The Miles

by Robert Lennon

  “The Ryan Adams piece is finished and I’m tidying up Sinéad right now,” he answered without looking up from his computer monitor.

  “Tout de suite it along, buddy. You know who gets lulu when she’s waiting to read copy.”

  “I just sent Ryan Adams to print right now.”

  “Did you give the new CD an A? I found it completely brill.” Four or five r’s rolled off her tongue as she enunciated her verdict.

  “You’ll have to read the review. I can’t chat now, remember? I need to fact-check this Sinéad piece.”

  Why the senior staff agreed to do a retrospective on Sinéad O’Connor’s life and music baffled Liam. He thought the artist herself would find it maudlin, and even a tad insulting, when she had decades more to record. The number of remote Irish towns and abstruse Gaelic names in the article had irked Liam. He had triple-sourced everything and was finally ready to print out his annotated copy and do one last read-through when the phone rang. He let it go straight to voice mail. The phone rang again, and he answered it with a curt, “Yes?”

  “Don’t ignore me! I need to know our exact coordinates.”

  “Look, I’ll meet you outside the Williams-Sonoma in twenty minutes. Things are tight here. See you then.” Liam hung up before Monroe had the opportunity to prolong the conversation.

  Liam smiled as he made his way through the 900 words of copy—an encyclopedic length for an EW article—knowing that he had caught a huge number of spelling and factual errors (town populations, the names of cavernous Irish pubs). He always received the toughest assignments because he had a killer instinct for accuracy. And with this Thursday night magazine close out of the way, Liam could now allow his evening to begin.

  He decided against taking a cab and jogged up the West Fifties to the Time Warner Center. The evening had the smack of perfection that only comes for about forty-eight hours in mid-May—the promise of summer without any of its ill humor and humidity. Possibility without disappointment. As Liam approached Columbus Circle, the dark plum sky reflected in the tall glass towers at the base of Central Park. Cars were just beginning to switch on their headlights as evening descended on Manhattan.

  Monroe stood outside smoking a cigarette and doing 360-degree turns in the store front windows, assessing himself from each new perspective. The purple Izod polo he wore tugged slightly at his stout midsection, but his complementary houndstooth sports jacket and butter-colored summer trousers slimmed him somewhat. Liam fought off the smile that tickled the corners of his mouth, knowing Monroe would feel judged and infantilized by any positive comment on the outfit.

  “Spare some nicotine for a friend?”

  “I’ll let you know when I see one.” Monroe put out his own cigarette and lit one for Liam. “Don’t tell me you raced over here only to become bedraggled, and you still ended up ten minutes late.”

  Liam had felt the trickle of perspiration for the past few blocks but didn’t think it would be noticeable. Was Monroe testing him? Hoping to stoke his vanity to see what Liam might do? Moving closer to the glass front of the building, Liam could see damp, dark rings under the armpits of his new aubergine Marc Jacobs sweater. The high-priced tickets had set him back a week’s pay, and now he would enter looking like a sweaty boor. Liam had looked flawless earlier in the day—and he knew it. All afternoon random people had been glancing at him for that half a second longer than is socially appropriate, as if trying to recall his name or remember how they knew him.

  The invitation called for “festive” attire, and Liam felt it was the perfect occasion to don the decadent outfit that Gary had purchased for him at Bergdorf Goodman. The sweater worked perfectly against his ink-blue jeans. Liam had even gotten a fresh haircut to showcase the angularity of his cheekbones. Everything had to be perfect, so he would simply wait outside for his sweater to dry off.

  “Don’t worry, kiddo. They always look at you. Tonight they’ll just be looking at you and wondering if you put on antiperspirant.”

  “Very funny. You know how much this fund-raiser means to me. We’re going to wait until I’m presentable.”

  “We’re already fifteen minutes into the cocktail hour and Mama needs to have herself some Grey Goose on the rocks.”

  “The third person? Monroe, we’ve talked about this.”

