Mitchell’s Presence
Monday, December 10
Arthur stood in front of the bookshelves of the megastore and wondered, yet again, why he was even here. The annual Christmas gift exchange at work had seen him, yet again, draw the name of someone he didn’t even know. What was he supposed to get for some twenty-five-year-old secretary who handed him his messages every day?
He perused the shelves, trying to think like a woman in her twenties. Romance? Mystery? Bubble bath? Arthur moved over to the section with candles, trays, date books, agendas, leather-bound diaries. I need a drink!
Arthur had never really liked Christmas, having always subscribed to the theory that “the holidays” were nothing more than a way for the conglomerates to fatten their pockets. He knew this for a fact since the advertising for Christmas began earlier and earlier each year, and, by the fact that those poor fools who did buy into all of the fuss seemed to get more and more vicious each year. But, Arthur was nothing if not cooperative, so he would smile, blurt the necessary greetings and be on his way, rolling his eyes and counting the days until everything would be back to normal: people walking, working and paying for all of that cheer.
“You look a little lost.”
Arthur snapped out of his sour mood and looked down at the blond man standing beside him, a big, toothy smile showing through pouty lips. “Um, I’m not sure.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “Christmas gift exchange at work.”
“Ahh.” The blond man nodded knowingly. “Well, who did you get?”
“Twenty-five year old secretary.” Arthur felt a sense of relief at the look in the man’s eyes. Maybe a fellow Scrooge? “Arthur.”
“Well.” The blond man rubbed his hands together, as if it helped him to think. “Do you know anything about Arthur, what he likes, what he reads?”
“No, sorry, my fault.” Arthur laughed, noting the blond man’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “The secretary’s name is Chelsea; I’m Arthur. I was introducing myself.”
“Oh, sorry,” the blond man nodded and extended his hand, “Mitchell.”
“Thank you for your help, Mitchell.” Arthur shook the offered hand, noticing how blue Mitchell’s eyes were. “I’m feeling a bit lost here.”
“Well,” Mitchell said as he let go of Arthur’s hand, “it can be a little overwhelming, I’m sure.”
“It just seems to get earlier and earlier every year, doesn’t it?”
“The season or the stress?” Mitchell touched the taller man’s elbow and guided him to the other side of the display. “Or you probably meant both, right?”
“I can handle stress,” Arthur sighed, letting Mitchell guide him, hoping he would not let go. “It’s all of the expectation that tends to get to me.”
“Expectation?” Mitchell picked up a leather-bound diary with a paisley tapestry-type tie closure and handed it to Arthur.
“You know,” Arthur said, turning the diary over in his hands, “be of good cheer, deck the halls, and all that.”
Mitchell took the diary and put it back on its stand, the glass shelf once again full. “Aren’t you a little young to be a cynic?”
“Young?” Arthur raised his eyebrows and wondered where this flirting could go. “I’ll be thirty-six in January.”
“That’s still young.” Mitchell picked up a scented candle, sniffed it, and handed it to Arthur. “Smell this.” Mitchell sniffed it one more time before handing it over. “Lavender, relaxing.”
Arthur sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and put the candle back where Mitchell pointed. “What about you?”
“I like candles.” Mitchell winked, a playful smile crossing his lips. “With bubble bath and Chopin.” Mitchell laughed, right hand finding its way to Arthur’s forearm. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I’m thirty, last month.”
Arthur blushed and looked into those blue eyes. “So, is there anyone currently sharing your bubble baths?”
“No,” Mitchell pouted, bold as you please, “it’s really hard to find someone who likes Chopin.”
“Would you believe,” Arthur asked as he retrieved the lavender candle from the glass shelf, “that I absolutely love Chopin?”
Mitchell didn’t say anything; he only smiled as he guided Arthur to the next set of shelves, running his hand over a cashmere lap throw. “Does Chelsea read a lot?”
“Did I go too far?” Arthur’s free hand came up, almost touching the smaller man’s shoulder but stopping short. “It’s just….”
