by Arnold, Jim
My other upstairs neighbors, Keith and Ralph, who occupied the flat between Jake and me, had received an invitation because I was afraid of not filling the theater, and then they actually showed up.
Keith was about a foot taller than Ralph. I’d met them only once or twice, maybe when taking out the garbage or parking the Mercedes, and had talked up the film. They told me about a business they’d started, importing items from the Far East, which required them to work such odd hours that they habitually stayed up all night long.
Jake had long dismissed this as being the ranting and delusions of meth addicts.
“Glad you guys could make it,” I said, pumping Keith’s hand with a concurrent squeeze to Ralph’s sweater-covered arm. His top was exactly the same shade of red as the balls on the wreath just behind him. “See, you match the party.”
“Sure, Bruce. We don’t get to many movies; seems like we’re working all the time!” Keith said.
“Ben—it’s Ben. Have some food, enjoy the show and I’d love to see your place sometime—I can always use decorating inspiration.”
“We’re not hungry, but thanks,” Ralph said. He grabbed Keith’s arm and abruptly led him into the theater.
* * *
I was so nervous on stage during the traditional groveling thank-yous before curtain, I mispronounced Glenda Bourne’s last name as Burns, which generated raucous female laughter and a blurt from the dark.
“That’s Bourne; one thinks you might have got a clue during the months we worked together, Ben Schmidt, but apparently not!”
I was just grateful she didn’t call me fuckface in public.
Since the lock and the dupes and the submissions to all the film festivals, I’d had second thoughts about the short, feeling it could have been more daring, artier, less conventionally understandable. The less obvious sense a film made, especially a short film, the more profound it probably was. Hell for the Holidays was unrelentingly straightforward: Gay couple goes home for Thanksgiving, they fight, guy meets old flame, guy runs off with old flame, old flame deserts foolish guy. Told in chronological fashion, no flashbacks, no fast-forwards, and no stunning twist at the end.
Greg Graham, in addition to being handsome, was a decent actor, and one felt sorry for him as the jilted spouse. Ron Frankhauser brought the confusion he had in real life to his role as Steve, and at least I identified with him, and hoped the audience would, too. They applauded at the end—so it seems they enjoyed it.
Or they were just being polite because we’d fed them for free.
When the lights came up and we took questions, Greg was sitting next to Jake. This meant he had been sitting next to Jake in the dark for about twenty-four minutes and forty-one seconds. Their arms were too close, triceps grazing triceps. Were they holding hands? Was that slut Greg rubbing Jake’s hairy inner thigh?
Focus on the questions.
The invited audience was friendly. No matter what anyone really thought in their heart of hearts about the movie, we weren’t going to be skinned alive. There was still a lot of Karen’s food to be eaten out in the lobby.
“I liked the symbolism of Thanksgiving, as in being grateful for what one’s got, as the overriding theme of your film,” said a shaved-headed young man I didn’t recognize whose speech was lisped slightly by his tongue piercing.
“Thanks,” I said. “I thought that would be a nice counterpoint to Steve’s attempt to escape the domesticity he found himself in, the kind of gayish midlife crisis…”
I lied. The only reason Hell for the Holidays used that particular holiday as its setting was because we knew someone who had a complete turkey banquet prop set.
Keith and Ralph got up and left without saying anything.
As I watched them go, out of the corner of my eye I saw Greg pull on Jake’s sleeve.
10
I was impatient for the cab to pick me up for SFO and the plane ride to Vegas.
Jake slept in my bed the night before and had just climbed up the back stairs to his flat, insisting over and over again that he wasn’t now and never would be interested in Greg Graham, that he had an aversion to actors, and that he was perfectly happy the way things were. This, inevitably, was followed by a kiss. Several kisses. In fact, it seemed to me he was overcompensating for a simple party flirtation. Perhaps Greg had slipped him his number. I’d never ask. I wouldn’t search pockets or any of the places upstairs where I knew Jake put notes. I wasn’t going to be that kind of boyfriend.
