Glamourpuss

by Christian McLaughlin

  ​A few people were en route from the elevators to the revolving doors, but the only one loitering was a chunky security guard at the marble reception desk, his wide ass pointing heavenward, as he leaned on his elbows over a sports mag, oblivious to the possibility I was a stylishly dressed agent of destruction intent on undermining corporate Austin. I assumed a post in front of a titanic bush near the elevators, arms crossed, sort of hugging myself, eyes trained on the marble floor. A pensive attitude. No — that was ridiculous. I straightened up, thrust hands into pockets and kind of rocked back and forth in my Cole Haan loafers. That was stupid, too… like I was waiting for my girlfriend to come out of the ladies’ room. After trying a few leaning-against-the-marble-wall variations, I settled on standing perfectly still, right hand in pocket. I’d just turned my attention from the burnished orb of the lobby clock — it was 6:05 — back to the elevators, when the one directly in front of me opened and Nick was looking right at me.

  ​I felt like 1950’s sailors must’ve when they witnessed atomic tests from a mile away (and was probably just as doomed as those unwitting radiation poisonees). He was radiant. He walked toward me, grinning, hand outstretched for a shake. I swallowed hard, not letting myself cry, blinking back the tears, definitely not about to lose it in the lobby of this goddamn building, pulling in a long, deep, stabilizing breath as he took my hand and said, “Look who’s here. A star. How y’doin’, Alex?”

  ​“Great,” I said. I could smell his delicious aroma, never traced to any known cologne, soap or body lotion, exactly the same, like every detail of his unforgettable Texas face. The unquenchable desire to kiss him burned through me like a harlot’s shameful secret. Which it was.

  ​“You look so good,” he told me. I watched his eyes unselfconsciously scan the length of my body. Oh, God. I might really cry now.

  ​Quickly, I said, “Thanks. You too. Never hotter.”

  ​Now he was self-conscious. “What do you say we grab some dinner?”

  ​“Sounds good to me.”

  ​“I’ll make sure not to order a milkshake,” he said with sly amusement.

  ​“You actually watch the show?” I marveled.

  ​“I have Barney tape it.” He must love that. “How far in advance do you do ‘em?”

  ​“Right now, we’re about two or three weeks ahead. I go back to work in a week or so. I’m not exactly sure what Simon will be up to when he gets back into town. We don’t get scripts until a few days before taping. It’ll have something to do with my dead scientist-father’s sexual potency drug, and my sister Natalie — and me keeping Sean in jail for poisoning Cyrinda. I have these beaver photos Natalie posed for while paying her way through dental school after my dad cut her off.”

  ​Nick laughed. “I never knew how many great-lookin’ guys were on daytime TV. And they all seem to take their shirts off every couple of minutes. Well, except you.”

  ​“I’ll have my turn. And believe me, I can’t wait.”

  ​We found his car, a small, scrupulously maintained Mitsubishi. “Where’s Sara tonight?” he asked, as we drove up to the street.

  ​“People to visit. She said to say hello.”

  ​“I sure miss seeing her. Seems like I never get together with friends anymore.”

  ​“How’s To-Bel?” I asked. The kitten Nick rescued from the rain was named after Arnetia Walker’s character in Scenes From the Class Struggle In Beverly Hills.

  “She’s a handful,” Nick grinned. “Last week she tipped over the garbage in the middle of the night, and I woke up to this horrible banging noise. You know what she’d done?” I shook my head, smiling, starting to uncoil slightly. “She had her little head stuck in a chicken soup can, and was rapping it on the floor, against the wall, everywhere… trying to get it off.” We laughed.

  ​“I mean, it could’ve been serious,” Nick continued. “I guess she could’ve suffocated, but it was just so funny to see her thrashing around the kitchen, like she was slam-dancing with a helmet on. I had to wash all the chicken soup out of her fur, too.”

  ​“Did you ground her?” I asked.

  ​“We had a talk. She’s a pretty smart kitten, though. Every time the phone rings, she runs right over to it.”

  ​We were driving north, past the campus. I felt a momentary clutch of panic — we weren’t going to his house, their house, were we? You know, Nick, it’s been lovely, but I have to scream now. He sped up Duval Street, toward my old apartment. Then I knew. Hyde Park Bar and Grill. We pulled up next to the huge Pop Art fork with a baked potato skewered on top. We’d walked across the street from where I used to live to this very restaurant the first night we had dinner together. And kept coming back, usually on those nights when he was most relaxed and what we had together was at its most uncomplicatedly romantic. To me, anyway.

