Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott Page 5

  “So,” Tony said, in an exaggeratedly cheery tone, as he dressed in one of the three businessappropriate suits he kept in my closet, “how about Tuesday night? Wanna get together?”

  I got out of bed, still naked and a little sticky. Tony was usually content to call whenever he was free and we could get together. I knew it was my mention of a date that had him booking a reservation.

  “Sure,” I said, happy to have rattled him. “That’d be great. How about I order in and we watchLost?” Tony had never seen the show in its original run and I was watching it on DVD with him. Although he found it tedious at first (“I get enough senseless mysteries at work, thank you.”), now he was totally into it and we were halfway through season four.

  I loved watching the show with him, despite his frequent exclamations that “Kate’s hot!”

  I’d always respond, “Yeah, and check out Sawyer’s ass.” That shut him up.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Tony answered. He was fully dressed now, just strapping on his holster.

  I’d have hugged him good-bye if I weren’t so greasy. Instead, I just waved and hopped in the shower when he left.

  I was just drying off when the phone rang. Caller ID announced it was my mother.

  I loved my mother, but to say she was a handful would be like calling King Kong a cute little monkey.

  I once asked my father how he put up with a woman who, not once to my knowledge, ever went a day without nagging him about something or reminding him of the six other marriage proposals she turned down in favor of his.

  “Three little words,” my father answered.

  “‘I love you’?” I asked.

  “ ‘Yes, dear.’ No matter what your mother says, I just say ‘yes, dear.’ ”

  “That’s only two words.”

  “Well”—my father winked—“the third word I say to myself.”

  My father came from a reserved German family of some nobility. Every one of his relatives was blond, gorgeous, and looked like they stepped out of the pages ofAryan People. Family get-togethers resembled a casting call forThe Sound of Music.If any of them ever had a pimple or a bad hair day, it wasn’t around me.

  How he came to marry Sophie Gerstein, a topheavy Jewess from Flatbush, NY, who was voted “Most Likely Never to Shut Up” in her high school yearbook, was not only a mystery to everyone they met but, I think, to him, too.

  In any case, as I had only too recently learned, ignoring my mother’s calls was more perilous than dating Chris Brown.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Darling,” she said, “how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I began. “I was . . .”

  My mother cut me off. “That’s wonderful, darling, I’m so happy for you. Now, ask me how I am.” “How are you?” I dutifully asked.

  “Darling, I’m going to be a star! I’m going to be on Yvonne!”

  Although I didn’t watch her show, everyone knew who Yvonne was. Not quite an Oprah, but bigger than Tyra, Yvonne Rivera was the hot LatinAmerican hostess ofThat’s Yvonne, a daytime talk show about, well, Yvonne. No matter who the guest or what the topic, the center of the show’s attention was always on Yvonne. Her full figure, throaty laugh, and often outrageous comments made her the favorite of housewives everywhere.

  Yvonne’s biggest claim to fame was her genuine niceness. She was incredibly warm and empathic, and whether she was sitting on the couch with Julia Roberts or a woman who sold crystal meth to preschoolers, you could tell Yvonne really cared.

  The thought of my mother onThat’s Yvonnefilled me with dread. What could the topic be? “Women Who Scare Their Kids to Death”? “Ten Ways to Make Your Children Neurotic”? “My Son’s a Male Prostitute”? I shivered and wrapped the towel around me.

  “That’s, wow, that’s just . . . So what are you going to be doing on the show?”

  “Hair!” my mother enthused. “They’re doing a series of makeovers for Yvonne and I’ve been chosen to give her one of my Mile High specials!”

  My mother owned the, in my opinion, tastelessly named Sophie’s Choice Tresses, one of Long Island’s premier beauty parlors for women of a certain age who wanted hairstyles that have been out of favor for at least thirty years. Her Mile High special was an impossibly tall beehive that she was able to coax from even half-bald clients like Mrs. Shingles, my third grade teacher, who once said to me, “Your mother makes me feel like I’m ten feet tall!”

