by Sarah Black
John studied his face. “I’m fine. What’s happening with you?”
“Not too much.” Kim was head down into the fridge, looking for something to snack on that did not have a face or a mother. He’d explained to John this was his new criteria for healthy eating. “Can we talk about the couch?”
John crossed his arms over his chest. “So talk.”
Kim stood up and leaned back against the counter. “Okay, you have every right to be pissed off. You told me not to get a new couch, and I did anyway. I know I spent more money on the redecorating than you had planned. What I want to know is if you hate the couch for itself, or if you’re just mad at me for disregarding what you told me to do?”
John sighed. “The new couch is fine. I admit it’s not really what I would have picked out.” He walked over and stared gloomily into the room. The new couch which Kim had been forbidden to purchase was cream-colored Italian leather, a semicircle with a round ottoman that looked like a giant leather polka dot. It was very sleek and modern. He’d purchased some round maple tables in a pale golden finish to go with it, and the rugs on the floor were also round, in various sizes and shades of cream and pale gold. The whole thing looked very… Danish.
“The thing is, four men can easily sit on the couch at the same time, say to watch a movie together. Two men can lay down on this couch at the same time, like if you and the Horse-Lord wanted to lay down together and read books. It’s extremely comfortable, Uncle John. I just wish you would give it a chance.”
“Okay, I’m willing to give it a chance. And I admit it’s very comfortable. With the new rugs and the new tables it looks like winter, 1968, has come to Albuquerque. Peter Max in psychedelic white, not really my style, but I’m okay with it.”
“Peter Max? Winter?” Now Kim had his arms folded. “Holy shit! It’s not white. It’s cream! Big difference in tone and temperature. Okay, so tell me what you think would be the perfect couch. Maybe we can figure out how to meet in the middle.”
John thought a moment. “I suppose I’d like a couch that’s a little… browner. Maybe plaid would be good.”
“Okay, no plaid. I’m sorry, but no. A person would have to be deranged to buy a plaid couch. I will see what I can do about brown.” Kim looked around. “We could add some caramel accents, maybe a throw. I want you to like it.” He sounded young all of the sudden. “It’s really important to me that you like it. If you want, I can split the cost of the new couch with you.” He tried to hand John some cash. “I’ve got $275.00 as a down payment on my half.”
“I don’t want your money.” John stared at him. Kim was Korean, with eyes that always gave away what he was thinking. He was totally unable to keep a secret. John couldn’t help but notice the light in his face, like he was about to start laughing. “Wait a minute. Is this the money you made writing term papers for the students in my Political History seminar?” Kim was grinning now, and he shoved the cash back in his pocket. “Are you under the impression you’re too old to spank? Twenty-three isn’t too old.”
Kim was laughing now. “You don’t believe in spanking. Okay, let me and Billy see what we can come up with. Something browner.” He turned back to the garage. “What’s brown, anyway? Dirt? Gravy? Shit?”
“Wood, you knucklehead. Wood and chocolate bars and Gabriel’s hair, all brown. Oh, by the way. Are we expecting company?”
Kim stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Abdullah’s coming. How did you know?”
“Anything you want to tell me?”
“Nope. Not a thing! Later, Uncle J.” He slipped through the door out to the garage, where he and Billy had a studio apartment. Slippery as an eel, John thought. Something was definitely up.
Chapter 2
MONDAY morning the house was quiet, everyone off to their various schools and jobs, and John was making his weekly to-do list. He wrote haircut under Monday afternoon, because the feel of his hair creeping down the back of his neck was going to start driving him crazy if he didn’t deal with it pronto. One good thing about the army, he thought, not for the first time, was you didn’t have to waste good creative energy on non-issues like hairstyles or clothes. You just got the job done and moved on. Not like Kim, who collected pictures of his potential hairstyles and hung them up on his bulletin board for a couple of weeks while he was deciding on a change. He’d told John he was thinking of doing a “Patti Smith” with his black hair, whatever that meant. John had decided it was best not to get involved and to confine his role to support.
