator, without knowing how they work. Did Tate want to hear that from him, that Ben was just like any other man? Or did Tate want reassurance that he could take care of all their problems, and care for and protect him? Ben’s vanity chose the latter path. “Nope,” he said. “Come to think of it, I can do just about anything I set my mind to.” It turned out to be the wrong choice.

  Ben opened the drawer where Tate kept his jewelry. There was a ring set with a ten-carat diamond his benefactor had given him, and several designer watches collected from admirers as gifts. “Why do you need so many watches?” he asked.

  “I love watches. Time is very important to me.”

  Ben extracted the gold rings from their case. “I’ll wear one now, if you still want me to.”

  “Sure,” Tate said, unsmiling.

  They both put rings on.

  4

  At the bar that night it was Ben who went from man to man, showing off his new ring; he smiled almost as much as Tate did. Having known both the good and bad side of relationships in a long and happy life, he made a decision about a future he hadn’t expected would be available to him. Feeling too old to keep up with a youngster, and not willing to repay affection with the burdens of age and illness, Ben had gathered his memories to him and looked forward to playing the field for as long as he was able. Now Tate had dealt him a wild card: a young man loved him who was everything he wanted rolled into one package, so Ben decided to change his future. He suspected they would have many problems of adjustment, but he was sure of Tate’s innate goodness, and the compensations were certainly worthwhile. He daydreamed about having Tate as his companion for the rest of his life, and the prospect was thrilling.

  Morning sex was the very best ever; they were becoming very comfortable, and accustomed to each other’s subtle movements. Ben asked Tate to call his name rather then the impersonal “baby, oh baby,” and he agreed to comply. At tennis, Tate brought a portable radio out with him and blared it from the end of the court. When they changed sides, he toted it along. Ben could barely hear the rock beat across the court, but he made a mental note that he was no longer sufficient to engage Tate’s total attention—the radio was now required. At the same time he saw it as a good sign: they were getting used to each other. They had plenty of time ahead to work out problems.

  While sunning by the pool, Tate’s cell phone rang. In one smooth motion, he rose from the lounge and moved to the other side of the pool to take the call. Ben wondered why this conversation needed privacy when no other had, but answered himself with any number of possible reasons. It was weeks later before he understood what that simple change indicated.

  They stepped into the pool and sat neck-deep on the steps. Ben wanted no stone unturned in their happy relationship, so he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ve had the best time of my life with you. Let’s talk about how we can make it even better in the future.”

  Tate turned a serious face to Ben and answered, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that; I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

  “Make what?”

  “A life together…”

  Ben’s face froze as Tate continued to speak in a controlled monotone. Tate accused Ben of criticizing him twenty-seven times that week, of making fun of him, of not being supportive in his desire to achieve a degree, and of being too self-centered. He went on for a full five minutes before Ben felt he could grasp what he
was hearing. Finally Ben managed to say, “I would understand if you needed more time, if you were saying we should go slower, give it a rest for a while; but you’re telling me you don’t ever want to see me again. Do you mean that?”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean.”

  “But this morning, were you kidding in bed?”

  “No. Sex is great. But I’ve changed my mind about loving you.”

  Ben exploded. “You can’t change your mind overnight! You can’t love someone desperately one day and never want to see him again the next—humans aren’t like that.”

  “It isn’t overnight; I’ve been thinking about it for a couple of weeks.”

  “Then why did you invite me for your birthday? Why did you give me the ring?”

  “I wanted to be sure. As for the ring, I didn’t; you took it. What could I say?”

  “That was the time to bring up the subject, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “To avoid the nightmare of the next twenty-four hours: what we have to go through before your plane takes off. I wanted to keep the last days happy.”

  “You crazy asshole. Just when were you going to tell me?”

  “On the way to the airport.”

  “Confrontation frightens you that much? I don’t believe it.”

  “I look strong, so people think I’m strong. Inside I’m just like everyone else.”

  “Don’t you know I wouldn’t have heard you? It would’ve made no sense to me at all. Don’t you think this is something worth talking about…that needs discussing?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I gave it a lot of thought; I’ve made up my mind.”

  Ben returned to the condo with the ground quaking beneath him. He set the ring on the dresser. On the one hand, he couldn’t believe what had happened; on the other, he believed, but couldn’t grapple with it in a sensible fashion. His only conclusion, which he recognized as a gut reaction, was that Tate had deliberately deceived him. Only that explanation satisfied Ben’s understanding of human behavior.

  Tate came in a half hour later, called out he was going to the gym and would be back in an hour. They ate out as planned, but conversation was minimal.

  “We were going to the bar tonight to see a friend who wanted to meet you. In light of today’s events, I guess that doesn’t work anymore. I’ll go alone.”

  “Drop me off at the movie theater. I need something to distract me.”

  Tate picked Ben up after the film and they climbed into bed together. Ben found it easier not to think about anything at all, and he was sure Tate was doing something similar because the boy was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Ben gazed at the dormant form and found incredible that it was the last time he would view the scene which only that morning he thought might be his forever. The fact that he used the word “might” indicated that in his deepest heart, he hoped some sense would emerge tomorrow or later, and some compromise could be reached.

  Ben was astounded when Tate rolled onto him in the morning. Tate hadn’t made any preliminary motions; he behaved as though nothing had happened. Was he sleepwalking?

  Ben wanted to be indignant, ask him who the hell he thought he was, throw him off forcibly; but he submitted to the warmth with the honest knowledge that he wanted to make love to Tate, even if it was, or more especially if it was, for the last time. Tate climaxed calling out Ben’s name, and that pushed Ben over the top: he cried.

  On the way to the airport, Ben broke silence to ask, “Did you think about how I would feel?”