  No, that’s just your hair.I wanted to tell her,

  The idea that someone like Yvonne would even want one of my mother’s towering creations seemed preposterous. The only people who wore their hair like that were eighty-year-old women and drag queens. Either Yvonne was a lot older than she looked, or she had a cock. More likely, the selection had been made by a producer who hated her.

  “That’s great,” I said. “You must be excited.”

  “Youhave tocome to the taping,” my mother said. “Promise me. I wanted Kara there, but she told me she’d bring the boys, and there’s no way I’m having my TV debut ruined by those three little monsters.”

  I loved them to death, but my sister’s tripletswere infamously wild.

  “When is it?” I asked.

  “Tuesday! They’re coming to the shop at eight in the morning to set up andYvonne”—my mother whispered the name as if addressing a deity—“is coming around noon. Can you believe it! In just two days, I’m going to be a star!”

  I expected that my mother had an exaggerated sense of what one appearance onThat’s Yvonne was going to do for her career, but she was never one to let reality distort her view of the world.

  “That’s seems like it came together pretty fast,” I said.

  “I know,” my mother squealed. “The producer I spoke to told me they had another stylist cancel on them and needed to make arrangements right away!”

  My mother wouldn’t normally settle for being anyone’s second choice, but I guessed Yvonne was special.

  “Dad must be excited,” I said.

  “Your father.” My mother’s voice was flat. “Your father.” She paused and took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to tell me some long-held secret that threatened to tear our family apart.

  “Your father,” she finally hissed, “didn’t even know who Yvonneis.When I tried to explain that this could be my big break, he told me, ‘Sophie, you’re an old lady. The only big break you’re going to get at this point is, God forbid, your hip.’”

  I let a little laugh escape before clamping my hand over my mouth.

  “Oh sure,” my mother responded, “very funny. But you wait and see—Yvonne is probably going to ask me to be her personal stylist before the day is over.”

  “I bet she will.”

  “Oh,” my mother added. “I almost forgot to tell you. That producer who called me? He said he knows you.”

  I didn’t think I knew anyone who worked for America’s third-rated talk show, but I asked his name.

  “I wrote it down, hold on. Wait, here it is—Andrew Miller. Ring a bell?”

  The bells were silent. “Nope.”

  “Nothing?” my mother asked.

  I thought for a moment. “No, sorry.”

  “Could he have been someone you, oh, how do I put this delicately?” She hummed to herself in consideration. “Maybe one night, at a bar or a park . . .”

  “Mom!”

  “Or maybe the beach? On the subway? Well, not onthe subway,” she continued, as she couldn’t see my pained expression, “but someone youmeton the subway. Or in a men’s room, like that Republican senator . . .”

  “I’m going to hang up,” I shouted. I had to speak up as I was holding the phone at arm’s length from my ear.

  “All right, all right,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re so sensitive about, though. I’m a hairdresser, darling. I know what you people do.”

  “What ‘you people’? I’m your son; I’m not from Mars.”

  “The gays, darling. I went to that PFLAG me
eting once. I know the score.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I’ve never had sex in a bar, or in a park or a bathroom or, for that matter, on the subway. Half the time, I can’t even get a seat on the subway, let alone . . . oh, never mind.” I was hoping she missed that I didn’t deny the beach.

  “Darling, it’s the lifestyle. I understand these things. You forget your mother is a very sophisticated woman.”

  “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m . . . easy,” I pointed out petulantly.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.” My mother attempted to be conciliatory. “There’s nothing wrong with a little kink. Once, on the Long Island ferry, your father and I snuck into the . . .”

  I hung up the phone, counted to ten, got a pen, and called her back. “Sorry, I hit the wrong button with my chin.”

  “That’s all right, darling. I was just going to tell you about the time your father and I . . .”

  I hit the phone with the pen. It made a satisfying clack.

  “Damn,” I said. “That’s Tony on the other line. I have to take this.”

  “How is that handsome Tony?” my mother asked. Ever since she caught sight of him bare-assed a few months ago, I think my mother has had a bit of a crush on Tony. “Are you two still . . . ?”

