Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  “Roger.”

  “Next?”

  “Grande half-caf white chocolate mocha cappuccino, please,” I said. “Extra foam.”

  “Name?”

  “My Boyfriend.” Our Lady of the Lavender Eye Shadow stared at me blankly. “C’mon,” I said, and I waved my finger at the cardboard cup in her hand. “You know the drill. Just make with the Sharpie.”

  The same Sharpie you use for your eyeliner, apparently. I must try that sometime.

  I knew by now that the Siege of Fort Barista was beyond hopeless, but I figured Roger could use the distraction of watching me make a fool of myself one more time. Over the last two months, I’d tried Sweetie-Pie, Snookums, and Honeybunch, so far without much success, although Old Blue Eyes had at least laughed at Snookums.

  Roger and I moved to the side as best we could in the logjam of winter coats. It was like rolling over in a cave full of hibernating bears. One moves, everybody has to move.

  “I don’t think he is,” I said.

  “You don’t think who is what?”

  “Fletch. I get the distinct impression his hoober-hobber is pretty much a no-slurp zone these days.”

  “He screwed Jeff in a toilet.”

  “Appropriate somehow, and months ago. You should think about giving Fletch a chance.”

  “He had his chance.”

  “Another chance, then. Sometimes, Roger, you gotta take a risk.”

  “You know, I’m all in favor of that. But with Fletch, there is no risk. He’s a known commodity. He’s a given. He will screw around. It’s not a question of if but when. He will hurt me.”

  “Ask him.”

  “Ask him what? If he’ll break my heart again?”

  “Yeah! The problem with you two all along has been that you’re afraid to talk to each other. Because I swear, if he talked to you the way he talks to me about you, this whole mess would resolve itself.”

  “Why? What does he say about me?”

  “Ask him!”

  “No. I don’t want to know.”

  “Ask him if he still wants to sleep around.”

  “I’m not going to ask him. I’m—I’m never going to see him again.”

  “Roger, you’re like a whole lot smarter than I am and you always have been, and I have no business giving you advice—”

  “But you’re going to anyway.”

  “Oh hell yes. Your life is not—down the toilet, per se—”

  “Gee! Thanks!”

  “But let’s just say it’s ‘in flux,’” I said, with air quotes. “And in the middle of this ‘flux’”—more quotes here—“you’re making some really, really big life choices, without maybe all the information.”

  “How much more information do I need to know? It was in the men’s room in the basement of the Longacre Theatre during a performance of Medea.”

  If only I had my mocha cappuccino, I would have done a spit take.

  “Aunt Petunia’s Medea?”

  “Aunt Petunia’s Medea.”

  “Okay. Wow.” It was going to take me more than a second to process this. “Hey, weren’t you supposed to see Medea?”

  “Exactly. And why are you sticking up for Fletch anyway?”

  I thought about it for a second. Do I speak up or remain silent? Butt in or butt out? But seriously, he flat-out asked me. If that isn’t an invitation to butt in, I don’t know what is. I mean, technically, it’s not even meddling any more, is it?

  Besides, I’d already said too much, and like I always say—in for a penny, in for a pound cake.

  “Because I’m pretty sure you’re crazy in love with Fletcher Andrews. I was pretty sure you were crazy in love with him the first time I met him, and I’m also pretty sure you’ve been crazy in love with him ever since. I know what he did was terrible, terrible, terrible, but I thought it was a mistake to throw him out the way you did, and nobody suffered for that mistake more than you. But I didn’t say anything at the time because I wanted to be supportive, and that was my mistake, but this time I think you’re about to make another huge mistake, and so this time I’m saying something. I know you’re scared, and you should be scared, and you should make him earn your trust and all that, and you should definitely not put up with a bunch of pointless promiscuity—but don’t assume that he’s necessarily still boinking all and sundry, just because he once was. Because what if he isn’t? Think about that! Because I’m also pretty sure that that beautiful, amazing man really is crazy in love with you, and only you. You have to talk to him.”

