Shades of Gray

The Peakers

My friend Ben calls them peakers. Yes, Peakers. People who peak early. They seem to have it all. Looks, status, popularity. You know the type. The quarterbacks and cheerleaders who grow up to be perfectly respectable mechanics and waitresses. High school, their heyday.

"You won't believe who I ran into the other day."

"Who?"

"Beau's dad."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He looked great but his wife, poor thing has Parkinson's, isn't that a shame? So young. She could barely walk..."

My mom keeps on talking, her voice slowly drifting into the background. She lost me at "Beau." It's been 17 years since I heard that name.

Before Jace, before John, before even Seth, there was Beau.

His full name was Beau Lawrence, the best looking kid in school. Hands down. Big brown eyes, freckles that were carefully sprinkled on the bridge of his nose, a disarming smile. But what had every girl in town swooning (and what earned him the nickname of "Samson") was his hair. Shiny thick black hair that moved.

He was so beautiful in fact that one day when a new teacher arrived and saw that he was out sick she asked, "Is it true? Is he as cute as they say?"

His was a formidable charm. One look at him and you fell in love.

Not sure when it happened or even how, but Beau and I were best friends growing up. Movies, parties, sleepovers, homework. Every memory I have of that time seems to include him. Good Memories. To this day when I think "happy," I think Beau.

We spent every moment together. At school, at home. Beau and Ethan, two peas. One pod.

Then one day, a moment. A mother walks into her son's room, her eyes down, her lips struggling to find the right words.

"Your father... He just accepted a new job."

"Oh yeah? That's great."

"It's in South America."

They say we can pinpoint the exact moment we got kicked out of the Garden of Eden. A split of a second after which nothing is ever the same.

For the next few months I tried not to think about it. Not when my friends got excited about starting junior high the following year. Not when packing our stuff into large containers that would take three months to cross two oceans. Not even when boarding the saddest flight of my life. But when that plane touched ground in Buenos Aires, it finally hit me. Warm wet tracks down the sides of my face. Eight thousand miles away from home.

Between the shock and the cluelessness that comes with being a foreigner, I passed the time writing letters. So many letters. In them, I'd tell Beau all about my new life, my new house, my new friends. Never mentioned any of the bad stuff, not one word about the loneliness.

Sent pictures too. Happy pictures. One with the hottest girl in my new Spanish-speaking school. One with my new beautiful Siberian husky dog. Snapshots from trips to Rio, Antarctica, Santiago, the Amazons.

Was passing it off as an adventure, something to envy. But not even a visit to The Land of Fire could hide the fact that all I wanted was to go home.

In class I'd sit there staring out the window, daydreaming about the day we’d see each other again, replaying the scene hundreds of times in my head. He'd give me a big hug, maybe even wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. Then he’d tell me how much he missed me.

Took four years before we finally got on that plane back home. When we arrived I dropped my stuff and headed out the door, not even stopping to take a shower after a 12-hour flight. I ran. I ran so fast I had to stop every now and then to catch my breath.

When I got to Beau’s house his mother greeted me at the door.

“You look so grown up, my God, how long has it been?”

That’s when I saw him.

Double take. When I left he was just a boy. Now he was 16 and, if at all possible, even more beautiful than before. He had broad shoulders, short buzzed hair, scruff on his face. A man.

It was nice to see him again, be with him. For the first time in years I was happy. I had my best friend back. I was home.

It wasn’t until school started a couple of weeks later that I realized things weren’t as I hoped. I’d been away a long time. Too long. Beau had new circle of friends now.

Four years I’d waited for this moment and now I was struggling. Again.

That’s when the anger came. Anger at my parents. Anger at the world. But mostly I was angry with Beau. He seemed to be too busy for me. He'd moved on.

One day as we passed each other in the hallway, he said hi and I just kept on walking.

We never spoke again.

I saw him once at a restaurant years later. We both nodded at each other from across the room but neither of us made an attempt to start up a conversation. Maybe we were both too proud, or maybe just insecure.

Don't think about him very often, but every once in a while I find myself wondering. What is he up to? Did he ever get married? Is he still beautiful?

“Are you listening to me?”

“Huh?”

