Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  “Oh.”

  “So who are you, and why do you have Roger’s dog?”

  “I’m—I’m Roger’s boyfriend.”

  Whoa. Hadn’t considered that possibility. A boyfriend. I’d just assumed—what? I guess I’d just assumed—self-centered, arrogant asshole that I am—that poor, lonely Roger would be waiting for me, pining for me, and not moving on to somebody else. And yet here was the somebody else. I’d have to rethink.

  But if this guy’s the boyfriend, I thought, why was Roger going to the opera with Tommy? Where was this dipwad when the fat lady was singing her fat little heart out?

  I stood to look at him more carefully—and I made a discovery. Okay. There’s pining, and there’s pining. The guy is tall, blond, has blue eyes…

  “Of course you’re the boyfriend!” If you were going to cast somebody to play me in the movie, this would be the guy.

  “Hey,” said the Fletch type, a little embarrassed. “We—we’ve met before?”

  “I think so,” I said, enjoying his discomfort.

  “Nobody else needs to know about that, do they?”

  I squatted back down to the dog.

  “I don’t know,” I said to the dog. “I’ve never been very good with promises.”

  Then I saw Roger walking toward us. You know how Haggis reacted when he saw me? That’s exactly how I felt seeing Roger coming across the park in the sunlight. I felt my heart flip over in my chest. I just wish I’d had the guts to run across the park and make an idiot of myself the way that Scottie did.

  Roger was completely focused on the two soft-serve ice cream cones he was carrying. In a striped t-shirt, jeans, and Adidas, he was—you know—just another guy out a on a warm afternoon, and at the same time he was—breathtaking.

  “They only had vanill—”

  Even behind his sunglasses, I could see the moment he recognized who was scratching his dog.

  “Fuck me.”

  “Which one of us are you talking to?” I asked. “Because Haggis here’s been neutered, so that leaves only…”

  “Fletch,” said Roger. “What are you…”

  I stood up to look at him and pulled off my sunglasses to see him better.

  Poor guy. I had bushwhacked him twice in just a few days, and if there’s one thing I know about Roger—he doesn’t like surprises.

  “Hey, Dweeb. You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

  “Um—thanks. You’ve met Jeff?”

  Poor Mini-Me was standing there, looking sort of bushwhacked himself.

  “You could say that,” I said. “Hey Jeff.” We shook hands. “I’m Fletch.”

  “Jeffrey Bornic,” he said.

  I’ve spelled it right, but that last c is pronounced like a ch, so it rhymes with—well, nothing, really.

  “Wait,” said Jeffrey Bornic. “You’re—Fletch? That Fletch?”

  He looked to Roger.

  “I don’t know, Roger, am I that Fletch?” I was enjoying this.

  “You are definitely that Fletch.”

  “Well, then, I suppose I am. So, Jeff—”

  “Jeffrey actually. Nobody calls me Jeff.”

  “Roger just did.”

  “Besides Roger, I mean. Roger calls me Jeff.”

  “I’ll bet he calls you Fletch sometimes, too,” I said.

  “I don’t either!” Roger snapped. Bull’s-eye. “What are you doing here, Fletch?”

  “I was just in the neighborhood, and I saw a Scottish terrier that reminded me of Haggis, because it turns out he actually is Haggis. And then I wanted to know what ratbag loser had stolen Haggis, and the ratbag loser turned out to be Jeff—rey—and now here we are.”

  “Okay, it was nice bumping into you again but—”

  “Like at the opera the other night.” I turned to I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-Fletch. “Did Roger tell you we’d seen each other at the opera a few days ago?”

  “No, he didn’t in point of fact.”

  “No?” I knew it. “What a pity you couldn’t be there, Jeff. Really glorious music—in point of fact. Roger’s boyfriend, I’m sure you must be crazy about classical music.”

  “Actually—”

  “It wasn’t all that much fun, Jeff,” said Roger. “Starlets flinging glasses of wine left and right—”

  “That Verdi,” I said. “They sure don’t write tunes like that anymore. You should eat that ice cream, Dweeb, before you end up wearing it.”

