“I’ll take that under advisement. Best of luck making your way through the fray. Loved your piece on the lost art of the ascot—tons of facts and history of which I was totally unaware.”
As Liam slalomed through the tweed to get to the door where Monroe stood expectantly, he managed to signal the bartender to pour two more mugs of Anchor Steam. He pulled Monroe over to the periphery of the bar and faced away from A. J. and his posse. While Monroe had an uncanny knack for being overly sensitive and inconveniently temperamental, he read body language better than anyone Liam had ever known, a trait that came in surprisingly handy when trying to avoid people in Manhattan. Liam took two long swallows of his beer, savoring its bitter fullness, before he addressed Monroe. It occurred to him that he was happy to have squeezed in his friend between his niece’s birthday party in the early afternoon and the Fast Trackers boys’ night out that started at ten. After they had attended the Fast Tracker Saturday fun run together, Monroe distanced himself from the club, saying that only the young, fast, cute boys were embraced. Liam had tried to convince him otherwise, without being too emphatic or condescending. Monroe had his own definite viewpoints and prided himself on being stubborn. And so when Liam suggested Monroe join him for the latter part of the evening, he knew not to give too much push back once his friend demurred. Not wanting to indulge his good friend’s unwarranted insecurities, Liam promised himself that he would not bring the topic up at dinner tonight.
“So you saved me from a pretty monstrous peacock parade back there. I thought A. J. was hot the one time he accidentally dropped his towel in the dorm showers freshman year—shocking dick for his frame—but, man, his mouth could turn a rock-hard erection soft inside of one wry rejoinder.”
“You’re bound to run into those types when you choose to dine at the corner of ‘Preppie Boulevard’ and ‘Country Club Lane.’”
“I know, but it’s soooo worth it for the burgers. Anyway, tell me about your day.”
“Usual B-cubed shopping protocol—hit the sales at Barneys, Bergdorf, and Bloomingdale’s. Didn’t buy anything but spent half an hour eyeing a cute little twink in the Michael Kors section. Yum.”
Liam knew that his facial expression would give away signs of disapproval, so he quickly took a drink of beer.
“What, I can’t foolishly flirt now? Don’t get holier than thou with me, Liam. I’ll be forced to drudge up your past.”
“Please. Flirtatiousness is next to godliness in my book. It’s not that. I just hate the thought of you spending $785 on another denim jacket.”
Liam could never honestly assess Monroe’s wardrobe—friends like to think that they can perform that type of frank analysis when it’s really just a lie to foster closeness—but hoped that Monroe would stop buying expensive designer clothing in the false belief that it would transform him, like stardust, into a prince. If truth really were the currency of friendship, Liam would tell Monroe that all the hundreds of dollars spent on labels did nothing to disguise his gut and failed to make his squat frame any longer or leaner. While supplying that unwanted advice, Liam could add that Monroe would be better off funneling $100 per month into a local sports club membership. Six-pack abs and expansive shoulders could make passersby drool over a five-dollar tank top. Instead of that dose of honesty, Liam resorted to gay gal-pal speak.
The queenie little man with the bow tie came over to collect Liam and Monroe, escorting them to the best table in the back room, far away from the bathrooms and the bustle of the dinner crowd. A stack of menus awaited them on the table, but Liam had no idea why anyone would ever order anything but the signature J.G. Melon burger that had been heralded by The New York Times as “too sublime a piece of meat to have once walked the earth.” The only question was rare versus medium rare. Within five minutes the waitress, whose look befitted the sanitized affluence of the institution in her prim tartan skirt, appeared at their table. They both ordered the medium rare burger with a bucket of fries to split.
“Surprised you’re splurging on a calorie fest before your night out with the boys,” Monroe quipped. “What will they say if your midriff isn’t rock hard and vein-y?”
“We’re going to Splash, smart-ass,” Liam replied. “No one takes his shirt off in Splash. There’s probably going to be some tragic stage show and a busload of gay tourists from Germany. So how come you’re not going to come and protect me? I could use someone with your brand of subtle bitchiness to get through this evening.”
