Going Down For The Count

by David Stukas

  “Siegfreid, this is wonderful! How thoughtful!” I exclaimed, looking at the label and noting the impressive name on it. Siegfreid raised his glass and proposed a toast.

  “To Robert and your new life,” he said, raising his glass.

  I was just about to clink glasses with Siegfreid when I saw something that made my hand go numb. The glass slipped effortlessly through my hand, falling on the table with a loud crash. Right next to our table, Michael Stark was being seated with Marcus Leatherhill, the internationally famous male model.

  Marcus was in every magazine and newspaper in New York . . . and the world. Stunningly gorgeous, aloof, and completely unreachable, his square cheekbones and aquiline jaw were famous throughout the world. Fashion designers cowered in fear that he would turn down offers to be in their fall showings. Restaurants with questionable gastronomic output would become hip overnight if he graced their facilities with his presence. In fact, he once stopped in a seedy Bowery Street bar to make a phone call and the place became an instant hit. The other truth was that Marcus was haughty, imperious, and completely hateful, making him the most desirable gay man in New York. But no matter how you looked at it, there was no doubt about it: Michael was pulling out the big guns in order to get back at me.

  I tried to mop up the champagne that had spilled all over the tablecloth, all the while casting an evil eye on Michael and his date. When Michael’s ego suffered a bruising, he would stop at nothing in order to extract revenge. Typical narcissist.

  Siegfreid deduced what Michael was up to and decided to let him know he was no fool. “Michael, another coincidence! We seem to bump into you so often,” the count said, smiling graciously.

  “Yes, it’s really quite something. Nice to see you again, Siegfreid.” He tried to omit me, then decided that it was too obvious. “And you too, Robert.”

  “Hello, Michael,” I said.

  “Robert, Siegfreid—this is Marcus Leatherhill. I’m sure you know who he is.” Michael gestured to Marcus, who looked over at us briefly, nodded almost imperceptibly, then returned to his menu without so much as a single word.

  Michael was so smug, I could’ve shot him right then and there. “Well, Count—and Robert—enjoy your meal,” Michael added, feeling he’d had the last laugh.

  I tried to return to my meal with the count, but Michael’s overly extravagant gestures and forced laughter kept distracting me from my romantic meal. Michael had me just where he wanted me. I tried to make conversation with the count to tune out Michael’s braying, which rose in volume at strategic times, like verbal karate chops to my ears.

  “So, Count, thank you so much for the Lear jet for my birthday,” I said, inventing imaginary gifts for an imaginary birthday. “And you were so lucky to get one in green, too! I heard Ted Turner had his eyes on that one!” Fight fire with fire, I decided.

  Besides, Michael wouldn’t remember that my birthday wasn’t for a few more months. In fact, he never remembered, but made up for his abhorrent lack of concern for my birthday by snatching something from his apartment, tossing it into a shopping bag at the last moment, and presenting it to me as if he had battled anacondas in the Amazon to bring me the precious gift. The count played along.

  “So you didn’t care for the hunting lodge I gave you? It was bequeathed to my great-great-great-grandfather by the King of Prussia.”

  “Oh no, I loved it!” I said, gushing heavily. “It’s so quaint!”

  “Robert, I don’t know how you can say that a schloss with thirty-seven rooms overlooking the Alps can be quaint.”

  Michael looked out of the corner of his eye, obviously hearing what the count had said, then raised his voice even higher. Anyone listening in on the conversation would’ve thought Marcus was stone-deaf. “So what did supermodel Naomi Campbell say when she looked over at Madonna and Angelica Huston, who were sitting next to Paloma Picasso, and fell over supermodel Kate Moss on the runway at the Donatella Versace fall collection in Milan?” Michael asked, successfully winning the world record for the most names dropped in a single sentence.

  Michael thought his last utterance put him in the lead, but the count outmaneuvered him with a zinger.

  “Robert, Tom Ford of Gucci has invited us to a small dinner party next week at his flat in Paris. Shall I RSVP?”

