Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

“So you gave up that marble bathroom?” asked Marco, pulling me out of my funk. “All onna conna one dirty look from Roger?”

  “Prit-tee much.”

  “Tha’s messed up, Bro.”

  “Prit-tee much.”

  “Of course you can crash here for a while, but…”

  “I’ll make a few calls. I know a girl who’s going into the Kinky Boots tour who was looking for an apartment sitter.”

  “Well, make yourself at home, my man.”

  “Thanks,” I said and flopped onto his bed.

  “I have to go downstairs and gut some fish.”

  “Lucky fish.” I started pulling the shirt studs out and yanked the shirt off. It had some little puke spots on it. Charming. “I’m going to try to sleep for a bit.” I kicked the pants off and added them to the heap. “And then I have to see if I can pull some ushering slots. I have to start earning an honest living again.”

  “If you say so. Steal some clothes if you need to. And keys,” he said, pulling a set from a hook by the fridge and he tossed them to me. “I don’t have any plans for later, so, if you want, we can fool around some if that’ll cheer you up.”

  “Not today, bro,” I said. I pushed my head under the pillow.

  “Suit yourself. You know where the porn is.”

  I groaned.

  I never thought I’d say these words, but the last thing I wanted to look at was some guy’s…

  I heard the door close.

  Alone, with my head under that pillow, I thought about the irony of it. Twenty-four hours before, I’d been on top of the world. My life was golden. Now it was garbage. All “onna conna” Roger.

  So obviously the thing to do was to keep as far away from Roger Prescott as humanly possible, right? I’d gone two years without crossing paths with him—I could easily go another two, right?

  And yet, pressed under that pillow, all I could think was—I need to see Roger.

  For what? I asked myself. Explain things? Yeah, I was doing it with the smelly, old rich guy, but don’t think less of me, okay?

  I pulled the pillow tighter. Maybe I’d suffocate.

  I should clarify—I’m not one of those sappy pansies who cries at the drop of a hat. Honestly, I didn’t think I could cry. I never had—not even as a kid, not that I could remember—which was just as well because where I came from, crying could get you into some serious trouble.

  But alone and under that pillow—for the first time in my life—I wished I could.

  Chapter 6

  The Morning after the Opera—

  On the Avenue of the Americas

  Tommy

  Roger and I were standing on line at the Starbucks across the street from work on Sixth Ave., the same as every other weekday morning.

  Like so many things in New York, the morning ritual at Starbucks was, for me, a love/hate thing.

  I hated it because the place was tiny and mad crowded, and everyone was so effing rude.

  Rude is like a badge of honor in New York. It marks you as belonging here. If you’re polite, you must be from out of town and therefore insignificant. If you’re cheerful, you’re less than insignificant and probably insane. If you’re downright chipper, someone will likely push you in front of a bus.

  Only if you’re complaining will you get taken seriously here, I swear.

  Of course, listen to me—complaining. I’m starting to fit right in.

  But I also loved this little trip through what was otherwise Starbucks hell because of—drum roll, if you please—the barista boy! I was seriously crushing on the new kid behind the coffee counter. I didn’t know anything about him, not his name, nada. As in nada damn thing. For all I knew, he was straight, but I didn’t think so. What I did know was that he had wavy dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. And really, who needs to know more than that, I ask you? With some guys I swear you can just tell from the shape of his eyes that he’s a raving maniac in bed. You know, narrow eyes that go kind of crescent-shaped and get that teasing sparkle thing going when they smile at you sideways? This one’s eyes were odee wicked. He was delicious, and he was mine, goddamnit. Not very tall, but then I’m not very tall either. So clearly, we were made for each other.

  “Hey look!” I said when I saw the menu. “They have those awesome pumpkin-spice things again! I love pumpkin.”

  “You know there’s no actual pumpkin in there, just nutmeg,” Roger said. “And it’s probably artificial anyway.”

  Man, he was in a mood. New York was rubbing off on him. It’s not as though we had stayed at the Met Gala until the wee smalls, because we hadn’t.

  “I totally don’t care,” was my devastating retort. Of course I had a pretty good idea what was bothering him.

  “By the way,” Roger said, “in case it comes up in front of Jeff—Katrina gave you the opera ticket, not me.”

  “You didn’t even offer it to Jeffrey?”

  “He’d have wanted to go! He’d have thought it was a chance to network. He doesn’t get the music thing at all.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You understand music lots more than Jeff. I told you, I took him to that little recital at the Frick, forty-five minutes long…”

  “And you said he wrote e-mails on his phone the whole time?”

  “And then got all huffy when somebody asked him to turn his damn phone off.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I don’t take Jeff to things anymore.”

  “Too bad about him, then.”

  The line had moved up so we were now in front of the glass case, at least as far as the pumpkin bread, pumpkin scones, and pumpkin cream cheese muffins.

  “It’s not really Jeff’s fault. He just doesn’t get it. And besides, it was more fun with you.”

  “It was fun, wasn’t it. Until he-who-must-not-be-named showed up.” I watched for his response. He looked down at his phone. I wasn’t sure how he was taking seeing his ex, not to mention seeing his ex with somebody else. All I knew was that two minutes after seeing his ex, we were walking down Broadway to the Columbus Circle subway station at warp speed.

