Some of the faces around the table looked familiar. Directly across from him sat Zane and next to him Gary, the leader in the park whom Liam learned was lovingly called G-Lo by the team, a moniker that apparently substituted for the clumsier Gary Loblonicki. A few cute young guys dotted the perimeter of the oblong table, and Gene and Marvin were there too. In fact, Marvin plunked down right next to Liam and began nervously tapping his foot so that his hairy leg brushed up against Liam ever so slightly. Marvin had mentioned his partner when they first met, but Liam had met enough couples with special “arrangements” to know that did not guarantee exclusivity or fidelity. As Liam leaned into conversation with Zane to avoid Marvin's coy advance, Liam felt the press of his penis against the threadbare cotton of his boxer shorts.
On the train ride downtown after dinner, Liam sat purposefully alone, choosing a spot across the train car and several feet from the bench that the other Fast Trackers had occupied. A young guy (he had to be around Liam's age) with features that were round, though not quite fat, stood up and scooted down the car to sit next to Liam. Feeling burdened by the prospect of small talk, Liam avoided eye contact and handed the fellow a section of
The New York Times
.
“Come on, you can do better than that. You're new. It's
your
duty to endear yourself to people like me.” The guy threaded each syllable with just enough comic edge to disable Liam from both acting put out and from taking him seriously. But it was also far too late at night for Liam to manufacture any biting repartee.
“I'll try to improve on that next time,” he said and returned to the paper.
“I get it. I get it. The whole cultivating an air of mystery.” The guy, who still hadn't volunteered his name, now slid his Elvis Costello eyeglasses down and then up his nose. “A sense of the forbidden unknown ... the loner mystique.”
“Just reading the newspaperânothing mysterious or forbidden about that.” Immediately after he spoke, Liam regretted the
now-go-shoo!
tone of his statement, although he still wanted more than anything to be left alone.
“Look, do me a favor and just chat with me already. I'm tired as anything of all their talk about mile splits from the results from the last 10K or which half marathon they plan to race next. I have a rule that you can't talk about a race for longer than it took to run it. And forget about that Gene; he's the worst offender. He has talked about his 2:59 New York City marathon to the point where homicide would be justifiable. You'd think that no one ever broke three hours in a marathon before. About a thousand other runners also did it this year in New York City alone. Unfortunately, no one else on our team didâwith the notable exception of Marvin. Thank God that Marvin is racing under the Fast Tracker name. Now here I go blathering on about running. I guess it's contagious. Ugh, I feel like I need to take a showerâI feel oily just being within earshot of that Gene.”
“Okay, do me a favor, because it seems I have no choice but to converse with you now.” A smile began to inch up Liam's face. “Tell me what your name is. That circle of introductions at the track just whirred on by me.”
“You tell me your name first.” He took off his thick eyeglasses and cleaned the lenses on his shirt.
“You don't know my name?” Liam did not care if his vexation was showing.
“You don't know mine. Don't be so self-involved!”
“Fine, it's Liam ... Liam Walker.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Liam.” Pause. “Liam Walker. Funny name for a fast runner.”
Unimpressed by the lack of originality, Liam looked down again at his newspaper.
“I'm Ben. Ben Cargenstein. And don't forget my name again. That isn't allowed. Pay attention to me, kid, and I'll give you the lowdown on all these bozos. You'd better pack some prophylactics and a tube of fungicide, it's going to be a filthy ride.”
MILE 4
T
he same guy as always took Liam's name and cockily announced a thirty-minute wait. Liam was tempted to reach out and snap his little bow tie off, but he knew he had to suffer the wait and attitude for the reward of the burgers. It was Monroe's neighborhood, but Liam had chosen the spot for dinner.
While he waited at the edge of the bar sipping an Anchor Steam draft, Liam admired the impossibly cute families and ensembles of friends gathered around the tables enjoying their suppers. They were borrowed from country clubs and J.Crew catalogs, all crisp cotton and wide-wale corduroy. At the bar a freckled guy in a sports coat ran his hand through waves and waves of chocolate hair, as he gabbed with a pair of drinking buddies. He did a double take when he noticed Liam. Once face-to-face, Liam recognized A. J. Ashbery. The editor of Amherst's literary magazine
Pin-Striped Prose,
A. J. considered every conversation a piece of performance art, a stage on which he could dazzle the listener with some new interpretation of reality. In these close quarters, Liam knew he had no choice but to acknowledge his former classmate but wondered why the fuck Monroe couldn't be on time for once.
Liam listened to A. J. pontificate about his internship helping edit the “Talk of the Town” section at
The New Yorker
and managed a smile as A. J. insincerely praised the job at
Entertainment Weekly
that Liam felt truly blessed to have snagged. As A. J. turned the conversation into a discussion of his future plans, including at what age he would step into Graydon Carter's role as editor-in-chief of
Vanity Fair,
Liam let his eyes range over the dark walls that were crammed, everywhere, with images of melons. There was the pastel painting of an orange honeydew sliced-open and readied for breakfast, the flat wooden likeness of a slab of watermelon, and the drawing of cantaloupes fresh off the tree. Liam did not like to admit how much he loved the homogeneity of all this privilege and perfection; being around the rich made him feel tranquil, as though there were a sense of order to the world.
“Oops, I hate to interrupt your plotline, A. J., but I think I see the friend I'm meeting for dinner. I'd better jet.”
“Who, that shriveled old prune who just walked in? God, Liam, if you're going to do this gay thing, you've really got to live large. You're too hot for these old trolls; you ought to be cavorting with some heroin addict from a Calvin Klein ad.”
“I'll take that under advisement. Best of luck making your way through the fray. Loved your piece on the lost art of the ascotâtons of facts and history of which I was totally unaware.”