  “I figured you’d be hurt, but the hurt won’t last long. You have so many guys after you, you’ll forget about me in two weeks.”

  “I don’t think you understand what putting that ring on meant. I was committing myself to you. I’ve never done that before.”

  Tate took his eyes off the road to look at Ben. Then he turned back and said, “You’ll get over me.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe you think so little of yourself. Don’t you see a pattern repeating?”

  Tate’s nostrils flared. He slammed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

  “There is no pattern,” he shouted defiantly. “Each man is different. Each situation has its own reasons.”

  “Then you don’t know what love is. Perhaps what you feel is infatuation. Or you don’t know what you want. A man can’t fall in and out of love as fast as you do.”

  Tate seethed in silence. His next words were, “I’m sorry it didn’t work. Have a nice flight.” He took the suitcase from the trunk of the SLK and they said goodbye by shaking hands.

  Got rid of another one, didn’t we, Tate old boy? In a right fine fashion—smash him down just when he’s flyin’ high. Nuthin like a good kick in the nuts. Do you feel good?

  Has the emptiness inside been filled? Do you feel bigger, better, stronger?

  And why the fuck do I care? You’re as empty a shell as I am, as sick as I am; but I’ve got a plan. I’m gonna get outta this fix. Just watch me.

  5

  Two weeks went by with Ben hoping that Tate would reconsider, realize how much he missed him, and pick up the phone. At the same time he feared that Tate had already relegated him to the parade of discards who, having been tested and found wanting, clamored for another chance. He felt empathy for those men now that he was one of them. The worst part was that nothing was open for discussion. Ben knew the frustration of a man who had been tried and sentenced by a court that refused him the right to testify.

  In the end, he decided, since he was the older and wiser of the two, it wouldn’t hurt him to blink first, so he called. Tate was pleasant and civil. He was now with a gent from Tampa, they were shuttling across Florida on a weekly basis, and he was sure this was the right man for him. Ben offered his best wishes and hoped he would find happiness. He could do this because he didn’t believe for a minute that Tate would ever find what he was looking for until he knew what it was. Tate’s history was against him, and as long as he refused to recognize the pattern he set up with each lover, he was doomed to repeat the same tragedy.

  I got me a buddy who works a bar in Tampa. He knows all about laughing gas: puts it in party balloons and sniffs it up. But for a real blast, you need a mask and a tank. He says he can supply me. Woo-wee! It won’t be long now.

  A month later Ben was delighted that Tate called from an airplane waiting to take him to a new love in Boston. The guy from Tampa was too possessive, and besides, he smoked. Ben wished him luck again and never gave it another thought. An email two weeks later announced that his week’s stay had been extended because Boston was snowed in for three days. By the time the roads were cleared, the love affair had concluded.

  There were short and long affairs but Tate seemed constitutionally unable to learn anything from them. He didn’t seem aware that one could always find fault; he even was able to blame good reasons for bad results. He told Ben that part of the trouble was the good sex they had; no one seemed to give him the same thrill. When four o’clock rolled around each day, he found he missed their afternoon sessions. Ben held his breath, hoping the next words would be an invitation to try again. It didn’t come.

  Almost got all I need, and then goodbye to this thankless existence. That Tate’s a fuckin’ clown. I am so bored by his grand delusions. Always lookin’ for love…all he knows is how to kick lovers in the balls. But I’m gonna end it all, and he can go fuck himself for all I care. He won’t miss me. No one will.

  Ben sent Tate an email for his thirty-first birthday, saying he hoped he would spend it with someone he loved. Tate was moved by the sentiment but oblivious to the reference, and obdurate to its intent. He responded with endearments, telling Ben he would always keep a special place for him in his heart.

  All year Tate politely kept up his end of an email correspondence, which Ben hoped would tie them together until Tate matured and came to understand what really mattered to him. When Ben made suggestions, they were taken as criticism, and engendered an
angry reply. He learned to couch things carefully, and that way maintained the flow of messages. Once, he slipped up.

  Tate wrote: “There’s one thing I never had the courage to say until now. You are too sure of yourself. You have no idea what life is like down here in the pits.”

  Ben laughed and unwisely fired back: “That’s a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Tate responded immediately: “I am NOT the POT! And I don’t want you to write me anymore.” Ben could hear the anguish behind the lines, almost as though they had been spoken. He wondered for a while if he might actually have as much difficulty accepting criticism as Tate did.

  He judged it wise to let several months pass before he contacted Tate again. He waited until it was time to wish him a happy thirty-second birthday, saying it must be clear by now that he was not about to forget him—not in two weeks or two years.

  Tate resumed telephoning every once in a while. Depending on whether he was in the thrall of new love or disappointed over the latest breakup, the conversation might become emotional. In one anguished call he said to Ben, “Will you tell me that you can’t live without me?” Ben paused for many seconds, knowing he could bend truth and get what he wanted, but in the end he decided on an honest response. “I’ve lived without you my whole life; I can surely go on without you. But I can honestly say that my life won’t be quite so enjoyable without you.” That wasn’t what Tate wanted to hear at that moment.

  Nobody loves him, and nobody loves me. Well, the feeling is mutual. ’Cause I can’t love nobody no way. I’m gonna have me a party!

  Tate’s graduation was delayed a semester due to a shoulder injury. The shoulder was painful, so he spent a few days in the hospital, and then was laid up at home. Ben held his breath, expecting Tate to use his shoulder as an excuse not to finish school. He was surprised when Tate followed through, but after graduation he didn’t seek a job. His goal achieved, he seemed to lack a further one; the degree became a dead end for him. He trained for a realtor’s license, and considered trading the SLK for a four-door convertible that would accommodate clients looking for a house. He didn’t work at that either.