Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  Daddy and Uncle Malcolm were both in pretty good shape, but looked old by the time they were fifty. They both smoked, they ate the wrong things, and there was no youth culture to keep them common-denominator cool. In fact, just the opposite. They were programmed to turn into village elders.

  Peter smiled when he thought of the gap between them and his own generation.

  So if you’ve taken care of yourself for forty years by eating right and listening to new music, and if you’re lucky enough to have kept all your hair, then what do you spend your youthfulness on when you’re, say, fifty-nine? A boyfriend who’s half your age? If sixty is the new thirty, how is that supposed to go down, exactly?

  Sex with a younger guy is the easy part, he thought.

  But what do you say to him when he refers to the Beatles as “vintage,” and the Beatles happened to have rocked your world in a very fresh way in 1964, when you saw them on Ed Sullivan? You can’t reminisce all the time, or lecture about the Beatles’ place in history. But you don’t want to bottle everything up, either, because then you’re not being honest—and you certainly wouldn’t want that in the other person, either. . . .

  “The chicken looks good,” said Will.

  “Mmm,” said Peter.

  As the server prepared plates for them, Peter told Will that Jonathan wanted them to come up to Hudson for another weekend soon, but that Aldebar had confided privately that a visit would now require special arrangements. For one thing, Jonathan was getting too weak to go out of the house and would soon need to be confined to bed.

  “I noticed that he had some trouble with his speech,” whispered Will.

  “Yeah,” said Peter.

  “Is it the medication?”

  “It’s the disease itself, they think, which is spreading. . . .”

  “To the brain?”

  Peter nodded sadly and took his plate of chicken.

  CHAPTER 21

  Everyone on both sides of the McCaw project acknowledged that the work was going well. McCaw himself, in his videoconferences with Peter, praised the bulletins he was receiving from the joint creative team headed by Sunil and Tyler. So McCaw decided to make the agency’s first quarterly progress report into a presentation that would also function as something of a rally for his top advisers, so they could “begin to absorb the energy and thinking that’s being generated.” The presentation, which was originally scheduled for the Den, the workspace at the agency where the team usually met, was therefore moved to the Arena, the agency’s largest meeting room, which was designed like an amphitheater. And because McCaw was bringing his top people—including Mary, the woman Peter had been seated next to at the dinner party, whom he learned was McCaw’s biggest funder—Laura wanted a few of the agency’s brass to be there, too. In all, sixty people attended, an enormous audience for a phase-of-work review. Yet as McCaw noted, this was a movement they were building, not just a branding project, “and movements have their own momentum.”

  “Whatever he wants,” was Laura’s response, when Peter told her about plans for the event. “What are you gonna show him?”

  “We’ve sorted out the DNA—there’s some solid language around that,” said Peter. “So we’ll give them the big ideas—the five pillars of faith, as it were—and walk them through how we got there and where we intend to go with them. Should be quite effective.”

  “What about shows? Any treatment, trailers?”

  “No, we’re not there yet. That’s the next phase.”

  “OK. But McCaw’s basically seen the work already?”

  “The broad strokes, yes. His people keep him informed. I think he’s pretty happy.”

  “Good. Good, Peter—really,” said Laura. “I know I’ve been pretty hardball with you on this, but I only want us to deliver the best. We’re making history here.”

  “Thanks, Laura. We’ve got a good team.”

  The meeting, run jointly by Tyler and Sunil, went smoothly. They spent twenty minutes on each of the five overarching concepts they had developed and showed all work. A telling concatenation of words and phrases, projected onto three large screens that dominated the Arena, was accompanied by a rich collage of contextualizing visuals taken from the mediasphere—“cultural signals” from the worlds of art, music, movies, and fashion, as well as from business and politics. In less than two hours, the presentation told a subtle but powerful story about why the five concepts were inevitably the right ones to drive the branding of McCaw’s movement and development of the most persuasive media campaigns, infotainment vehicles, policy statements, etc.

  When the presentation was done, McCaw, leading a round of applause, stepped up to the podium.

  “This is a great start,” he said. “My congratulations and my gratitude to you all. As the client, I’m delighted. But as a human being, I’m proud to see the science and the art of advertising and branding really being used like this to push civilization forward. I’ve learned a lot from this work—and I’m a pretty smart guy. But that’s one of the most important reasons why I’m delighted with the work being done here. There’s a lot to learn, a lot that’s new, in this world of ours—a lot that’s unprecedented. And in this world, what do we know and what do we want, as Americans? We can formulate policy till the cows come home, but how do we mesh this agenda we’re so passionate about with the way people process information these days? You all clearly have a great handle on that and I am, really, very grateful. Well done!”

  There was more applause, and McCaw beamed his triumphant smile around the room, taking care to project it even as far as the Arena’s topmost semicircular row. He had a politician’s skill for reaching everyone in a room—though the back row also happened to be where his big funder, Mary, was sitting. She’d slipped in late.