And Greg Graham was not that hot. He was handsome, sure, in that movie kind of way, which meant to me that for some reason he looked really good magnified on a screen but kind of normal in real life. If all else failed, I supposed I could threaten Greg by declaring to never cast him again in anything anytime ever and make sure any director I came in contact with did likewise.
Right.
* * *
On an expense account, Vegas had its allure, and a pretty big one at that, if only because of its marked unreality. Since I was there always on business, it was simple to pretend that my job was as make-believe as my surroundings. Therefore, anything I did while there did not have to be taken as seriously as it would in San Francisco. Yet, I was paid the same: uniquely magical.
For the Consumer Electronics Show, Kelly had us booked into the Mirage’s poorer country cousin next door, Treasure Island. Of all the trade shows Safe Harbor exhibited at, CES was the largest and by far the most important. Due to its calendar location in early January, all the preparations had to be completed before the holidays, and by the time the show rolled around, most of Safe Harbor had forgotten what the company’s show theme was, focused as they were on mundane and inconsequential things like their real lives.
I would be able to be there for only the initial two days, as my surgery was scheduled for that Friday—now less than a week away. The realization bitch-slapped me as I hiked down the endless corridor of TI’s seventeenth floor, the heavy laptop bag cutting into the flesh on my right shoulder, a cold sweat fountain on the back of my neck soaking my shirt.
I changed and went down to the lobby, where I was certain to find a national coffee-chain outlet. Groggy from the Dramamine I’d taken, I required caffeine before heading over to the convention center to approve Safe Harbor’s booth. The ventilation system pumped secondhand smoke from the casino with toxic lavender-scented air piped in from the adjacent shopping mall. It gave me a headache.
The elevator opened to the ongoing roar and bell jangle, blinking lights, garish carpeting and gambler melting pot that define a Las Vegas casino.
Jason was in the coffee line as I approached. He nodded, but there was no usual smile.
“Just two more days,” I said. He was only half-turned in my direction. I truly wanted sympathy—if not that, at least some acknowledgment. “Until I have to go back to San Francisco. For the operation.”
Finally, he turned and displayed a thick raised eyebrow, hard to see since he hadn’t removed his sunglasses. He was effortlessly cool, as always, and it was easy to hate him for that, too.
“So—you scared, Ben?” Ah, concern. It may have been insincere, but it sounded good.
“I trust this Dr. Kim,” I said. “But it’s a little weird agreeing to let a stranger put you to sleep, then cut you open with a knife, if you really start thinking about it.”
Jason winced, spilling a little of the hot foam from the cappuccino he’d just been handed onto the spotlessly shiny tile floor.
“Man, you can’t think about it like that.” Of course, he was right.
He stepped out of line; I advanced.
“How’s it going over at the show?” I said.
“I don’t know why Kelly won’t try and accommodate Paul Sutcliffe or any of his people. She’s so, well, a good word would be…obstructionist?”
“What can I get for you, sir?” The cheerful woman whose ID tag confirmed her as Arlene from Big Spring, Texas, demanded a decision.
“Obstructionist?” I repeated
for Jason. “Can you make a big latte, but with nonfat milk?” I asked Arlene.
“Skim,” she said, two syllables.
I turned back to Jason. “I’m sure Kelly has a good reason for whatever procedures she’s following, and I don’t think name-calling is helpful.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at me with condescension or maybe disappointment. I noted he was the perfect hanger, six-two, broad shouldered but lean and slim hipped, solidly in that tiny percentile of American men Calvin Klein actually made clothes for.
“You’ll see when you get over there. I have to go, and this fucking coffee is burning my hand.” He walked away.
“Sir?” Arlene held out my coffee.
* * *
A few sips and my heart jumped with a little anticipation. I’d already planned with Jason the supervision of Safe Harbor’s marketing department while I was recuperating from the operation. He was someone who usually played his cards very close in, so this tidbit about Kelly was particularly surprising.
