by Isla Olsen
I manage to hold back the groan that begs to escape when the Sam Smith song playing through my earphones is interrupted by Laura Branigan’s “Gloria”—my mother’s ringtone. I spend a brief moment debating whether to let the call go, but in the end I decide to answer; she’ll only call back in five minutes’ time if I don’t.
“You couldn’t have waited half an hour until I got home and opened a bottle of wine before you started in on how terrible my life is and how I should move back to Finchley?”
“A bottle of wine? Zack, it’s ten in the morning!” Mom’s tone is aghast.
“You’re in California—I’m a whole two hours ahead of you here.”
“That’s still very concerning. I didn’t raise you to be a lush.”
I roll my eyes. “You barely raised me at all.” I feel a stab of guilt the moment the comment leaves my lips, and I know the only reason I said it is because it’s been such a shit couple days. Still, it’s true…
Mom lets out a heavy breath before unloading her next words. “What should I have done? Worked less and let you boys starve? I wasn’t the one who left, you know…”
“I know. I’m sorry, Mom. it’s just been a really crappy few days and I lashed out.”
Mom doesn’t ask me for details. She knows it would be pointless anyway. We’ve just never really had the kind of relationship where I ask her for advice and talk about my problems. I know she wishes we were more like that, and maybe on some level I do as well, but this is the way we’ve always been. It’s too late to change it now.
“I hate to pile on,” she says after a long stretch of silence, “but I have some bad news.”
“What is it?” I sit up straighter, immediately on guard. My first thought is for my brother, Jesse; he’s a pediatric nurse in New York, and while I know he can more than take care of himself, I do worry sometimes about the long hours and the toll the job takes on him.
“It’s Ted Goode. He…he passed away yesterday.”
All the breath in my body rushes out as I try to process those words. It can’t be true. It just can’t be.
Ted is—or, I guess, was—the grandfather of my high school boyfriend, Slater. But he was so much more than that to me. We lived next door to the Goodes for as long as I can remember, and after my Dad left when I was seven, Ted stepped in and became the father I needed. He retired young—while in his early fifties—so while our mom was off scraping together a living, Ted and his wife, Nora—when she wasn’t working her part-time bakery job—watched out for Jesse and me. They treated us just like two extra grandkids; and with thirteen of their own you’d think they’d have enough of kids running around. But they’ve always had a ‘the more the merrier’ attitude.
Despite the trauma of my dad taking off and the fact that I hardly ever saw my mom, my childhood was amazing, and it was all thanks to this man whom my mom is now telling me has passed away. And I haven’t bothered to visit him for over five years…
“No.” I finally manage to utter.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” And I can tell my mom is on the verge of tears.
“How? What—what happened?” Ted was in his late seventies—not exactly old by today’s standards—and as far as I knew, he’d been completely healthy.
“It was a…a heart attack,” Mom tells me, but from the brief hesitation, I get the impression there’s more to the story.
“What is it, Mom? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Oh, Zack, I’m not sure you really want to know all the details.”
“Just tell me, Mom—I’m a big boy.”
She releases a heavy breath before speaking. “It seems they were…ahem…in the throes of passion when it happened. Ted and Nora, I mean.”
I’m silent for a few moments as I attempt to compute her words. “You mean…he died during sex?”
Out of the corner of my eye I notice the woman next to me—the one reading the book that I now realize has a picture of an extremely attractive bare-chested man on the cover—jolt in alarm. Eavesdrop much?
“Err…yes,” is Mom’s awkward response. “At least, that’s what they’re saying around town. Apparently they were…trying something new and, well…” she trails off.
“You were right,” I mumble. “I don’t think I want the details.”
After a brief pause, Mom said, “Honey, I have to go so I can call Jesse—he should be off work by now. Can I expect you home for the funeral? It’s on Friday.”
Shit. Finchley is the absolute last place I want to be right now considering the current mess that is my life, but there’s no way I can skip out on paying my respects to Ted.