  I’d gotten a little worked up, and I had to dab at my eyes with a brown environmentally friendly napkin.

  “He is so right,” said eavesdropping Bimbo #1 over my shoulder. “You should listen to this guy.”

  “I agree,” said Bimbo #2. “You should definitely talk to Fletch, let him know how you feel and shit.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes” was all I could say.

  Roger gaped with horror, like he was waiting for Edvard Munch to come along and do his portrait.

  There he was, the scion of a proud and ancient Yankee family, backbone of New England society since the Mayflower crash-landed on that rock, the product of generations of Puritans, witch-burners, and blue-noses, and he was now faced with the realization that his love life was the topic of a group counseling session in a crowded Starbucks.

  “Jeez-fucking—”

  But before Roger could invoke the name of the unfortunate Louise—

  “Grande latte, skinny, for Roger!” yelled the sexiest barista in the Western Hemisphere.

  “Over here!” yelped Roger, snatching at his reprieve.

  While he shouldered his way through the steaming crowd of black coats, I waited, and I pondered two questions about the immediate future.

  Would Roger take my advice?

  And would my beautiful barista call me his boyfriend right here in front of God and Starbuck and everybody? I could just see his face through the forest of heads. Devastating blue eyes, concentrating. He was finishing it; he was reading the cup; here it comes…

  “Grande half-caf white chocolate mocha cappuccino for—oh for—White chocolate mocha cappuccino for—Tommy!”

  Disappointment writ its name large across my face. I navigated the stormy sea of black, and wedged my way up to the counter.

  “Hey!” I said. Now I was annoyed. “Look. Since you apparently know my name, you might occasionally say, ‘Hey, Tommy, how’s it going?’ or ‘Hey, Tommy, your hair looks really cute like that,’ or ‘Hey, Tommy, stop fucking hitting on me.’”

  “Hey, Tommy, how’s it going,” he said. The eyes were starting to twinkle. “And your hair always looks really cute, and I didn’t want you to stop. It was too much fun.”

  “Serious?”

  “I look forward to it. But I’m not about to call you ‘my boyfriend’—snookums.”

  “No?”

  “Not yet anyway.” It’s possible you remember one of my first observations about this guy, how he could narrow his eyes down to little crescents and look at you kinda sideways in a way that promised a crazy demon in bed? He did that now.

  I died. Right there, I died. I am still literally prostrate on the floor of Starbucks at Forty-Second and Sixth. Mourners may view the body during business hours. In lieu of flowers—

  “I’m Javier, by the way,” he said, interrupting my funeral arrangements. He’s Latin, in case you haven’t noticed, and that J is an H.

  He turned my coffee cup, which was standing on the counter, and there, down the side of the cardboard cup, it said “Javi,” and there was a string of numbers, ten digits, starting with nine one seven. His cell.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” The eyes sparkled even more than usual.

  “Ohhhhhhhh-yeah.”
/>   “Call me. I’m free all week,” said Javi, my Javi.

  “The hell you are.”

  I sidled my way through the shoulders, shoulders, shoulders, back to the door where Roger was waiting outside.

  “And?”

  “Hold this a second—don’t smear it!”

  “What?”

  “This!” I said, pointing, as I keyed the number into my phone.

  “You got his number? Congrats.”

  “His name’s Javi, which is obviously the cutest name in the whole wide world, and he gave me his number, and I’m supposed to call him, and we’re getting married this weekend. Okay, the last bit is a slight exaggeration.”

  “Take your coffee back so I can high-five you.”

  I did, and we fived ever so highly. We made our way out onto the sidewalk.

  “You go on ahead,” Roger said. “I think I’m going to mope around in Bryant Park for a bit first.”

  “We’re late already, Rog.”

  “What are they going to do, fire me?”

  “Good point. And hey, Roger? Just don’t mope for two years this time.”

  “I didn’t mope for two years.”

