Turning Idolater Read online

  Philip clapped his arms around Thomas’ shoulders. “I know you think that doesn’t make me a kept woman, but no matter how much you paint a skunk’s stripe black, it still stinks white.”

  Thomas laughed. “Are you sure you do not write?”

  “I’m not some stupid twink.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m just uneasy that you would think I would take advantage of you, and when I roved, which you know I will, you’d come to hate me.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Philip kissed him. “And I could still show my ass on the Internet and you’d be happy with that?”

  “It doesn’t bother me, but you could do other things.”

  Philip broke away. “Clean your apartment and sit here looking pretty until you came home from the office.”

  Thomas laughed. “You’ve been in my office. No, I have a few ideas to connect you up with some of my friends. I have many connections in the publishing industry. You would do something with books.”

  Philip laughed. “Write?”

  “Write, read, stick them between your legs.” Thomas turned sour. “I mean . . . Do what you want.”

  Philip immediately recanted. He grasped Thomas’ arm. “No, I appreciate it. I really do. Don’t be angry or disappointed.”

  Thomas relaxed again. “I just think that after all you have been through, you need a break — a good break. That does not mean a free ride.”

  Philip clasped his hand. “I’ll think about it. Let me go back to Avenue A . . .”

  “After waffles . . .”

  “After waffles, and if you see me later, I’ll come and stay.”

  “And if I don’t.”

  “You’ll see me on the computer.”

  Thomas frowned. There was a knock at the door.

  “Shit. That would be Flo.”

  Philip shook his head. “Do you have enough waffles?”

  “Not to worry. I shall take care of this. Leave your clothes off.”

  Thomas undid the apron, letting it slip to the rug. He marched to the door, snapping it open. Mr. Townsend panted eagerly on the threshold, but upon seeing the two naked men and perhaps smelling the waffles, he nodded his head — dismissive, and turned tail toward the elevator.

  “In a few hours,” Thomas shouted in Flo’s wake. He then turned, gave Philip a thumbs-up and slammed the door. “To table, dear boy, before we have naught but horse leather to eat and tar water to drown it down the gullet.”

  Philip giggled. “To table.”

  Chapter Ten

  Flight from Avenue A

  1

  Belly filled with Belgian Waffles and head filled with Dutch options, Philip Flaxen wended his way back to Avenue A. He scarcely noted the route, new as it was — two transfers on the subway — at 59th Street and again at Times Square. His mind raced like a boat hitched to a harpoon on white water. He had regarded his life as freewheeling, at least since his expulsion from his father’s table. Life was harsh at times, but Philip regarded choice as inevitable. Now that this notion was jumbled, he was puzzled.

  As Philip absently jostled through Chelsea toward the East Village, past the hubble-bubble of the narrow streets and delivery trucks, he considered three things. He had a lordly offer — a place to stay that afforded space, comfort and soft companionship. A hustler’s dream. However, there was a price for everything. There always was a price. Sprakie had taught him that, because Sprakie charged for the very intake of air. It was the price that Philip pondered — pondered, because it was veiled, negotiable even. Thomas was wonderful, but the refinement he exuded could become confining. Philip could adjust. How did Melville state it — turn idolater. Nice phrase. Philip smiled at the thought, but —

  Honk. Brakes screeched.

  “Watch where the fuck you’re goin’.”

  Philip had wandered into the trajectory of a yellow cab — right smack in the line of fire. Fortunately, the cabby’s brake foot was as fast as his mouth. Philip drained to white and stepped back on the curb. The taxi sped passed, and then Philip flipped him the finger figuring that the hack was sufficiently distant to take issue.

  “Who you flippin’ off?” came a voice.

  Philip, stunned, was confronted by a short chubby character, who looked like Danny DeVito’s brother. He shook his fist at Philip.

  “No one.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You’re just askin’ for trouble.”

  Philip shuffled. He didn’t ask for this. “It was for the cab.” Then his logic kicked in. “I tried to hail him, but the fucker just passed me by.” He flipped his finger again in the direction of the cab.