Jason was planning a coup for sure. I’d have to gauge Tony Mallard’s loyalties before I left for the month, and I wasn’t certain he’d even be at the show.
Once inside the convention center, I searched the enormous exhibit hall for Safe Harbor’s icy blue hanging sign. The show hadn’t opened yet, and there were still workmen racing to fix unfinished displays and forklifts carrying their supplies, beeping on the slippery plastic runners between exhibits, the smell of sawdust in the air.
Kelly was at her post, the greeter’s counter for Safe Harbor. She looked slightly dazed, not surprising, as if someone had plucked her directly from the land of Christmas wrapping and snowboarding and New Year’s raves and dumped her without explanation into this bizarre, unsettling atmosphere.
“Looks like you’ve been busy, Kelly,” I said, taking in the configuration I’d been arguing over with Paul since the previous July.
“Oh, hi, Ben,” she whispered as she shifted and pulled her hair back. Then something clicked, as if we’d just stepped out of Reanimator.
“Happy New Year! When did you get in?”
The force of this made me take a step back. “Just now—and I saw Jason, of course, in the lobby, getting coffee, just like at the office—”
“Oh, that fucker!”
* * *
I’d been masturbating quite a bit since the trip to New York. It wasn’t so much that I was horny, though that was true enough, and more often in the daytime as opposed to nights.
The real reason for the increase in jerk-off time was once I’d made my cancer decision, I was fascinated by my sperm. It was going to end. I’d be cumless after the prostatectomy. I’d no longer be part of that pool of dangerous men running around with loose baby-making cells at the ready—even if in my case it was highly unlikely they’d go anywhere productive.
It was a kind of primordial procreative instinct, and it took me by surprise. I never had given the idea of fatherhood much thought. Playing uncle to my brother, Vince’s, two sweet kids was enough. None of my various boyfriends had ever uttered the B word.
There’d be no chance of my own B, ever, after this surgery.
Unless.
Unless it was possible to somehow extract sperm cells from my balls and mix them with some kind of slippery liquid so they could meet up with an egg.
* * *
“Ben?” Kelly looked up at me.
“Sorry, don’t know where I was.”
“I don’t know why Jason seems to take Paul’s opinion on things. It’s been really tough for me these last couple of days.” She looked like she might cry. I was aware that the union guys around us, giddy and flush with all the Vegas work after relocating from places like Arkansas, where nobody ever went for a convention, had their lasers focused on this pretty young blond woman and not me.
I tried to concentrate on what she’d just said. “I’m going to have to ask him about it, but don’t worry. Arrange the booth like we planned and ignore anything Kristin tells you. You have my cell number, so use it.”
Divide and conquer. Sutcliffe was borrowing from the oldest playbook around, and the only problem was that people like Jason, Kelly and Kristin were all too young to figure it out.
This was his opening salvo, and the campaign to discredit me in the eyes of my staff would only increase once I was out on medical leave.
I hurried back to Treasure Island to jack off again. I could still go from zero to sixty in about two minutes, especially if I thought of myself being the filling in a nice Jake and Eric sandwich. I ate some of my cum, then rubbed the rest into my skin, stared at myself in the mirror, and memorized every inch of my still scarless torso.
* * *
I’d always liked Kokomo’s in the Mirage. They served gigantic portions of really well-made selections from the classic American Heart Attack menu. Plus, you got to eat in a faux rainforest, which brought back previous trips to exotic places like Hawaii and Brazil.
Deborah Bowens was my date. She was a senior operative from Harcourt & Associates, an external public relations firm I’d been pressured—by Paul Sutcliffe, among others—to hire as help for big shows like the CES. Deborah was a tall, slim, southern “girl” from Mobile who made a killing in Silicon Valley during an early tech boom cycle. She’d married Richard Bowens, one of the pioneers in video-conferencing logarithms. His patents had run out and now she supported them both. She told me his days were spent hopelessly bored at home in Saratoga, where he’d watch deer frolic in the yard and eat the roses.
