In the kitchen, he fusses with a new machine, unboxed only yesterday, determined to enjoy a cup of real cappuccino. But he hasn’t read the instructions (badly translated from Italian into ten other languages, including Japanese), and the gizmo won’t froth. Uttley is growing frustrated—and a tad fearful that the damn thing might explode. The hell with it. He slams the cast-metal filter full of grounds into the sink, flicks his ashes into the drain, and draws a pot of water for his trusty Mr. Coffee.
While it brews, he traipses to the front door and cracks it open. Yes, the newspapers have arrived. He looks into the hall in both directions, opens the door wider, squats, and reaches over the threshold, wagging his butt. Got ’em. He shuts the door.
He places both papers—the Journal and its competitor, the tabloid Post—squarely, side by side, on the kitchen table. The front pages are predictable: hot-weather photos (kids opening hydrants, flesh on the beach), festival planning, Christian fundamentalists cooking up another protest. Uttley farts. He’s not interested in news. He’s looking for ads. He reaches, ready to riffle for them, but stops. This is important, a moment to relish. He’s being too hasty. He ought to at least put something on.
He hobbles into the bedroom and flounces back wearing a luxurious dressing gown—not a plain old bathrobe, but a full-length dressing gown with wide quilted lapels. It’s frayed here and there, stained as well, but it’s gorgeous, it’s … him.
Uttley turns the first page of the Journal. Then the next, and the next. He keeps flipping pages till he sees it, the latest in his series of full-color tributes to Chicago’s hero of the hour. He leans close to scrutinize the tiny line of type at the bottom of the ad, making sure everything is spelled right. With a satisfied smile, he sets the Journal aside and sets to work on the Post. It doesn’t take him long to find the second Zarnik ad. God, they’re good. These will be framed, he decides. They will join the other scraps of newsprint on his wall of fame.
It’s all too exciting. Uttley is wired, and he hasn’t even had his coffee yet. He grabs the phone—a vintage baby-blue Princess with lighted rotary dial. He checks the time—there’s a Kit-Cat Klock, rhinestone-studded, basic black, swiping its tail against the kitchen wall. Barely a quarter past seven. Too early? Nah. He looks up a number, dials, then waits while the other phone rings. Twice. Three times. “Actors …” he mutters. An answering machine clicks in, and Victor hangs up.
He has another idea. Picking through a pile of office work he dumped on the counter last night, he plucks a message slip, returns to the table, snaps up the Princess, and dials. The other phone rings once. Someone answers, “City room.”
“I was phoning Mark Manning.” Uttley has no idea whether the reporter would be at his desk so early—journalists keep odd hours—but he thought he’d give it a shot.
“He hasn’t arrived yet. Is there someone else who can help you, or would you like to have his voice mail?”
“Voice mail, please.”
There’s a click, then Manning’s recorded message, then the beep.
Uttley says into the phone, “Good morning, Mr. Manning—Mark—this is Victor Uttley with the mayor’s office, returning your call. First off, a big thank-you to you and Neil for Saturday’s party—it was fabulous, and the digs are to-die. Second, I stopped by to see you yesterday because we really need to talk, relating to Zarnik. Seems we’re doomed to play phone tag. What else, alas, can I say? Except, of course, you’re ‘it.’ Ta, now.”
In a roadside shop near the Wisconsin shore of Lake Michigan, a couple of hundred miles north of Chicago, Mark Manning and David Bosch are taking a break from their long drive. Manning is surprised to see cherries displayed among the produce, since they’re not usually ripe till mid-July. Tasting one, he confirms that they’re still sour, but he takes a quart anyway—a trip to the peninsula would be incomplete without cherries. He sets the box on the checkout counter, where a grandfatherly clerk stands ready to compute the “damages.”
With the approach of the holiday, many people have chosen to book their summer vacation this week, which will be extended by a day. So there’s steady traffic on the highway in both directions, and the shop is busy this morning, swamped with motorists from Door County, the peninsula of touristy-but-still-quaint villages that juts northward like a craggy thumb between Green Bay and the lake.