  “Don’t ruin your evening, beautiful.” Monroe’s tone had naturally switched from sarcastic to soothing. “You spent 400 bucks on the tickets, so let’s enjoy ourselves. No one inside is going to look as good as you. No one ever does.”

  While Liam knew that the statement was the type of thing that one friend says to another out of a requisite sense of politeness, he found himself oddly empowered by the idea. He straightened his posture, clamped his arms tight against his sides to cover up the sweat stains, and turned again toward his statuesque reflection. Maybe Monroe was onto something. Why not go in now and get their money’s worth?

  As soon as they walked through the doors of Café Gray, Monroe grabbed two flutes of champagne from a waiter circulating through the foyer area. Liam hesitated as he brushed the lip of the glass against his mouth and felt the bubbles pop and tingle.

  “C’mon,” Monroe insisted. “This is the perfect chaser to a cigarette buzz.”

  “If the desired result is a date with the toilet,” Liam said, placing the glass on a side table that housed a cobalt vase filled with white orchids. “Now, let’s go into the main room and mingle.”

  Liam’s hands trembled, and he knew a drink would settle his nerves. The bar was quite small and had been set up in the back corner of the room, making Liam feel desultory for tracking down a cocktail. The windows by the bar looked east over Columbus Circle, and in the short time since they had lingered outside every trace of the day had vanished from Manhattan. Something forbidden hung in the dark curtain of trees outlining the borders of Central Park. Light zoomed out in every direction from the busy streets below, but it was as though someone had taken a blanket and tucked in the green expanse of Central Park for a good evening’s rest. Liam felt safe and warm inside this beautiful, overpriced restaurant. He ordered a second Ketel One and tonic.

  “Why I never thought you’d actually show!” Liam felt the hot breath of the words in his ear and turned around to face Didier.

  “Well, it’s for a good cause.” The words had come out without any thought. A reflex.

  “Some might say you’re supporting the wrong troops, but I can tell you that the Bobcats all appreciate your contribution.”

  “Helping out coaches is something that transcends team lines. I am glad that your staff may get better salaries as a result of this evening.” Liam had come for one reason only and that reason was standing before him right now as he made a complete jackass of himself with clichéd drivel.

  “I’ll say, I think we took in over $40,000 tonight.” Didier’s eyes lit up as he spoke.

  “That is a hunk of change. I think I missed my calling as a coach.” Monroe elbowed slightly in front of Liam as he spoke, finally extending his right hand in a miniature curtsey. “You’ll have to excuse my friend Liam here. He’s frightfully rude at times. I’m Monroe.”

  “Lovely to have you, Monroe. I am Didier Vallois. God, every time I say my full name it feels like I am choking on too many accents.” Didier played with the platinum wedding band on his left hand. Liam had never noticed it before. “You’d think I was from the Ile Saint-Louis not Hoboken.”

  Hoboken? Liam could imagine a man being both sexy and a resident of Hoboken—perhaps if he had the grit of a mechanic or the rough, unschooled accent of some south New Jersey town—but Didier had the high sweeping features found in the countries of Northern Europe. There had to be some mistake, something to keep Liam’s fantasies alive.

  “I’ve heard tomes about you, Didier. I feel like we ate paste together in the corner of Mrs. Daltry’s first-grade class.”

  Even when he was at his most vulnerable and agitated, Monroe seldom employed such guerilla tactics on Liam.
There was only the slightest chance that Didier would connect with Monroe’s humor. And even if he was entertained, Didier would surely feel creeped out to know he had been picked apart by Liam. Or perhaps that would feed his ego.

  “Well, I hope I live up to all the talk.” Didier smiled at Monroe and then turned his head to look Liam squarely in the eyes during the pregnant pause that ensued. “I aim to please.”

  “I’m going to head up to the bar, Liam. I’ll get you another Ketel One and tonic. And you, Didier?” Didier lifted his half-full glass of red wine, and Monroe nodded. Midway to the bar, Monroe turned around and shouted: “Don’t talk about anything interesting while I’m gone!”