  “You did, very nearly. And you know when you finally started staggering out of it? The night at the opera. What conclusions can you draw from that, besty?”

  “That Verdi. They sure don’t write tunes like that anymore.”

  The Snoop Sisters brushed past us on their way up Sixth Avenue. The one on the right looked over her shoulder, made the universal symbol for a telephone out of her hand, and yelled—

  “Call that guy!”

  Chapter 41

  Just a Quick Good-Bye

  Roger

  I’d been staring at the violin—in its case—for over a week now. Probably the longest I’d gone without picking up the Mittenwald since…oh, gee, let me think, since the last time I ripped Fletch out of my life.

  I should be channeling all my misery into my playing, I thought. I should tap into my emotions the way I did at the old folks’ home. I’d been trying to re-create that feeling ever since, with mixed success. Here was my perfect opportunity. I was miserable, I should play that. I should pull out the trusty old Mittenwald, throw open the windows, and let the neighbors know the full breadth and depth of my heartache.

  O World, hear my pain!

  But honestly? I’d rather not. I didn’t have the energy, and really—what would be the point? And if I somehow did actually tap into this cold emptiness in my chest—it would probably kill me. Or the Mittenwald. Or both.

  It was just as well. The violin would only interfere with my new hobby—looking out the window. You can see a traffic light from here. It changes colors. There, see, it was red; now it’s green. In a little while it’ll be yellow. Fascinating stuff.

  I kept thinking it would get better, but it had only gotten worse. At first I’d gone to work, but that was useless. I started calling in sick on Wednesday. I’d blown off a quartet rehearsal by email. I’d even canceled a Trevor lesson, which made me feel realllly good and rotten.

  In the days since, I’d only seen Tommy. He came by a couple days ago to throw shoes at me for a while, just trying to get my attention, but it didn’t help. He’d been busy with Javier, who seemed to like him, and I’m glad. But…

  Now it was Monday, and I still couldn’t bring myself to go in.

  At some point in this story I think I’ve said something about how I was over Fletch—that he occasionally crossed my mind, but not in that first-thing-in-the-morning-every-goddamned-day kind of way anymore. Well, he definitely was back in that position now, wasn’t he. And if I were completely honest about it, he’d been there for a while. Certainly since the night at the emergency room. Before that. Since Trevor? Before that. The old folks’ home? I mean whatever happened to me playing Gershwin that day, that had to have come from somewhere.

  But I suppose, really, he hadn’t left my thoughts since I saw him at the opera house.

  So why didn’t he text or something? I wondered. Maybe it was because I’d made it clear that I didn’t want him to. Because I’d told him to go away and stay there. What’ll I do if he does?

  My phone sat permanently on the table in front of me, so it was easy to snatch up if someone did call. Or text. It was also handy to check every two minutes, just in case I had somehow missed a call or a text, which, of course, was impossible because the damned phone was sitting right there.

  And what would I say if he did call?

  “I loves ya like crazy, ya big galoot”—?

  Maybe. Yeah, maybe I would say that.

  If that’s what I would say, then I should call him and say it and stop being such a wuss. Or text him. Or I could put an ad in the personals, like they do in the movies:

  Please come home. All is forgiven.

  But who reads the personals? Tommy and his backup girls said I should call him. And say what?

  “Yep.” That’s how Fletch answers his phone.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “’Sup?”

  “Just chillin’. ’Sup with you?”

  Like as if. But seriously, what could I say to him?

  “Please come back. I’m sorry I ever threw you out”—?

  Or how about—

  “Please come back and you can screw around all you want—I promise not to notice this time”—?????????

  Because that’s what it came down to. Sure, Fletch said he loves me, and maybe he even meant it, and Tommy said that he thinks Fletch is just as nuts about me as I am about Fletch, which is all just swell. But does any of this mean that he isn’t going to pull his boxers down for the next casual acquaintance or total stranger who looks even mildly interested? And let’s face it—everybody’s interested.

