Full Frontal: To Make a Long Story Short (11 page)

“Yes, baby,” Gustavo said hugging Tim. “After all, you are my new subject.”

Chocolate

December 1974

G
oing to work in the morning, Mr. Farquharson always wore a flower on his lapel. Usually it was a baby pink tea rose that closely matched his cherubic complexion, although he was quite unaware of this. Mr. Farquharson regularly bought a dozen tea roses on Friday evening at the Thrifty Flower Mart and kept them in a small glass by his sink in the bathroom. The final accent of his morning regimen would be the flower he had selected and carefully pinned in the buttonhole of his pinstriped suit. A deep breath and one final tug on his lapels, and he would be armed with self-assurance for the day.

To most people, Mr. Farquharson was fat, but he preferred to think of himself as portly. He even pretended rather convincingly not to know who or what the ladies working for him meant when they laughingly joked about “Porky Pig.” Perhaps he really did not know, since very little penetrated Mr. Farquharson’s world that he did not personally prescribe.

Mr. Farquharson was an accomplished cook, and that contributed largely to both his size and his success. He had been lucky in the business world. He’d started out several years ago in the catering business. Unlike most people, Mr. Farquharson took note of what he did best and devoted all his time and energies to making money with that one talent. He began by catering cocktail parties. Instead of hiring pretty young ladies or would-be actors like the other catering services, Mr. Farquharson would employ two or three middle-aged ladies, depending on the size of the event, to serve the hors d’oeuvres, which he made in his kitchen at home. While the ladies passed the trays, he personally tended bar. As with everything he did, the drinks he poured were excessive. The net result was that his parties were always considered a success by hosts, since after eating well and imbibing generously, the guests left gushing with compliments.

The people who solicited Mr. Farquharson’s services were wealthy. His reputation grew by word of mouth in the Philadelphia social circuit. He shrewdly chose his clients, and he was quick to turn down a job from someone he did not know or who had not been referred by a current client. Again, unlike many people, Mr. Farquharson knew his market, and he aggressively pursued it. His fees were high, which made him all the more desirable.

A little more than a year into the catering business, his popularity among the society set had grown to such an extent that no one who mattered would think of having an affair for more than twenty people without engaging Mr. Farquharson’s services. His aloofness and put-on sense of grandeur—convincing himself that he was actually part of well-heeled society—blended well with the people he catered to. Indeed, in some ways Mr. Farquharson was part of the social set, if not financially, then at least by charm and style.

It was at a large New Year’s Eve party for over a hundred people that Mr. Farquharson met Tim.

“What would you like?” Mr. Farquharson asked.

“Dewar’s and soda,” Tim responded, “if that’s all right.”

“Anything for you, kid,” Mr. Farquharson said, pressing the drink into Tim’s hand. “I haven’t seen you before. New in Philadelphia?”

“I’m down for the weekend and the parade,” Tim explained as he took the drink. “I live in New York, and friends asked me down for the weekend. They said that the Mummers Parade was something I had to see.” Tim smiled. “Thanks for the drink.”

“It gets pretty wild around here at this time of year,” Mr. Farquharson offered. “So where’s your date for New Year’s Eve?”

“I had a friend staying with me for Christmas, but he had to go back yesterday,” Tim started.

“Back?” Mr. Farquharson probed.

“California. He lives in California.”

“A long-distance romance?”

“Not really.” Tim shrugged. “At least not yet. Too many complications.”

“Seems the complication is leaving a honey like you alone on New Year’s Eve,” Mr. Farquharson said pointedly.

“He had to get back for business.”

“Sure?” Mr. Farquharson questioned suspiciously.

“Sure,” Tim shot back flatly. Then, changing the subject, he added, “I don’t know anyone here except for the two friends who invited me, and they’ve gone off somewhere. I didn’t bring a tux and black tie, so I feel kind of out of place.”

“Not to worry, kid,” Mr. Farquharson said. “You could fit in anywhere, handsome as you are.”

“Thanks.” Tim blushed.

“What do you do?” Mr. Farquharson asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m unemployed at the moment,” Tim confessed. “I lost my job at a big advertising agency just before Thanksgiving. I’m just bartending in Greenwich Village part-time, so I guess I’m not totally unemployed until I get a real job.”