  “Likely story, kid. Just watch where you aim that thing or you’ll loose your hand, if you know what I mean?”

  Philip nodded. “Understood.” As he crossed the street, the new weight of the book in his backpack became evident. What if one of these bozos hit him? What if they stole his backpack? Would they even know that he now carried golden pages? One thing he did know. This little gem would make a difference in his bank account. What bank account? He could finally open one. And Tee had mentioned credit. That might be the avenue to leverage a first edition rather than hoisting the mainsail on eBay and hope people liked inka . . . inkanabu-whatever.

  As he rounded the corner of East 2nd Street, he had a glimmer of a plan. He would need to work it out with Thomas, but if somehow the book could get him enough credit to pay his own way, he’d feel a lot better about moving in with the author. Suddenly, he stopped. The Apartment building was fifty yards away, when it dawned on him that he might not need the Porn Nazi and all those torrid cyberspace voyeurs. His heart leaped — not with joy, because he had become sufficiently jaded to have job satisfaction, but by the prospects of doing something else. A scary prospect. Worthy of a heart leap.

  Philip also had another sobering thought. Although the age gap with Tee didn’t faze him, the sudden application of the office rule did. Philip wouldn’t have thought twice about a writer’s foible to hide his current work in progress from hungry eyes had not Jemmy’s face peeked up from the news clipping. More than curiosity piqued. However, if this question was set aside unanswered because Philip was squeamish of the rule, he might as well stop here at Avenue A and forget the world of change that loomed before him.

  “So,” he mumbled, sniffing the sewage and gazing up at the apartment window, “it’s uptown for me.” He smiled, sighed and then proceeded to close the gap

  2

  Sprakie wasn’t at home or at least in the apartment. Philip let himself in and gathered his scant belongings into two plastic KeyFood bags. There wasn’t much to pack. Mostly laundry and a few keepsakes from his night-hawking — a rabbit’s foot, a scrimshaw tooth (which might have been synthetic for all he knew), a stack of various swizzle sticks and coasters, and a Gay Pride pen, complete with pink feather plume. It wasn’t much, but each item brought back silent smiles when touched. Philip often wondered why such valueless objects yielded such fond attachments. It was like the frayed wallet in his back pocket. It rasped his soul, because it was his father’s. Still, the aura of his mother’s touch made it the last familial straw in his childhood jerkin.

  Philip secured his wallet, and then emptied his jeans. What’s this? An index card:

  Dennis H.

  212.432.2272

  nice

  “Won’t need this anymore.” He tossed it in the empty laundry basket. Suddenly, he heard Sprakie’s voice. Unmistakable. High pitched and whiney, but blending with the crackle of an old women’s — a second voice. Philip paused to listen. It wasn’t coming from the hallway, but through the wall. If Philip didn’t know any better, he would guess that it came from the apartment next door, from the nosey neighbor who was always peeking through her peephole surveying the hallway traffic. To his knowledge, Sprakie had never exchanged a word with her, but now there were many words — indistinct, and nasty. Philip did not need to understand the words to know Sprakie’s nasty tone. Then, sil
ence. One door slammed — in the hallway. Then the latches clicked and Sprakie came through the door, muttering something about interfering old bitch.

  “Sprakie,” Philip said, springing into the living room.

  “Oh,” Sprakie stammered. “You’re back.” He was flustered, clearly trying to erase any distress on his face. He plastered on a broad smile as if he had just come from make-up. “So how did you make out with that senior citizen?”

  Philip shrugged. “How did you make out with yours?” He nodded toward the wall.

  “Oh, that. Don’t bother yourself with it. She’s been a source of stress since I moved in. She’s always poking her nose in where it doesn’t belong and some day . . . well, I just needed to tell her like it is. It’s our annual discussion. Don’t give it another thought.”