  For Michael, it didn’t get any better than Tom Ford. In fact, Michael had been trying to meet him for years—to no avail. When Tom Ford revamped the laughing-stock fashion label and made it chic again, Michael spent tens of thousands of dollars on an entire Gucci wardrobe, but still he was no closer to Tom than the pictures of him Michael collected and placed in a special leather-covered box he kept on his dresser. The count’s last comment was stunning in its impact. It clearly raked the ramparts of Michael’s fragile psyche of any remaining defenses. Michael was visibly shaken.

  Then something even more extraordinary happened. Marcus, who looked as if he had been mulling something over for the last few minutes while Michael babbled incessantly, turned to the count and allowed several words to pass his hallowed, collagen-injected lips.

  “Count Siegfreid von Schmidt?” he asked.

  “Yes?” Siegfreid replied.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you at first,” the supermodel decreed. “I heard Michael describe you as ‘Siegfreid’ at first, then I overheard this man . . .” he said, pointing to me as if I were an inanimate object.

  “Robert! The name is Robert,” I said, correcting Mr. Handsome.

  “Oh, yes, Robert. I heard him call you ‘Count.’ It suddenly dawned on me who you were. I’m honored to finally meet you, Count von Schmidt. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “All good, I hope,” the count asked with the kind of self-effacing grace only a true royal could summon.

  “Your palace in Berlin and art collection are unrivaled. I would like to see them someday,” Marcus admitted, making a discreet wink at the count.

  The wink, however slight, wasn’t slight enough to escape my attention. Or Michael’s, either. In any other circumstance, the sly wink would have sent me to my battle stations. But in this case, it served to send Michael into a fit of jealousy that made his face redden, even through the Estée Lauder Night Repair Cream. I decided to do nothing. After all, Michael would be desperate now.

  “I didn’t realize you knew so much about me, Marcus. The next time you are in Germany, I would be happy to show you my collection,” the count responded, returning a little wink of his own.

  The count then turned and winked at me, too, letting me know his flirting with Marcus was nothing more than a well-deserved kick in the pants to Michael. The count began talking with me, only to be interrupted by Marcus again.

  “Yes, Count, I would love to visit you ... to see your collection, that is. I’m in Paris a great deal, and Berlin is just a short flight away.”

  “Please do that. Here is my card so you may call,” the count said, handing his personal card to Marcus.

  “Thank you, Count von Schmidt,” Marcus said with a cunning smile. “I would like very much to take you up on your offer. ”

  The way Marcus pronounced the word, it dripped with so much sexual overtone that it needed a condom over it. I was really starting to enjoy this. Michael was squirming in his chair, glancing quickly at the count, then at Marcus, then me, only to repeat the cycle all over again. Clearly, he was overwhelmed and in full retreat. You could see the look on his face. It said: Do something . . . fast. So, Michael being Michael, did something fast. Which meant, of course, without thinking.

  “Marcus, I think we’ve got to go. I think my spleen just burst,” I overheard Michael say to Marcus.

  “Your spleen? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I felt this pop,” Michael said, pointing to his upper chest, “and I can feel something trickling inside of me. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go to the hospital or something.”

  Marcus looked puzzled, but reluctantly got up from the table, along with Michael, who was now ho
lding his lower right abdomen. At least he was getting closer.

  The count and I stood up, showing mock concern to Michael, who waved us away with a don’t-worry-about-me-even-if-it-turns-out-to-be-fatal-I’ ll-make-it-somehow look.

  As soon as Michael had limped out of sight with Marcus, the count and I looked at each other, then burst into naughty laughter. Several minutes had passed before we could actually speak without starting another fit of laughter.

  “Oh, my goodness,” the count said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Your friend Michael never gives up, does he?”

  “His ego would never allow it. But I’m not sure at this point whether he’s trying to get back at you or me. Or both. With Michael, you never know,” I consented.

  “Well, the one thing I do know is that we need to start making plans for your future with me, starting with your job. Then maybe we’ll go shopping for some clothes. You need a new trousseau.”