David mingles easily with the younger clientele, engaged in an enthusiastic commentary on the variety of fudge. Saran-wrapped bricks of the homemade confection are piled in wooden barrels that bear hand-lettered labels: Walnut, Macadamia, Chunky Cherry, Double Chocolate, White Chocolate, and so on. David is torn, but opts for the plain variety, Classic Country Kitchen, choosing a one-pound block of it from the barrel. Manning extends a hand, telling David, “I’ll get it.”
David gives Manning the fudge. “Thanks, Mark.”
Manning hefts it in his palm. With a skeptical expression, he looks first at the fudge, then at David, whose body he studies with a gaze that travels from head to toe, returning to make contact with David’s eyes. Manning says, “Given your obvious investment in time at the gym, I’d think this stuff would be a no-no.”
“Sugar won’t kill me, or you,” says David. “It’s all the other crap—preservatives and additives—that can really screw you. An occasional calorie-bomb isn’t lethal, as long as you sweat it off later. But hey,” David aborts his nutrition lecture, clapping a hefty arm across Manning’s shoulder, “I hardly need to preach to you about diet. You’re as fit as they get.”
“For a doddering geezer,” Manning jokes, enjoying the flattery, fishing for more.
“Right,” says David, holding Manning’s shoulder at arm’s length, returning his up-and-down body check. “Some geezer.” Then he pulls Manning close for a side-to-side hug. It’s the kind of public jock-gesture at which David excels, totally at ease with this display of affection, in touch with his own physical nature.
Manning recognizes that David’s self-confidence, his gregarious manner, has been spawned by the attractiveness that was his luck of the draw from the gene pool. People want to be near him. Strangers readily offer a smile, hoping he will deign to return it. He has never had to think twice about approaching others with a question or a joke or a flirtation—they always respond, and he has never learned to fear rejection. Of course he exudes self-confidence, and that assurance has fed upon itself over the years, shaping a young man whose bodily charms have been honed by training and complemented by a quick intellect. He is truly a golden child, one in a million, whom the world will emulate, envy, and revere.
Why then, Manning wonders, has David been so reticent to deal more openly with his own sexuality? Can it be explained by a single factor so simple as a disapproving uncle? Surely not. Or is David now grappling with the same insecurities that Manning fought and conquered only two years ago? Manning has never known the open arms of the adoring world that David’s out-and-out beauty is heir to, but Manning has feared the exact same labels that David cannot fathom applied to himself. For the first time in his life, David is dealing with the fear of rejection, and for someone who has never, ever known that fear, the stakes are high indeed.
In reaching this plausible understanding of the dilemma that David faces, Manning feels a rush of sympathy for the kid. He wishes he could help assuage the fears that tug at David’s still-young psyche. He also recognizes the sublime irony of these emotions—that he should condescend to pity the golden child from his own enlightened middle-age perspective.
Without a qualm, he returns David’s shoulder hug. In the milling activity of the shop this morning, no one notices the uncharacteristic ease with which Manning has indulged in this minor but public display of affection. No one cares that he has crossed another hurdle in a lifelong race for emotional maturity. No one—least of all David—can appreciate the significance of this exchange.
Waiting in line to pay, Manning says to David, “You were right. It’s been a long drive. If you’d like to take over at the
wheel, be my guest.”
Does David want to drive? Needless question. He answers by slipping his fingers into Manning’s pants pocket and extracting the keys. It isn’t time to leave yet, but he wants to hold them in his hand—now. He wants to possess them.
He’ll soon put the keys to use. The couple in front of them load a bag with cheese and trinkets for their trip. They’re college kids, a guy and a girl. He wears an Illinois sweatshirt, knee-length jeans, and sandals with socks. A tattoo, a big one, wraps around his right calf. It looks like an eagle, or maybe an Indian war bonnet, but it’s impossible to be sure, since the whole image cannot be seen from one angle.
David notices Manning eyeing the decorated leg. He turns his head to whisper in Manning’s ear, “Gross, huh?” Manning laughs his agreement.
