Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  Roger stepped into the train and turned around as I started to follow him. He stopped me with one hand on my chest.

  “What you want,” he said, looking me dead in the eyes finally, “is the D train. This is the C.” He snatched his hand back just as the doors closed, and I was left standing on the platform.

  “This is so not fair!” I screamed at him through the door. Through the window I could see Roger stuffing his earbuds in as he turned away. The train pulled out, the cars slid slowly past, then faster, and then in a blur—and then the train was gone, nothing left behind but the backdraft. An empty potato chip bag whirled down the track after the train. A rat snuffled out and waddled along over the ties.

  Lars.

  The Viking’s name was Lars.

  Chapter 24

  Gym Boys

  Roger

  I was in an English garden on a glorious summer day. The sun shone obliquely, the yellow light of a late afternoon in July. The lawn, the shrubs, the trees around me were all deep, deep green. Verdure, I thought. What a beautiful word, verdure. A dragonfly did his amazing dragonfly thing in the breeze, moving from the sunlight through the dappled shadows. I reached up, brushed some perspiration from my forehead, and—

  —and that’s when the earbud fell out of my left ear, and the magical summer garden—the one that I see whenever I listen to Ravel’s String Quartet in F—vanished, without so much as a poof! I was reminded that I was actually at the gym, tired, hot and sweaty (the perspiration on my forehead had been real) and that I was furiously pedaling on an exercise bicycle going nowhere. As I reached for the earbud, I realized that it hadn’t fallen out—it was dangling from Tommy’s hand.

  Aha! I thought, looking at Tommy. There’s the poof!

  “Talk to me,” he yelled over the noise of the gym. “I’m bored.” He was on the bicycle next to mine, of course, but sitting up straight, left hand on his hip, barely pedaling.

  “You dick,” I said to my dearest friend in all the world and retrieved my headphone.

  Thursday evenings, we went to the gym. I suppose we went because it was the thing to do. We were twenty-something gay guys, and twenty-something gay guys in New York go to the gym. And all the gay guys who want to pass for twenty-something—which means pretty much every gay guy under forty. They all go to the gym—so we go to the gym.

  Jeff, who’ll be thirty next April, runs. Every morning. Blizzard, hurricane, he runs. We go to the gym. I went mostly to keep Tommy company. Tommy had his own reasons.

  “Talk about what?” I asked, still pedaling.

  “C’mon. Your life is way more interesting than mine these days. How’s things with Jeff? How’s things with the other one? How’s things with Jeff and the other one?”

  “Oh jeez. You remember Blossom Palaschak? From middle school?”

  “The one we called June because she was busting out all over?”

  “That’s the one, and the boys used to get into fights in the lunchroom over her?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I’m Blossom Palaschak.”

  “Cool! You’re getting boobages?” he said at the top of his lungs.

  He lives for these moments, I swear. Fortunately, between the equipment noise and the headphones, no heads turned to check out my new rack.

  “No, I’m not getting boobs, and it’s not cool. Mutt and Jeff—they smile at each other, and then they don’t. Then they swap dirty looks and snarl. I’m waiting for the fistfight in my living room.”

  “My, how thrilling! I adore violence.”

  I was beginning to hate this bicycle in a serious way.

  “Is that why you’ve been sullen all week?” Tommy continued. “Jeff stress?”

  “No.”

  “The other one then.”

  “Somehow it’s always the other one.”

  “What’d he do now?”

  “We went out on Monday to buy a violin for Trevor? And it was all fun, I was really enjoying it, and it wasn’t creepy being with him, and then—and then we bumped into an old friend of his. One of his many, many old friends.”

  “Hell’s belfry. Did the guy hit on him?”

  “Yeah, kinda.”

  “And did Fletch…you know.”

  “No. He was actually really rude to him.”

  “Oh. So was this guy from when you two were…”

  “He says not.”

  “Oh. Well. Rog, be fair. It’s not Fletch’s fault that you ran into the guy.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m not sure I understand why you’re upset. I mean, okay, I’m sure it’s a bit weird, you know, when the three of you are standing there, and two of you have both ‘been to the fair,’ so to speak. Both sampled the goods and all. And I’m sure you were wondering if the two of them had done the same things the two of you had done and how did it compare—”

  “And you don’t understand why I’m upset?!!!”

  “Well, yeah, okay, I concede the point. But while I understand that it could be a teensy bit awks—it’s not like Fletch was deliberately trying to rub your nose in it.”

  “No. He seemed pretty embarrassed about it.”

  “And you can’t really be mad at him because he’s not a virgin…”

  “Not a virgin? That’s a laugh. And considering how many of us there are, Fletch’s—whatevers. Fletcherettes.”

  “Fletchlings.”

  “Fletchlings? That’s funny. How long you been saving that one up?”

  “Two years.” There were days when it wasn’t easy having Tommy Radford as your best friend.

  “So, considering how many of us Fletchlings there are, it’s a wonder we don’t bump into each other more often. Face it, we are legion.”

  “I know you don’t really equate yourself with all those one-nighters, do you?”

  “No?”