  Just then Liam felt the buzz of his BlackBerry through the back pocket of his jeans. He scrolled through the incoming message quickly while smiling apologetically at Didier. It was not good. The words were very few and fragmented, but it was clear that he had screwed up.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, Didier. My work needs me back there right away.”

  “It’s eight forty-five … At this point, anything can wait ’til morning.”

  “You’d think, but the magazine I work for closes on Thursday nights so there is no wiggle room. Final copy is needed by midnight, and one of the articles I submitted apparently needs some quick fixes. I seriously don’t even have the time to be talking to you right now … Tell Monroe what happened and tell him not to kill me for leaving.”

  Liam raced out of the restaurant and, as he bolted down the escalator, he heard Didier short of breath behind him.

  “I’m not playing games,” said Liam. “I might be fired. I need to hop in a cab right now.”

  “Let me hop in with you.”

  Liam stopped and looked at Didier. They stood about one foot apart from each other on the atrium of the Time Warner Center. Most of the stores had already closed, and Liam felt as though he could grab Didier and kiss him and no one would notice. If Liam embraced him, the kiss would be deep and violent. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he needed the release.

  “I said this isn’t a game. It’s work and it’s going to be intense.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the Starbucks downstairs.”

  “You don’t even know where I work.” Liam could feel himself blush.

  “You’re telling me there isn’t a Starbucks downstairs?”

  Liam’s nerves slackened as he smiled tentatively and walked outside to hail a cab. He heard Didier’s footstep following close behind. The image of Didier twisting his platinum ring nervously flashed into Liam’s mind as he spotted a taxi with its light on. A brisk rain had picked up out of nowhere, and Didier’s body pressed up against Liam. They ducked quickly inside the taxi. As the driver sped downtown, Liam watched the speckled blur of the city through the dirty windshield wipers. Didier clasped Liam’s wet hand inside his own and closed his eyes.

  MILE 15

  After about ninety minutes in the newsroom of Entertainment Weekly, Liam had addressed all of the sourcing issues that the senior editors found on his latest piece and headed for the elevator banks feeling depleted. He could not believe that he suffered through nights like this for near minimum-wage pay. He had dreamed of moving people through his words ever since eleventh-grade literature class. Liam entered the elevator alone and looked at his watch. It was almost 11 P.M. Hitting the button for the lobby, Liam wondered how many other twentysomethings at magazines or at publishing houses had been similarly seduced by those classic American novels. As a sixteen-year-old, Liam spent hours lingering over the first few pages of Moby Dick, fascinated that a man writing more than a century earlier seemed to have peered into his mind, felt his spirit and shared his thoughts. His narrator, Ishmael, speaking of that “damp, drizzly November in my soul … that requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off.” How often, as a teenager in suburbia, Liam had felt his skin crawling at the prospect of a life defined by inertia—filled with trips to local shopping plazas in a town strewn with split-level homes, fast-food chains, and strip malls. And so here he stood, a true adult who had graduated into big-city life, with more than $100,000 of fancy education to his name—a whipping boy to editors peddling pulp and gossip to the starry-eyed masses. The doors to the elevator opened, pulling Liam out of his self-pitying reverie, and he walked across his office building’s marble plaza to the Starbucks where Didier waited with a tall coffee and a newspaper.

  “You really did wait for me?” Liam spoke with a tone that expressed surprise and gratitude, in equal measure.

  “I’m nothing if not a man of my word,” Didier responded.

  “Not just another pretty face, hunh?”

  “Let’s get out of here, Liam. The fluorescent lighting and smell of roasting coffee have started to have an ill effect on me. You are done with work for the night, yes?”

  Liam gave a wan smile; he looked at Didier and could not believe how strikingly beautiful, how unearthly looking, he was.

  “Then let’s go celebrate,” Didier said, punching Liam in the arm.

  “But, Didier, it is so late—and I am exhausted.”

  “We’ll have a nightcap at your apartment then.”