“I was telling you that Beau’s parents invited us to lunch. It was lovely.”

“Oh?”

“They went all out. Cooked such a wonderful meal.”

“That’s nice.”

“You know, they showed us some pictures. Family Albums. There were so many of you. Pages and pages of pictures from Buenos Aires. There was one of you in your room, one from your school, and quite a few from Brazil, even one in Antarctica.”

I take a deep breath. For so many years I thought he didn't care. I thought he was indifferent. He wasn't. He kept the pictures. Every single one of them, carefully placed them in an album and showed them to my mother during her visit.

I feel a tightening of the throat. A mixture of glee and sadness. I want to ask but I don’t. It doesn't matter anymore.

“You know Beau's still single. He’s gained some weight. Never went to college."

My mom. As though she's reading my thoughts. She knows.

"He's still working with his father at the shop,” she ads.

I smile.

My friend Ben calls them peakers. The quarterbacks and the cheerleaders who become mechanics and waitresses.

“Oh, and more thing," she says. A gossipy schoolgirl. "He’s totally bald now.”

The Nightcap

It had been months since I saw him. Last time we spoke, he was going back to his boyfriend for the umpteenth time.

Then, out of the blue, a call.

"How are you?"

"I'm good. And you?"

"Good. Good. Work's great."

I don't ask anymore. I know the drill.

We meet where we always meet. A cozy little East Village pizzeria. Exposed brick, brown leather booths, soft lighting. A dive of a place that somehow always makes me feel comfortable. It has character. New York before the Giulianis and the Bloombergs.

We say hi, take our coats off, order food. It's become somewhat of a ritual. Big thin crust pizza with countless toppings, cold blond-amber beer and stories. I like his stories. They're peppered with soul. This time I hear about his folks, his sister, his childhood in South Australia. More beer, more talking. It's nice. He grew up on a farm, wonderful folks. Godparents who stopped speaking to him after he came out. I'm listening. Intently. Not because it's polite but because he's interesting.

This isn’t a date. It’s a dinner. It’s the most fun non-date dinner I’ve had in a long time.

At one point he gets up, goes to the jukebox. From my seat I watch him flip through an endless list of songs. A light coming from inside the box settles on his face. It flickers. Blue then red then green back to blue. A mesmerizing dance of colors that produces a smile on my lips. I catch myself then quickly erase it.

He sits down. Starts talking, then stops.

What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

“What are we doing?”

Smile on his face, gone.

“Seriously man, what are we doing? Are we friends? Are we more than friends? What are we?”

“We’re friends.”

“Really? Because this doesn’t feel very friendly.”

“No.”

I don’t know why I’m upset, why I’m here. Maybe it’s because I like his company. Maybe it’s cause deep down I know every time he calls me, meets with me, he’s cheating on Seth a little. And not just with anyone but with me, the ex.

“Do you have a crush on me? I ask. Are you angry with Seth? Is this your way of hurting him back?”

"I could ask you the same thing."

There's no going back now. The words come rushing out. A broken dam.

“Can we really be friends? With our history, our past? How does that work? The way it is now? We get together when Seth’s out of town. Is that what our ‘friendship’ will look like? A dirty little secret you have to hide from the man you’re supposed to be sharing your life with? And if this isn’t really about friendship, if this is in fact more than that, could we really have a relationship? Are you going to date your lover’s ex-lover? The man you cheated on him with. The man he’s cheated on with you? This is all so Maury Povich.”

He smiles.

“Besides, as beautiful as you are, as smart, as eloquent, how am I supposed to ignore the fact that you’ve not only cheated on your boyfriend, you did it with his ex. That’s got to be pretty high on the ‘Lowest Of the Low’ list.”

He looks down. I’ve said too much.

“Seriously man. What are we doing?”

No need to answer that.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’m just trying to understand. This is a dangerous road we’re on. Thought it might be wise to stop, take a deep breath, talk.”

I want to get up, give him a kiss on his forehead like they do in the movies when they’re about to make a grand exit. I want to leave with my dignity still intact.

But I don’t.

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I do?”

We have another beer. Then go to a different bar for a nightcap because that’s what “friends” do. It’s dark, nothing but candlelight and red wine.

