Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  “Honey, if you ask me, it stinks,” said Laura. “Seamless confidence is the only way to go, with a client.”

  “I know it is, Laura,” said Peter. “But here we are. We can repair the confidence.”

  “Clients don’t like it when questions like this are hanging in the air. You know that. If this kind of thing happens, what else can happen? That’s the way they think.”

  “I agree. So I recommend we emphasize our creative ethic and the best practices way we do business. And you know very well that McCaw is happy with everything we’ve delivered so far.”

  “It still stinks. I hate it.”

  “What you hate, Laura, is not being able to control the client’s thoughts. But in this case, I’ve controlled him, so you can fucking relax. We’ll get through it.”

  She shook her head disgustedly.

  “I know we’ll get through this, Peter,” she spat. “It’s the next job I’m worried about—the next client, and their confidence. Word gets out. You should be thinking about that, too.”

  “I am thinking about it, Laura. I’m also thinking about integrity.”

  They were getting nowhere. Anyway, there was a plan on the table and the next step was to talk with Tyler. Peter looked around Laura’s office and was suddenly hit by the thundering banality of it, as a “cultural sign.”

  “I keep forgetting that places like this still exist around here,” he said.

  “Well, they do,” said Laura, testily.

  Peter was still giggling over her ire a few minutes later, in his own office, as he texted Will.

  It’s over. I just pulled out of McCaw. You busy later?

  When you drive through some parts of upstate New York at night, down a winding, tree-lined country road, illuminated only by the headlights of your car, you can feel like you’re coursing through a tunnel, ever farther into a leafy vortex that keeps regenerating itself hypnotically before you, moment to moment; and even if you’re driving slowly, you can begin to feel like you’re fast-forwarding not just down a country road, but past some illusion of the here-and-now, into an ethereum composed of every moment and all the leaves in God’s imagination.

  The route that Peter and Will chose to take up to Hudson that weekend was an alternate one. Since they were forced to get a late start, on Friday after work, they’d decided the smaller roads would be less congested and make for a nicer drive.

  Peter was behind the wheel, and in the moments of silence between them, once they were north of suburban lights and structures, he found himself thinking again how pretty these roads looked at night, and how gently the darkness opened in front of the car, even as it closed up instantly and inexorably behind it. In the rearview mirror was nothing, which was surely a lot to think about, while in front of the windshield was always more than the brain could even process. All those billions of leaves, and all the billions of billowing, three-dimensional bunches they made, in the direct beams of the headlights and in light reflecting from leaves and filtering through them, and in their shadows—all of which, simple physics said, were in shades of green! An almost infinite number of shades of green—all passing by too quickly to see! Wouldn’t an elephant, walking along this road, be able to remember the position of each leaf, each bunch of leaves, each color green and pattern of shade and shadow—all of them!—mile after mile? Elephants could do that, people said, though they always made it sound stupidly as if this was some useless capacity for registering meaningless nothing. Whereas Peter always thought how absolutely content elephants must be, remembering minute details of all the leafy paths they have ever trod, and perhaps seeing magnificent patterns emerge in a composite retrospect huger than anything humans could even imagine—which might eclipse the memories we form for smaller-scale things, like the sound of a Chopin étude or the sight of a Poussin landscape.

  He and Will had been determined to leave on Friday so they could spend the night at the house, get up early, and have the whole day to plan the things they had to plan, now that the house was Will’s. The bequest had been among others that were revealed when Jonathan’s will was read, earlier that week, in a meeting they both attended at the lawyer’s office. Aldebar and Jonathan’s brother were each given $100,000, while the bulk of the estate went to the new foundation; and though everyone was surprised about Will’s bequest, they were also delighted, especially Peter, who saw it as an extension of Jonathan’s talent for providing and sheltering.

  “For reasons well known to my executor and attorney, and knowing that my brother and my dear friend Peter are secure in their own residences, I leave my house in Hudson, New York, to my great friend William. . . .” And the will went on to explain that Jonathan hoped Will would occupy the place and find the security there in which to blossom. By that morning, too, Will had told Peter how kind Jonathan had been to him in other ways—like getting him bartending gigs as a way of helping him earn money, especially after Will told him he wanted to ease out of rent-boying.

  The drive was all headlights and dark hills, infinity....

  “So much to figure out,” said Will, suddenly, after staring out the car window for minutes.

  “I know,” said Peter.

  “Are you going to live there with me?”

  “At the house? Are you asking me to?”

  They hadn’t discussed the matter until then.

  “At least we wouldn’t have to move the paintings,” said Will. Jonathan had left Peter the remaining Frankels, the ones that didn’t go to Christie’s, the Eliot manuscript, and both the Cycladic head and the little beach rock that looked like it.

  “Well, I have thought about moving upstate one day, as you know. . . .”

  “Yes, I did know, dear.”

  “So . . . you’re gonna live there and continue at the magazine?”

  “Yeah, of course. I don’t see why we shouldn’t live in Brooklyn Heights during the week and come up here on the weekends. Starting when I return from Argentina. Then we’ll have the place for when one or both of us want to pull out of the city for good.”