He walked out to the mailbox and collected the few remaining pieces of mail that didn’t come via e-mail, and when he lifted the magazine out of the box, he felt his stomach drop down to his shoes. Oh, no. Was it here already? Out magazine, and he and Gabriel were the cover feature. There was a picture of the two of them, with Gabriel looking dark and handsome in his flight suit, and the caption of the photo said: The General and the Horse-Lord: The Army Comes Out of the Closet.
The interview had been extremely difficult, at least for him, because he was not eager to talk about himself to the young reporter. Every word that he dragged out into the light seemed to be a betrayal of something he valued more than himself. He was careful to gauge the possible impact of his words, and he could see that the interviewer was working much harder than usual to get his story. The young man sent to do the interview was obviously expecting John to give the army a public spanking. He’d wanted juice, he’d wanted stories, nasty details. John doubted the boy could think his way out of a paper bag, and he’d very soon lost interest.
Gabriel had a difficult time with his interview as well, but he seemed relieved and happy to get it done. Gabriel wanted this, or John would never have consented to such an intrusive interview. It had been Kim’s idea, of course, but Gabriel wanted it too. He wanted to live in the light. He wanted their new life together, after a lifetime of hiding what they were to each other, to start out clean.
After the initial interviews, Out had changed their approach and sent a young army vet to do a joint interview. He came with a different perspective than John’s and Gabriel’s, having become an activist while on active duty. He’d paid for it by losing what John knew had been a very promising career. The interview with Brandon Cho had been extremely interesting. John appreciated the man’s intellect and subtle mind, and regretted the loss of his talent in the service of his country. He also recognized very clearly that the loss had been because the man had never had a role model. He didn’t know how gay men were supposed to behave in the army and how to find a reasonable balance between work and private life, the demands of service and the demands of the heart. His own internal compass had pointed him along his path, but he’d been out there alone, trying to find his way. If there was one argument John could agree with, it was that young men needed role models. And if that job was being put in John’s unwilling hands, he could not put it down. There were boys watching him.
He looked down at the magazine cover. Kim’s photograph was gorgeous. He had more raw talent than he knew what to do with. His own face, he was sorry to see, was quite recognizable, and the words on the cover were bright red, very attention-getting.
John walked back into the house and put the magazine down on Gabriel’s desk. He would have to go through the interview again, word by difficult word, and make sure there were no screw-ups between his last review and publication. But he really couldn’t face it quite yet. Maybe he’d go get a haircut.
John had been going to Bud’s for years, and late Monday afternoon was his usual time. It was an old barbershop, with big barbershop chairs that could be moved by Bud to get a good angle, and a tiny TV in the corner playing a ball game, and dusty, faded mirrors opposite a line of mismatched chairs along the wall.
Bud looked up from the neck he was shaving, nodded at John with his usual frown. He’d never smiled that John could remember. John thought his dentures probably made him feel uncomfortable, or maybe he was just a bad-tempered asshole. It could go either way and John did
n’t know him well enough to guess. John took a chair and opened his tablet on his lap. He was working on an outline of an article for Civil War Magazine. People could not seem to get enough of Robert E. Lee.
He got up when Bud waved him over to a chair, but the man’s eyes were on the TV screen. “That’s been running for the last hour.”
John looked up at the TV. It was the local Albuquerque news, and the cover of Out was on the screen. Then they flipped to Gabriel being interviewed outside his office. The sound was down, though, so John couldn’t hear what he was saying. He looked pissed, though, and busy, his tie blowing in the wind and a briefcase in his hand. He must have been on his way to court or a client meeting. John closed his tablet and got in the chair, sat still when Bud wrapped tissue around his neck. “I didn’t know you were one of them.”
John looked up and met his eyes in the dusty old mirror. Bud stared back for a moment, and then dropped his eyes. John sat very still while the old man clipped around his ears and his neckline, dusted his collar, then he paid him his usual, with the usual tip, and walked out the door without speaking.