“Yeah,” I say in a hoarse voice choked with emotion, “I’ll be there.”
When I end the call, the romance novel lady sitting next to me turns in my direction and says, “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing…you’ve lost someone?”
All I want to do right now is put Sam Smith back in my ears and curl up next to the wall of the train for the remaining twenty minutes of my journey home, so I’m a little annoyed that this stranger has decided to talk to me. I was raised to be polite, though, so I answer her in a stiff tone. “My grandfather.” It would be way too difficult and completely unnecessary to explain my actual relationship with Ted.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear—that’s awful.”
The gentle tone and the genuine sympathy I see in her expression is what breaks me, and suddenly I’m reduced to a sobbing mess right here on the L, and I don’t even have the energy to care about my public breakdown. “This is why old people shouldn’t have sex. When old people have sex they die!”
“Now, that’s just not true.” Romance Novel Lady reaches to awkwardly rub my shoulder in what I’m guessing is supposed to be a soothing gesture. “Sex has been proven to have numerous health benefits—both mentally and physically.”
Her comment is enough to startle me out of my outburst and I look up at her, eyes wide.
Perhaps taking my expression as disbelief at her words, rather than at the fact that she said them, she continues, “That’s right. And if you’re not having intercourse regularly, you really should be masturbating. Nothing better for a person’s overall wellbeing than frequent orgasms.”
Before I can muster a response to this, Romance Novel Lady glances up and gives a little jolt of surprise. “Oh, this is me.” With one last squeeze of my shoulder, she says, “I am so sorry for your loss, dear,” before getting to her feet and making her way to the exit of the train.
When I get home, I’m both annoyed and perturbed to find the front door of my apartment locked. It’s this ridiculously ancient lock that takes a lot of finagling and concentration to open, so we only ever lock it when we’re both out of the apartment. And considering it’s just after midday, Lawson should be home right now.
After a good few minutes of wrestling with it, I finally manage to get the door unlocked, shoving it open with my shoulder and entering my apartment, my little box of personal items hugged under my arm.
I find Lawson standing in the middle of the living room wearing a startled expression, as if I’ve just caught him with his hand down his pants.
“What the fuck? Why was the door locked?” I demand.
But before the question is even out of my mouth, I’ve managed to deduce the answer based on Lawson’s appearance and the state of the living room. He’s shirtless, shoeless, his jeans are undone, and his normally neatly-styled black hair is an absolute mess. The living room floor is littered with items of male clothing: another pair of jeans, t-shirts, shoes…
I let out a huff of frustration and make my way over to the small kitchen, placing the box on the counter and slipping my messenger bag off my shoulder to set it on the floor. And that’s when I see it: the naked man trying to hide behind the kitchen counter, as if crouching on his haunches and remaining silent will somehow make him invisible.
I round the counter and fix him with a bored glance, one eyebrow raised. “You had the whole five minutes it
took me to open the door and this is where you chose to hide?”
Nervously, he gets to his feet, grabbing the dishtowel from the oven door to cover his crotchal area as he rises. He’s cute. And very familiar…it takes me a moment to place him out of context, but then I realize he works at the coffee house just down the block. The one Lawson and I go to almost every day. And as far as I recall, he has a girlfriend.
“I thought you said no one would be home.” He casts a panicked look in Lawson’s direction.
I turn toward my best friend, fixing him with an incredulous look. “Really? You didn’t think after our little escapade on Friday night I might not last the whole day?”
His face screws up in sympathy. “Fuck, man, I’m sorry.” Turning to barista boy, he says, “Listen, Toby, you don’t need to worry about Zack, he’s cool.”
Barista Boy—Toby—studies me warily. “He doesn’t seem cool.”
Aaannnd I snap. “Yeah, well, my boyfriend cheated on me with a nineteen-year-old named Piedro, I lost my job, my grandfather died, and then I came home with the sole intention of drinking three bottles of wine to find a naked barista in my kitchen!”