  Philip shrugged again. “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Sprakie said. “Talking is something you don’t do well. You should stick to the strip — your claim to fame. Silent and naked.”

  Philip sighed. “Really, we need to talk. I’m . . .”

  Sprakie marched into the bedroom, his arms splayed like a Dallas cheerleader. He gave a yelp, and then returned, hands on hips and attitude in full flight.

  “You’re packing.”

  “Yes.”

  “One night with James Hilton and it’s Goodbye Mr. Chips.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “Jesus Marie. How can you tell that from a one-night stand?”

  Sprakie was right and Philip knew it, but after two years, he knew that Sprakie was far from perfect. Good may have been an overstatement. Philip, who had been prepared to argue, decided to retreat back to the packing, although those requirements were more than fulfilled.

  “I love you like my best piece of luggage,” Sprakie said, his tone changed to forced-civil. “I’ve come to care about you.”

  “I know,” Philip said, hoisting his backpack on. “This has nothing to do with us. We’re friends.” Sprakie raised an eyebrow. “Please say that we will always be friends.”

  “Friends — yes, but you could have given me some notice. I still need to pay the rent.”

  “I’ll get you this month’s share.”

  “I don’t want his money. I’ve seen too many of these elder gents spoon out the shekels to keep their piece of ass, but if you leave, our obligations are over.”

  “Easy now, Sprakie. I’ll send you a check. My money.”

  Sprakie raised two eyebrows now. “Win the lottery, did we?”

  Philip almost said yes, but decided to treat it as a rhetoric question. The book was singing from the recesses, but it was not a song that Sprakie would necessarily understand.

  “I’m taking some risks,” Philip said. “I’m changing careers.”

  Sprakie closed his eyes. “What am I supposed to tell Kurt? He’ll chew my ass out, you know. You were hired on my recommendation. You don’t know the fury of the Porn Nazi.”

  “I think I do.”

  “You think you do, but you’ve never seen him in full blitz-krieg mode.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I won’t do it in person.”

  “You’re a real pain in my ass,” Sprakie said. “Don’t bother. I’ll tell him.”

  Philip placed his hands on Sprakie’s shoulders, and then gave him a cheek kiss. “Thank you, mommy.”

  “Don’t mommy me. I’ve done everything but wipe your ass, and sometimes I think I’ve done that.”

  “Friends?”

  “No doubt there,” Sprakie said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t be damn angry with you. I mean, you’re giving up a sure thing for an old bugger who’ll toss you over the minute he realizes that you’re the result of some mid-life crisis or too many doses of Vytorin. And now I need to get a new roommate.”

  “Max has been looking for a place,” Philip suggested.

  “That gold digger. He’s looking for my place at manluv. He thinks he’s me, but nobody, and I mean nobody, can be me. I have a hard time being me, Jesus Marie. And how could I replace you, Philip? You’ve been a perfect tenant.” He touched Philip’s chin and pouted. “I was even hoping we could take a little vacation — a few weeks at P’Town.”

  “We still can. I think I might be going to P’Town. We could still hang out.”

  Sprakie smiled, dimly. “You did hit the jackpot, didn’t you?”

  “I have prospects.”

  “Well, excuse me for breathing, but I need to get this body scrubbed and gold plated for the nickel pricks that cough up the cash to keep me in the state of which I am accustomed.”

  Philip toted a KeyFood bag in each hand. “I’ll call you tonight, Sprakie. Thank you for . . .”

  “Go. Go, before I decide to banish you from court altogether.” He strode toward the bed. “Oh, I need my . . .”

  Philip dug into the left bag and slipped out the gold shirt. “I was going to get it cleaned and send it to you.”

  “No, you can keep that. I meant my cell phone charger.”

  Philip pouted. “Sorry. That’s still plugged into the . . .”

  Sprakie rolled his eyes back. “We hope. Go, little Ishie, before I decide to drown you in my bubble bath.”

  Philip shuffled to the door. Three latches clicked, and then out into the hallway.