“You’re young and handsome and obviously smart. You’ll get another job. I’d hire you in a heartbeat if you wanted to work parties for me.”

“Thanks,” Tim said. “But I hope my bartending stint will hold me over until I get another advertising job.”

“I understand. But just in case, here’s my card,” Mr. Farquharson said, slipping Tim his business card.

“Thanks,” Tim said, taking the card.

“Only ten more minutes,” Mr. Farquharson said.

“What?” Tim asked, seeming confused.

“To midnight and the New Year.”

“I hate New Year’s Eve,” Tim replied. “Everybody trying to force themselves to have a good time. It’s all so fake.”

“You’re here at a fancy party,” Mr. Farquharson said, teasing.

“True. I wish I hadn’t come. But my friends thought it was better for me to get out of the city than be alone. They insisted I would have a great time at the Mummers Parade.”

“Whatever,” Mr. Farquharson said, rolling his eyes. “I always work on New Year’s Eve so it’s just another night for me. Only the money is usually good. Another Dewar’s?”

“Sure, why not? It’s New Year’s Eve,” Tim said accepting the refill from Mr. Farquharson before dfrifting into the throng of laughing partygoers. He was trying to blend in, but he wasn’t interested in starting up a conversation with anyone. His hosts were nowhere to be found; they were probably outside smoking a joint.

It was now just a few minutes before midnight, and Tim had downed the second drink. He edged up again to the front of the bar where Mr. Farquharson was holding court.

“Can I have another Dewar’s?” Tim asked apologetically.

“Here. Give me that,” Mr. Farquharson said, taking the glass. He popped open a bottle of champagne and filled two flutes, offering one to Tim. “It’s Dom. What the hell! It’s New Year’s Eve,” he said, giving Tim a sly wink.

“Thanks,” Tim said, toasting his bartender friend. “Happy New Year!”

The crowd was doing the countdown—ten, nine, eight—toward the final moment when the big glass ball in Times Square on the TV monitor slid down to usher in the New Year. Balloons popped and confetti burst into the air. Tim felt alone and depressed.

“Here,” Mr. Farquharson said, refilling Tim’s flute with more champagne. “And have one of these.” He held out a silver tray of chocolates. “They are Mrs. See’s. The best,” Mr. Farquharson advised. “They come from California, just like your boyfriend. They’re not sold here on the East Coast. A friend of mine is a flight attendant on United and he brings them to me. He told me there is a small factory in Los Angeles on La Cienega Boulevard where they make them. He says you can smell the chocolate a block away. Here,” Mr. Farquharson said, planting a dark chocolate in Tim’s mouth.

“Wow,” Tim finally said. The chocolate had melted on his tongue and he’d washed it down with another swig of vintage champagne.

“That was better than sex.” Tim laughed, a little giddy from the champagne.

“That
was
sex, kid,” Mr. Farquharson said with a devilish smile. “Happy New Year!”

Danny

January 1975

T
rying to be a good houseguest, Tim went out the front gate to retrieve the garbage bins he’d set out the night before. Collection was every Tuesday morning around seven. He’d slept in since he had no appointments scheduled for the day. It was almost noon, and Tim was just making coffee and toasting an English muffin with peanut butter. Life as an unemployed advertising executive was looking up.

His friends had graciously offered to let Tim stay at their home in Santa Monica Canyon while he was in Los Angeles for job interviews. Tim merely had to pay for a rental car from Rent-a-Wreck, getting a cheap weekly rate—and he was able to put his plane ticket on the American Express sign and travel plan, one of his few credit cards that wasn’t over the limit. Of course he flew coach, not first class, a luxury Tim had while traveling around the world at the agency’s expense.

Anyway, it was January, and Tim was in California, not Manhattan, with the dreary, nasty weather that grips New York after the holidays. There was nothing happening in New York—or so the headhunter Tim had met with said—but there might be opportunities in Los Angeles, if he’d consider relocating to the West Coast. Tim would have to come up with travel and expenses himself. It wasn’t exactly the most attractive proposal, but it was better than sitting around his apartment on West Tenth Street waiting for the phone to ring. Here, he had a place to stay and some appointments set up for the following week. Who wouldn’t rather be in Santa Monica than Manhattan in January?