  ​“Hope this is okay,” he said sheepishly.

  ​Obviously my tears would be on ten-second call throughout the evening. “It’s fine, Nick. It’s one of my favorite restaurants in the whole world.” I kept this speech light, even adding a perky eyebrow-raise at the end.

  ​“I know,” he said. “Mine, too. So… all set to eat hearty?” He opened his door.

  ​“Let’s do it,” I agreed. Absolutely, Nick, let’s go right in. And by all means don’t take me in your arms and ravish me in the semi-privacy of your dark car.

  ​The restaurant, a soothing, classy place in a converted house, specialized in American standards prepared in fresh, innovative ways. To be shamefully honest, since I’d been in L.A., I’d dreamed of their thick, spicy, batter-coated French fries almost as much as I had Nick’s penis. We were immediately led to a charming table. The menu had changed somewhat, but I didn’t need to deliberate. I’d been waiting to end my self-imposed exile from red meat with a Hyde Park hamburger since I moved to California. Plenty of fries, too. Our waiter was cute with dyed-black hair, a pierced eyebrow and muscular forearms. Nick ordered: “I’ll take the chicken-fried steak.”

  ​“Would you like succotash or carrot strips?”

  “Carrots, please. And the gentleman will have a hamburger, done medium, with jalapeños, and a large order of French fries.”

  ​“Massive,” I said to the waiter, who seemed to be studying me intently. “And actually, he’s much more of a gentleman.” Nick smiled at me and I shivered.

  ​“And what would you like to drink?” I shrugged at Nick, who asked the waiter for “a couple of soda-waters.”

  ​“Got it,” he said, spinning on his heel and starting to march off. Then he stopped, frozen, as if slapped. He turned around. “Excuse this,” he said to me, “this is weird. But are you on Hearts Crossing?”

  ​“Yeah,” I said, flattered beyond reason to be recognized in front of Nick. “I play Simon, the evil prick.”

  ​“They watch the show in the lounge at my dorm. Everyone stops talking when you come on. Definitely the most entertaining character.”

  ​“Thanks a lot,” I said. He was really cute. If I weren’t trying desperately to win my one true love…

  ​“Anyway,” he said, “it’s nice to meet you.” I remembered my manners and introduced myself and Nick. The waiter’s name was Troy. He went to fetch the drinks.

  ​“How does it feel to be famous?” Nick teased.

  ​“That never happens,” I insisted, coy.

  ​“It’s gonna start happening, a lot. You’ll be on TV five days a week for three years. That’s more media exposure than Princess Di and Fergie put together.”

  ​“It’s been fun. And astounding,” I said. “You go to the studio in the morning and barely rehearse enough to get your blocking down, then the cameras are rolling and you’re making TV, and it’s on two weeks later. It sure doesn’t feel like a job, even when I’m working Monday through Friday, ten hours a day. It fuckin’ rocks.”

  ​“I’m real happy for you, Alex.” My hand was resting on the table, halfway between us. He raised his arm and, I think, came really cl
ose to laying his hand on mine. Then some control-mechanism clicked in his brain and he picked up his fork instead. “Where’re them fries?” he asked, mock-grumpy.

  ​I didn’t want them to come. After we ate, it would be over. I’d go on my way, nothing gained from this meeting but proof that the relationship I’d strived for and cherished and kept alive in my thoughts every night since we last saw each other had dwindled to nothing more than two college friends chatting about their careers over dinner. If I let that happen, there’d be no turning back. A dull, hopeless panic coated my stomach like metallic Pepto-Bismol. I had to fight it.

  ​“How do you like your job?” I asked.

  ​“I guess it’s alright. Seems more like busywork than brain-power. Real estate, financial corporate crap. I get so tied up, it’s hard for me to stop by the GLSC.” The Gay/Lesbian Services Center took on AIDS and sexual orientation-discrimination lawsuits, lobbied for gay rights legislation and sponsored a counseling and therapy service for local homos. It was a small, insufficiently funded office working out of an old house downtown. Nick had manned the hotline there a couple days a month since I’d known him, and now, as a lawyer, worked for them pro-bono. When he could.