  He looked down at his hands, dripping with melting soft-serve.

  “Here,” he said, shoving a cone at Jeff almost angrily.

  “Um, thanks.”

  Roger tried to lick carefully around the ice cream—he was always fastidious. He ran his tongue slowly around the base of the ice cream, first in one direction, and then in the other. He nibbled some of the white cream off his index finger with his lips. He had absolutely no idea. Completely oblivious. He could have sold tickets—it was like the hottest sex show in town. He noticed me—and then Jeff—staring, and he looked at us, smiling, embarrassed.

  “What?” he said, not getting it.

  There was some ice cream on his bottom lip still—which he realized and his tongue slipped out and licked it away.

  “I should go,” I said, clearing my throat. I dropped back down to Haggis and used the silly voice. “It was soooooo good to see you tooooooooo,” I said, rubbing my face on top of the dog’s wiry head. I stood. “Nice to meet you, Jeff.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  I had extended my hand—but Jeff was awash in dripping vanilla. I smiled and pulled my hand back. A little wave would have to do. I turned to Roger.

  “It’s really good to see you, Dweeb. We should get together some time, and catch up. I’d really like that.”

  He pushed back the curls from his forehead, while he was thinking how he was going to tell me that he wouldn’t really like getting together to catch up—but before he could say anything, I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. He didn’t see it coming. Me either, to be honest. It was totally spontaneous, but damn! I was so glad I did it.

  Especially with Jeff behind me, watching, dripping.

  “Buh-bye!” I waved and walked away.

  It was all I could do to keep myself from skipping like a six-year-old.

  Chapter 10

  Grooming Lessons

  Roger

  Sunday. I practiced all morning, and now the only plan I had for the rest of the afternoon was for me, the dog, and the grooming table. Too bad about Haggis. The wire coat takes a lot of brushing out. Even with a ton of conditioner, it pulls. Sorry, buddy.

  A No-Jeff day. That sounds terrible, that I should say something like that, like it’s a good thing, but I occasionally need some time.

  Jeff is at a different firm and a couple years more senior than I. He’s also in litigation, which is a very different world. His workload can be really awful.

  One of the great advantages to being in Trusts and Estates is that there are very few real crises. Your clients are either healthy and not expecting to die—I mean, who does?—and you have all the time in the world to do whatever; or they’re dead—and in that case you have even more time. It’s only when somebody’s on his deathbed that things get hairy, and for that only Katrina will do.

  Not so in litigation. They have deadlines—real ones—all the time. Complaints to file, briefs, motions, affidavits, discovery, God knows what all. Most of Jeff’s practice is in advertising claims law. That’s where somebody’s ad on TV says their antacid works twice as fast or that their detergent will get your whites whiter, and Jeff’s client feels that in actuality, their product produces the whitest whites—Jeff (and his firm) to the rescue. The other side will produce a study showing that their whites are whiter, and Jeff will argue that the study is flawed and that his client
has their own study proving conclusively that their product will get your whites way whiter, blah-blah-blah. And all of this adds up to a mountain of billable hours.

  If you’re thinking this is a gigantic waste of time and money when there are starving children in wherever, you’re not alone. But I don’t say that to Jeff. He didn’t choose it; it just sort of worked out that way. And you can scoff all you want, but Jeff just bought the apartment below his and is turning it into a gigantic duplex.

  Honestly, I don’t know how he does what he does. If I’d gotten stuck in advertising claims, I wouldn’t have lasted a week. Of course, it wasn’t as though we in Trusts and Estates were exactly working on the side of the angels, helping the affluent stay that way.

  Anyway, it isn’t an antacid ad that’s the cause of my No-Jeff day. No. Today is Sunday, and on Sunday God created that most sacred of things, the holy of holies—professional football. I won’t see Jeff on a Sunday until after the Jumbo Bowl or whatever it is they play in February.