Tim’s friends had left early the previous morning for a few days stay in Baja California at the Rosarito Beach Hotel, leaving him to house-sit and feed the dogs. Tim welcomed the solitude and the isolation of being in a beautiful house with views of Santa Monica Canyon and the Pacific Ocean. It was a peaceful and welcome respite from the East. Tim gave his hosts’ two Beagles constant treats from the cookie jar on the kitchen counter filled with Milk-Bones.

The blue and green garbage bins were empty, having been picked up earlier while Tim was still in a deep sleep. Tim was pulling them back through the gates when he heard a sweet young voice.

“Hey! Are you new in the neighborhood?”

Tim almost dropped the garbage bins, turning around to face a boy with curly blond hair who was washing a black Lincoln parked on the street in front of the house next door.

“No. Just staying here for a while. House-sitting for friends while they are away.”

“Oh, those guys,” the boy said. “They’re not very friendly.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They never say hello. They never talk to my mom or me.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing personal. They’re very private people.”

The boy was engaging. “How long you gonna be here?” he asked, swabbing down one side of the car.

“Not sure,” Tim answered. “I’m out from New York on job interviews.” He couldn’t believe he was sharing personal information with a kid he had just met while picking up the garbage bins.

“My name is Danny,” the boy said, extending a soapy hand.

“Tim … Tim Halladay.”

“You’re nice,” Danny said. “Not like the others.”

“Well, that’s who I am.” Tim faced the young angel. “You know how friendly people from New York are!”

“Wouldn’t know,” Danny said. “Never been there. Want your car washed?”

“It’s not mine,” Tim said. “Just a piece of shit from Rent-a-Wreck. But the guys I’m staying with might like their Mercedes done. What do you charge?”

“Five bucks,” Danny said uncertainly.

“Sure. That’s fine,” Tim said, embarrassed at the low cost for a car wash by hand.

“Okay. I’ll be over in a few minutes, soon as I finish up here.” Danny smiled as he continued to buff the black Lincoln. Tim pulled the two empty garbage bins through the gates, turning back to look at the friendly, curly-haired kid.

The gate buzzer rang a few minutes later, and there was Danny smiling in his blue and yellow soccer shorts and Pele number-ten T-shirt, holding a plastic pail of rags and cleaning materials.

“You like soccer?” Tim asked as Danny came in. He couldn’t take his eyes off the boy.

“Yeah, it’s really hot. Especially the Brazilians,” he said as he pulled off his Pele T-shirt.

He was beautiful and hairless, and Tim’s heart stopped for a minute as Danny grabbed the garden hose. “This the car you want done?” he asked, pointing to the Mercedes in the courtyard.

“That’s the one,” Tim stammered, watching Danny so cocky and assured as he began to hose down the car.

Tim sat on the Smith & Hawken teakwood bench in the courtyard, watching as Danny soaped up the car.

“Do you do cars a lot? Like, detailing too?” Tim asked.

“I’m just getting into it. I don’t have all the right stuff to do buffing and the real professional things, so right now I just wash cars and try to do a good job, making sure not to leave water marks.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Time encouraged. “You still in school?”

“No,” he said sheepishly. “I dropped out. I’m not real good at that stuff.”

“Don’t your mom and dad worry about that?”

“My dad isn’t here and my mom doesn’t care,” he said flatly.

Tim let it go. The boy was getting soaked from the garden hose he was constantly spraying on the Mercedes. Danny then wiped the car with the torn towels he had brought.

“You’re doing a great job,” Tim said, admiring the effort to perfection Danny put into his car washing. He squeezed the towels out as he finished wiping down the car.

“Does it look okay?” Danny asked.

“Perfect, but you’re a mess. Want me to throw your shorts in the dryer a few minutes? They’re soaking wet. The laundry room’s just off the garage.”

“Sure,” Danny grinned. Then he stripped totally naked, right in front of Tim.

“Here,” Tim tossed him a beach towel from the garage. Danny winked, folding the towel across his shoulders.

“How old are you?” Tim asked nervously.

“Fifteen,” he said with a provocative grin.

“You have to be kidding. I could go to jail,” Tim objected, suspecting what Danny was hinting.

“You won’t go to jail, Mr. Halladay. People like you don’t go to jail,” Danny teased, standing now with a full erection. He was incredibly beautiful: a cherub, a young colt.