  “So let’s keep going,” he said. “I’ll only leave you with a thought that I didn’t see expressed here today, because I know ‘we’re not there yet’ ”—McCaw made air quotes and smiled at Peter—“but it’s already come up and it’s pretty important, in my mind, so I want to share it. Simplify when possible, complicate when necessary. It’s an easy directive. Some things are self-evident. You just name them—boom, comprehension. But some things, important things, need to be explained. You name them, yes, but you tell the story of the name. See what I mean? You describe reality in a way that people can understand. Our thinking has to be appropriate, if we want to reach the hearts and minds of our fellow citizens. And we do want to reach hearts and minds, don’t we?”

  Shit, Peter thought, as the Arena rang with yet another round of applause. It was Will’s line, and Peter hadn’t had a chance since the dinner party to figure out what to do about the fact that McCaw liked it so much. Now this—a public pronouncement! The only visual to back up McCaw’s comments, of course, was the one left on the screens at the end of the scheduled presentation: a composite of diverse faces meant to represent the population of the United States. But McCaw’s powers of oration had overtaken the room and refocused people’s attention from the visual to the verbal, allowing the words “Simplify when possible, complicate when necessary” to resonate, as they hung in the air, like a statement of doctrine.

  Before this, the questions on Peter’s mind had been tough enough: Should he get the creative team to morph the line forward into something better, and just not mention anything to Will? Could the line even be improved? It was already pretty good, as Peter well knew. Or should he approach Will about using it and ask him to approve? Might Will even accept a fee for it? He might even be flattered. Then again, he might not.

  Thus Peter was feeling uneasy when McCaw stepped down from the podium and came over to shake his hand.

  “Well done,” said McCaw.

  “Thanks,” said Peter.

  Mary joined them instantly. She was in a plain black pantsuit with a white blouse and pearls.

  “Nice work,” she said, thrusting her hand into Peter’s, standing shoulder to shoulder with McCaw. Peter didn’t remember her as seemi
ng so formidable in a white dress, at dinner.

  “Didn’t mean to jump the gun by throwing out that catchphrase,” said McCaw.

  “No worries,” said Peter. “Though . . . we really don’t know what it is yet, or how it behaves.”

  “Sure,” said McCaw. “That’s for Phase Two—I know.”

  “Seems to me,” said Mary, “it behaves pretty damned well.”

  Not long after, Will was promoted from associate editor to senior editor, and Peter invited him for dinner at his place, to celebrate. They’d been meaning to do something in the garden anyway, since the weather had turned warmer, and this seemed a perfect occasion.

  Peter worked from home that day, and went about his calls and the shopping and prep for dinner in a state of buoyancy. He was proud of his friend, for sure. Moreover, the early May weather was providing that perfect platform for well-being that’s bound to boost anyone’s mood—a crystalline combination of clear skies, low humidity, and a temperature in the high sixties. Yet something else was going on, too—something Peter couldn’t put his finger on, that he felt when they confirmed dinner by phone and Will asked what he could bring.

  “Wine?” he said.

  “Got it covered,” said Peter.

  “Dessert?”

  “That, too. Just come. I’m making a nice little but possibly amazing dinner for us, including champagne.”

  “Ooh, I can’t wait!”

  It was unlike Will to say he couldn’t wait, and there was an appealingly impatient edge to his voice when he said it, which suddenly made Peter feel that way, too. With added zip Peter went about steaming shrimp and stuffing mushrooms, and setting out a grill pan for the filets and a pot for blanching the asparagus.

  “OK, everyone,” said Peter to himself cheerfully, as the orange tea roses he’d bought for the bathroom bunched into a vase beautifully. It was just six-thirty. The table in the garden was preset with Veuve on ice. The kitchen was sorted—the orderly mise en place already a still life in Peter’s iPhone, ready for possible posting on Facebook. The Château Pavie was breathing. And then, as Peter was repositioning votive candles, half dancing to a pulsing disco anthem with a soaring female vocal, the doorbell rang.

  “Hey,” said Will cheerily, with a peck on the cheek.

  “Hey,” said Peter, who continued to dance in his shorts, T-shirt, and apron while welcoming Will.

  Everything’s alive now you and I

  Are going to the moon, the way we fly

  “Someone’s in a good mood,” said Will.

  “Someone is,” said Peter, taking a small paper bag Will was holding.

  “This place near work makes the most amazing biscotti,” said Will.

  “Great,” said Peter.

  That’s the way my heart can rescue you

  And you can rescue me

  You and you alone can rescue me

  “We doing disco tonight?” asked Will.

  “Not really,” said Peter, going over to his iPhone and switching the music over to soft jazz. “That was just the score for my final prep. Everything is pretty much ready, actually. Just let me put on a shirt and we can go out in the garden.”

  “I brought the new issue,” sang Will, pulling a magazine out of his tote bag as Peter ducked into the bedroom.

  “Thank you,” sang Peter.

  “I have a piece in it.”

  “Can’t wait to see it.”

  “I’m just gonna wash my hands.”

  For Peter, it was between the blue-striped button-down and the orange polo.

  “Sorry, what did you say?” he said, emerging from the bedroom in the button-down and seeing that Will was in the bathroom. “Say, can I give you some water?”

  Will stepped back into the room.

  “Sorry, did you say something?”