As Liam slalomed through the tweed to get to the door where Monroe stood expectantly, he managed to signal the bartender to pour two more mugs of Anchor Steam. He pulled Monroe over to the periphery of the bar and faced away from A. J. and his posse. While Monroe had an uncanny knack for being overly sensitive and inconveniently temperamental, he read body language better than anyone Liam had ever known, a trait that came in surprisingly handy when trying to avoid people in Manhattan. Liam took two long swallows of his beer, savoring its bitter fullness, before he addressed Monroe. It occurred to him that he was happy to have squeezed in his friend between his niece's birthday party in the early afternoon and the Fast Trackers boys' night out that started at ten. After they had attended the Fast Tracker Saturday fun run together, Monroe distanced himself from the club, saying that only the young, fast, cute boys were embraced. Liam had tried to convince him otherwise, without being too emphatic or condescending. Monroe had his own definite viewpoints and prided himself on being stubborn. And so when Liam suggested Monroe join him for the latter part of the evening, he knew not to give too much push back once his friend demurred. Not wanting to indulge his good friend's unwarranted insecurities, Liam promised himself that he would not bring the topic up at dinner tonight.
“So you saved me from a pretty monstrous peacock parade back there. I thought A. J. was hot the one time he accidentally dropped his towel in the dorm showers freshman yearâshocking dick for his frameâbut, man, his mouth could turn a rock-hard erection soft inside of one
wry
rejoinder.”
“You're bound to run into those types when you choose to dine at the corner of âPreppie Boulevard' and âCountry Club Lane.'”
“I know, but it's soooo worth it for the burgers. Anyway, tell me about your day.”
“Usual B-cubed shopping protocolâhit the sales at Barneys, Bergdorf, and Bloomingdale's. Didn't buy anything but spent half an hour eyeing a cute little twink in the Michael Kors section. Yum.”
Liam knew that his facial expression would give away signs of disapproval, so he quickly took a drink of beer.
“What, I can't foolishly flirt now? Don't get holier than thou with me, Liam. I'll be forced to drudge up your past.”
“Please. Flirtatiousness is next to godliness in my book. It's not that. I just hate the thought of you spending $785 on
another
denim jacket.”
Liam could never honestly assess Monroe's wardrobeâfriends like to think that they can perform that type of frank analysis when it's really just a lie to foster closenessâbut hoped that Monroe would stop buying expensive designer clothing in the false belief that it would transform him, like stardust, into a prince. If truth really were the currency of friendship, Liam would tell Monroe that all the hundreds of dollars spent on labels did nothing to disguise his gut and failed to make his squat frame any longer or leaner. While supplying that unwanted advice, Liam could add that Monroe would be better off funneling $100 per month into a local sports club membership. Six-pack abs and expansive shoulders could make passersby drool over a five-dollar tank top. Instead of that dose of honesty, Liam resorted to gay gal-pal speak.
The queenie little man with the bow tie came over to collect Liam and Monroe, escorting them to the best table in the back room, far away from the bathrooms and the bustle of the dinner crowd. A stack of menus awaited them on the table, but Liam had no idea why anyone would ever order anything but the signature J.G. Melon burger that had been heralded by
The New York Times
as “too sublime a piece of meat to have once walked the earth.” The only question was rare versus medium rare. Within five minutes the waitress, whose look befitted the sanitized affluence of the institution in her prim tartan skirt, appeared at their table. They both ordered the medium rare burger with a bucket of fries to split.
“Surprised you're splurging on a calorie fest before your night out with the boys,” Monroe quipped. “What will they say if your midriff isn't rock hard and vein-y?”
“We're going to Splash, smart-ass,” Liam replied. “No one takes his shirt off in Splash. There's probably going to be some tragic stage show and a busload of gay tourists from Germany. So how come you're not going to come and protect me? I could use someone with your brand of subtle bitchiness to get through this evening.”
“It's very sweet of you to include me in things, Liam. I get it. You are being considerate and doing the right thing, but I just can't be your tagalong guy. No matter what the context is, you're the star and I'm the underling making sure you stay in flattering light and that no one photographs your bad side.”
“First of all, I don't have a bad side.” Liam laughed as the waitress brought over their food. She raised an eyebrow at him, moving the salt and pepper shakers and their mugs of beer to fit the plates of food on the teensy tabletop. “And second, you need to stop that whole thing. It's not even funny to joke about that. You get a ton of play and boys like you just fine, so I don't know why you keep pulling this shy act around Fast Trackers.”
“You're so naïve. But then again you've never really been part of a gay organization. They're all runways with teethâmetaphorically speaking. People who were passed over in straight society their whole lives trying to claw their way into the inner circle of some club they have erected for their own vanity.”
“Whoa, that's quite an indictment against a club you spent one solid morning with.”
“I've been gay a long time, Liam. But learn this all for yourself. It's better that way. I can't wait to hear all the dirt, the stories, the backstabbing. Just be careful. Gay men have a million ways to measure each other.... Fast Trackers can make it a million and one by adding in all this shit about who ran a faster time than whom in the Wall Street 5K.”
Liam dabbed some mayonnaise on his burger and sunk his teeth into the sandwich. Some blood colored the bun. He shook the burger approvingly at Monroe in a show of affection and celebration of something they could both agree upon, the perfection of this meal.
“It's just a group of guys who like to run together, Monroe. I haven't been brainwashed. My body has not been snatched.”
“I know, babe. I never said as much ... tonight you're going for your first
splash
in the club's pool. Promise me you won't sleep with any of them. No good could come of that before you get the four-one-one on everyone.”
Liam rolled his eyes and nodded his head in response.
Monroe took a huge bite of his burger and smiled as he raised the sandwich in reciprocation.
“I've got to admit. It's a pretty fucking good burger.”