When You Don't See Me (20 page)
Read When You Don't See Me Online
Authors: Timothy James Beck
The show always opened with a parade of celebrity impersonators called “A Rainbow of Divas.” They periodically changed their musical number and their outfits, and Daniel said that Andy updated the divas from year to year, but the act was still familiar to me. Nonetheless, I was more than willing to lose myself in the antics of the faux Madonna, Gwen Stefani, Pink, Mary J. Blige, and Queen Latifah as they belittled a hapless Jewel, who only wanted to sing a soft folk song with excruciatingly bad lyrics. Kendra and Adalla laughed so hard they had tears streaming down their faces. Melanie and Fred seemed preoccupied. I assumed they were still thinking about Fred's book deal. Isaiah and Luis were roaring at the divas' take-no-prisoners behavior. Luis's laugh was so loud that Queen Latifah stopped the show and made them turn the spotlight on our table.
“Security, security!” she called in that voice that all men in drag seemed to automatically adopt. Maybe it had something to do with how they were tucked. “You have exceeded the limit of allowable handsome men at your table. I'm afraid this one has to come with me.” She expertly whipped a long feathered boa at Luis. He reacted with another of his booming laughs.
Whatever Queen was going to do next was lost in a rush of air that passed me. I watched, shocked, as Roberto cleared the table and landed on Fred. Everything became a confusing mix-up of screams, feathers, sequins, and fists as our table started a bar brawl.
“Stop that!” I heard Andy shriek from somewhere behind me.
I looked over to see the waifish Jewel, white dress pulled up around her waist, straddling a bouncer as he danced around our table. She tried to hit Roberto and Fred with her guitar, but they were rolling all over the floor and she couldn't get a good shot at them.
“This,” said Mary J. from the stage, “is why we call it Club
Chaos,
baby.”
“You never see shit like this back on the kibbutz,” Madonna said.
Â
Three hours later, I walked back to Club Chaos from the edge of Lower Manhattan. I was tired and a little depressed. I had no idea what had happened to my friends. I'd left the club before it all got sorted out. I knew that whatever had made Melanie annoyed at Fred was magnified several times over in Roberto's reaction.
“You fucking betrayed your friends!” Roberto bellowed at Fred when the bouncers finally pulled the two of them apart.
Fred's nose was bleeding, his shirt was half ripped off, and he sounded just as furious as Roberto when he said, “It's fucking
fiction,
Roberto. Can you not understandâ”
“Don't talk to me like I'm stupid. Tell Nick. Tell Nick it's fiction, you cocksuckingâ”
That was when I'd walked out. I didn't do drama. Or maybe I did, because in spite of all my intentions, I'd gone to the one place I knew I shouldn't. I hated the way it had been made to seem like a tourist spot.
But when I was actually there, standing with other people who stared up at the columns of light, it was different from what I'd expected. Quiet. Respectful. I hadn't felt good exactly, but I hadn't felt awful. I was able to think about Gretchen without the usual quivering that overtook my stomach. I thought about her friendships with my array of well-meaning parental figures. I almost wished I could see Blaine and Daniel. Martin. Gwendy. Kruger. Jeremy and Adam. Gavin and Ethan. Sheila and Josh.
The one person that I could see was Andy, so I walked back to Club Chaos. It was way after closing, but when I tapped on the lobby door, one of the bartenders was passing by with a case of liquor.
“I need to see Andy,” I yelled through the glass.
“We're closed.”
“Please tell him Nick Dunhill is here. He'll let me in.”
A few minutes later, I was hustled upstairs, where Andy sat at a table in Cybeeria. He was drinking a cup of coffee and organizing receipts.
“I wanted to apologize,” I said miserably as he stood up and gave me a hug. “I'm sorry my friends caused trouble tonight. I shouldn't have walked out and left you to deal with it all.”
“Oh, honey,” Andy said. “That was
nothing.
We've had bigger fights backstage over
wigs.
Everything was under control within minutes. Your friends were in cabs, Pink had an ice pack on her elbow, and the show went on. The show
always
goes on.”
“You're not mad?”
“No. Silly thing. You want a drink? A cup of coffee or tea? Anything?”
I glanced behind me at the bank of computers and said, “What I'd really like is to use one of your computers.”
“Help yourself,” Andy said. He picked up the receipts. “I'll be in my office. If I leave before you're finished, I'll tell my security guard you're up here. He can let you out. Take all the time you need, he's here all night. He's had to be ever since that
shocking
episode with Whitney Houston. I don't know
why
the crazies always end up impersonating Whitney.”
“Me, either,” I said.
When Andy was gone, I sat at a computer and typed in the site baristabrew-dot-com.
An anonymous blogger offers a brew of stories about the trials of a coffee-chain barista and the characters in his Gotham life.
I began reading backward. I didn't get it. The tone was funny, sometimes sarcastic, and generally entertaining. I could see why Fred's blog would be popular. He was a good writer. If someone wasn't from Manhattan, they'd feel like they were getting a glimpse of it from him. Anyone familiar with the city would recognize its flaws and virtues. Fred'sâor rather, the Barista'sâattitude toward his customers depended on how they behaved in “Brewbucks.”
“What am I missing?” I asked out loud. There was a search function on the blog, so I typed in
Nick.
Nothing came up. Same with
Roberto, Melanie, Pete,
even
Davii.
I tried to think of any conversations Fred and I had shared that would be blog-worthy. On a whim, I typed
Sister Divine.
Bingo.
I went to that entry.
My friend Stick is obsessed with a homeless woman that he sees all over the city.
Stick?
I wondered.
Sister Divine, as he calls her, thinks we're all possessed by demons. Our souls vacate our bodies and the demons move in, making us nothing more or less than any other typical Gotham real estate. Mind you, in Stick's case, I'm not so sure she's wrong.