  “Fletch definitely doesn’t think of you like that.”

  “I don’t know what he thinks. I’ve never seen any evidence that he does.”

  “Oooh. You’re pissed.”

  “I’m not pissed.”

  “You look pissed.”

  “I’m not pissed.”

  Tommy thought about that for a second.

  “You sound pissed.”

  “I’m not pissed! Now shut up, before I push you down the StairMaster.” We pedaled some more, but I missed the Ravel. I’ve got to talk Katrina into playing that piece. But before I could get the earbuds back in my ear—

  “We should get those inversion boots like Fletch had, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  All right then, I thought. Enough of this goddamned bicycle. I got off and put my face in a towel. Tommy did the same, mopping his imaginary sweat.

  “We could have tummies like his,” Tommy said.

  I moved over to the side to do some stretches and cool down.

  Fletch had had this elaborate chin-up bar thing that he had put up in a doorway, and these contraptions he put around his ankles, anti-gravity boots, and he’d hang upside down, and do these like upsidedown sit-ups and twists and things. Hence his abs looked the way they did.

  “Did you ever try it?”

  “The boots? Once.”

  Fletch, of course, could hop up and flip upside down like an orangutan, no problem, but I couldn’t possibly get up there on my own. He strapped me in the ankle things and pulled my shirt off.

  “This’ll just fall in your face,” he explained.

  He bent over sideways, put his arms around my waist, and flipped me so my feet were in the air, and he hung me up there, carefully; then he slowly let go and stepped back. I tried to do the crunches I’d so happily watched him do, but it was hopeless, and I felt sort of exposed, shirtless and skinny with my hands dangling toward the floor. I wrapped my arms around myself
to hide a little, and at least my armpits weren’t waving in the breeze anymore. But if I couldn’t get up there by myself, I sure as hell couldn’t get down.

  “This isn’t going to work, Fletch. Let me down.”

  “Are you crazy? You look so hot there.”

  “Don’t make fun.”

  “I’m not! And now I’ve got you right where I want you.” He came back, put his arms around me, and started humping his crotch against my face. “Oh, yeah, just like that, Dweeb, just like that.” I had to laugh, with my face full of his shorts and what was underneath.

  “Let me down, you jerk. All the blood’s rushing to my head.”

  “Not all of it.”

  He started chewing on my shorts, and what was underneath, and what was underneath seemed pretty happy about the whole thing.

  Eventually he grabbed me, unhooked me, and then there was nothing else for him to do but carry me into the bedroom and throw me down on the bed. And then, well…

  “So you’re not mad at Fletch about this guy in the street,” Tommy said, interrupting my memory and pulling me back to reality—which was that I was standing in the middle of this noisy, hateful gym, covered in sweat, with half a stiffy in my shorts.

  “No, I’m not mad,” I said grabbing another towel. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just disappointed. I mean, that’s really my whole history with Fletch. Disappointment. I start to think he’s better than he is, and then, when I’m reminded that he isn’t, and wham-o.”

  “But he didn’t do anything, not really, and if you think about it, he was the same guy at the end of the day, as he was when you picked out violins together.”

  “And he’s the same guy he was two years ago when he was doing half of New York between the matinee and evening show.”

  “Ah. The sins of the Fletch.”

  I looked at my best friend.

  “Seriously?” Because seriously.

  “I’m not sure he’s as bad as you think.”

  “He’s a total whore.”

  “I don’t think he is. We were out last week, and there was this guy hitting on Fletch, so damn hot, I swear, even you’d have done this guy right there on Broome Street, he was that gorgeous—and Fletch just left him standing on the sidewalk.”

  “When were you out with Fletch?” None of this made any sense to me.

  “Birthday shopping for you.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.” Why hadn’t he said anything? I mean either of them?

  “And didn’t he end up doing this incredibly nice thing for your birthday?”

  Wait. It was just dawning on me—Tommy was on Fletch’s side? Since when?

  “Yes, he did this incredibly nice thing for my birthday, and that’s just it. If he could just be the same self-centered shithead all the time, it would be a lot easier. But he has these moments when he’s really—I never know what to expect.”

  “As compared to Jeff.”

  “As compared to Jeff.”

  “With Jeff, you always know what to expect.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Always always always.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “Let me think—what was your extra-special romantic b-day prezzy from your boyfriend? Hm? An argyle sweater?”

  “Hey, it’s a really expensive argyle sweater.”

  “Will you ever wear it?”

  “Maybe.”

  Tommy arched a skeptical eyebrow.

  “When I’m fifty.”

  “My point precisely.”

  “Speaking of birthdays, I’m going to go before I get any older. I’m reading up a little on teaching.”

  I need to focus on that. On my student. My one measly nonpaying student—but I loved that I had one. I liked saying it. My student. I have to go, I have to prepare for a lesson.

  Forget about Fletch, I said to myself. Think about Trevor.

  “You can’t go just yet. I need your help with some weights.”

  “Since when do you do weights?”

  “Since that guy over on that bench started doing weights about fifteen minutes ago. Did you see those thighs? C’mon, you can spot me for just a couple minutes.”