  I hit the phone again. Clack! “Sorry, I really do have to get this, Mom. See you Tuesday.”

  “OK,” my mother shouted. “Be there at noon! Bring Tony!”

  I hung up and said a silent prayer for Yvonne, for whom I suddenly felt a great rush of sympathy.

  Now that Tony was gone, I wasn’t sure what to do with my evening. There was laundry to be done, and bills to be paid, but my mind kept returning to Randy, lying in his hospital bed, alone. I didn’t know if he had any family or real friends. The only person I could think of we were both close to was Mrs. Cherry, the slightly demented but charming drag queen who ran our escort service.

  Mrs. Cherry! I had to tell her. She picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “My favorite boy,” she greeted me. “To what do I owe the great—no, theorgasmicpleasure—of this call?”

  I told her what happened to Randy.

  “Oh my dear,” Mrs. Cherry said when I was done. “The poor, poor lamb. I must call his clients and cancel their appointments. Would you be interested in perhaps picking up some extra work? Oh, wait, that won’t do, will it?”

  Randy was the imposing muscle stud of legend; I was the cute boy-next-door type. We didn’t share the same clientele. “Probably not,” I agreed.

  Mrs. Cherry asked me the name of Randy’s hospital and doctors.

  “Don’t you worry,” she told me. “I’ll make sure that Randy has everything he needs. Momma will take care of the bills.”

  Mrs. Cherry always looked out for her boys, which is one of the reasons many of the city’s top hustlers worked with her.

  I gave Mrs. Cherry all the information I had.

  “You’re such a dear,” she said. “Now don’t forget, tomorrow afternoon, you have that client from West Eighty-second Street. That very nice, very rich one.”

  In Mrs. Cherry’s eyes, I knew the two qualities were synonymous.

  I told her I’d be there.

  “You’re perfection!” she exclaimed.

  I ordered in Chinese food and channel surfed until I foundWhat’s Up, Doc?I watched the movie, ate my steamed chicken, and tried not to worry about Randy.

  8

  Send in the Clowns The next morning, the phone awakened me at 6:30, which pissed me off until I saw who was calling. I hit “talk.”

  “Hey,” I said sleepily. “What’s up?” “You still in bed?” Tony asked leeringly. “Nice picture in my head right now.”

  I sat up. “You’re pretty chipper for a guy who just woke up.”

  “Never went to bed,” Tony answered. “At the station all night. Driving home now to crash for a few hours.”

  He sounded tired.

  “You should have stopped off here,” I told him.

  “Then I wouldn’t be gettinganysleep, would I?”

  I had to admit that was true.

  “Anyway, I just called to say I was sorry I had to run out on you last night. What did you wind up doing?”

  I think he was trying to see if I went out. Tony was enjoying his freedom, but not mine. I told him I spent the night watching TV and went to bed early. A slight edge in his voice made me think he didn’t believe me, but it might just have been his exhaustion.

  We talked a little more until Tony told me he’d arrived home. “I could sleep for a week,” he said.

  “Old man,” I teased him.

  “I’ll show you who’s old—I’ll call you soon, OK?”

  Define soon,I thought.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Talk later.”

  “Over and out, Kevvy.”

  I went to the gym, had a protein drink and a shower there, and then headed to my volunteer job at The Stuff of Life. It was another warm-for-November day, and I wore baggy black Abercrombie & Fitch corduroy pants, a gray hoodie from Target, and my black leather jacket.

  One of the best things about being a hustler is only having to work five or six hours a week. That left me plenty of time for my studies. Or it would if I were actually still in college. I dropped out early, but I’m going back.

  When my friend Allen Harrington died, it turned out he left me a considerable inheritance. Unfortunately, due to the unusual circumstances of his demise, his will was held up in probate. When that money comes through, though, I’m returning to school.

  Until then, I fill a lot of my free time volunteering at The Stuff of Life, where I supervise the lunch shift, making home delivery meals for people with AIDS.

  On the walk over, I called Freddy and told him about my mom being onYvonne.

  “You’re shitting me,” Freddy said. “That girl does notknow what she’s getting into with your mother.”