The man behind the counter finally sends the tattooed student and his companion on their way. Manning and David step forward with their fudge, and Manning reminds the proprietor of the cherries, already parked there. “No tax on the produce,” says the old man, thinking aloud, “but the governor gets five percent on the fudge.” He pulls a figure out of thin air, Manning pays him, and David picks up the brown paper bag, fondling the keys in his other hand.
Outdoors, walking to the car, Manning notes, “It’s a lot cooler up here.” Indeed, the jet stream that’s working its way south toward Chicago has already dipped into Wisconsin, bringing with it drier air and a blue sky without haze. A breeze carries the scent of pine.
David eagerly opens the driver’s door and sits behind the wheel, setting the brown bag in back, on the floor. By the time Manning opens the passenger door for himself, David is busy readjusting the seat, mirrors, and steering wheel. With both authority and childlike anticipation, he inserts the key and turns the ignition. With a whir of the engine and the chiming of various system checks, the car comes to life. David just sits there, both hands stuck to the wheel, savoring a moment he has longed for.
“Whenever you’re ready. …” Manning tells him.
David needs no further prompting. He shifts into drive and steers Manning’s black sedan out of the gravel parking lot and onto the highway. “Awesome,” he says—there’s no other word that suits the experience, and he offers no apology for it.
Any apprehensions Manning felt about letting David drive are soon overcome, and he gets comfortable—for the first time—as a passenger in his own car. He sees that David’s manner behind the wheel is conscientious and mature, revealing a facet of the young man’s personality that Manning might not otherwise have discovered. He glances at his watch. It’s just past ten-thirty. They should arrive in Baileys Harbor within an hour or so. The time will pass agreeably, Manning decides, and he considers the possibility of napping during this last leg of the journey.
Oddly, though, Manning finds he is no longer tired. The cooler weather, the wooded scenery, the ability to relax and not concentrate on the road—all these factors have made him alert and conscious of his surroundings. What’s more, there’s something in the back of his mind that needs attention, some bit of unfinished business. Several miles pass in silence as he mulls the gnawing thought. Damn. He’d like to set it aside, forget it, but he just can’t put a period on it.
“Ah!” he says.
David, startled, looks at Manning, breaking his steady gaze on the road. The car swerves, but its course is quickly righted.
“Sorry,” Manning explains, “but I was trying to think of something. It just came to me.”
“Care to share it?” asks David, eyes ahead.
“Yes, actually. It’s about you. Back in the shop, seeing that guy’s tattooed leg reminded me of a discussion you and I had at the party last Saturday.”
“Oh?” David pretends not to recall it.
“Don’t be coy now. You did your share of teasing that night. We were talking about the popularity of tattoos among young people, and you dismissed the fad as kids’ stuff, informing me that you were ‘into’ something else entirely. If your intention was to tantalize me, you’ve succeeded. So ’fess up. What is it?”
David smiles. He turns just long enough to look Manning in the eye and tells him, “Body piercing.”
“What?” Manning wasn’t prepared for that, not by a long shot. He thought, more than likely, drugs. That’s something David would be reluctant to discuss with an older coworker. If not drugs, then Manning might have guessed some playful but kinky fetish—ladies’ underwear maybe. Well, maybe not. But body piercing? Manning stares at David. There’s no apparent trace of this interest, not even a single dot in his earlobe.
“Where?”
David doesn’t move his eyes from the road. The pause is not a reluctant one, but intended to deliver maximum impact. “Nipples.”
Ouch. “Both?”
David nods. “I had the first one done, the left one, a few years ago, one summer during college. Some of the guys were doing it, and I thought, Why not? It took some getting used to, but I eventually came to like it. More important, other people seem to like it. And because they don’t see it till … well, till clothes start coming off, it always brings an element of surprise to the situation.”
“I’ll bet,” says Manning. “Your pierced nipple becomes a conversation piece—something to talk about, like the weather.”
David laughs. “Yeah, you could say that. Anyway, I figured, if this doesn’t work out, it’s easily removed, and the hole eventually fills in again—I’d be done with it, no permanent scars. But I found that I really liked the look and the feel of it, plus it had that unexpected payoff with other friends at the right moment.