“No.” Mitchell offered a smile. “It was nice.” He picked up the throw and handed it to Arthur. “But my life is a little bit of a busy mess right now.”
“I know what you mean.” Arthur laughed nervously, anxious to get shot down and go home to do his workout, eat his microwave dinner, and keep counting the days until everyone had worn themselves out on good cheer. “This time of the year is the worst.”
“Oh, it’s not that. I love this time of year!” Mitchell beamed, smiling with those blue eyes, making Arthur feel even worse. Definitely not a fellow Scrooge.
“Well,” Arthur offered, trying to speed things along, “I’ll take the candle and the throw.”
They walked to the front of the store, Mitchell placing the objects on the counter, the petite brunette girl quickly scanning them and informing Arthur of the damage. “Do you do gift wrapping?”
“I can do that for you.” Mitchell pointed to a small counter near the entrance, smiled back at Arthur, and went to wait for him. Great, Arthur thought, I should have just done it myself and saved myself another fifteen minutes of agony.
As Arthur watched the salesgirl stow the signed credit card receipt, bag his purchases, and wish him a Merry Christmas, he went through the usual list of questions in his head: Why do I always find myself attracted to the unavailable men? Is it my age? Am I too old, too tall, too pushy?
Dismissing all of the questions, he slouched his way over to the counter and watched as Mitchell folded the throw, using strong, sure, steady movements of those long fingers, his tongue sticking out adorably between his full lips as he concentrated. Arthur couldn’t help but notice that Mitchell’s wrapping was perfect, better than he could have done himself. Truth be told, Arthur would be hard-pressed to admit that he wouldn’t have just stuck a signed card on the box and handed it over; no need for formality when he’d already surpassed the thirty-dollar limit for the gift exchange. Spending over the limit was his way of assuaging his guilt for not really caring about finding the perfect gift or caring if Chelsea would even like it.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Arthur. And I hope Chelsea likes the gifts.” Mitchell extended his hand once again, adding, “And if she doesn’t, I have placed a gift receipt in the box so she can find something more to her taste.”
“Listen, Mitchell,” Arthur sighed, not letting go of the soft hand, “if I said anything to—”
“Merry Christmas, Arthur.” Mitchell tapped the white card placed under one of the ribbons snaking its way from the big red bow in the center of the box and gave Arthur’s hand a squeeze. “For being a good boy this year.”
Arthur’s grin was threatening to split his face when he saw Mitchell’s name and phone number on the small, white card. “Let’s hope I can make it to New Year’s.” Arthur grinned, winked at Mitchell, and walked out of the store backwards, eyes focused squarely on the flush creeping up Mitchell’s face.
Who cares if Chelsea likes her gift? Arthur was thinking as he whistled a tune while walking down the crowded corridor of the mall. I got the best one in the store.
* * *
Arthur stripped down out of his workout gear and admired himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom. He was obscenely proud of his body, perhaps one might even sa
y he was overly vain, but that was just the word ugly people used, wasn’t it? He would pass other men in the street, most of them bald and fat with rumpled suits, and wonder why they didn’t have a better self-image, wonder how they could let themselves go like that. But he didn’t consider himself to be vain; how could he be vain when he wasn’t as obsessed with his body as most men at the gym? They would spend hours and hours every week, posing and flexing, going to great lengths to achieve the body and then flaunt the wardrobe to show it off.
As he stepped into the shower, lathering the soap into his sparse chest hair, he thought about Mitchell. What was he doing now? Was he working out after his shift in the bookstore? Is he thinking about me? He decided he would wait until lunch tomorrow to call him and ask him out for a beer, or coffee, or whatever. He thought he’d been shot down, but Mitchell was interested. Interested! He felt a twinge in his groin but did nothing about it, deciding he didn’t want to develop too many fantasies before seeing if he stood a chance with the real thing.