“It’s very sweet of you to include me in things, Liam. I get it. You are being considerate and doing the right thing, but I just can’t be your tagalong guy. No matter what the context is, you’re the star and I’m the underling making sure you stay in flattering light and that no one photographs your bad side.”
“First of all, I don’t have a bad side.” Liam laughed as the waitress brought over their food. She raised an eyebrow at him, moving the salt and pepper shakers and their mugs of beer to fit the plates of food on the teensy tabletop. “And second, you need to stop that whole thing. It’s not even funny to joke about that. You get a ton of play and boys like you just fine, so I don’t know why you keep pulling this shy act around Fast Trackers.”
“You’re so naïve. But then again you’ve never really been part of a gay organization. They’re all runways with teeth—metaphorically speaking. People who were passed over in straight society their whole lives trying to claw their way into the inner circle of some club they have erected for their own vanity.”
“Whoa, that’s quite an indictment against a club you spent one solid morning with.”
“I’ve been gay a long time, Liam. But learn this all for yourself. It’s better that way. I can’t wait to hear all the dirt, the stories, the backstabbing. Just be careful. Gay men have a million ways to measure each other…. Fast Trackers can make it a million and one by adding in all this shit about who ran a faster time than whom in the Wall Street 5K.”
Liam dabbed some mayonnaise on his burger and sunk his teeth into the sandwich. Some blood colored the bun. He shook the burger approvingly at Monroe in a show of affection and celebration of something they could both agree upon, the perfection of this meal.
“It’s just a group of guys who like to run together, Monroe. I haven’t been brainwashed. My body has not been snatched.”
“I know, babe. I never said as much … tonight you’re going for your first splash in the club’s pool. Promise me you won’t sleep with any of them. No good could come of that before you get the four-one-one on everyone.”
Liam rolled his eyes and nodded his head in response.
Monroe took a huge bite of his burger and smiled as he raised the sandwich in reciprocation.
“I’ve got to admit. It’s a pretty fucking good burger.”
MILE 5
Riding the Number 6 train downtown after dinner, Liam felt momentarily sluggish, as though every drop of blood in his body had been corralled to absorb the hefty meal he had just eaten. The thought of bypassing Chelsea and heading home for a solid night’s sleep tempted him, but he knew all the Fast Trackers would be waiting for him. Liam decided to get out of the train early, at Twenty-eighth Street, and walk for a while so that the crisp night air might jolt him awake. He also looked forward to the prospect of cutting across Madison Square Park, his favorite public space in Manhattan. Unlike the parks at Union and Washington and even Tompkins squares, the patch of land that spread out east from the Flatiron remained eerily quiet at night. No teenagers gathered around the jungle gyms and only a homeless person or two might be getting shut-eye on the wooden benches. Liam imagined the park would be even more desolate than usual since it was the Saturday before New Year’s Eve and many people would be out of town with relatives or stowing away energy for “big night” celebrations. Liam never understood the emphasis that people placed on the first day of the year; he opted to stay in and read passages of Proust every year as a way to detox from the holidays.
He walked alone south along Madison Aven
ue with the frosty winds buffeting him at each intersection, as the streets howled a lonely cry. Coming up on the park, Liam took the entrance that led diagonally toward the Flatiron, the most majestic way of experiencing the landscape. He stopped briefly at the squat, fat evergreen—rotund enough to be deemed a bush rather than a tree—that was clumsily adorned with large colored lightbulbs. The way the thick wire connecting the bulbs bulged out from the branches reminded Liam of the hastiness with which his father used to tend to the Christmas decorations. He wished he had gone home for longer than just one evening for the holiday this year but always felt awkward once he was at home with his family. While they accepted him for who he was, Liam always felt himself criticizing his family for not being as educated or as urbane as him—and he hated himself for having those judgmental thoughts. He always ended up disengaging and heading back to the city, where the anonymity and the ceaseless energy could erase all his anxieties. With the splendor of the season now all around him, Liam surprisingly craved the feeling of being on the couch in his parents’ living room watching the lights on the tree reflected in the shiny glass ornaments.
