Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  The stories Adam told were amazing: penises large and small; sexual tastes infantile and brutal; affections that were lovely and nasty at the same time. But the drugs, he said, were always the best, and anyway the job was better than cater-waitering for helping make ends meet.

  Peter liked Adam’s intelligence and affability—qualities that were clearly as important to a successful rent boy as looks and prowess—but he was never again attracted to the guy, sexually. He found it odd that Adam was never interested in advice on parlaying his lofty contacts into career advancement in photography—which raised the question of what Adam wanted his career, ultimately, to be. In the end, it was drugs that ended the party. Adam crashed and burned and went home to his family in the Midwest. After rehab he found a boyfriend, put on some weight, and started shooting for a local newspaper.

  That day, Peter was having lunch with Laura, to talk business. The restaurant was a fancy Italian place near the office, where the company had an account. Peter thought the place too self-important and rarely went there. The tables were too large and too far apart. Laura, as usual, was in an eye-catching suit—this one of black-and-white stripes.

  “Hi, hon,” she chimed, as Peter slid onto the banquette with her.

  “Looking smart, as always, Laura.”

  “You’re always so sweet,” she said. “Don’t you love this place? I told the waiter to let Jackie know we’re here.” The restaurant’s chef, whose name was Jacqueline, was a rising star in the New York food world. Laura always referred to celebrities by their first names, whether she knew them well or not.

  She was around Peter’s age—overweight, with dyed blond hair that was limp and overprocessed. Though witty and connected, she wasn’t particularly pleasant to be around, because of a bitter edge that seemed to come through the brittle laugh she ended half her sentences with—the result, apparently, of a determination to remain vivacious. She’d never married and had terrible luck with boyfriends. She’d said no in college to a guy who became a software billionaire; then there was a criminal lawyer who drank and made scenes, a real estate guy who cheated with bimbos, and a personal trainer who wanted money to launch a line of workout gear. Peter knew all this because Laura confessed such stuff freely and had done so since the day they met. But she was smart and high up the ladder on the business side, and Peter respected her for that.

  “And you look great,” Laura said, with a laugh.

  Peter knew he looked a bit deflated. In truth, he was hungover. He hadn’t gotten home from Rico’s until around three.

  “A friend is going through chemo,” said Peter. “You know.”

  “Acupuncture,” she said.

  “Well . . .”

  “No, I’m telling you,” continued Laura. “That’s the thing. It helps the body counteract all those toxins.”

  “Ah.”

  “I know the best guy in New York.”

  There was no real conversing with Laura—only listening, reacting, then eventually finding a way to cut it off. Lunch would last ninety minutes. Peter had prepared himself for that, in the interest of business. The only variable was whether or not the two of them would walk back to the office together. In that case, there would be squiring to do—doors to be opened, attention to be paid while negotiating crowded sidewalks at a painfully slow pace.

  Acupuncture led to Laura’s manicurist, who wanted to study acupuncture, which led to Laura’s current exercise routine and diet, and then to northern Italian cuisine, which somehow led to Bronze Age migrations from Asia to Europe—all of which led to Henderson McCaw.

  “Talk to him,” said Laura. “He’s really very charming.”

  “I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t be in the same room with . . . that face.”

  “Oh, now, don’t be so gay.” Laura felt she could make remarks like that, since she was such a good friend of the gays.

  “He’s clearly not our only prospect, is he?” said Peter.

  “No,” said Laura, “but he’s one of the biggest. This could be a hundred million in billings, over the next five years. Look—what’s the problem? Talk to the guy.”

  “Ecch.”

  “He’s really smart. He really knows who he is and what he’s doing. And, Peter, you can’t deny he’s onto something, cultural.”

  “I cannot deny that.”

  “And that’s where the new business is. And you like that kind of challenge, don’t you? And frankly, Peter, we need you to play ball on this. We didn’t acquire the agency because of its cute name. We have numbers to meet—numbers we all agreed on.”

  “I know. It’s just . . .”

  “Look, you’re not a new business guy, hon—you’re not. You’re creative, and you’re the best, full stop. So you go and do creative, and let me bring in the new business. See how easy that is?”

  She laughed in a way that was once probably meant to be flirty. Just then Peter heard the dink of his iPhone—a new text.

  u in the office? It was Tyler.

  Gimme a sec, said Peter, typing a reply. back in 20

  need to run triumf by u b4 sending

  “They’re lost without me,” said Peter, smiling.

  sure. will come and find u, he typed.

  were n farmers mart

  Peter tucked away the phone. Tyler and the team he had put together for the vodka proposal were gathered in a little community-square-ish corner of the atrium, where fresh produce and homemade soups and baked goods were available each day.

  “Triumf,” said Peter.

  “Your boys?” said Laura.

  “Well—boys and girls. We’re an equal opportunity shop, as you well know, darling.”

  “Are you? Just be careful with the boy toys.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Relax. You know I’m your best friend. But this kind of thing, it can blow up in your face—that’s all I’m saying. Some clients might not be so comfortable with it.”

  “There’s nothing to blow up, Laura. I’m a saint. God knows, my sex life is a barren wasteland. My kids are saints, and they’re all hugely talented. And we’re going to keep making tons of money.”