  The line inched forward.

  “He looked amazing in that white tux though, didn’t you think?” Roger made a noise, but God only knows what it meant. “Of course Fletch would look hot in a burka, so we have to hate him.”

  “Why was he even there?” Roger said, annoyed.

  We took another a step forward and were even with the marble loaf. Almost to the cashier.

  “I’ll get my own today.” Normally Roger bought because he was an atty. making piles and piles of the cold hard, and I was a measly admin. asst., and didn’t.

  “O-kay,” he said slowly with a quizzical look.

  Fine, he could look quizzical all he wanted. I had this idea—all right, I’d stolen it from somebody’s Facebook page—but it was genius, and I wanted to try it. I was just sure this trick would finally get my barista’s attention.

  All right, so I’m an optimist. My mother says I’m cockeyed, but I don’t think she means it like it sounds.

  “Skinny latte—grande,” said Roger.

  “Name?” asked the girl at the counter with waaaaaaaaay too much eye makeup.

  “Roger.”

  He paid and moved to the side as best he could through the shoulder-to-shoulder horde of miserable people, all jonesing for caffeine. It was also hot and stuffy. Think black hole of Calcutta—with smartphones and attitudes.

  “Grande pumpkin-spice extra-foam cappuccino, please,” I said.

  “Name?” asked Miss Maybelline.

  Are you ready for it?

  “My darling,” I said.

  “My darling?” She looked up at me. Each of her freakishly long fingernails had a little teeny-tiny jack-o-lantern on it.

  “That’s right. Just put
‘my darling’ on there.” I waggled an index finger at the cardboard cup in her hand.

  And she actually scribbled it on the cup—after making just an oh-so-subtle face and rolling her eyes up into the violet eye shadow. I hope your face sticks that way someday, you great effing muppet, I thought. I smiled at her sweetly and paid.

  “Love your nails,” I lied.

  “Thanks,” she said and gave me my change. I bet she could gut a bear with those things. I crabbed sideways through the bodies over to Roger.

  “I guess he was there with Darwin Stewart Harrison,” I said, answering his last question.

  “What?”

  “Why Fletch was at the opera gala. He was there with Darwin Stewart Harrison.”

  “Oh, yeah. That guy must be like fifty.”

  “He’s also rich. And famous. And he uses Tony Awards for doorstops.”

  “And he’s fat. And all those rings on those fat fingers?”

  “You’re not jealous.”

  “Of course not, not at this point. I’m just—it’s just that—I never thought of Fletch doing that. I mean really, a sugar daddy?”

  “Grande café latte skinny for—Roger,” yelled the cutest barista in all of Manhattan.

  Ohmygod, it was my turn. Would he say it? Would he laugh? Would he say how incredibly hot I looked today in this green silk sweater that really set off my eyes?

  Probably not.

  But just to hear him refer to me as “my darling,” that would be worth it.

  And maybe it would distract Roger from his whole Fletch funk.

  “Grande pumpkin-spice cappuccino for—for my darling,” said my sloe-eyed beauty. From clear across the shop he was looking right at me. How’d he know it was me? He could maybe smile a little.

  I pushed my way through the sea of shoulders.

  “Thanks,” I said. I reached for the cup, but he was still holding it, not letting go—which meant ohmygodohmygodohmygod our fingers touched. He looked at me blankly. Those eyes. Pitterpat, pitterpat. Be still, mi corazón.

  “Nice try,” he said. With that he let go of the cup and went right back to work.

  Well, da-yam. What did that mean? Nice try, keep trying? Or nice try, douchebag? Did that mean he liked it, that he thought it was funny? Or was that like straight-boy talk for go fuck yourself?

  I pushed my way over to the napkin thingy, where Roger waited.

  “I guess I’m just disappointed is all,” said Roger.

  “I’m mostly confused. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My barista boy!”

  “Oh, yeah, I heard, cappuccino for my darling. Smooth.”

  “I touched his fingers.”

  “That’s progress, I guess.”

  “But the way he looked at me…”

  “Good?”

  “Not so much.” I pushed the door open, and we were out on Sixth Avenue in the fresh air. All things being relative.

  Roger and I worked at the same law firm, by the way, Goodkin Berdann & Dunkel LLP, and no, Roger didn’t get me the job. Roger was an attorney but still way too puny to pull any strings, even for his besty. After he got the job, I applied as legal secretary, lied lied lied about my experience, and voila! I got the job on my own, totally bogus, merits. “So what were you talking about?” I asked.

  “Three guesses.”

  “Ah. Something that rhymes with—Fletch.”

  “Bingo.”

  We threaded our way through the morning rush, the usual tourists and a construction barricade to get to our building.

  “Can I tell you how much I hate this?” said Roger.

  I assumed he was talking about the sidewalk congestion and construction, because that’s what I was thinking, but he went on.

  “I can’t believe Fletch is back in my head again. I’ve wasted way too much time and energy thinking about somebody who’s basically nothing more than pretty eyes and a penis.”

  We were inside, and we waved our keycards at the security gates.