  That’s what Fletch does. That’s how he is. Why would that change?

  That was the killer.

  The knowledge of that certainty was the paralyzing venom that had seeped through me and left me here in this fetid apartment, unable to do more than walk my dog a couple times a day and contemplate the profundities of that goddamned traffic light.

  Compounding my overall depression was the incredibly annoying realization that I had let this happen. Again.

  After the first cataclysm with Fletch, I’d sworn—I would never put myself in a position where someone could do that to me again. I would never let another guy have that kind of power over me. And here I was. Worst of all, it wasn’t even another guy. It was the same guy!!! How stupid was that???!!!

  Fool me once, blah-blah-blah. Fool me twice, just hit me with a speeding taxi, why doncha.

  And what was I doing now as demonstrative proof that I’d finally learned my lesson? I was staring at my phone like a crazy person, because maybe, just maybe—

  BUZZZZZZZ. Not the phone—the door buzzer.

  I jumped about a mile, and fuck fuck fuck, I banged my shin on the coffee table. From the way Haggis was barking, you’d think the frigging Loch Ness Monster was humping his way up to the door.

  Jeezus Lou-eezus, that hurt.

  Wait—the door buzzer?

  What if it’s Fletch, I thought.

  It’s not. Of course it’s not. It’s-not-it’s-not-it’s-not. Don’t start hoping because it’s not, I scolded myself, you know it’s not, and it will kill you when it isn’t. You want this way too much. It is not Fletch.

  But what if it is? I hopped one-legged to the intercom and pushed the button.

  “Yes?”

  My voice cracked. It occurred to me that I hadn’t actually spoken to anyone in a couple days, not even to Haggis. I sounded like an oboe.

  I stood in front of that intercom, a giant bubble of aching hope—just waiting to be obliterated when it turned out to be UPS.

  “It’s me.”

  OMYGOD
it really was Fletch. It is Fletch. I slammed the buzzer with the heel of my hand. Ow.

  The dog immediately stopped barking and started spinning. Jeez, Hags, you’re worse than I am.

  I ran to the mirror, I plucked at my hair, I straightened my t-shirt. I’d slept in this t-shirt. Twice. I tucked my nose inside the neck hole and sniffed. Oh-jeez. I ran to the bedroom, pulled off the shirt, grabbed a fresh one, and then went on to the bathroom, where I shoved a toothbrush and some toothpaste in my mouth for like five seconds before I spat and wiped my chin.

  I looked in the mirror. It was completely hopeless. I looked like hell. I had bags, I hadn’t slept, I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t shaved, and I’m not one of those guys who look hot with stubble.

  There was a soft tap, tap on the door.

  Deep breath.

  I flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

  “Hey,” I croaked. I couldn’t remember eating a great big hunk of bow rosin, but apparently I had because that seemed to be what was stuck in my throat. “Come in.”

  “I know I’m not supposed to be here but I needed to drop some stuff off for you and I was going to go to your office but you didn’t answer your phone and the security guys wouldn’t let me in. So I called Katrina to see if I could leave the stuff with her but no, she told me I had to come over and give it to you myself. So here I am.”

  “Katrina made you come over.” Figures.

  “Otherwise, I would never have come, I swear. Hey, you okay?”

  “Yeah, me? I’m great, I just—yeah. I just needed some—you want some water? Or—something?”

  “No thanks, Dwee—Sorry. I won’t be long. I asked because—you called in sick and all. And you don’t look so great.”

  “I look like dog barf.”

  “Prit-tee much.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So—are you sick?”

  “No. Probably. I don’t know.”

  Fletch hesitated. I could see the conflict in his face—Concern v. Caution. He was worried about me, but there were boundaries. Boundaries I had set. Fletch was scared of me. And I guess he should have been. In all of Fletch’s rough, brutal life, with its poverty and abandonments, cruelty and unhappiness, probably no one had hurt him as much as I had. I was such a miserable human being, the lowest—