  “Ask the thighs to spot you. I gotta go.”

  “C’mon, Roger. Be a sport.”

  I was already walking away, so he had to yell.

  “C’mon! I’m not doing this for my health, you know!”

  Chapter 25

  Hanging Out with Fletch

  Tommy

  Fletch’s inversion boots. That reminded me of the first time I met Fletcher Andrews.

  I knew that Roger was going to be stuck in the office late—even in T&E, it can happen. So it had occurred to me that I should hop over to Roger’s and walk the Scotty.

  When I got there, however, the door was unlocked. What the hells? I had my phone out, ready to dial 911 so they could at least hear my final screams while I was being viciously assaulted by the intruder, and, you know, maybe they could play the call on the Channel 2 news: beautiful, young, and tragically still unattached gay man violently cut down in a brutal attack, hear his final words at eleven, et cetera, et cetera.

  I pushed the door open slightly. There was somebody in the kitchen, who stuck his head out over the counter to see who was there.

  Gorgeous blond boy.

  Hel-lo!

  Hair tied back with a bandana like he was the cleaning lady. Not a lot of guys can really pull off the babushka look, but on him…

  Who was he, and what was he doing here? Cooking apparently, judging from the sizzling and the smell.

  Haggis poked his head around the corner and woofed once before he ran back into the kitchen with the blond. Who could blame him?

  But the blond was still an intruder in Roger’s apartment.

  Brought up by my mother to be gracious, and ever conscious of the importance of good manners, I greeted the stranger.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I said, with my thumb still poised to call in the Marines. He reached around, turned the burner off, and came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a kitchen towel from a set I had given Roger two Christmases ago.

  Holy cats, he just got better and better, the more of him you could see.

  “Hi, I’m Fletch,” he said extending his hand.

  I backed away from him.

  “Don’t come any closer, I’m calling the—” Wait a sec. “Fletch? The hotness from Katrina’s party?”

  “Sounds like me, doesn’t it? You’re Tommy.”

  “Yeah, Tommy,” I said, relaxing but still confused. My best friend had said zip to me about having an on-going thing with this guy.

  “I was wondering when we’d meet,” he said. “He’s told me lots about you.”

  “I’m so glad because he’s hardly said boo about you. And like seriously, I would remember if he’d mentioned giving somebody the keys to his apartment.”

  “Actually, it’s worse than that. I sort of—live here—now.”

  “You don’t either. Since when?”

  “Three weeks? A little more.”

  “Get out.”

  “It’s true. Look, he even let me put up my chin-up bar.” He gestured toward the hallway door, where there was this thing that looked like a clothes rack with a couple bars. “So I think it’s serious.”

  “Chin-up bar?”

  “Not just chin-ups. I have these really cool inversion boots—to hang upside down, to do crunches. Great for your abs. I’ll show you later.” He went back into the kitchen. “You know anything about cooking?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. Me either. I’m making dinner. You’ll stay?”

  “I just came by to walk the dog. And you just said you can’t cook.”

  “There was one of those guys on the stre
et with a table full of used books, and he had Julia Child right there on the top for four bucks, and I figured—hey, it’s a sign. And seriously, how hard can it be? It’s chicken in a red wine thing, but I don’t know how to pronounce it.”

  I glanced at the open cookbook.

  “Coq au vin,” I said. “And no cracks, please.”

  “Can you chop mushrooms?”

  “Sure, why not,” I said, pulling off my jacket.

  “Quarter the caps. She’s really specific. You might want to read the recipe.”

  “Got it.” I checked to see what Julia had to say on the subject of mushrooms. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about specific.”

  “The woman knows what she wants. Don’t mess with Julia.”

  “So,” I said, carefully slicing each mushroom stem on the bias, “why didn’t Roger mention having a boyfriend? A live-in boyfriend?”

  “I think he’s a little embarrassed because it all happened so fast.” Fletch was back to the stove where he was browning his chicken. “My fault, ’cause I got evicted. It just sort of—happened.”

  And somehow between us and Julia Child, we got chicken braising in red wine into the oven. The smell was enough to make you cry like a little girl.

  Roger had told me that his party pickup was a vision of hot-nicity, but I hadn’t really imagined Roger had snagged somebody this hot. In gym shorts and one of those loose, sleeveless t-shirts with arm openings that come practically down to the hip.

  Roger, you sly dog.

  If I had a guy like Fletch look at me twice, you’d have seen it on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and the Oberlin College Alumni Newsletter. In ALL EFFING CAPS.

  While the casserole was in and we waited for Roger, Fletch showed me all about the chinup bar. And the antigravity boots. He strapped these weird dealies on his ankles, hopped up to the bar, swung his feet up and hooked the dealies on the upper bar. He fell back, and there he was, 190 pounds of grinning, amazeballs blond boy with his arms hanging down like a chimpanzee. If chimpanzees were hot. His knuckles were on the floor and everything. And then, while I sipped a glass of wine, Fletch showed me the exercises, like sit-ups, only hanging upside down, and what happens to your tummy when you do them.