  ​“Right now, they’ve got a real tough case, this married couple, about 21, 22. He’s gay, or bi anyway, very promiscuous, probably hustling, got AIDS and gave it to his wife. She’s a janitress at the Air Force base. They’re trying to screw her out of her health insurance… her two kids, too.”

  ​“Do they have it?” I asked, watching the hurt on his face that came from making every needy person’s problems his own.

  ​“No, the kids are okay. The husband’s starting to get sick, though. It’s a mess.”

  ​“And you’re fighting the insurance company for them?”

  ​“Along with a couple other attorneys down at the center. It’s pretty grim, but I come back from working on that case at least able to fool myself that I’m making some kind of a difference.”

  ​“You are, Nick. Don’t ever think otherwise.” God, he deserved someone to treat him as well as he took care of everyone else. The food came. I was hungry after all. We ate slowly and talked about the state of the nation’s sodomy laws and Hearts Crossing and Nick going to a luncheon at the state capital and sitting next to Ann Richards. We discussed my small featured role in the major-studio killer-cop megahit released that summer and I told him about my Hollywood apartment and we covered biceps-building strategies and the really awful new Aaron Spelling show and his sister’s job at an artificial insemination clinic in Amarillo. We did not mention the fact that we’d once followed up dinners like this with candlelit fuckfests at my place across the street. Another apparent conversational taboo was my romantic life, L.A. dating history, or if there were any guys on whom I currently had crushes. And Nick mentioned Barney exactly once, to comment that he was still assistant-managing his father’s lamp store, as he had the past nine years, I believed. Gotta love those go-getting MBA kids.

  ​When the bill came, I absolutely insisted on paying it, dropping a hefty cash tip for the cute, soap-watching waiter. Maybe I’d see him later at Oilcan Harry’s, post-brush-off by Nick. Because I knew that was coming when we got into the car and Nick said, “I hate to admit it, but I’ve got a few hours of prep left for tomorrow. I ought to be getting home before too long.”

  ​My heart was an egg that had just been cracked, and I could feel a pendulous glob of white swoop sickeningly downward, suspended over the pit of my stomach. All I could do was mumble “Okay.” To make matters worse, he turned on the radio for the first time since I’d known him, and we drove back listening to the mournful ruminations of REM on KLBJ-FM. Ten minutes later, we were at his building. I looked down at my watch for a split-second. An hour ‘til I was supposed to meet Sara. I couldn’t believe it was going to end like this. Months and years of pain and ecstasy and single-minded desire reduced to a casual “friendly” goodbye on a street corner. I was amazed and disgusted that my dream could die so non-melodramatically.

  ​“How ‘bout you come up and see the office?” Nick said, startling me out of my budding depression. “I left my briefcase there.”

  ​A tiny Satanic Jeff Stryker appeared on my left shoulder, wielding a pitchfork made of his custom-molded dildos. “Git yer ass up there,” Jeff growled. “Once you’re alone in that fuckin’ office, Nick’s gonna whip out that big fuckin’ dick and beg you for it! He’s gonna tear those pussyboy clothes offa you and…”

  ​He was cut off by a miniature Kyle Chandler from Homefront, who popped onto my right shoulder, clad only in angelic white briefs. “He wants to be your friend, Alex,” Kyle cooed, “that’s all. This is a law firm, not the Mineshaft. It’s entirely innocent and you know it!”

  ​Torn and helpless, I said nothing for a moment, then: “Sure, I’d love to see it.” I followed Nick into the building. The lobby was empty; the elevator instantly summoned. We zipped to the 11th floor in 11 seconds, just long enough to sigh over our shared reflection in the gilt-spattered mirror that covered one side of the car. Nick ran a plastic card through a detector, which popped open the doors to the suite. We walked into a reception area with modular black sofa, smoked-glass coffee table featuring issues of Business Week and Texas Monthly, and a slick, hi-tech front desk where Nick must pick up his little message slips, melting the hearts of receptionists both temp and perm.

  ​We made a left and headed down a carpeted hallway to a door with a thin silver plate that said NICHOLAS MILLER. We went in. Small, neat oak desk, bookshelf, a loveseat (!), and a glittering view of Austin’s nighttime cityscape.

  ​“Pretty fancypants, huh?” Nick asked.