  3

  At the top of the stairs, Philip paused. He would not miss the putrid air, especially when the humidity baked it as tart as a Buffalo turd. The narrow stairs bid him farewell, but without regret. He felt the neighbor’s eyes on his back as she surveyed him through the peephole. His hands were occupied or he would have flipped her a farewell finger. So, he turned instead.

  The door was open. On the threshold the old woman stood, cane in hand and scowl on face. Her ashen hair was tied in a bun. Her milky eyes lanced through thick oval glasses. Her appearance startled Philip. He had never seen her before, although he had never given her much thought except for her nosey scanning through the peephole. He sensed that she wanted to say something, but was resisting. Philip wanted to say something also, but what would he say? Nice knowing you or So you’re the scary hag next door. Finally, she raised her cane and pointed toward Sprakie’s door. Slowly she nodded. Philip swallowed hard. He had lingered here too long. He righted himself, and then coursed down this reeking stairwell for the last time. He was clear of Avenue A and any implications from the old woman’s cane.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Assurity

  1

  When Philip returned to the Papillon Arms, the concierge wouldn’t let him in. The uniformed bouncer (in Philip’s mind he was a goon in a monkey suit) phoned up for clearance, but did not receive a green light.

  “Shit,” Philip said. “Are you sure you got the right apartment? Thomas Dye.”

  The concierge snarled, his thick mocha lips twitching as if to warn. “I know who lives in this here place, Sonny Jim. You say Thomas Dye. Do ya think I’d call up the mayor or the district attorney? If you don’t move on, I’ll call the damn dogcatcher, and he’ll do jest as good a job as me.”

  Philip sighed. The promises were fading and trust ebbed with the tide. The concierge’s snarl transmuted to a broad grin — a triumphant grin — one that probably gave him a heap o’ satisfaction and a mighty grip o’ power. Then, the phone rang. He snapped it up with authority, nodding as he listened to some instruction that neither gave him pleasure nor wiped the grin from his face. He hung up, and then nodded.

  “Well it’s a good thing you decided to stick around, Sonny Jim, ‘cause Mr. Dye has suddenly recalled your name — Mr. Flack-soon. Do you know where you’re goin’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then be on your way.”

  Philip didn’t linger for the glory. He scurried through the lobby to the silver elevator, and then paced until it came. Up the three floors, he was filled with anxiety. Had Tee changed his mind — second thoughts reflected in that confusing double-phone call to the desk? Perhaps Philip should just
stay in the car when it stopped at three — stay in the car and press L. But what then? Back to Avenue A? Bridges weren’t burned yet. Sprakie would welcome him back, perhaps with a browbeating lecture, but his place wasn’t offered up to the next incumbent yet.

  The door opened. Moment of decision. Philip was unaccustomed to indecision, but his feet decided for him this time. They plodded forward toward the floral arrangement. Tee’s door was ajar, and suddenly opened — the man himself in the doorway.

  “You came back.” He beamed. “I prayed that you would.”

  “Then, why did you have that thug in the lobby turn me away?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Misunderstanding. Come in.”

  Philip straddled the threshold, and then spied the shadow — the ubiquitous Florian Townsend. He guessed at the misunderstanding.

  “Flo answered the call and he forgot your name.”

  Philip glared. “Likely story.”

  “No, really,” Flo said, off-handed. “The lobbyman has an accent and my hearing isn’t as good as it was. Easy mistake.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Now, Philip, let us all be friends. I take it that since you have returned, you mean to stay.”

  “Stay?” Flo said, suddenly frayed. He had been studying a proposal, clipped at the top and folded over neatly. That document flipped closed now, Mr. Townsend drifting into the office, muttering indistinctly. Thomas followed him

  “Yes, Flo. I have offered Philip a place to stay.”

  Flo turned, shaking the proposal. “It’s your place. You can do what you please.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Philip tugged Thomas back into the living room. “Don’t quarrel over it, Tee. If you’re having second thoughts, I’ll leave.”