  “Oh, is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Luz has already started to look for a roommate.”

  “Poor Luz!”

  “She’ll be fine. She’ll be making good money next year.”

  “What about the whole studio thing? Have you thought about that? That wing?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. I thought it would be great to let Aldebar use it for the Foundation. Whaddya think? They need a place. And some of the filmmakers can come there for a residency. Unless you think that’s too busy and public.”

  “No, I like it. It’s your house.”

  “I was kinda thinking of it as our house,” said Will. He went back to staring out the window. “Aldebar told me he’s been wanting to get out of town, too. He really liked being up in Hudson. I gather he’s looking for a place to buy.”

  “It’s so interesting,” said Peter as the landscape slipped by. “There’s so much in plain sight that we just don’t see, or can’t see, and maybe even don’t need to see. It balances all the stuff we do see, like dark matter does—allows the stuff we see to be the world, to think itself the world. You know what I mean? Aldebar and Jonathan—those final arrangements: unseen, yet reality. And it also makes possible another reality, the one I was living in, in which people don’t pull each other’s plugs. You know? Why did McCaw think he should set me up? What’s in back of that?”

  “Ya got me.”

  “I don’t even want to know. I want that to remain eternally dark matter.”

  Will smiled, but Peter didn’t see, since he was watching the road.

  “Aldebar and the power of life and death,” mused Will. “Could be.”

  Outside, infinite shades of black that were really hidden greens.

  Peter realized he’d fallen in love with Will as part of a story that began before Will ever set foot in his house that night, to bartend. It began, as far as he could tell now, at Jonathan’s housewarming,
when he was standing right there beside Will and ordered a drink from him, without knowing the guy would become his boyfriend. He’d asked for a vodka from the most extraordinary person in the universe and got no particular vibe from it. So much for my intimate acquaintance with Fate, thought Peter. And then Jonathan and Will hooked up; and Jonathan took Will up to Hudson, but they had no more sex. And then there was that weekend in April . . . when Will already knew the house! It was the same for the little towns they were passing through—abandoned by industry or flooded by new waves of antique-shoppers. How could even the wisest city or regional plan scale up to counter massive forces slouching in full view—like one of these hills—but invisible, impossible to know?

  They’d agreed on monogamy, but for different reasons. Peter wanted to avoid dangers he said he knew well; Will said he wanted to avoid those he knew nothing about. Each referenced “experience”—and that was as much as they ever said about the so-called generation gap between them. Marriage, children, and old age might require some further discussion, but not yet. And about the other parts of the story that could also be looming invisibly in front of them—illness, random accidents, acts of God—there was little planning to be done. They agreed only to create a story together.

  “Music?” said Will.

  “Sure,” said Peter.

  Will fiddled with Pandora on his iPhone, and after a minute found “Moments in Time,” by N’souciance.

  “Don’t laugh,” he said.

  The car was filled with a wash of lush synths, uplifting a heartfelt female vocal. It was as much a lovely, warm bath as a song.

  The moments in time that our hearts make together

  The moments of love that we dream for each other

  These moments of love that I make for you, and you

  make for me

  The moments in time, my darling, that we make eternity

  “Ooh, I love this,” said Peter.

  “They were a duo back in the nineties, eurodance. I interviewed the girl once, when she was trying to make a comeback. The guy had already died—plane crash. I know it’s supercorny. But gorgeous, the way Prince is gorgeous.”

  “It’s totally effective.”

  By the time the song arrived at the final chorus, which modulated up a half-step, to amplify the splendor, Peter and Will were singing at the top of their lungs, “These moments of love that I make for you, that you make for me; the moments in time, my darling, that we make eternity. . . .”

  They were still giggling about their performance when they pulled into a gas station convenience store, a little while later. The exterior was mundane, but inside was a kind of Oz. Obviously brand new, the place was clean and brightly lit, with aisles of pretty snacks, sparkling banks of refrigerated drinks and frozen foods, vivid display shots of pizzas, tacos, and burgers. Far cheerier, Peter thought, than such places used to be when he was a boy. Gas stations were tawdry then. They all seemed to have the same beat-up aluminum-and-glass dispenser from which, for a nickel, you could get a handful of stale cashews. And it made Peter proud on some level—as a self-proclaimed hick—that that little patch of upstate, only forty-five minutes from where he grew up, had not missed out on a half-century’s progress in roadside culture.

  He was looking at magazines when Will brought an energy bar over to the register.

  “That it?” said the register guy. He was a mild, plain-looking man of a certain age.

  “It’s all together,” said Will, indicating Peter. “He’s getting some stuff.”

  “No problem.”

  “Where’s the men’s room?”

  “Back there,” said the guy, pointing and reaching for the key.

  After a moment, while Will was still in the men’s room, Peter stepped up to the register with two bottles of water and a copy of Elle Décor.

  “Hi,” said the counter guy.

  “Hey there,” said Peter. “How’s it goin’ tonight?” Peter instantly thought the guy might be gay. There was a certain softness about the eyes, even a womanliness.

