The crisp white bathroom has two urinals hedged close to one another. It makes me uncomfortable, but I find some solace in the small gold trim accentuating the ornate French-Victorian finishing and the restroom's attendant, who is dressed in a white tuxedo with a white bow tie. In the air is the faint scent of artificial alpine meadows. Beside me at the other urinal is purple-tie guy, still smiling like his face is frozen in that expression. He looks down, as though to admire his own package, then looks over at me.
"I don't think we've met," he says, still looking at my penis. "I'm Stephen."
Men talking in the bathroom is nothing new, and some do it quite well. I've never been one of those who do it well. My urine stops, and I become very aware I'm holding my penis while talking to someone else.
"Evan," I say.
"Who's your father?" he asks, wasting no time trying to see what family I come from so he can make a connection or provide me with a compliment.
"I'm a guest."
"Oh," he says. "Are you a member?"
The club we're in is a members-only club, and even though it opened its doors to women over 15 years ago, it still is very much a men's club. And with the group tonight, it's an old political boys' club.
"No," I lie.
My father is a member, and as his son, so am I. But my father hates these types of events, and I came at the request of Chantal's father. Ever since Chantal began interning for a senator, she's been trying to groom me to become one. I struggle with it because she sits right of center, and I don't sit anywhere, not even placid center, which is full of populists.
His smile drops and becomes a grin he's forced to wear. I have become a time waster in his eyes. Someone who isn't going to help advance his cause or his career. He shakes his arms down twice, and that's followed by the faint sound of a zipper.
"You have a good night."
The bathroom attendant turns on the taps and touches his fingers to the water to test the temperature. When he's satisfied, he gestures to the stream of water and purple-tie guy washes his hands. When done, the attendant holds out a crisp white hand towel. Purple-tie guy takes it. He dries his hands and tosses it into the basket now half full of hand towels.
When the door closes behind him, my urine starts to flow.
YOU ARE READING
The Heir of New York
General FictionNew York changes people, and not always for the better. Evan and Chantal have a life planned together, but when he moves to New York to attend University, things go off track when he runs into an old flame from high school.