  Jeff doesn’t get music; I don’t get sports. So we’re even.

  Haggis, you get these terrible mats in your little armpits. Hold still while I snip this out.

  I mostly went into Trusts and Estates because people told me to.

  The clients are all über-rich, and it sort of helps if you come from that kind of background. And yeah, I come from that kind of background. My dad’s family hasn’t got all that much, but my mother’s family is ridiculous. Are you impressed I went to Harvard? My great-great-grandfather endowed a building; they had to let me in.

  Hold still. I don’t want to nip you.

  And, of course, the family could always use a crackerjack trust attorney.

  At the office, the assumption has been that I should be good at this because I know how to talk to people who went to the same kinds of schools I went to, who know the same people, who know my grandparents, blah-blah-blah. And—although it’s never been said out loud—I know the firm is also thinking about the people who would like to know people like my family.

  I’m bait.

  I’m supposed to be hustling some new über-rich clients for them, which in theory makes some sense, but in reality, I’m too shy to hustle anybody, a fact my law firm and Katrina are slowly beginning to grasp. If I were only good at the hustling, nobody would mind that I stink as a lawyer—but alas.

  Trusts and Estates. The only thing I’m missing is the pearls. There are a lot of women in T&E, and I swear, they all wear pearls, genuine or otherwise. It’s like a uniform, the mark of gentility. Genuine or otherwise. Tommy thinks I should get some pearls too, like the other girls in the department. As he points out—pearls go with everything.

  So today it’s the dog and I. Which is good. It calms me. Tomorrow I’m having my monthly lunch with my father—an event that always stresses me out a little. I don’t know why. I truly like my dad. But still…

  My father is also an attorney, senior partner at his firm. That’s part of the reason he makes me nervous. He’s such a good lawyer, and I—well, not so much.

  In my defense, I’d like to point out—this whole lawyer thing? It wasn’t my idea.

  But the dog is terrific. I depend on him more than I like to admit. He’s not really big on displays of affection, and neither am I. It’s enough for me to have him in the same room. If I’m watching TV or reading or whatever, he’ll climb up the little Haggis stairs to sit next to me.

  He centers me.

  Like my violin—he seems perfectly suited to me.

  After the Fletch fiasco, I cannot imagine what I would have done without him around. Haggis was companion, teddy bear, furry hot-water bottle, and tissue box.

  We’ve been through a lot together.

  But today, lots of brushing, now a little trim, and then I just have to wash the conditioner out. I groom him myself because I took him to a groomer once and my beautiful Scottish terrier came home looking like a schnauzer. So, instead of changing his name to Hansel, I Amazoned some clippers and taught myself. And I enjoy it. If you stay on top of it, it’s no big deal.

  It used to stress me out. I would let it go for weeks—big mistake. And then I would stare at this dog, this mass of matted fur, a great black shrub. He would look more like a Scottish cow than a Scottish terrier, and I couldn’t imagine how I was supposed to cut something out of that mess that would end up looking like the Monopoly dog. And, of course, if you make a mistake, you get to take your lopsided dog around the neighborhood for the next six months while your mistake grows out. So I would stress, and I would stare at him for like half an hour, paralyzed, overwhelmed. I didn’t know where to begin.

  And then eventually, I would. Begin, I mean. I’d start cutting somewhere, sometimes one end, sometimes the other, sometimes in the middle. Once I’d started, it was just a matter of evening things up.

  It took me a while to stop stressing out, but then I realized:

  It doesn’t really matter where you begin, so long as you do.

  Profound, isn’t it? I should get it printed on a t-shirt. It seems to me I should be able to apply this lesson to other aspects of my life.

  No idea how.

  Okay, Haggis. Bath time.

  Chapter 11

  Help Wanted: Dog Walker

  Fletch

  It was crazy, I knew, but I could no more stop myself than the lemming who’s standing on the edge of the cliff saying, “Hey, guys, are you sure about this?” No, there was no choice, I had to jump. I had set things in motion, and I had to follow through. And—as bad as this idea was—it was better than standing across the street staring at Roger’s windows.