  “Great, thanks,” said the guy.

  “Just this,” said Peter. “The water and the magazine.”

  “All righty. And I think your son wanted the Clif Bar.”

  “Oh, sure. But . . . he’s not my son. He’s my boyfriend.”

  The counter guy smiled warmly. The store’s bright lighting made him look older than he probably was.

  “Oh, sorry, buddy,” he said. “My mistake. Big age difference.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Peter, handing over his credit card. “Like that’s a big deal. . . .”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For moral support, cultural insights, and thoughtful conversations that helped me clarify many of the ideas that went into this book, my thanks to Matthew Bank, Victor Bumbalo, Anicee Gaddis, Philip Gallo, Deborah Gimelson, Sharon Gluck, Claude Grunitzky, Ted Henigson, Lesley Horowitz, John Jahnke, John Jenkinson, Frances Kazan, Eric Latzky, Sam J. Miller, Derek Nelson, MaryEllen and Dr. John Panaccione, Ira Pearlstein, David Anthony Perez, Michael Raver, Angela Rizzuti, Tim Smyth, and Sarah Van Arsdale.

  For generous help in preparing the book for publication, my thanks to Larry Ledford and Steven Salpeter.

  And for a wealth of guidance and patience without which I (and this book) would have been lost, my deepest gratitude to my editor, John Scognamiglio, and my agent, Mitchell Waters.

  In loving memory of K. J. Dinnhaupt and Barry Laine.

  Please turn the page

  for a very special Q&A

  with Stephen Greco!

  How did this novel come about?

  It’s my fourth novel, but the first I’ve written to take its cue from events in my own life. For a while I was dating a guy who was much younger than I am. Actually, “dating” is the wrong word. We were hanging out a lot, doing stuff together, and I kind of fell in love with him, half secretly. I started the book as an exercise in wish fulfillment, to take some pressure off the relationship.

  You were in love “half secretly”?!

  I didn’t profess my love as fearlessly as I would have done when I was younger. And maybe I should have done that, even though I suspected my feelings were unrequited. Anyway, I think the message got through.

  You guys never went further?

  No. Then one day he stopped taking my calls and never explained why. And I had tried so hard to be a good friend and not put my fantasy in front of everything!

  That’s so sad.

  Yeah—disappointing. Then again, the book worked out.

  Is it true, then, that like Peter, the character in the book who is around your age, you’ve had two long-term relationships, one of which ended with your partner’s death and the other with your partner’s drug addiction?

  Yes. Though I would hope I’m not quite as wounded and twitchy as Peter is. And yes, I do date younger men—because, as the novel says, “that’s who’s out there”—but no, I’m not seeing anyone in particular, at the moment.

  Why is that?

  Why aren’t I seeing anyone? I don’t know—bad luck. Plus the fact that I had to learn how to do it all over again and how things work now. Love is the least immutable thing there is, in my view. In a way, adjusting to being older was a lot like coming out. Only it’s not just about who I am, but who I am now. Thank goodness there are plenty of young guys out there who seem OK with an older man and are willing to go beyond the daddy thing—which is a perfectly fine fetish that I don’t happen to like being squeezed into.

  And the other aspects of the novel—the advertising world setting, the references to upstate New York—those are autobiographical, too?

  Largely, yes. I was born upstate, I’ve worked in advertising, I used to write poetry.

  Can you describe your journey into writing novels?

  I studied architecture at Cornell in the late sixties, at exactly the same time that all those revolutionary forces were swirling about. I came out as gay, started writing poems about identity, and got into ma
gazines when I arrived in New York, in the mid-seventies, to earn a living. But though my friends were mostly gay novelists and “serious” writers, I continued to stick with commercial pursuits—out of fear, I suppose, that I didn’t have as much to say as they did.

  Then, around 2000, I was partner in a media company focused on youth culture, and we needed someone to script out a serial animation we were planning. But we couldn’t afford a writer, so I did it. I started inventing characters and situations, and a story began coursing out of me like lava. It was almost scary, yet I couldn’t believe how good it felt—to have this story erupt and then to work on it, craft it, make it better.

  What happened then? Did the animation get made?

  No, but I kept going with the story and it became Dreadnought, my first novel.

  Wait—I thought your first book was called The Sperm Engine.

  The Sperm Engine was mostly nonfiction, erotica—essays, reminiscences, and the like. Though I did need to knock out some fictional pieces to round out the book, and writing those was thrilling. That’s what gave me the courage and curiosity to go deeper with Dreadnought.

  And Dreadnought was self-published?

  Not exactly. The publisher of The Sperm Engine, Green Candy, passed on Dreadnought, and I had no agent at the time. When I asked my younger writer friends who their agents were, they said, “Get modern. Publish it yourself.” And just then my friend Dave King, the novelist, helped get me into a pilot program with Amazon that he was part of, called Amazon Shorts, which published original short fiction for direct download. This was around 2005. Amazon took one of the parts of Dreadnought, since it was a novel composed of relatively independent sections; and then, once that began selling, they took the rest of the parts.