Looking at his watch, Liam noticed that it was almost ten thirty, and he was moving beyond fashionably late toward inconsiderate and rude. As he hit the center of the park, Liam saw the Flatiron Building and was immediately reminded of Stieglitz’s famous photographs. The beautifully fenestrated triangle simply grew out of the far end of the park like one of the leafless trees that rocked in the wind tonight. Only a handful of the windows were lit up; it was, after all, a Saturday night near the end of the year. He knew he needed to work himself into a more social mood now that he had let himself get pensive. Quickening his pace, Liam left the park and strode into a light jog down Fifth Avenue toward Seventeenth Street.
“Where’s the fire?” The scream came from behind him as he turned west on Seventeenth. Already accustomed to the trademark whine, Liam didn’t have to turn around to know that Gene was rapidly approaching. Everyone complained about Gene ad nauseam, but the in crowd seemed to invite him out even when not required by club protocol.
“Just trying to stay warm by jogging.”
Forced to wait outside and enter the bar with Gene, Liam worried whether the joint entrance would get people talking. Monroe’s warnings about the club must have affected him more than he realized. He knew it was silly and did not want to give in to his high school impulses to be a slave to the popularity gods, but he still felt his skin crawl when he thought about the looks he would get coming in on the heels of Gene.
The velvet rope and body-builder bouncer outside the door lent a bridge-and-tunnel seediness to the establishment, reminding Liam why he never included this bar in his regular weekend rounds.
“That’ll be five bucks each.” The man made a concerted effort to look straight ahead and not make eye contact with Liam and Gene.
“Crap, I didn’t realize there would be a cover.” Gene flipped through his empty wallet as though he might find a bill hidden somewhere. “Would you mind, Liam? I’ll pay you back after I use the ATM inside.”
In his latest effort to live squarely within his means, Liam had brought only $100 out with him, and he had already spent $35 at dinner. But even with blowing another $10, he would be fine for the evening. He knew better than to expect a payback after the night of drinking got underway.
“Yeah, of course,” Liam said, handing the bouncer a $10 bill and scurrying into the bar quickly, so that it might look as though they had actually arrived in tandem instead of near synchronicity.
“Oh good! You guys got here just in time for the start of the show! It’s amateur night. Come, come … we’ve marked our territory in the center of the bar to watch.” Gary didn’t walk, he hopped, over to where the Fast Trackers had congregated. A familiar set of faces rounded a fairly big area right in front of the makeshift stage. Zane, Ben, Marvin, and some other participants in the speed training sessions stood around with a couple of cute guys whom Liam hadn’t met before. Liam definitely began to sense that there was an inner circle to the club, and that he might, in fact, be gaining entrée into it. Damn that Monroe, he thought, for making me question everyone’s motives.
“Please, tell me he didn’t trap you in his lair. When I saw the two of you stroll in together, I nearly fainted.” Zane dramatically clutched Liam’s arm as he whispered orders in his ear. “Don’t let him glom onto you—trust me. It sounds cruel, but you need to completely disengage. He won’t understand anything different.”
“We just bumped into each other on the street. Come on, Zane, give the new guy a break here!”
“Let’s move on,” Zane said. “The whole club talks about him too much as it is. I agree.”
The bartender brought over a long silver tray of green shots and began to split them up among the Fast Trackers.
“Which one of you putzes had the virgin shot?”
Zane scooped up the shot and smiled smugly at the waiter.
“Really, a virgin shot? I guess I’ve heard everything now,” said Ben. “I’m assuming it’s gonna be mighty sweet—what with it being straight candy apple mixer.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to anybody.” Zane shook his head in an exaggerated fashion as though he were extending the sentiment to a gathered congregation. “I’m one hundred percent pure.”
“Pure?” Ben raised his index finger as he spoke. “Pure trash, maybe.”
