Leaving New York

Chapter 19

I lay in bed the following day thinking about navigating the Paris airport in the Connally's clunky, old Mercedes. Glasses tinkled below my open window. I rolled out of bed to see what was going on. The caterers were breaking everything down. White napkins strewn on the lawn looked like dead white birds. The giant inflatable elephant Chloe named Hortense floated in the pool alone. The whole scene made me sad.

Clement had to leave the party early because he had to get up at 5:00 a.m. for fruit stacking. After he left, I ended up sitting at a table with Chloe's musician and artist friends. They all had interesting lives, more interesting than mine. Two jazz singers were headed to New York to do a week at the Village Vanguard. A woman with dreads was backing up David Byrne on a new experimental record. The Rolls Royce guy had just finished producing something for "Curly Q," a world-famous hip-hop person I never heard of. I smiled a lot.

As I watched men break stuff down, someone knocked at my bedroom door.

"Oui?"

The door swung open, and Lion wobbled in with a drink in his hand.

"What's up, Jack?"

"Lion."

He plopped in the big antique armchair next to the bed. His dyed black hair stuck out like porcupine quills.

"It was good meeting Clinton last night."

"Clement?"

"Oh, right."

"You ought to snag him."

"I just met him—he's not my type."

He lay back, closing his eyes, "I'm fixing to play twenty-four teensy clubs screaming my head off to indifferent people who loved me twenty years ago. We used to fill stadiums. We used to have money, but it's gone—mine at least. Well good luck with your new, bro." He gulped his Mimosa then shuffled out the door before I could yell, "He's not my 'bro!'"

I fell asleep again, dreaming of Clement. We cleaned the whole house with toothbrushes as he pleaded with me to have sex. Suddenly he morphed into a giant spider spinning me into a bundle to eat for dinner. I woke up hollering, "No, no, no!"

I never much liked sex. Of course, I loved looking at a beautiful man. I'd done 'the deal' so infrequently after forty, it seemed foreign to me, like something from a B-horror movie. I could hear the film's narrator: "Feel the terror as you view the alien's sexual extension, see it grow! Stroke the massive member until you can stroke no more. Hear the moans of ecstasy as he drains his fluid."

Jimmy told me my attitude about sex was why I was never with anybody. He said, "You got to be a caveman."

I could cuddle with a friendly, sweet-smelling guy for hours watching a movie. But fit, masculine New York men wanted the deluxe sexual pizza. I tried dating guys I perceived might be satisfied with cuddling—some heavier guys, but everyone wanted the whole enchilada after three or four dates. Clement hinted he wanted to mess around at the party. Ugh.

My cloudy brain got hungry, so I made my way to the kitchen. There were four big suitcases in the front hall. Gar stomped down the stairs with another one.

"Ugh. Did you have a good time last night, Jack?"

"Yeah, it was nice. You are loved."

"Those were Chloe's friends."

"I'm sad you guys are leaving."

"I'm nervous about it. I need a packing break."

We grabbed coffee, some sweet rolls and descended into the garden.

"It's a direct flight—eleven hours."

"Oh, my gosh."

"So, you left New York because you wanted to travel."

"I think travel seemed like such a great idea, but I . . ."

"Constant travel is a bore: I crewed on a sailboat all over for two years. Now, I like my bed. A short trip is great, but."

"I'm afraid to travel alone. On the ship, I got to know people, almost like friends. There was a guy we picked up from a shipwreck—it gave me something to do, helping him. On the train, I was nervous about going from hostel to hostel."

"I do think you are going to get lonesome with everyone gone—that was the reason I mentioned Clement could stay. Anyway, I remembered Clément's niceness."

"Didn't you tell us one night you had a friend who owned a skateboard shop?"

"Jimmy?"

"I think so. Were you interested in Jimmy?"

"Jimmy was like a bratty younger brother--we were just friends."

"So, you lived in a firehouse."

"Ten days a month. I worked with good guys."

"Did your colleagues get hurt sometimes?" My best friend in the world and station roommate Dave's face flashed in my head—his boyish crew cut, his calm brown eyes. I'd never forgotten when the crew pulled his body from the smoking warehouse rubble. I couldn't stop screaming when they told me he died.

"Yes, people got hurt."

I kept my eyes shut because I was afraid I'd start crying if I looked right at Gar. Next week would be the second anniversary of Dave's death. "My best friend at the station died in a fire."

"Oh, God."

"Eleven years on the same shifts."

"Man. What was his name?"

"Dave McGinty."

"I didn't mean to get so personal."

"The plane leaves at six, so we better leave at two-thirty."

He looked at me—the passionless, fearful old guy who never had anybody.