Deborah was also unapologetically Republican. So we didn’t talk about politics, silently understanding that this was a place to which we simply would not go. As much of a disconnect as it was for my brain to encounter a smart, successful and extremely nice pro-gay individual and realize she had punched a hole in her ballot next to George Bush’s name, she probably thought the same thing about me and my vote for Al Gore.
I’d been seated by myself. Although it seemed crowded enough, it was not really Vegas crowded—it was obvious they were still reeling from the effects of September 11. Travis, from Portland, Maine—according to another ubiquitous name tag—took the drink order (I was good, it was early, diet Coke) and walked away, his clean black pants outlining a spectacular ass.
I was thinking that I’d just as soon eat off that menu when the Song of the South overshot the officially choreographed tableau of waterfall and birdsong.
“I’m so embarrassed to find you all alone here, Ben,” Deborah announced, her overstuffed black purse landing on the charger. “Has this boy taken good care of you?” Travis had followed her back to the table. She actually pinched his cheek—the one on his face. He turned bright red.
“So far, he’s been great,” I said, hoping to catch a glimmer of recognition, something, in Travis’s eye.
“You folks here for the big convention?” he asked, as Deborah balanced herself on my shoulder while lowering herself into the chair. The fact that he didn’t know which one was telling. CES was one of the biggest trade shows Vegas hosted. This indicated he was clueless or green, perhaps both.
* * *
Travis had cleared the table. I’d done good work with some enormous salmon thing and their signature garlic mashed potatoes, which I’ll admit to thinking about on the plane trip. Deborah was more ladylike, taking tiny bites here and there of a steak done rare, a curious melding of soft-spoken gentility and redneck. A steaming pile of spinach went untouched, so she’d have to get her Vitamin C from her drink.
A bit toasted, she touched my forearm and lowered her voice. We’d entered that secret society, all warm and chummy. I liked this; I was getting a contact high, though not quite ready to announce that I’d started drinking again. She’d told me once how proud she was of my AA “club.”
“You’ll keep those reporters in line. I can’t really trust those kids to do it,” I said.
She glowed. “My dear, there’s no substitution for experience. And that goes for everything.
” She punctuated this with a wink.
She prodded me again, this time with her fork. “You know, Ben, I want to tell you something.”
A bird or a recording of a bird—impossible to tell which—screeched off to my left, and I jerked my head around. “I’m a cancer survivor myself; what do you think of that?”
The candor shouldn’t have surprised me.
“Wow. You’re joking.”
“No kidding, buster,” she went on. “Ovarian. In my late twenties. Had a hysterectomy, so I’ve had both the abdominal surgery and now I’m a sterile little girl. We have more in common than you know.”
There was an after-dinner drink menu on the table. Tropical motifs, usually involving a combination of two or more kinds of exotic alcohols.
“I’m really sorry to hear that. Did you want kids? Kids of your own?”
Retreating deep into southern belle, she traced something on the table-cloth with a long, pink fingernail. I’d seen it before at company meetings, where she’d absolutely mesmerize the programmers.
“At the time, yes, I guess I did. We’re hardwired to be mommies.” She smiled. “I wish I could smoke.” She looked away toward the stand of palms Travis would always disappear behind.
“Oh, that’s right,” I muttered. “Forgot you were a smoker. I would’ve sat us in that section.” I was lying, but so what? I wished she hadn’t told me about her cancer, because I just wanted to get the sympathy and feel sorry for myself some more.
“I’m really sorry you had to go through that, Deb.” I put my hand on top of hers and squeezed.
The rest of our dinner was understandably subdued, though I couldn’t get the list of after-dinner drinks out of my head even if we didn’t go there. Deborah was not a pro drinker and we had a heavy day of media ahead of us. By the time we made our way out of the Kokomo jungle, she was laughing and loud once again. We parted at the golden Mirage elevators.
How she, the freelancer, got a room at the Mirage, while I, the executive, had to stay at Treasure Island, was an issue I’d take up with Kelly.