  “Would you like some water? I should have offered.”

  “I believe champagne was mentioned.”

  They went out to the garden and installed themselves in the rocking loveseat, which is where Peter had set up the champagne tray. An intermittent breeze was gently animating the greenery.

  “Ah, perfect,” said Will, making himself comfortable.

  “How was work?” asked Peter, as he poured champagne into two conspicuously heavy Waterford flutes that someone had once given Harold.

  “Fine,” said Will. “Same ol’, same ol’.”

  “Same office?”

  “Oh, yeah. They can’t change that. But there’s a lot more respect now.”

  “Is there?”

  “Major. The publisher came in today to congratulate me.”

  “Nice.”

  “I didn’t think she even knew who I was.”

  “Good,” said Peter, giving a glass to Will and raising his own. “Well done!”

  “Thank you,” said Will, clinking with Peter and taking a sip, then scrutinizing the flute. “God, Peter, could these glasses be any fancier?”

  “Nothin’ but the best.”

  “It’s a lot of crystal to be trusted with.”

  “I’m sure you can handle it.”

  Will nodded and looked into Peter’s face.

  “Did you cut your hair?” he said.

  “It’s probably still wet from the shower. I haven’t had time to do anything with it except push it around.”

  “It’s cute,” said Will, reaching up to adjust a bit that was falling into Peter’s eyes. The gesture turned into a thoughtful caress of Peter’s ear and neck, and then, as Will leaned in slowly to make sure he had Peter’s acquiescence, it became a full-on kiss on the lips.

  The moment was passionate and real, the kiss deep and probing. And then, after several seconds of contact, Will sat back, smiling placidly, and took another sip of champagne.

  For Peter, the moment was seismic. It set him quietly reeling, from his gut and every other part of his body. But it let in so much information, so suddenly, that all he could do was go into some kind of default behavior, which was to continue sitting there calmly as if a kiss between them were the most natural thing in the world. And anyway, it was daylight, and they were in a semi-public place, and all of the other things Peter might be impelled to do as a result of this new information, he knew, should be thought through at least a little bit.

  “Am I still breathing?” said Peter.

  “You appear to be,” said Will.

  “Good,” said Peter.

  “Any other questions?”

  Peter took a moment.

  “Why now?” he said.

  Will shook his head.

  “Why not now?” he said. “I mean, why have we not, until now?”

  “Ya got me,” said Peter.

  The garden was looking very lush. The hydrangea bushes that had been cut back too far in error a few years before, by an inexperienced gardener, had grown back vigorously and were looking better than ever.

  Then Peter put down his glass and leaned in to kiss Will, slipping one hand behind his shoulder and head, and the other around his waist. It was a waist that belonged to a museum statue. It was the first time, too, Peter realized, that he had run his fingers through Will’s hair, and the first time he realized how much he had wanted to do so for months.

  “Anything you can do . . . ,” Peter whispered as he brushed his lips over Will’s ear and began tonguing in back of it sweetly.

  Will took a sudden breath and exhaled slowly with a little groan.

  “Is this a competition?” he said, finding a place to put down his glass without pulling too far out of the embrace.

  “Uh-uh,” said Peter. “More of a cooperative effort.”

  “Oh, OK.”

  They went on kissing for a while, their upper bodies twisting urgently toward each other in the loveseat. Now and then they paused to look at each other’s faces and beam or giggle, then they kissed some more, and more intently, as they placed and pressed and gently pushed their hands on each other’s bodies, over their clothes. And then they finally sat back and took up th
eir glasses again. Neither said anything as Peter refilled them.

  And for Peter, stunned and exhilarated almost beyond words by the feeling of Will’s body so close to his and the taste of his breath on his lips, the challenge was to decide between taking a moment to savor a memory that was now four minutes old but already among the very best of his entire life, and going on right away to create another memory and perhaps another, and another.

  “Angela was out here today, trimming and foofing,” said Peter. Next to the loveseat was a grouping of three large clay pots that his landlady had planted with ivy and impatiens.

  “Very pretty,” said Will. “Peter, did I see two pieces of meat coming to room temperature in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, two filets.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Please.”

  “Can we put them back in the refrigerator for a little while?”

  Inside, Peter put away the meat and the shrimp, and had just shut the refrigerator door when Will, standing close behind him, took him in his arms and kissed him again. Then Peter pulled Will to the daybed, where they flopped down amid the artfully arranged throw pillows and continued kissing, this time with more of their bodies involved. Soon they were without shirts.

  So this was the outcome that earlier that day, on the phone, they’d both felt impatient for and knew, without consciously knowing, might happen! The communication between them for months had been too unblocked and too fascinating, their connection too effortless and joyous, to be ignored any longer!

  And forty breathless minutes later they were lying there on the daybed in each other’s arms, naked, their bellies frosted with dried semen, talking quietly, and kissing, playing with each other’s hair and brushing nipples, all but two of the pillows having been pushed onto the floor. Outside, the sky had gone dark, and from the open garden door flowed a fragrant evening breeze bearing further news of spring.

  “It’s insane being able to touch you like this,” said Peter.