As the lights dimmed, everyone quickly raised their shots and downed them in unison, even Zane, though he choked a little on the thick green syrup that needed some liquor to cut its intensity. Rising out of a trapdoor in the stage floor, a tall black drag queen in a blue sequin gown with a cone of flaming red hair commanded the crowd to attention with an a cappella rendition of “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves.” By the time she finished, the waiter had brought over another round, and the Fast Trackers enthusiastically obliged. Liam played along to be a good sport, but the hard alcohol amplified the slight beer buzz he had from the restaurant.
The drag queen, whose name was Miss Apple Brown Betty, jumped up and down knocking an invisible tambourine against her hip to rouse the crowd into a froth of excitement. She then went to great pains to shush everyone down so that she could have complete silence while she explained the contest rules. Once on the stage, contestants had to do whatever she demanded or else they were disqualified and had to return to their seats immediately. Anyone who flashed his penis would not only be asked to leave the stage but would also be kicked out of, and potentially banned from, the bar. Crowd applause, as judged by Miss Apple Brown Betty, would dictate the winner. And the winner would go home with $250 in prize money.
After a moment of silence, she asked for a show of hands as to who wanted to participate. Throughout the bar, which had about three hundred customers at this point, there were clusters of arms raised. Friends pointed frantically toward their friends, who reddened and shrank behind the shoulders of yet other friends. Miss Apple Brown Betty left the stage cautiously to inspect the crowd, her heels sticking in the sequin train of her dress. She chose some of the people whose hands were raised and then forced a few of the people trying feverishly to avoid her glance to head up to the stage. When she got to the Fast Tracker circle, she declared that they still needed two more contestants. Gene jumped up and down and unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his nipples. Finally, she rolled her eyes and tapped him on the shoulder. And then she paused and grabbed Liam by the waist.
“You’re caaaah-yuuuuute! You’re standing right next to me on stage while we rock this joint.”
As he looked out over the crowd from the stage, Liam had to squint to make out the smirks and chuckles of the Fast Tracker clan. Gene rubbed Liam along the leg and then mouthed the words “good luck” to him. Liam started to feel the thrill of competition rise as the warmth of the alcohol coursed through him.
Miss Apple Brown Betty stood next to each contestant, showcasing him like a piece of furniture that might be offered up
as a game show prize, while the audience yelped and hooted. There were ten men up on stage and after her first walk-through, she eliminated two contestants. She then instructed the remaining eight to take off their shirts. The two men in the center who had both their nipples pierced with thick, Flintstone-like bones of silver received roars from the crowd that guaranteed them entry into the next round. When she got to Gene, she poked his middle and wryly muttered into the microphone: “Skinny-fat.” Laughter peeled through Splash, but a few Fast Trackers proved themselves good friends by shouting: “Gene, Gene, the lean machine!” Liam stood as straight as possible when the drag queen ran her fingers down his chest, her long fake nails plucking at his nipple and then skimming down the faint hairs that ran from his navel toward his groin. The applause was considerable. As if to show symmetry of standards, the drag queen knocked one short guy and one sequoia of a man off the stage, sparing both Liam and Gene. Only six contestants remained on stage.
The next command hardly surprised Liam. The game moved in the fairly obvious direction of everyone on stage wearing less clothing. When Miss Apple Brown Betty declared that pants had to go, a few guys paused momentarily, but Gene unzipped his Lee jeans and threw them at the circle of Fast Trackers inside of five seconds. Liam slowly undid his pants, feeling thankful that he had actually worn underwear tonight.
With only six men standing, the drag queen summoned all her histrionics in presenting each and every specimen to the crowd for examination. The two men with pierced nipples had thick thighs and strong calves that garnered hefty approval from those watching from the floor—and the eyes of absolutely every soul in the bar were glued to the stage by this time. Of the other two guys, one had a swimmer’s build with hairy legs and the other had the lithe body of a prepubescent boy. Different factions supported each of the six contestants. When it was Gene’s turn, the drag queen yanked his boxer briefs and drawled into the microphone, “Boy, you better get rowdy tonight!”
The Miles Page 4