Toby’s eyes widen in shock and he takes a small step back, obviously to get as much distance from the crazy man as possible. With a brief glance toward Lawson, he says, “Umm, I think I might go.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “And for the love of god, please take that dishtowel with you.”
3
From the private Facebook group ‘Finchley Locals Community Hangout’
* * *
Post by Hank Latham: On behalf of all Finchley residents I’d like to express my sincere regrets about the passing of Ted Goode. He was a great man and he’ll be missed. Also, does this mean there’s a vacancy on the Men’s Club board?
Alice Ackerman reply to Hank Latham’s post: Well unless there’s a way for Ted to chair the board from the beyond I would assume the answer is yes, but this is hardly the time to be discussing such matters Hank
Hank Latham reply to Alice Ackerman’s comment: This is a matter for the Men’s Club, Alice. Which you are not a member of
Alice Ackerman reply to Hank Latham’s comment: Then post it in the Finchley Men’s Club Facebook group
* * *
Zack
* * *
When Lawson leaves to walk Toby out, I make a beeline for the shower, soaking myself under the scalding hot spray for a good twenty minutes.
Afterward, I return to the living room, dressed in my oldest, comfiest sweatpants and a Sacramento Kings jersey. I’m just flopping onto the couch, remote in hand, when Lawson steps through the front door carrying a large paper bag. It only takes one glance at the logo on the bag for all my annoyance at his earlier behavior to completely evaporate; he’s brought me parmesan fries from the pizza place two doors down—my favorite food on the planet.
He joins me on the sofa, spreading the take out boxes on the coffee table. As well as two servings of parmesan fries, he’s also brought home a serving of chicken fingers and some mozzarella sticks. Bless him.
“Wine. I need wine,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “I’m pretty sure we drank all the wine on Friday before we started on the tequila.”
I groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Hang on, I’ll check.” Lawson pulls himself up off the couch and pads toward the kitchen.
I twist around in my seat so I can watch as he searches through the fridge, eventually excavating what appears to be a six-pack of something.
“This is all we have,” he says.
“What is it?”
“Pear cider.”
I shrug. “It’ll do.”
I shift back around in my seat and use the remote to bring up one of our favorite shows: Real Vegas Weddings.
“Are these new or old?” Lawson asks, nodding to the TV.
“Old. I’m pretty sure this is the one where the bride punched Elvis and then threw up all over the groom.”
Lawson lets out a loud rumble of laughter. “Oh my god, I hope so. That was an awesome one!”
We sit there eating and drinking for about half an episode before I bring up the scene from earlier.
“Law, you can’t keep doing this—the whole ‘seducing the straight guy’ routine, I mean. It’s not healthy.” My tone is weary; this is a conversation we’ve had many times.
“They’re not straight,” he clarifies. “They’re bi-curious. Otherwise they wouldn’t be hooking up with me.”
I roll my eyes. “Well they identify as straight. I know this is your clever way of avoiding commitment, but aren’t you at least a little worried about the kind of doubt and confusion you’re inflicting on these guys?”
“Hey! It’s not like I’m forcing anyone to do anything they don’t want to do.” Casting me a narrowed glance, he says, “How about we stop with the judgment? You don’t see me calling you out on your poor romantic choices.”
I huff a rueful laugh. “Oh, please. You told me frequently what a bad idea you thought my dating Rick was.”
He shrugs one broad shoulder. “I was right, wasn’t I?”
I slump back against the couch, completely deflated. “Yeah. You were.”
Forgetting he was pissed at me two seconds ago, Lawson sits back beside me, his shoulder resting against mine. “So, he fired you?” he asks gently.
I sigh. “Well, technically HR fired me. But, yeah, it came from him.”
“What are you going to do now?”
I take a generous sip of my cider before answering. “I have no idea. Look for another job, I guess. But that could be impossible. For all I know, every media company in Chicago already knows I slept with my boss and then trashed his office. No one is going to want to hire that hot mess.”