Arthur checked his cell phone for messages and wrote down the first one, from his mother, and deleted the second, from a guy he’d seen once or twice two months ago, but didn’t feel like seeing again. Arthur’s excuse for not returning the calls was the same as always: The guy was too needy. Arthur didn’t much like baggage to accompany the men he was interested in, preferring instead to keep things light, just in case a hasty exit was needed. If Arthur was going to be honest with himself, which he avoided most days, he wasn’t so much interested in a relationship as finding fuck-buddies; there was much less guilt when it came to ending things when it got to the uncomfortable stage of familiarity.
No, the official biography for Arthur would always read that he’d been searching for his soulmate but had just been unlucky in love.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Arthur, darling,” Arthur noted the slight anger in her voice; he’d made her wait too long, again, “so nice of you to call, finally.”
“And how are you, Mom?” Arthur twirled the pen between his fingers, imagining himself with a dagger or a kitchen knife, building momentum before hurling it at her.
“Dreadful, darling, simply dreadful.”
“What’s wrong now, Mom?”
“Thirty-six hours in labor…” And with that, Arthur knew that his youngest sister, Eileen, had already decided that she and her husband and four children would not be spending Christmas at the house. “And your sister tells me that she doesn’t have time to spend the entire day here this year.”
“Well, Mom,” God, Arthur thought, how many times have I been through this? “you know that she and Herb have to spend some time with his parents, too, and that that means a twelve-hour drive up to Canada.”
“Pffft, a Canadian,” she said with a sniff. “What was she thinking?”
“Don’t be a snob, Mother.”
“I am not a snob, Arthur!” she scolded and, for emphasis, delivered one of Arthur’s favorite lines: “I have always been very accepting of the less fortunate.”
“Mom,” Arthur sighed, “I think most Canadians would find that remark snobbish, to say the least. Now, why did you call, again?”
“It’s very exciting news, Arthur,” she said. “Your father and I have invited Penelope Reichert over for Christmas dinner.”
“And?”
“We did it for you, dear.” Now she sounded insulted.
“What is she, my present?” Arthur knew where this was going.
“Please, dear,” she spat, “I am not a pimp.”
A pimp is a man, Mother. “Then why did you invite her?”
“She’s still single, sweetie.” Arthur could hear her salivating, like a junkyard dog awakened by a one-legged vagrant who managed to get over the fence.
Arthur’s sigh was heavy with frustration. “Mother, I’m gay.”
“Oh, please, Arthur,” she harrumphed, “you’re thirty-six years old; it’s time to grow up.”
Arthur tried to figure out some way to get her off the phone. “I see. And that’ll happen if I fuck Penelope?”
“Arthur,” she hissed, “do not make me get your father on the phone.”
“Mom.” Arthur laughed, loudly. “You’re the only one who cares about my dilemma, as you call it. Dad doesn’t care about anything other than making more money.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining while you were spending it every chance you got while you still lived at home, went to the finest schools… Fine, Arthur,” she snapped, voice tight and rising steadily, “I tried to do something nice for you, for my only son, and you just want to be rude and thoughtless.”
“Thoughtless?” Arthur was incredulous now and didn’t much care about insulting his mother anymore. “Thoughtless was inviting that poor girl over to the house when you know that I’m gay.”
“Yes, Arthur, of course, you’re right.” Arthur knew she was being sarcastic and counted down the seconds on his fingers. “How incredibly thoughtless of me to be thinking about your happiness.”
“Good night, Mother.” Arthur flipped his phone shut before she could say anymore.
I hope Mitchell still thinks I’ve been a good boy this year. With that thought on his brain and the smile it brought to his lips, Arthur hoped he would have dreams of those beautiful blue eyes.
* * *
Tuesday, December 12
The meeting was an exercise in frustration—again—Arthur making a mental list of his own: who would he keep after Christmas and who would he fire? He ignored the little voice in his head that kept saying Bastard and went over the details of the project one more time. And, if his memory served him, this would be the sixth time he would need to explain that they were building a factory and not a show home.
