“Well, let me know if you need anything else. I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow,” Nate said as he got in the car and drove off.
“Who was that?” Timmy asked.
“My building manager. Here,” I said as I picked up the suitcase. “I’ll carry it. Let’s make this quick,” I said as he opened the door to his building and followed me inside.
“Can I get you a drink?” Timmy said in some sort of weird, deep, sexy voice as he waved a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps in front of my face.
“Peppermint Schnapps?” I said in disbelief. I don’t think I’d seen a bottle of that since freshman year college.
“It’s really yummy with hot chocolate!” he immediately reverted back to his usual chipper self. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to get you drunk and take advantage of you. I’m not that kind of a guy.”
“No. Thank you,” I declined. “A glass of water is fine.”
While Timmy went into the kitchen, I took the opportunity to take a look around the place, hoping it might to lead to some clues as to what kind of a guy he really was. Not that I doubted for a second the kid was gay. But the question then becomes: Does he not know he’s gay? Or does he simply think others can’t tell and he’s still in the closet? There could be some odd third possibility, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what that could possibly be. At my advanced age of thirty-five, I was used to being around people who were gay, straight, bi or transgender. And there was no mistaking this for metro-sexual. At thirty-five, my Gaydar was pretty finely tuned.
Nevertheless, as I looked around Timmy’s bachelor pad for clues, I was pretty lost. Nothing suggestive in the décor to indicate a preference. In fact, not much at all in the way of furnishings. Typical, I suppose, for a young boy who’d packed his suitcase and come all the way to New York to pursue his dream. But I could certainly see where all his spare money went---photos. Of Timmy. Everywhere you looked, Timmy’s big head was staring you in the face. The place was practically a museum dedicated to his giant head and his dream.
A moment later, Timmy bounced back in, handed me the water and began apologizing and declaring his undying love. What was going on here? For a brief moment, I began to wonder if I had perhaps been so sexually overpowering that I’d turned the boy straight. And then I laughed. Not out loud. Just a little inside. Because that was funny. My own private little joke with myself. If that big head of his needed a beard, it was going to take more whiskers than a thirty-five year-old, poorly-paid temp.
“Dorrie,” he ended his plea, “all I’m asking for is one date. Please. Just give me a chance.”
I promised him I’d think about it and hauled Alex’s suitcase and his box-o-shit to the train station. An hour and a half later, I finally got back home and made my way to Apartment 3A.
“You must be Dorrie. I’m Tanya,” she said in what sounded like a Russian accent. “Come in.”
“That’s okay. I just wanted to drop this stuff off before…”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with an odd little smile. “Come in.”
It felt a little strange being invited in by the other woman. I had no desire to make friendsies with Celia’s rival. Just didn’t seem proper. But I figured I could at least help haul the stuff in. After all, she was taking a roommate off my hands.
As I carried the box into her apartment, I couldn’t help but notice the difference a lease seemed to make. Wow. Her apartment was actually nice. No hole in the ceiling. No paint peeling off the walls and crumbling dry wall. No scratched and rotting wooden floors that occasionally poked splinters into your bare feet. This place was pretty posh. A full-sized, self-defrosting refrigerator. Dishwasher. And then, as we walked thru the hallway, she said, “Sorry about the mess. But they’re installing my washer-dryer.”
The Holy Grail of New York City apartment dwellers was sitting there right before my very eyes. A washer-dryer combo. I almost felt the urge to kneel down before it and pray.
“Wow. A washer and dryer. That’s… Wow. You’re so lucky.”
“Yes,” she said with that little smile again. “I’ve seen you in the building. About a year now, right?”
“Yeah. About a year,” I said nervously.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked as she pulled a bottle of Russian vodka down from a shelf.
“No. No, thanks.” She poured two shots of vodka anyway. Why did everyone suddenly want me to drink?
“It’s Alex’s favorite. I always keep a few bottles for him. Za zdorovje, ” she said as she clinked my glass and watched me closely while I took a tiny sip just to be polite. “So, I understand that you’re friends with the other one. The Celia woman.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s why I feel a little uncomfortable right now. Nothing personal.”
“I understand. You’re close with her. You probably talk a lot. You probably give her advice.”
“Not really…”
“It’s a shame about the man down the hall,” she said abruptly, as if she were suddenly bored of our conversation.
“What man?”
“3C. I thought you knew. He was evicted. Illegal sublet. Somehow the building found out. Nice man. Such a shame,” she said as she looked at her reflection in the glass of her washer-dryer combo. “I’ve always wanted one of these,” she continued as she ran her manicured hand over the dryer buttons. “But they’re so expensive. And