  ​“Yeah… where’d they hide the bidet?” I pretended to hunt for it. I heard him chuckle as I went to the window to enjoy the luxury of big, bright stars twinkling in a smogless sky. Nick came up behind me and we stood together silently for a moment.

  “People tell me I should get a telescope… take advantage of the viewing opportunities.” He was referring to the honeycomb of lighted windows blazing in the high-rise hotel across the street.

  ​“You might get a little distracted,” I replied. This was my perfect opportunity to put my arm around him, but it hung by my side paralyzed.

  ​“That’s always a problem,” Nick said lightly. Was he flirting? “Have a seat and I’ll get us a Coke from the executive fridge — perks.” He vanished. I checked out his bookshelf. Lots of law. And a few framed snapshots. One of his parents, sixty-something and festive at some restaurant, one of adorable To-Bel the cat, none of Barney, and one of Nick, Sara and me, at Lake Travis the weekend before I started Teenage Brides of Christ. Bikini-topped Sara was in the middle, holding a can of Heineken, with Nick and I shirtless, in shades, our arms alongside each other’s on her shoulders. Could it have been one of the happiest days of his life, too? Next to it, so obscured in shadow I almost missed it, was a 5”x7” of Nick with Alexis Arquette, clearly taken at the Paramount by Sara before Alexis chased Nick into the men’s room for that attempted Celebrity Hand-Job. Obviously, Nick held no grudges in connection with that rather odd evening — “‘cept maybe toward Barney, that cock-blockin’ shit-stain!” Not-So-Li’l Imp Stryker snorted, whapping me in the back of the head with his rubber-dong trident.

  ​I put the photo down and positioned myself on the mini-sofa just as Nick came back in with two cans of soda. He shut the door, transferred his suit-jacket to a hanger, kicked off his shoes and sat down next to me. “Thanks,” I said, popping open the Coke.

  ​“How ‘bout a toast?” Nick suggested, pulling his leg onto the loveseat so his bent knee came into the slightest contact with mine. “To Alexander Young, my most successful foxy young friend.” We clinked cans. I realized my throat was dry to the point of constriction and sucked back half of mine in one sip.

  ​“How many hours a week do you put in up here?” I asked.

  ​“Let’s see,” Nick said. “I’m here at eight most morn
ings, usually take a half-hour lunch, then do about two more hours at home or the law school library. How much is that?”

  ​“A 60-hour work week. Not to mention what you do at the GLSC.”

  ​“It can be a grind sometimes.” He complained less than Saint Sebastian. “Y’know, Alex… it’s never like you expect it to be.” The sadness and resignation in his voice alarmed me. I’d given up on getting any candid emotion from him tonight, and now here he was, alone with me on a loveseat 11 stories up, practically crying out for help. Should I hug him and tell him everything would be alright? Did he think I was over him?!

  ​All I could say was, “I know it isn’t.” But of course in my case, it was a hundred times better than I expected after a measly year-and-a-half kicking around Hollywood.

  “Sometimes I walk in here in the morning and want to tell ‘em so bad that I’ve had it with all the bullshit. When I graduated law school, I thought I was really on the right track as far as my life went, y’know?” I nodded. Nick drank some Coke and looked around the office. “But lately I feel like I’m running a real tough maze, and I’m stuck in this dead-end just a few feet from the exit.” He sighed. “I guess I’m lucky to even have a reasonably good job in 1992.”

  ​Okay — enough. It was talk like this that was keeping him exactly where he was. I could hear the unspoken corollary: “I guess I’m lucky to even be in a stable relationship.” Like Nick just said… bullshit! Watching him settle had always put the sharpest point on my despair, and here I was, finally able to confront these feelings of his in person. Emboldened by Sara, To-Bel and Alexis Arquette watching from the bookshelf, a surge of power coursed through me.

  ​“They’re lucky to have you,” I said, simultaneously placing each of my hands between his neck and shoulders. I started to massage him, my hands working in firm, gentle slow-motion, the blood rushing to my crotch, my eyes riveted to his face, nothing on the planet mattering but whether or not he’d let it happen. He didn't look at me. He closed his eyes and his lips parted and I heard a soft sound somewhere between “ohhh” and “mmmm”. His body went limp, swaying a little under my hands. I shifted myself for better leverage and worked my right hand under his Brooks Brothers button-down, kneading his t-shirted shoulders.