  “Good! That’s what I like to hear!”

  Later, as they walked back to the office, Peter kept wondering what, if anything, was in back of Laura’s crack. Knowing her, it could have been some concern about women in advertising and the enduring glass ceiling. More likely, it was a reservation about something she thought was standing in the way of a juicy new client.

  Or something that actually was standing in the way, thought Peter.

  “Vodka cran, please, twist of lime.” Tip.

  “You have any scotch? How about bourbon? OK, rocks—make it a double.” Tip.

  “Hi, there! Can I get three white wines, please? No—four. Wait—no, three. Sorry.” Tip.

  “Do you have beer? Any Belgian beer? Miller is all you have?” No tip.

  “Hey, what’s in the rum thing? Is it any good? OK, can I get two of them?” Tip.

  For almost three hours Will had been on his feet behind the bar at a large and lavish party in West Chelsea. A leading style magazine was launching its fattest-ever December issue, and fifteen hundred people had come to celebrate in a mammoth, multispace photography studio that occupied a full floor of a former factory building. The building featured two elevators as large as some New York apartments, built especially for trucks, which once were hauled up to loading docks on every floor. The elevators were now used chiefly to carry guests, by the score, up to events like this.

  The entire studio was white—floors, walls, ceilings—and the décor of the party capitalized on this with a winter wonderland theme. Suspended above the crowd’s heads were thousands of tree branches that had been painted white and dipped in iridescent sparkles. Positioned strategically throughout the space were six open bars, each thirty feet long and manned by four bartenders with as many barbacks; the bars were draped in sparkly white fabric and preset with a ridge of glassw
are, lined up in neat ranks. There were two DJs—one for the main space, a central area that the loading dock opened into, and another in the big room at the far end of the floor.

  The crowd was the usual thing for this kind of event—editors, associate editors, and assistant editors, with assorted designers, stylists, and photography types, plus people from fashion, beauty, music, and art, and a sprinkling of modishly dressed venerables of both genders, who’d clearly been upping the city’s festivity quotient for a long, long time. A few film and music stars were said to be attending, but Will was too busy to care about that. He was working his butt off, dressed in a tight white T-shirt emblazoned with a special graphic incorporating the magazine’s name and the logo of the rum brand being used in a special cocktail they were serving, the Winter Wind: rum with mango juice, mint, ginger, and sugar.

  “The special, please. Oh, no, wait—do you have wine?” Tip.

  “I said no ice—sorry.” No tip.

  “Ketel One? Stoli? Christ—whaddya got?” Tip.

  “Excuse me, where are the bathrooms?” No tip.

  “Vodka and soda, please. Maybe some lemon.” Tip.

  Will had rushed to the party from his temping gig at a downtown law firm. He’d devoted a full day, already, to standard office labor, and was exhausted, but the party gig was a good one, for an event company that used him often, and he hadn’t wanted to say no. Besides, he needed the money. The three other guys he was working with at his bar—all of whom could have stepped out of the pages of W magazine—he’d hardly talked to beforehand, as they changed clothes and set up; and now that things were busy there was barely time to utter a word, unless it was about the supply of ice or mango juice. Even Brent, a really nice guy he’d worked with before, at other gigs, with whom he’d bantered a bit as they were setting up glasses, now was concentrating only on the guests. And of course, Brent’s tip jar was loaded.

  Will was getting some good tips, too, but he found it harder to work for them than Brent did, with fast service, flirty smiles, and witty exchanges. In fact, despite its supposed glamour, the entire party—his tenth or twelfth such gig since coming to New York—was hell, and being there reminded Will just how dissatisfied he was with the catering/bartending lifestyle. Scrambling hard for subsistence living was now officially charmless. His periodic searches on craigslist and Mediabistro for editing and writing jobs had not turned up as many leads as Will had expected, and none of those he did spot had led to an interview. Was there some other way to go about it?

  Most of the other bartenders were actors or models, so the hopes on which they pinned their escape from this life of servitude lay on the screen or the stage. If they didn’t have a sense of where they were going, careerwise, at least their agents did. And the guests, Will felt, must have a sense of direction, too—but where did they get it? Will knew he fit in with them, in terms of looks, and style, and temperament, but what exactly did those people do, anyway, and how exactly did they come to do it? Were they all editors? The kind of editors who write, and choose their subjects, and have lunch with writers, and produce photo spreads, and plan issues? Did they come from literary backgrounds? Journalistic backgrounds? How did one become an editor? Who taught that kind of editing? How did you talk about your aspirations in the field of editing, in an interview? Was there anyone at the party, among those fifteen hundred souls, who might have read the interview Will did with Beyoncé—who might appreciate the skill and charm it took to get the star to reminisce about the smoothies she used to have for breakfast as a child?

  It was nasty business, serving people. True, everyone in the room understood that cute bartenders were all bound for something else, that by the end of the following year half the party’s bartenders might well be talking about some new project from the couch of a late-night talk show. Yet until the couch, what did they say and think about themselves? Nothing in Will’s twenty-eight years—nothing in his comfortable upper-middle-class upbringing—had prepared him for this. God knew, he wasn’t looking for anything fancy, just survival with dignity. As much as he liked New York, he resented this quality of the city that seemed to be both goading him to find himself and preventing him from doing so.

