Gulliver Takes Five (32 page)

I’m pretty sure he brought me into this party because I’m his polar opposite: chill, no matter how extreme the problems that arise throughout the night. Or because I’ve got the twentysomething New York City gay crowd in a ball-lock. Either way, here we are, and here he is, screaming my face off.

“It’s going to be FINE, Drama. Didn’t you do a dry run of this thing last month?”

“Yeah?”

“And wasn’t that shit on the verge of falling to crap too?”

“Yes...”

“And?”

Michael sighs audibly through the speaker, which is a welcome change from his previous decibel level. “And it was fine?”

“It was fine?”

“It was awesome!”

“Exact—”

“It was the best fucking party anyone’s seen in this city for fucking decades! Those crazy crack-snorting party monster fuckups
from the eighties never even HALLUCINATED a fucking party like that!”

“Exactly,” I finish. “AND you didn’t even have my help on that one. It’s going to be fine. I’ll find some replacement bartenders. I mean, hey, I already found a backup for your food-poisoned go-go.”

“You did?”

“Trust, bro. Chase. He’s one of my Friday boys.”

“Is he hot?”

“Dude, he works for me,” I say, conjuring up an image of Chase up on the block last night. One of the hottest guys on my squad, that’s for sure. A toned and tight dancer boy with spiked hair and a face that belongs in a Dolce ad. I’d fuck him—if he didn’t work my parties. If I weren’t—

“Right, right. Okay. I trust you, DiTempto. Thank fucking God in the heavens I found you and GuyTime. Best fucking discovery of my life.”

“Aw, gee. I’d blush if my face had any color left in it,” I say. “So is that it for now? Shall we say good-bye so you can call me wigging out again in twenty minutes?”

“Fuck me! The projections! They fucked up my name, and I’m NOWHERE near my computer!”

“Yeah. Chill, C-3PO. You got the Photoshop file in your e-mail? Just forward it to me. I’ll fix it, okay?”

“Yes, yes, thank you! I will have your children, DiTempto!”

“Those would be some fuck-ugly kids. Now get the fuck off my phone, okay?”

Click
.

I can’t believe I’m putting this event on tonight. I’d rather spend the night on the couch, watching Food Network like I know how to cook. Order some pizza. Grab some beers. Hang out with...

Oh, right.

I hang up for a second of silence. It’s a blessing after eight straight hours of throbbing club music followed by ten minutes of Drama screaming my eardrums raw. Then I see the coffeepot, which has been brewing a full pot of coffee on top of the pot I forgot to dump out. It’s all over the counter. The floor. And my foot—Fuck! Ow!

I grab my burning hoof and reach for a roll of paper towels on the counter, dropping to one knee like I’m about to propose to my fucking microwave. Ripping off single sheets doesn’t do it, so I start sopping all the coal-flavored, eggnog-infused ass juice with the full roll. Meanwhile, my foot is going numb.

My phone rings.

Beep
.

“Todd, you fucking shit! Get down here! It’s not going away! Either there’s two of them or this one figured out how to open doors! Help! Kill it! What kind of a friend ARE you?”

At the same time, I get a text from Shane on my cell. I have to hop over to see:

“On the list of Bray’s Most Fucked Up Episodes, this already ranks as #3. NEED YOU. PLEASE!!!!!”

And then there’s a smell. Like hamburger meat left out for too long mixed together with taco seasoning and fertilizer.

“Señor!”

The slut pooch hangs his head and farts again. I swear to God he warms the entire room. If only it weren’t August—might save some money on the ConEd bill in the winter. Content with the damage, he skips out of the room and back to his doggie bed in the living room.

My cell rings again. Rowan. The landline rings. Servando. Shane sends another text. Somewhere in the middle, there’s another e-mail from Mikey Drama, the subject line just an endless row of exclamation points.

Just another Saturday in the life of Todd DiTempto.

Or, as Mikey Drama might put it,
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Todd! What the fuck are you doing here?” Gulliver cries, jumping into my arms and almost knocking me down the stairs of his West Hollywood apartment building
.

“Whoa, chill, bro. If I’m going to die, it’s going to be in an explosion of glitter in the middle of New York City, not around the corner from Hamburger Mary’s.”

Poor Gully. He looks terrible. Well, he looked terrible—but at least now he’s smiling
.

“Why do you always show up without warning? What if I was out trying to get revenge sex or something?”

“Cock blockkkk!” I yell, shoving him into his apartment. “Where’s your boring roommate?”

“I don’t know. Whatever. I’m glad he’s not here. I’ve been busy.”

Yes, he has. On the floor are photos of Gulliver and Graham. Or, more accurately, what is left of said photos. The remaining scraps are all over the place, a guilty pair of scissors lying open nearby
.

“Ah, yes, destruction. Always a smart way to kick off the grieving process. But I have a better idea.”

“I wish I’d known you were coming, I could have planned stuff for us to do...”

“No way, bro. We’re staying in tonight. I met a hot couple at LAX, didn’t take much persuading to get them to come back with me.”

Gulliver looks up from the torn remnants of his relationship. “What? At the AIRPORT? Fuck, I look like SHIT! And since when do you and I have group sex together?”

I reach into my bag and pull out huge bottles of Cuervo and Patrón. “You still go for Latinos, right?”

Cue tears. Gulliver falls into my arms crying. “You piece of shit. For a second, I thought I was going to get fucked tonight.”

“Oh, you will. Fucked UP! Where’s your salt?”

Gulliver runs to his shabby kitchen and rips open drawers and cabinets, coming back with a plastic saltshaker. “I stole it from In-N-Out,” he explains. “Gotta be thrifty ’til I get an income. And speaking of, don’t you have a job you should be at tomorrow?”