  Every day, another church or community group came to help with meal preparation at The Stuff of Life. On Mondays, we were graced by the company of volunteers from the New York City Jewish Home for the Aged, or, as I like to call them, the Super Yentas. Depending on the particular week, and on what percentage of the group were having issues with their blood sugar, the Super Yentas were fifteen to twenty women in their seventies or eighties who shared the desire to do good works, moderate to severe hearing loss, osteoporosis, and very poor short-term memories.

  “So,” Mrs. Epstein asked, as she, along with the rest of her crew, stood at the long metal table where they passed to each other the brown paper bags that they loaded, assembly-line fashion, with today’s lunch menu. “Have you found the right girl yet?”

  “Not yet,” I answered distractedly.

  “I don’t understand.” Mrs. Fishmeyer turned to Mrs. Dreckeri. “Such a good-looking boy. What could be the problem?”

  “It’s these modern girls.” Mrs. Dreckeri nodded wisely. She picked up a banana and put it in a bag. “They’re all so busy with the working and the careers and the Pilates. Whatever that is. In my day, we didn’t have all this nonsense. We knew what was what.”

  “What?” Mrs. Fishmeyer asked. She tapped her hearing aid. “I didn’t get that.”

  “I said,” Mrs. Dreckeri shouted, “we knew what was what.”

  “I knew a young woman who had Pilates once,” Mrs. Goldmeister chimed in. “Such a terrible thing. She had to have a kidney removed.” Believe it or not, Mrs. Goldmeister was just about the sharpest tool in this shed.

  The ladies always talked like this. It took them twice as long to assemble the lunches as it should have. They were like the Golden Girls, but on crack.

  “A shame.” Mrs. Epstein shook her head. “How young was she?”

  “I think in her sixties, early seventies. Just getting started.”

  Mrs. Dreckeri and Mrs. Epstein simultaneously said, “Oy.”

  Mrs. Epstein turned to me again. “So,” she said, “have you found the right girl yet?�
�

  Mrs. Goldmeister elbowed her. “Trudy! Enough with the ‘right girl!’ Don’t you remember? He’sgay.”

  “What was that?” Mrs. Fishmeyer said. “I didn’t get that.”

  “A homosexual!” Mrs. Goldmeister shouted.

  Mrs. Fishmeyer still looked puzzled.

  “Like those boys on that show you watch,Project Runaway or some such,” Mrs. Dreckeri helpfully offered.

  “Oh, he’s afaygela!” Mrs. Fishmeyer exclaimed.

  Mrs. Epstein gave me a sympathetic smile. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, dear?”

  “Sorry,” I told her, refilling their supplies of sandwiches and bagged carrots.

  “He tells us every week,” Mrs. Goldmeister chided Mrs. Epstein.

  “Tells us what?” Mrs. Epstein asked.

  “I think,” Mrs. Fishmeyer said excitedly, “he tells us he’s on that show.Project Runaround.”

  “A star!” Mrs. Epstein beamed. “Girls, we’re making lunch with a star!”

  “Oy,” said Mrs. Goldmeister.

  The women had this conversation, or one very much like it, every week. I thought they were adorable.

  I finished up with the ladies and helped the guys on the delivery crew load the large trays of bagged lunches into the delivery van. Then, I took a cab to the Upper West Side, where my client, Chase Landerpool, lived.

  I hadn’t bothered to change for our appointment, as it didn’t matter what I was wearing. With Chase, I wouldn’t be in it for long.

  Chase lived in an exclusive co-op two blocks away from the brownstone in which he grew up. The Landerpool family was an institution in New York, renowned for their vast wealth and generous philanthropy. The city’s third-largest cancer-specialty hospital was named after a Landerpool, as was a private school, a permanent exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art, and, I’ve read, a particularly pink and rare flower known as the Landerpool Lily.

  The only thing that bears the honorific of anyone in my family is my mother’s beauty parlor. And she had to buy that herself.

  At the rate I’m going, the only thing I can imagine being named inmy honor would be a venereal disease.