“I’m going to have to find a new place to get my hair cut,” he said, when he was out on the sidewalk, looking up into the candy-colored sky.
He called Gabriel’s cell. “You in your office? I thought I’d stop by and take you out to dinner.”
“We have something to celebrate?” He could hear the smile in Gabriel’s voice, the smile and the tension.
“Celebrate, commiserate, something like.”
“Sure, come on. I’ve got a few more minutes if you don’t mind waiting.”
“Of course.”
“I always tried not to keep the general waiting. I had my fuel ups and preflight checks perfectly timed so you could just walk out of trouble and into my bird and never even slow down.”
“I noticed,” John said.
John sat in the lobby when he arrived in Gabriel’s office downtown. There were offices for three lawyers and a circular desk for reception and admin in the middle of the floor. One law clerk was manning the desk. He was young, with a complicated hairstyle that John knew Kim would love, and a monochromatic outfit: gray tweed slacks, a charcoal-gray cashmere V-neck sweater over a white shirt and a charcoal-gray tie. When he came around the desk to bring some papers to one of the offices, John noticed he was wearing tennis shoes, also in tweedy charcoal gray.
Gabriel came out of his office escorting an elderly Mexican woman. She had a flowered scarf over her head and a shopping bag full of papers. She had a long-suffering look on her face, something ancient and unmovable. John had the feeling she had brought every page out of the shopping bag for Gabriel to examine during their meeting. He shook hands with her and handed the woman over to the young guy at the desk. Gabriel held up two fingers, and John nodded, went back to his tablet. When he looked back up, the boy behind the desk was studying Gabriel’s long legs and curvy butt as he stood next to his desk. John stared at him until the boy looked up suddenly, flushing, and his face reminded John of a puppy caught making a small mess on the rug. Well, well, well. Gabriel brought a file out to the desk, handed it over with a smile. No wonder the kid was half in love already. Gabriel didn’t smile at everyone like that. John kept his eyes on the boy until he found an excuse to leave the desk and disappear into an office. John thought he would probably hide out until they were out of the building.
“Uh, oh. What’s up? The general looks like he’s doing some calculations.”
This was Gabriel’s code to tell him he looked pissed off, his eyes changing from calm grey to stainless steel. “Nothing. I was just watching your young pup in there stare at your ass. What is he, twenty? Nineteen?”
“I think twenty-six,” Gabriel said, looking down at him with a grin. “He’s a decent clerk, fairly organized, can be charming, and he speaks Spanish.”
“He’s got a serious crush on you.”
“Yes, well, and who can blame him?” Gabriel was laughing now as he took John’s hand and ran it over his flat belly. “But I think you scared him off for good. He probably won’t even take my messages now, for fear General Mitchel will be watching him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Grey. Greyson Pennington something or other. The seventh, I think. Very old school.”
“Give me a break,” John said, and Gabriel laughed. John put his arm around Gabriel’s waist, pulled him close. “I saw you on TV when I was in the barber shop.”
“Oh, shit.” Gabriel stopped on the street, and they stood together for a moment. “Was it bad?”
John shook his head. “I don’t know. The sound was turned down. But I don’t think Bud wants our kind in his barber shop.”
“That fuckhead. He does a half-assed job, anyway. Want me to go kick his scrawny ass?”
“That won’t be the worst of it. Lots of people that we thought… liked us will turn out to not like us so much anymore. Just par for the course. I’m more concerned about Juan.”
“I had to give the tutor an apology and the rest of his contract, to the tune of six hundred bucks, and listen to his semi-hysterical assurances that he was not, in fact, a faggot.”
“What’s Juan going to do if the kids at school get hold of the magazine?”
Gabriel’s chin was sticking out about a mile. “He’s gonna have to stand up and take it like a man. This is absolutely not an excuse I will tolerate for his unacceptable behavior. And if he doesn’t know that already, he’s about to find it out.”