“Took a personal day. I’m here all weekend, G,” I say, wrapping my arm around him. “Chill out and stop worrying. All we gotta think about now is what Disney movie we’re gonna watch while we get wasted.”

“I love you, Todd,” he says, tears welling up in his eyes as I pour us each three shots’ worth of tequila and salt our hands
.

“No crying, bro. You can do that when I’m gone. Or when you’re puking in a few hours. ’Til then...Down the hatch!”

Gully wipes his eyes with the salt-free hand and shakes his head, laughing. “I can’t believe you fucking flew across the country, you asshole. Who DOES that?”

“I do? And I said, DOWN THE HATCH!” I slam my glass on a nearby table, scattering the photo bits in all directions
.

“NATCH!” he yells, raising his glass high
.

Servando and Rowan live in a studio apartment on Tenth Avenue in the thirties. They adamantly argue that this is still Hell’s Kitchen, even though no one agrees with them. Technically, it’s “Clinton”—or, as Brayden has said, the taint of Penn Station. As far as most gays are concerned, Hell’s Kitchen exists between Forty-Second and Fifty-Third Streets, between Eighth and Tenth Avenues. Not coincidentally, this area includes all of the neighborhood’s gay bars. Priorities, I guess.

On any normal day, I’d walk to the boys’ place to get some fresh air on my way, but they’ve been blowing up my phone every five seconds, so I’m in a cab. Ninth Avenue is filled with early-Saturday-morning traffic, which is basically a few scattered groups of disheveled gay boys in oversized sunglasses, hunched over from hangovers, and enduring walks of shame, getting breakfast, or dropping off laundry. Most of them I recognize, and would enjoy chatting with if it weren’t for the fact that I have to go save two of my friends from a bloodthirsty mammoth rodent. All in a day’s work.

My lacrosse stick is on the seat next to me. I haven’t used it since junior varsity in high school. (And don’t ask me why I’ve carted it with me all these years—I like how it looks on my wall, okay?) I hope I still have the skills to snatch Mickey up—before he disappears again and comes back with reinforcements.

As long as I’m in the cab for a few minutes, I have Shane on the phone so I can simultaneously deal with THAT bit of drama. Efficiency is key when you’re expected to help everybody. At least Batman has Alfred to answer his calls and Robin to send out on lesser emergencies. Like this one. It’s like I’m in that old Root Beer Tapper video game, running from bar to bar and making sure that every customer has a tall cold one. They drink and get pissed if you don’t toss them a new one the second they kill off the last. And if you throw a new one too soon, it ends up on the floor, and they get pissed about that too. The customers in this morning’s version of the game are Irwin, Shane, Rowan, Servando, and Mikey Drama, and they’re guzzling root beer like it’s going out of style. And here I am, running from one to the next, pulling the draft handle and flinging the mug...

Shane’s filling me in: This morning, Brayden was caught looking at his boyfriend’s phone, and the guy dumped him and peaced out. Called him crazy too—certainly an apt adjective, but invoking it only makes Brayden even crazier. I don’t pay much mind to the trials and travesties of Brayden’s dating life, since they come along about as often as commercials during prime time. But Shane rarely sounds the drama alarm like this. This is a big deal, he claims. This tantrum beats out all the others Brayden’s ever thrown, including the one that left my best buddy lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood on Fire Island. A full-on psychotic/potentially murderous meltdown.

Even worse, Brayden’s most recent ex happens to be one of my favorite pop/house DJs; thanks for that added level of complexity, Bray.

“Do you really think he’s in danger? Because if this is just Brayden being Brayden, I have a lot on my plate today, and after what
happened on Fire Island, he’s not that high up the list,” I say, looking out the window. The sky is getting cloudy—not too many clouds, but New York City rarely jokes around with weather. If it went through the trouble of bringing out the gloomy gray, it’s probably planning on using it. This isn’t a good sign.

“No, boo, I’m totally serious,” Shane says. “He trashed our living room, and I walked in on him screaming at nobody.”

Okay, that IS crazy. Even for Brayden.

“Jesus, is he still there?”

“No! That’s the problem. Bitch ran out of here before I was done putting all the books back on the shelf.”

“Is he responding to texts?” I ask as my cab approaches the intersection of Servando and Rowan’s place. “Have you tried calling or e-mailing?”

“All of it, boo. No response.”

“Fuck a duck. Okay, I have to help Rowan and Servando kill a rat. Or a twenty-foot-tall beady-eyed, fanged monster, judging from the way they’re freaking out.”

“Didn’t realize you had ‘exterminator’ on your résumé too.”

“Yep. Happy Saturday. Keep me posted. If you don’t hear anything after I’ve killed Remy, I’ll send out a search team.”

“Yeah. Wait—who’s Remy?”

“
Ratatouille
? Brush up on your Pixar while I’m gone,” I explain. “Also, try calling some of his girlfriends if you have their numbers. Okay?”

“Okay, boo, thanks.”

The cabbie pulls up to the curb. I swipe my credit card and leave him a 30 percent tip. He thanks me profusely for my generosity, considering how little he had to drive to reach my destination. I nod and smile.

I overtip everybody. Probably because, before I found myself in this place of financial security and gay fame, I was a waiter at a shitty chain steakhouse on Long Island during college summers. I had my fair share of stiffings by cheapskates and verbal abuse from insensitive assholes. Now I’m always super-nice to those who provide services and tip them generously to make up for the fuckwads they have inevitably dealt with all day (or night) long. Go-go boys, bartenders, pizza delivery guys, baristas, doesn’t matter. It’s my own bit of social charity. A couple extra bucks to cheer everybody up.