  “Could you have Gucci send me a complete wardrobe?” I asked.

  “I can do better than that. I’ll have Tom Ford whip up something for you. He’s a personal friend of mine.”

  I was ecstatic! Not only would I be wearing some pretty fashionable duds soon, but I could rub the fact that I had met Tom Ford right in Michael’s surgically altered face.

  The next day, I went in several hours late and quit my job. When my supervisor asked if I was going to a rival firm, I said I wasn’t. I merely told him I was going to become royalty.

  When I called to tell my parents the news about quitting my job and maybe going to tour Germany for a while, I hoped my father would pick up the phone. No such luck. It was my mother, and she thought I had lost my mind.

  “You can’t not work!” my mother pleaded into the phone, ignoring the fact that trust-fund kids and Park Avenue trophy wives never raised a finger, except to accuse the maid of stealing. “Well, how can you go without working? Especially in New York, where the cost of living is so high? What are you going to do for money?”

  From the tone in her voice, I knew just what she was thinking. Hmm. Son isn’t going to work. Living in expensive city. He needs money. Where does money come from when you don’t work in the traditional sense.

  As usual, she was thinking the worst of things—and she was damned good at it. She was picturing me strolling down some garbage-laden street in Times Square in denim hot pants and a filthy rabbit-fur coat stolen from Macy’s, trolling for toothless old men with twenty bucks to burn. Mom could take a completely innocuous event, pass it through her Catholic horror filter, and it would come out the other end nothing short of cataclysmic.

  I knew how her mind worked. A television set left plugged in during a family vacation would burst into flames and consume our house while we were out having a good time. The lesson: don’t have a good time. A stranger driving down her street too slowly was obviously studying her house, figuring out just how he would break in and steal her jewelry. The lesson: don’t trust anyone. It’s no wonder where I got my ability, as my therapist told me, to catastrophize. I learned from the best.

  “Actually, Mom, I’ve got some money saved up and I thought I’d travel a little. I mean, I’ve never been overseas. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

  “What are you all of a sudden? Hemingway? What about your job when you get back from Germany?”

  “Oh, they’re a dime a dozen. I can pick up another one so easily,” I said, hoping to put this matter to bed.

  “You’re not dipping into your retirement money, are you?” she asked, putting me on the spot again.

  “No, Mom, I’m not raiding my 401(k) fund,” I said in my defense.

  “Well, if you have all this money, then why aren’t you putting it into your retirement, instead of just gallivanting all over Europe and wasting it?” she said, blowing a hole right through me so cleanly, I almost didn’t even feel it.

  “Mom, this is what I’m going to do. OK?” I asked, as if she was going to agree with me. Fat chance. Under torture maybe, but probably not even then.

  “Well, I for one don’t know where your money is coming from, but I just hope you can pay your bills.”

  She was like the beast in one of those horror movies. After a terrific and bruising battle, you emerge triumphant over the prostrate beast, only to walk up to it and have its still-alive claw dart out and pierce you through the heart.

  “Yes, Mom, I can pay my bills.”

  There it was in a horrible little nutshell: my mother’s entire universe. You worked, you bought things, you paid bills, then eventually you died. The end. That was all life amounted to. Throw a monkey wrench into that perfect machinery and you had trouble.

  I couldn’t exactly tell her I was running away with a German count. In fact, I hadn’t ever told either parent that I was gay. Why bother? Like most parents, they knew—but they didn’t want to know.

  The conversation wandered into a standoff, with me eventually hanging up and wondering if pulling large hunks of hair out of my head for the next hour would be a productive use of my time.

  4

  How to Make a Sow’s Ear Into a Sow’s Ear Purse

  The next day, I did the unthinkable. I picked up the phone and called Michael. Two things motivated me. First of all, his pathetic attempts to wrestle the count from my grasp had ended in disaster, with the count firmly by my side. So I no longer had to fear Michael’s advances. Second, if I was going to become a member of the international jet set, I had to know how to act the part. If Michael couldn’t teach this Midwestern Eliza Doolittle how to act and what to eat and wear, no one could.