John gave him a little squeeze around the waist, rubbed his hand up and down Gabriel’s back. They had been soothing each other quite a bit lately. “You up for Paul’s?”
“You driving? Maybe I’ll have a martini.”
Paul’s Monterey Inn was an Albuquerque legend among the crowd that liked a decent steak. John slid into the half-round booth and looked around him with a sigh of contentment. “Now look at this place. Why can’t I explain decorating to Kim?”
Paul’s was paneled in knotty pine and had semi-circular high-backed banquettes upholstered in dark avocado green or brown vinyl with bronze studs. The light fixtures were small and tended toward amber glass and black wrought iron. It was dark and quiet and private. Paul’s had been redecorated last around 1976. It was John and Gabriel’s favorite restaurant.
“The couch is okay. I mean, it is sort of white-looking, but it’s comfortable.” Gabriel called the waitress over to the table. “Can you get me a martini?”
“What kind?” The waitress also looked like she’d been at Paul’s since 1976.
Gabriel stared at her. “The usual.”
She gave him a sigh and a hard look, but turned toward the bar. John heard her say, “one martini, two straws.” She had the gravel of 40 years of Marlboros in her voice.
Gabriel looked at John. “What did I just order? What’s the usual?”
“The James Bond classic, I suppose. Olives, vodka, and vermouth. Maybe gin, I’m not sure. I’ve also seen martinis with small pickled onions.”
“We’ll see when it gets here.”
“What made you decide to drink a martini?”
Gabriel put his arm around John, pulled him close in the booth. “Part of my self-improvement plan. I’m going to try one new thing every day. I have an assignment for you.”
“Really? What’s that?” John asked.
“I want you to sit on the new couch.”
“I hate that fucking couch. I can’t believe Kim…. My Navy Federal Visa has a balance of over eight thousand dollars.”
“He knows you’re upset. We all know you’re upset.”
John shook his head. “I gave him the card. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know exactly who he is. I’ll get over it.”
“Why don’t you try it out? Sit on it. I actually thought it was pretty comfortable.”
“We’ll see.”
Gabriel grinned at him, but he dropped it, waited for his martini.
The drink arrived with a small
plastic sword propped along the edge, holding two stuffed olives. Gabriel took a sip, passed it to John. John handed the little sword to Gabriel. The martini was brisk, cold and bright. He set down the glass. “It’s gin, not vodka.”
Gabriel ate one of the little olives and took another sip. “It’s not bad.”
John ate the second olive, took another mouthful. “It’s good,” he agreed. “Not like tequila, though.”
“I bet this thing gives you a wicked headache, you overindulge.” He waved the waitress back over. “Two New York strips, medium rare, two baked potatoes with butter, two salads.”
“Thousand Island, right?”
Gabriel nodded. John wasn’t sure Paul’s had another dressing. The salad was a wedge of iceberg lettuce with Thousand Island on the side.
Gabriel drained the drink, then turned to John. “So, the magazine hit the stands today? Did you look at it?”
John shook his head. “I left it on your desk at home. How did they find you so quickly?”
“Grey came back from lunch with a copy, but it wouldn’t have taken much to find me. I suspect it was somebody in the office. The cameras were outside just as I stepped out of the door to go to court. Nobody else knew my schedule. But that’s not what we should be worried about.”
John studied his face. “What, you don’t think there’ll be reporters at the house, do you? I mean, this is just a flash in the pan. It must be a slow news night.”
“I gave Kim a heads-up when you called me, just so he wouldn’t leave Billy there alone.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re upset,” Gabriel said. “Why? About Bud? The guy’s a dickhead.”
“Not about Bud, not exactly. It’s just he gave me this look, then he hesitated just a moment before he started, like he really didn’t want to touch me. There was so little there, nothing I could grab on to, but I felt it, like he’d screamed some nasty word at me across a playground. I don’t get why I’m upset. I mean, we’re not living in Uganda, for crying out loud. So how come I let this little mosquito bite annoy me?”