“Thanks,” I said aloud and kept reading.
I'd say Stick's worst demon is fear. Granted, he has his reasons. His aunt died on September 11. She wasn't one of those people who called anyone to say good-bye. She was at a meeting in the north tower that morning. Nothing proving her existence has ever been recovered. She just disappeared, leaving people to move on without her. Which they've done pretty well. And I'll give Stick credit. He doesn't openly talk about her. He doesn't invoke her name or memory to get pity or attention. He's more subtle. Stick's afraid of buildings. He's afraid of elevators. He doesn't want to fly anymore. He doesn't like taking the subway. He watches the landscape with the wary eye of a refugee who just arrived from some third-world country. Gotham has become the enemy, and Stick has become a collection of neuroses. Maybe this began as a bid for attention. Or maybe it began genuinely. I don't know. But he's not even twenty yet, and Stick is a fucked-up mess. I guess this is the cue for the asshole chorus to say, “The terrorists win.” I hate that fucking phrase.
I stared at the monitor. Then I read it again. I felt numb. I put
Stick
in the search field and found a blog entry titled “They Think I Don't Know.”
Have you ever heard of the daisy chain of desire? When everyone wants the wrong person? I'm suddenly a crazy daisy. The Blond Con wants my friend, Macho. Macho says he's straight, but he's half in love with our friend, Stick. Stick wants me. Does that sound arrogant? I see the signs, although Stick thinks I don't know. When we were in school together, he lied about having a certain article of my clothing for about a month. I mean, come on. That's so Brittany Murphy in Clueless. So Stick wants me, and Iâ¦I've got my own Daisii to pursue. I don't know who he wants, but it's not me. Yet.
I was starting to get why Roberto had been upset. Had he read this? Who was the Blond Con? Kendra? What did that mean,
Con
â¦That she was scamming us in some way? I knew she had a crush on Roberto, so he must be Macho. But Roberto had no romantic interest in me. We were brothers.
Admittedly, I'd had a crush on Fred forever. It was embarrassing to find out that he'd known all along. And Daisii was clearly Davii.
And none of this should have become reading material on the Internet.
I was starting to feel squeamish, but I tried using
macho
as a tag. There were a lot of entries about “Brewbucks” customers. There was something about “Macho's” older brother the cop that was fairly harmless. Then I found an entry called “They Think I Don't Know, Part 2.”
Macho is HIV-positive. I'm not sure who knows other than Stick. I'm not supposed to know, so I can't talk to him about it. I found out by accident. I don't understand how any informed person can get infected. Maybe it happened a long time ago. I don't have anything else to say about it.
I wanted to stop then, but I looked for another Stick entry and found “Unbalanced.”
Yesterday, a Famous Personage from Washington, D.C., visited Brewbucks. Secret Service guys were outside the store as well as inside, all talking on their little gadgets with serious faces just like in the movies. Famous Personage, who's as famous for her constant scowl as much as anything, is in a chain coffee shop. She knows how it goes, that we have a system worked out INTERNATIONALLY. But in order to feel that she's the Bitch in Chargeâclearly, she has control issuesâshe has to instruct Barista 4 on how she wants her drink made. It must be a layered thing with chocolate syrup, cream, coffee, caramel syrup, cream, coffee, whipped cream. It's all about balance, she says. There aren't too many customers in the shop, and we're the mellowest little Brewbucks on the island, so Barista 4 humors her and makes the blend to her specifications.
But that day is over, Bitch in Charge won't be back, and she doesn't deserve to be brewed. Today I'm brewing my friend Stick.
Stick is unbalanced. I don't mean mentally. Or metaphysically. He may need a shrink or an aura fluffing, but that's not the point.
Stick is a twin. Let's call his twin, who's trapped in his little midwestern mentality in one of those flyover states, Stuck. Stick and Stuck don't get along. Do you know why I call him Stick? He's tall and thin. Very thin. Why? You never see Stick eat an entire meal. Something is always pulling him away from food. Does he have an eating disorder? I think he does. I think he came to Gotham with that eating disorder because his family is composed of a little group of total assholes. His parents are middle-class losers who never planned on a queer son. His two brothers are both athletes, the pride of the family. Stuck and the older brotherâwhat the hell, let's call him TONY, because that's his nameâbonded. Even though Stick and Stuck are twins, Stuck is like TONY'S butt boy, though of course, no butts are involved because that would be GAY, right? Like Stick.
Stick is unbalanced because he's missing the other half of himself, his womb mate, since his family basically kicked him out when he was sixteen. He moved in with his uncle. The uncle is gay, so it seems like the ideal solution, right? Yeah, in Perfect World. But this is Gotham, never a perfect city.
In many ways, Stick's Gotham family has also abandoned him. They've left him in near-poverty to figure out a way to work through his nervous breakdown caused by grief, fear, paranoiaâ
I'd read enough. I pushed away from the computer and walked downstairs. I was dimly aware of the security guard's polite good night. I must have answered him. He didn't act like I did anything abnormal.
I walked north a few blocks before I realized that I couldn't make it. I'd already covered too much territory during the night. I was mentally, physically, and emotionally drained.
I paused at the stairs that led down to the subway.
Stick is afraid of buildings. He's afraid of elevators. He doesn't want to fly anymore. He doesn't like taking the subway.
“Fuck you,” I said.
There was almost no one on the train with me. Hardly anyone on the streets as I walked through East Harlem. I felt like one of the last people on the planet. Unfortunately, I wasn't. I was a person whose life had been reinterpreted and recorded in a public way. A way that could be read by anyone with a computer, which was everyone but me.