I look at him from across the table and wonder how it is that of all the men in the world, I find this one attractive, interesting. I must be one fucked up dude.

At the end of the night, I hop into a cab, go home. I probably won’t hear from him until the next time.

Maybe then I’ll finally say it. Out loud.

A Juicy Moment

“Is that Juicy Couture?”

Juicy what? I followed the direction of his eyes. He was apparently referring to my new coat.

I’d just bought it at Barney's that week. No, I’m not that gay. Okay, maybe I am, but not when it comes to clothing. I’d never even heard of Juicy Couture and I don’t shop at Barney’s, not even during a blowout sale.

But a friend of mine gave me what is supposed to be the gay Holy Grail: a 200-dollar gift certificate to the Coop. Like giving a color TV to a blind man.

“Thanks,” I said as I unwrapped the gift, pulling out a red plastic card. I feigned what I thought was the appropriate amount of excitement and to make sure he knew I was appreciative, added, “Was just thinking I needed to buy a good coat.”

My friend looked at me like I just poured ketchup all over his prime rib.

Ten minutes. I was in and out with my new coat. Black, shiny with a fur trim on the hood. A little over the top but it was the most understated thing I could find. Didn’t even matter that the only size they had was too small. I knew I’d probably never come back again and besides, a little mid-section draft never killed anyone.

Then it happened. Like a high-school crush you develop over time, I actually grew to like it. I noticed every time I put it on I felt chic, trendy even. Who knew? There was a nelly little shopping queen in me this whole time. All it took for her to come out was some fake fur and down feathers.

It was love at third sight. I’d found my coat-mate.

Now someone’s asking me for the brand name and I feel like a man who’s forgotten his wife’s birthday. So I fake it.

“Yeah cool stuff.”

“I have the same exact one. Is yours a small?

“Yes.”

“Mine too. Where did you buy it?”

“Barney’s.”

Am I really having this conversation?

“I bought mine at Bloomingdale's.”

This is getting too much airtime. My eyes start to wonder to the sides, I’m desperately looking for other people in the room to rescue me but no one’s close enough to save me from the gayest moment since Ryan Seacrest sucked face with Terri Hatcher. Somewhere Judy Garland must be kvelling like a Jewish mother on graduation day.

“We should make sure we don’t accidentally walk off with the wrong coat,” he says to me as we arrive at the party. “I’ll put mine here. You put yours over there,” he points to the other side of bench.

“Cool.”

“In case things get all messed up, just remember I have a pair of black gloves in one of the pocket,” he says before curtsying off.

I’m not too worried. I know where he’ll be later. At Hiro. We’re all planning on going there next, after midnight. It’s New Year’s Eve.

We drink, we get drunk, we’re having a good time. At one point the man with the twin coat waves good-bye. He's off. An hour later, the party is dwindling down. We'll all getting ready to leave. I find my coat at the same place I left it. I put it on. But when I stick my hands in the pockets, a foreign object. I pull it out. A bundle of yarn. Two black gloves.

Bloomingdale’s boy walked off with my coat. After all those warnings.

I arrive at the club, check the coat that’s not mine and hold on to the ticket. It takes me 20 minutes to pin point him among the hundreds of half naked boys with stubble on their back. But I finally find him.

“Where’s your ticket?” I say, irritated.

“Huh?”

“Your coat check ticket, where is it?”

“Why?”

“Because I think you have my coat.”

“Nope. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the right one.”

“But there were gloves in the pocket. Black fingerless ones.”

“Mine have fingers.”

Suddenly, it hits me. A third coat. Same color, same make, on the same night, at the same party, on the very same bench. Black gloves in one of the pockets. What are the odds?

I contemplate going back but it's too late now. At the end of the night I head over to the coat check, hand in my ticket, and sadly get the coat I know is not mine. It's almost identical, but it feels different. It's not quite as shiny, though it could be just the bad lighting at the club. I know it shouldn't matter but it doesn't feel chic anymore. Feels used, a hand-me-down.

I open the jacket, look inside. Then I see it. A small difference. Minute. One letter that sets it apart from mine.

"M."

Well, at least the size is right, I think to myself, then head home.