“There was one minor problem, though. I always felt sort of ‘unbalanced’ by it. I’ve worked hard on my body, and the symmetry was shot. This bothered me so much, I finally decided I’d have to either undo the left nipple or get the right one pierced too. So, a few weeks ago, nipple number two got the treatment. I feel much better about myself now.”
This is all too bizarre. Manning still suspects it’s a joke, but he hasn’t heard the punch line yet. He says, “I’m not at all sure I believe you.”
David says nothing. Instead, he removes his left hand from the wheel and places it over his right breast. He splays his index and middle fingers, stretching the piqué of his polo shirt over his nipple. Sure enough, there’s a peculiar bulge beneath the fabric. It looks like something man-made, something like hardware.
Okay, Manning believes his own eyes. He’s surprised to realize that he’s highly intrigued—and a bit aroused—by this revelation. “Are they, uh, rings?”
“The new one is.” David pats his right breast. “But the first one is something like a little barbell, which required a bigger hole. It hurt like hell and took forever to heal. I didn’t want to go through that again, so I chose a simple ring the second time. It’s already healed.”
Manning is so amazed by this story—it’s the last thing he expected to discuss this morning—all he can say is “This I’ve got to see.”
Though Manning has spoken figuratively, David takes him at his word and, without hesitation, begins pulling his shirt out of his pants. The car swerves.
“Whoa”—Manning reaches to steady the wheel—“that can wait.” Once David has control of the car again, Manning adds, “I do want you to show me. But later.”
“Just say when.” David is clearly pleased that he’s sparked Manning’s interest.
He’s sparked more than that. David’s story has affected his listener in many ways. Manning is surprised—he just wasn’t prepared to hear these things. He’s amused—it’s all so goofy, a kid thing. He’s intrigued—what would compel this levelheaded young man to willingly endure, twice, the pain of self-mutilation? And Manning is, by now, the more he ponders these things, highly aroused.
Needing to sort this out, he says to David, “I’m curious. You’ve had some body piercing done because, at least partly, it’s a fad, pure and simple. And you’ve said you like the way it looks, so there’s an element of …
let’s say, ‘aesthetics.’ But you could have pierced your ears, or your nose, or any number of places, but you opted for the nipples, and you said that you also like the way it feels. It sounds as if this goes way beyond fad or fashion. It sounds as if you get an erotic charge out of it.”
David’s grin confirms that Manning has nailed the issue. He admits, “There’s definitely that edge, yes.”
Manning turns to peer vacantly through the side window. He puckers his lips, exhaling a silent whistle. Giant pines, responding to his call, march from the cool shadows to the edge of the roadway like a wall of quiet sentries. Their frilly-skirted greatcoats rush past the car in a bluish blur.
Professor Zarnik checks his watch. It’s eleven o’clock, and he quickens his pace. Even though he keeps his own schedule at the planetarium, he knows that he slept too late and dawdled too long at home this morning. Traversing the long hallway, he stops just long enough to drop some change into a gaudy vending machine. With a ka-chunk, a can of Diet Rite lands in the black plastic trough near his knees. Already burdened with two tote bags and a smaller sack containing his lunch, he struggles to consolidate the load in one arm. While he stoops to pluck the can with his free hand, his chrome whistle swings on its chain, clattering against the fluorescent-lit front panel of the machine. Wet with condensation, the chilled can slips from his fingers. Skittering to pick it up, he kicks it, sending it rolling down the hall in the direction of his laboratory door.
“Let me help you with that, Professor,” says a young lady, stifling a laugh as she approaches from the opposite direction. They meet in front of the lab door, where she crouches to retrieve the cola. In her other hand, she carries a sheaf of pink message slips. “I heard you were in the building,” she tells him, “and wanted to make sure you got these. Some of them look important.” She wags the chits. “They really piled up yesterday. I’d have put them on your desk, but you’ve got the only key.”
Eye Contact Page 17