Lawson reaches out to grab a mozzarella stick, chewing it thoughtfully. I can see his mind is turning something over so I merely take another sip of my cider and wait for him to speak. Finally, he says, “Why don’t you work for me?”
“What?”
He shrugs. “You could handle all my social media. And my website. And you could run my ads for me. You know I hate doing all that stuff, and you’re really good at it. And I’m earning enough now that I can pay someone to do it for me.” He shrugs again. “May as well be the person who knows me best.”
I consider him for a moment, my expression doubtful. Lawson is a self-published author who writes gay spy thrillers—kind of a what if Jack Ryan was secretly gay and involved in a heated affair with a married MI-6 agent? premise—you’d be amazed at how popular they are. They’re the kind of books no major publishing company would touch, but thanks to self-publishing he’s been able to gather something of a cult following and earn a pretty good living for himself. He’s not rolling around in cash by any means, but he’s doing a lot better than the majority of authors—both traditionally and self-published—out there. Even with his success, though, I’m not sure how feasible this would be in terms of a career move for me. “It’s a nice idea, Law, but I’m not sure you’d have enough work for me to do it full-time. And even if you can afford to pay me, you couldn’t cover my entire salary. I’m used to doing that kind of work for dozens of people at a time.”
“Okay, so you start off with just me. And it could either be a way to keep you busy and tide you over until you find something else…or I could be the first client for your new company…”
I stare at him, wide-eyed. My own company…I’ve thought about it, of course, but it’s always seemed like a bit of a pipe dream. It still does, to be honest. I always assumed by the time I was ready to go out on my own I’d have made more of a name for myself and have a bunch of clients who’d be willing to come with me…if I started something new now, it would be completely from scratch.
But it wouldn’t be the worst idea to take him up on the suggestion to handle his marketing stuff until I find something new. It would at least make me feel like I’m working, rather than just bummin
g around like a schlub as I wait for job opportunities. “What would you need me to do?” I ask, warming to the idea.
“Well, just what I said. Social media, ad copy…that kind of thing. Just think of me as any other client—a client who doesn’t have the time to manage their own website and stuff, just like all the ones you wrote copy for at Burton.”
I think about it for a moment, biting my lower lip as I weigh the pros and cons. Who knows? It could be fun…and I could definitely help build Lawson’s brand…and maybe after a few months he could provide me with a glowing reference that could open up new job possibilities?
Finally, I cast him a bright smile. “Okay.”
“Yeah, you’ll do it?”
“On a temporary basis.” I have to be smart about this; Lawson might be able to afford a media manager right now, but that doesn’t mean that will always be the case. And I know that if we agreed to some kind of permanent contract he’d feel obligated to keep me on even if he was no longer in the position to afford me.
We clink our bottles together to seal the deal.
“So…Ted’s gone?” he asks, bringing the mood down dramatically.
I let out a heavy sigh, nodding my confirmation. “Mom called on my way home from work.”
“What happened?”
I explain everything my mom told me, including the part about Ted and Nora being in bed together when the heart attack happened.
At my words, Lawson’s eyes light up. “I can use this—a character dying in the throes of passion? That’s gold.” He stands up and starts pacing the room. I can practically see his imagination whirring, brewing up this new idea.
I should be offended that he wants to use Ted’s death in this way, but I’m not; if anything, I think it’ll be good if something creative can come out of this tragedy. And Ted would be laughing his ass off at the idea of providing the source of inspiration for one of Lawson’s gay spy novels.
“Just imagine it,” Lawson says, holding out his hands as if to paint a picture, “Drake Porter is in bed with someone he shouldn’t be—maybe an enemy agent—and the guy dies while they’re…y’know. Given the circumstances, Drake’s obviously the top suspect, so he has to prove his innocence to the enemy government while also redeeming himself in the eyes of the United States by saving the world once again.”