After almost a half-hour of explaining, in great detail, the needs and preferences of the clients—You know, the people paying us?—Arthur lounged in his leather chair, cell phone in hand, and stared out the window, trying to think of something witty to say when he called Mitchell. He wasn’t successful, but only because he couldn’t stop thinking what it would be like to be in the same bathtub, bubbles making their skin silky and slippery, fingers exploring, mouths meeting, tongues dueling, Mitchell’s—
“Arthur?”
Arthur looked up to see his assistant in the doorway. “Yes, Tina?” He coughed; his face flushed at the thoughts Tina could probably read in his eyes. “What is it?”
“You asked me to remind you when it was eleven thirty?”
Arthur didn’t know what she was… Dammit, Arthur cursed under his breath, I’m supposed to be wining and dining that asshole from Dunmore Developments. He quickly checked his datebook and saw that the appointment wasn’t for another hour; plenty of time to call Mitchell, set up a date, and then close the deal with—Arthur checked the screen of his Blackberry again—Rune Marsters. Rune, he thought, must have had sadists for parents; why would anyone name their kid after Celtic dice?
Arthur called the restaurant to confirm the reservation for twelve thirty and then settled back to dial Mitchell’s number. Arthur was only slightly worried when the phone rang three times, thinking that perhaps he would need to think of something clever to leave as a message.
“Mitchell.”
“Mitchell, hello!” Arthur sat up in his chair, squaring his shoulders as if Mitchell would be able to see him slouching. “It’s Arthur, from a couple of days ago, gift exchange, lover of Chopin?”
“Arthur, how are you?”
“I’m fine, just fine, and you?”
“Never better.” Mitchell sounded happy to hear from him. “What’s on your mind?”
You, bubble bath, silky skin. “Uh, I was wondering if you were free tonight.”
“Well,” Mitchell sounded surprised at the question, “I work until ten?”
“Not a problem,” Arthur tried to sound casual, “I was just thinking drinks, or coffee?”
“Sure, when and where?”
“I’ll come and pick you up at the store,
if that’s okay.”
“I’ll be waiting out on Cornelius; do you know where the entrance is on Cornelius?”
“Sure do.” Arthur smiled, hoping it sounded like he was smiling. “I’ll see you then.”
Mitchell disconnected the call before Arthur could make any small talk: Where are you? What are you doing? When does your shift start? Arthur flipped his phone shut, checked in with the senior partners about the delay in the latest project, and headed out to make his lunch appointment, making a mental note to go and look for Chopin CDs, obscure ones that Mitchell probably wouldn’t have.
* * *
“Arthur, nice to see you again.” Rune was already at the bar.
“Rune, you too.” Arthur motioned to a booth in the corner of the restaurant; it wasn’t crowded yet, but it would be very soon. As the hostess brought menus and Rune’s drink, to the table, Arthur pulled her aside and asked that the bill be brought to him. She nodded and informed him that their server would be out shortly. Until then, Arthur chatted with Rune about his family. He’d been sure to bring the Filofax card with Rune’s personal information to study in the taxi. Arthur had his back to the activity of the bar, an old trick he’d learned long ago to minimize distractions, and was chatting about Rune’s wife and three boys when he heard a familiar voice.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen; may I get you anything from the bar?”
Arthur looked up and into those blue eyes. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was pleased or shocked to see the stunned smile on Mitchell’s face, but he was certain that his face was just as much a jumble of emotions.
“I’m fine for now, thank you.” Rune was looking at Arthur as if he’d been caught doing something illegal.
“Just a Heineken for me, thanks, in a glass, please.” Arthur felt some control slipping away from him; he should have just acknowledged Mitchell, by name, and taken control of the ordering instead of staring like a gawky teenager at his first girly magazine.
“Certainly, gentlemen. I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.” Mitchell pushed the pad of paper back into his half-apron and moved off to the bar.
Mitchell's Presence Page 1