  “Hi, Michael, it’s Robert,” I chirped into the phone, hoping he’d be mature about a situation that was all his doing. After all, he was trying to steal my boyfriend.

  “Robert who?” he replied, knowing full well who I was.

  “Robert. Robert Willsop. Remember? I saved your life from those fag bashers years ago in the Village,” I said, trying to wedge a little guilt into the situation. Nothing like reminding people they owe you their life to get them to see things your way.

  “Oh, yes,” Michael commented. “I seem to remember a friend by that name.”

  Michael was going to take the it’s-all-your-fault route, so in order to get anywhere, I had to agree to be the bad guy—the story of my life. “Michael, I’m sorry about all the fuss between you and me. I guess I just wasn’t thinking about your needs at the time,” I replied, while biting my tongue and pinching the skin on my arm so hard it turned an angry red.

  “Robert, you can’t help being selfish. I mean, if I were severely out of shape, broke, and on the plain side and a count came along and wanted me, I’d have no qualms about muscling aside a dear, dear friend and dive for the count exactly the way you did. You have every right to be pigheaded,” Michael said, turning the knife and rubbing salt into the wound at the same time.

  “As always, Michael, you’re absolutely right,” I said, putting a silent curse on him at the same time. “So could you please forgive my shortsightedness? Can we go back to being friends?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone as Michael waited the requisite amount of seconds necessary to make me squirm in my guiltiness. Instead, I studied my fingernails.

  Finally, the forgiveness and blessing came. “Robert, it’s OK. I’ll forget about your atrocious and juvenile behavior. Friends?”

  “Yes, Michael. Now, I need your help.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. You see, most gay men don’t really know how to give a proper blow job . . . ” Michael began.

  “Michael, that’s not what I wanted your help on,” I said, cutting him off.

  “Why not? I’m the best.”

  “I’m sure half of the free world shares that sentiment, but what I need is for you to teach me how to be, you know, with it. ”

  “If you use phrases like ‘with it,’ you do need help.”

  “Michael, I need you to give me a crash course on being hip. You know, what to wear,
where to eat, how to work out—how to live, really.”

  “Robert, I’m flattered you would ask me. Of course, you’ve again come to the right person. I like to think of my lifestyle as an art form and my life as a continuous work of art, with new masterstrokes constantly being added.”

  “Michael, that’s funny. I’ve never looked at you or your life that way before. I always thought of you as nothing more than a rich slut.”

  “Robert, I know people who, for a price, can hurt you very badly.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. The city is full of thousands of jealous people who call me a slut all the time.”

  “Where do you want to start, Michael?”

  “First we need to pump you full of steroids and get you into a gym so the count doesn’t throw up when he sees you naked.”

  “Michael, I am not going to do steroids and become one of those overpumped freaks.”

  “Why not? I do them.”

  “Michael, they can cause terrible side effects.”

  “Dear, dear Robert. If you can’t handle occasional rectal bleeding, recurrent diarrhea, shrunken testicles, and body odor that smells like an oily yak, then you’re never going to have an incredible body like mine.”

  “Michael, no steroids.”

  “Fine, be paunchy. Maybe we can cover up things with a good haircut. I’ll get you in to see Vladimir.”

  “Vladimir?” I asked.

  “People call him Vladimir the Arrogant. He’s the best hairdresser in New York. He does all the trendy people in the city.”

  I was beginning to have second thoughts about my plan to get hip and trendy. Could I handle it? Would I hate it? Was it worth it? Shouldn’t I stay just the way I was?

  “I’ll swing by your place in about half an hour and pick you up and we can start your makeover. Oh, that reminds me—I gotta run to the store and get plenty of food.”

  “I thought you always dined out.”

  “I do, but the cabala at my meditation temple got an e-mail from the spiritual leader, saying the world’s polarity will suddenly reverse on Saturday and bring global chaos and cataclysmic weather changes. So we need to get your hair cut and weight training program started ASAP.”