  Cars rushed along the wet streets of midtown; it was true that the pace never really slowed in Manhattan. Hopeful anticipation of what might ensue with Didier mixed with apprehension as Liam considered the time and the fact that it was a weeknight. A creature of routine, Liam liked to get up early so that he could hit the gym before work. At this rate, he would be a sleep-deprived wreck in the office tomorrow.

  “I can hear the wheels of doubt turning in your head, Liam.” Didier stood up from the table and walked toward the exit. “I can tell you’re not a gambler. Your face doesn’t mask one single thought or emotion. And I absolutely love that about you!”

  “I would like nothing more than to have you over, Didier. No reservations about that at all. I am just spent from the work snafu and worried about getting behind on things.”

  “You did not move to New York City to be safe, Liam. Why be here if you are not willing to shake things up a little? Don’t you want to stir the pot? Take a chance … Live a little … And please, don’t make me reach for another cliché—I am at the end of my rope here!”

  Liam laughed and rushed his hands through Didier’s hair. He imagined running his fingers down Didier’s back and over his buttocks and could almost feel the blood drain from his head toward his groin.

  “And then there’s that,” Liam said pointing to Didier’s wedding ring. “That may be a little more than I can handle at this point too.”

  “It’s a technicality. I can’t tell you any more than that right now, but I will be able to soon. You need to take a leap of faith here.”

  As Liam and Didier walked to the subway, a heavy silence grew between them, the weight of which could be measured by the gravity of the decision Liam was about to make. Liam knew himself well enough to understand that he had set out on this evening, had coaxed Monroe to go to the Bobcat fund-raiser with him, solely to get closer to Didier. And now everything he thought he wanted was here before him, an opportunity to realize his dream. He could not let it slip away. As they approached the entrance to the downtown Number 1 train, Liam realized he had just learned that Didier was from Hoboken. He thought about the fact that he had never been to that little commuter town across the river from downtown Manhattan before.

  “I am coming home with you,” Didier said as they descended the long set of stairs toward the subway platform.

  “Yes, I know that,” Liam said. “But only for a nightcap … I don’t want to doom our chances any further by sleeping with you on the first ‘date.’ ”

  Didier looked at Liam defiantly as they stood alone on the empty subway platform at Fiftieth Street, awaiting the train. Out of nowhere, Didier performed a cartwheel and clapped his hands together in proud fashion upon sticking the landing. Didier’s boyish deligh
t at getting his way made Liam smile. He imagined the warmth of Didier’s body next to his own in his queen-sized bed and felt content and at peace and a little bit scared—fleetingly but all at once. Liam did not embrace happiness with any amount of ease or certainty.

  As they climbed the flights of stairs up to his apartment, Liam began to feel self-conscious. He could not remember the last time he had taken out the trash or whether he had left clothing scattered all over the floor. And although he loved the charm of his place, he knew that the warped wood floors and clawfoot tub in the bathroom would not suit everyone’s fancy.

  “I apologize in advance if anything you see tonight does not meet your standards of hygiene or décor, Didier. The artist-in-residence here is often overwhelmed by his own little existence.”

  Liam opened up the refrigerator door and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Sancerre. He fished two wineglasses out of the drying rack that, all too often, doubled as a storage unit for his dishes and cutlery. He split the remainder of the bottle between the two glasses and handed one to Didier.

  “Cheers,” Liam said. “I hope white is okay. I don’t have much in the apartment right now. Believe it or not, I was not expecting a visitor tonight.”

  “White is fantastic,” Didier said, clinking glasses with Liam. “I hope that this big gulp of a glass doesn’t put me out for the night, though.”

  “Not to worry if it knocks you out, sweetness. Like I said earlier, we are just hitting the hay and nothing else is happening.”

  “I am all for protecting a lady’s honor.”

  They carried the glasses over to Liam’s bed and sat down on the edge. Liam reached over and hit the shuffle button on his iPod. The forlorn opening chords of “Wild Horses” began to play, and Liam reached over for Didier’s hand.

  “I read once that Mick Jagger wrote this about his love affair with Marianne Faithfull,” Didier said. “It’s an unbelievably gorgeous song, isn’t it?”