  “Hey, buddy—four specials.” No tip.

  “Beer.” No tip.

  “Hi, there! Three white wines and one red, please—thank you. Eew—is that the end of the bottle? Could you open a new one, please? Is it a French wine, do you know? Is it very sweet?” No tip.

  “Hey, Brent!” shouted Will, slamming down his corkscrew. “Do me a favor? Cover me for five minutes? I gotta pee. Literally—back in five.”

  Will walked across the floor, down a roped-off corridor, and into the staff men’s room. He washed his hands at a sink, then went into a stall and just stood there, breathing. The room was empty. He needed a moment to himself. From outside the men’s room echoed the pounding DJ music and the roar of a thousand conversations. After a moment, Will peed, then checked his messages. He wasn’t expecting anything; it was just an excuse to enter his private iPhone world and push a few buttons. On a whim he checked his Facebook newsfeed. Nothing special—then he saw a new picture from his sister, who was on vacation with some Italian friends of the family, in Paris. Will “liked” the photo and made a breezy comment, then he checked for any other Paris pix, of which there were a few.

  Damn—I was supposed to meet them there, he thought. Why did I say no? Then he remembered: He’d never really intended to go to Paris, this time. He’d decided that he had to concentrate on landing the job he’d come to New York to find.

  Will kept scrolling. Also among his sister’s shots were several from the previous spring, when Will’s family had visited the vacation home of their Italian friends in Ischia. The friends had a large boat that was staffed both with hired help, for the sailing, and family retainers, Marta and Claudio, for the serving. There was Will, shirtless, in the sun, with Chiara and Sarah; Will, shirtless and squinting, on the beach of one of the tiny islands they stopped at; Will with Sarah and Elisabeth, on the beach; Will’s parents with the Italian parents; all the kids gathered for lunch on the boat’s aft deck over a fresh seafood salad, with Marta and Claudio in the background, beaming. The tablecloth was striped blue and white.

  OK, great, so now I’ve joined the servant class, thought Will, with a silent chuckle.

  For some reason, he suddenly remembered a moment from that trip—the gracious answer their friends’ mom gave when his mother asked, at the end of their stay, whether tipping Marta and Claudio was appropriate.

  “Yes, it is done, if you like, and they will be so grateful,” the lady said. “They like you all so very much. But may I suggest . . . well, we have something in Italy we call bella figura—um, good form, I suppose you might say. This means you might select a little gift for them, something very small, and then also give them an envelope with some bills, if you choose. You see?”

  Just then, someone entered the men’s room, with the bang of a door, and Will put away the phone.

  Back to work, commendatore.

  Back at the bar, Will noticed that one of the guests was shooting smiley glances at him—a good-looking man in his late thirties or early forties, surrounded by a crew of younger cuties. He had the air of someone important, with prematurely gray hair and a pair of clunky, retro-style glasses. Will knew that at parties like this it was par for the course for the handsome bartenders to be flirted with and maybe invited to after-parties and such, but no way! Will’s feet and lower back were screaming for help, and he was already dreaming of the steaming-hot eucalyptus bath he was going to sink into, the moment he got home.

  The man stepped over to the bar.

  “You guys are doing a terrific job tonight,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Will. Underneath the man’s gray sport jacket was a tight purple sweater that showed off an obviously worked-out body.

  “Busy,” said the man.

  “That’s the way we like it,” said Will.
>
  “Oh, I’ll bet you do.”

  “Drink?”

  “Got one, thanks. Say, are you an actor, or a model?”

  “Sorry?”

  “An actor, right?”

  “Oh—sorry, no.”

  “Damn, that was my best guess. May I ask what it is you do or intend to do when you grow up?”

  “This,” said Will, chucking out an empty wine bottle and opening a new one with pretend disgust that wasn’t so pretend.

  The man made a frowny face.

  “When you’re not here, I mean,” said the guy.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to be a jerk,” said Will. “I’m looking around. I just got to New York.”

  “Oh, yeah? What are you looking for?”

  “Something in magazines, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “No—in magazines. I write; I’ve done some editing.”

  “You have clips and strong references, I assume?”

  “Sure, why?”

  “This is magazine world, my friend,” said the man, with a gesture indicating the entire party.

  “I know,” said Will, “but . . .”

  “I happen to know someone in HR. Have you been over there yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what’s the delay? They should see you.”

  “OK.”

  “Maybe Condé Nast has made you a better offer?”

  “No,” laughed Will.

  They introduced themselves and shook hands.

  “Here’s my card,” said the man. “Call me tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” said Will, examining the card. “What’s an ‘editor at large’?”

  “I hope, my friend, that by this time next year, when you are making six figures and wielding vast power, you will find a question like that comically naïve.”

  Will was confused, but he giggled.

  “Sorry,” said the man. “I do a little bit of everything. But seriously—call me. We’ll see if we can hook you up with something.”