  “Yeah, but they’re really pretty eyes.” I said as we waited for the elevator.

  “And don’t even start me on the other thing.”

  “Ummmmmmmmmmm,” I said, wagging a finger as we and thirty-two other charming New Yorkers squeezed into the elevator.

  Ah, don’t you just love this town? It’s sooooo glamorous.

  Chapter 7

  On the Sidewalks of New York

  Fletch

  So there I was, minding my own business, leaning against a building on Sixth, and if I just happened to be directly across the street from Roger’s office building, it was a complete coincidence. And if I just happened to have been here yesterday at this same time, likewise.

  At least yesterday, Wednesday, was a matinee day. I could tell myself that I was just in the neighborhood, that I had an excuse to be in Midtown, that the theatre wasn’t far. Okay, it was two avenues over and six blocks up. It was still walkable, so I clung to my totally lame excuse.

  I had been really lucky to pick up a schedule back at the Gershwin, and I was defying gravity all over again at Wicked. Seemed like old times.

  Anyway, that was yesterday. No matinee on Thursday, so today I didn’t even have that laughable pretense.

  I was just there. Just ’cuz. Onna conna, as Marco would say.

  It was lunchtime, and Roger would come outside sooner or later. And I could wait. I just wanted to see him again.

  That’s not a crime, is it?

  Well, yeah, I suppose, after a while it probably is.

  So why am I here? I kept asking myself. What did I want?

  I wanted to see him again, but why? We’d had a thing, and I messed it up, and that was long ago. I’m not really the sentimental type, know what I mean?

  Let me be really straight with you. My life hasn’t been all sunshine and roses in the morning dew.

  Confession:

  I don’t believe in love.

  I’ve seen a lot of crap in my life, but I’ve never seen anything, outside of the movies, to convince me that love is real. I believe in sex, yeah, obviously. It’s been a major hobby of mine. I look around, and I see sex all over the place, and people doing really stupid things because of it. Just look at the Daily News any day of the week. But I’m convinced—what people call love is just your gonads lying to you so that you’ll give them what they want. And something else I’ve learned going through life with these pretty blue eyes wide open:

  Gonads are fucking fickle.

  The next time they get a bright idea, bam! Those little fuckers have got you convinced you’re in love with some other jerk, and before you know it, you’re making all kinds of promises that you’ve already made to somebody else—promises your gonads have no intention of keeping to this new person either—but you’ll say anything to get those little bastards whatever it is they want.

  So:

  I don’t believe in promises.

  That’s what I think. And:

  Monogamy is an even bigger swindle than love.

  Monogamy is easy if only one person is asking. But for me, since I was a teen, the world has been pretty much like a gigantic all-you-can-eat buffet, and I’ve been able to take my pick. Young, hot, buff. Actors, models, dancers (Broadway and ballet). A completely drop-dead gorgeous baseball player at the start of his Major League career who shall remain anonymous—no problem. When Disney on Ice comes through town, man-oh-man. Let me tell you, those boys have moves. And there’s a lot of ’em!

  And it’s like that buffet is already paid for, there’s no check at the end. At least not until Roger, and then—well, yeah, there was a terrible reckoning, and I guess—since I was standing around on Sixth Avenue with a cardboard cup of cold coffee in my hand—maybe I was still paying.


  I had ruined something, something that should not have been ruined. And I’d hurt someone badly who truly deserved better.

  That was my only experience with “Relationships” with a capital arrrrrrrr. It had been a total disaster.

  Conclusion:

  I don’t believe in relationships either.

  In spite of not believing in promises, I promised myself to stay clear of relationships no matter what.

  And yet.

  And yet there I was, loitering, lurking, like a TV detective.

  What was wrong with me?

  Twenty feet away, at the corner, waiting for the light to change, the strawberry blond in the blue suit—sweet. The lanky bike messenger in spandex with the obligatory Brooklyn scruff—total sex, with amazing hazel eyes, and he was clearly digging me. For cryin’ out loud, the UPS guy in the little shorts was completely built and a frigging ten on anybody’s scale. And instead of looking at them, I was staring at the front of an office building, hoping to get a glimpse of somebody who was not a model, not buff, not something off the cover of GQ, but who was just—Roger.

  So the first question I had to ask myself was, Was this—whatever it was that I was doing here—just part of one of those little lies your gonads like to tell you to get you to stick your doober wherever they’ve decided you should be sticking your doober?

  Or…

  Was this maybe something else, something that I didn’t actually believe in?

  A deeply disturbing thought.

  And there he was. Roger, coming out the revolving doors. And Tommy, of course. And there they went. Down the street.

  They walked into the sunlight as they crossed Forty-Second. That mess of curls hanging over Roger’s forehead shone a little in the sun. And then they slipped into the lunchtime crowd of Bryant Park.

  I could have followed them, but—hey—I had to draw the line somewhere.

  I wasted how much time—for that?

  Further to my earlier line of questioning:

  Was I just being a brat all of a sudden? I had had something, I had lost it, but now that it was clear I couldn’t have it, I had to have it. I needed it. In fact, I’d go frigging crazy if I didn’t get it.

  Is that what this is? I wondered.