  Besides—the neighbors were starting to notice. The six-foot-two blond was not exactly inconspicuous. Sooner or later somebody was going to call a cop.

  So. A few days after seeing Roger in Chelsea Park, I was standing on the stoop in front of his building, with my usual shoulder bag and a big bunch of gerberas from a little Korean market. I was pretty damned sure that this was not just a bad idea but a truly disastrous one. My sweaty hand reached out for his buzzer just the same. This little lemming took a deep breath, yelled, “Geronimo!” and pressed the door button. I could hear the distant eruption of terrier fury from above. I smiled.

  Roger’s voice came out of the little speaker by the door. “Yes?”

  “Hey. It’s me.”

  “Fletch?” He was understandably surprised. The barking had stopped.

  “Yep.”

  There was no buzz. After a few seconds:

  “What do you want?”

  “Just buzz me in, Dweeb.”

  “Stop calling me that,” said the tinny little voice.

  The door buzzed, I pushed my way in and bounded up the two flights. Deep breath. I knocked.

  After a second the door opened. There he was. There was Jeff, too. That was okay. I was prepared for that. Jeff was sitting on the couch, watching one of those singing competition things on TV. Poor Roger.

  “For you,” I said and stretched out my hand with the flowers.

  Haggis was spinning around in circles in front of me.

  “Flowers?” he said, taking them. Roger I mean, not Haggis.

  “Hey, Barka-Lounger,” I said, squatting to Haggis, who was beside himself.

  “Hey, Fletch,” said Jeff, standing to greet me, and he mercifully muted the girl wailing that song from Dreamgirls.

  “’Sup, Jeff.” I stood up.

  “Why?” Dweeb asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why flowers?”

  “Because I never gave you flowers when I should have. It doesn’t make up for anything, but I saw them at a little green market, and it seemed like the thing to do.”

  “Well—thanks,” he said, as he went over to the kitchen counter to put the flowers in water.

  “I’ve got something for
you too, Jeff.” This was shameless, much worse than the flowers even. It was another spontaneous idea on the way over, and once it was in my head, well, you know how it is. I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out a Yankees baseball cap. “There was a guy on the street selling these. Here, try it on.”

  Jeff was more perplexed than ever. He turned that hat over in his hand, a little suspiciously, but then he shrugged.

  “Go Yankees.”

  “Go Yankees,” I echoed.

  And he tugged the cap on—backward, of course, because, you know, Jeff “In-Point-of-Fact” Bornic, he’s so gangsta. And vanity being what it is, he immediately checked his reflection in the mirror by the door.

  “I liked them so much,” I said, “I got one for me, too.” I pulled a second, identical cap out of the bag and tugged it on—also backward. I stood next to Jeff and turned to Roger. “How do we look?” I bent my knees a little bit so I was the same height as Jeff. “Eh? What do you think?” I pointed from Jeff to me and back and turned to our reflection, smiling affably at the two matching blondes in the mirror. “Brothers?”

  “So not funny, Fletch,” Roger said.

  “I’m just sayin’. So tell me, Jeff, like, who’s your dad?”

  Jeff snatched the baseball cap from his head and pressed it against my chest until I took it.

  “What? Don’t like that one? Wanna trade?”

  Nobody quite seemed to be able to rise to the humor of the moment, but I couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Let me just say,” said Jeff, “A, because you and I are both tall and blond doesn’t mean anything; B, from what I understand, you and I are nothing at all alike; so, C, your little joke is more annoying than funny; and D——I’m going to go, Roger,” he said over my shoulder, giving up.

  I guess he didn’t have a D. after all. “I’ll see you…”

  “I’ll text,” said the voice of the gerberas.

  “Does he always number his paragraphs like that?”

  Jeff was getting his jacket from the hooks by the door and picked up his briefcase.

  “Lawyer-speak,” said Roger.

  “You don’t talk like that.”