Swamped.

I see the door fly open in the dance floor mirror: a flash of brightness and Morgan, the prep cook next door; another second he's leaning over the left end of the bar there where all the employees hang out, yelling, "Danny! Danny!" But at the moment I'm busy making eyes at a blond across the way, little yum-yum with a chiseled face; you can see it whenever he leans into one of the columns of pink light to say something in his buddy's ear (buddy's middle-aged, gray, got a sweater draped over his shoulders, the whole thing); I've seen them here before, just standing or dancing or eating in the restaurant, Daddy and his Little Boy. But tonight's the first night I ever really looked-looked at Boy; earlier, while I was passing by to turn the heat up, I got a pretty good view, and he looked right back at me, a real stare, slightly frightened, but lingering and eager, and then I could almost bet they were together.

"Morgan, do we like this one?" I ask, motioning with my head, more in a gesture of camaraderie; Morgan's got this thing where he thinks we're attracted to the same blonds. Then he gets upset if they end up talking to me instead of him, which is nine times out of ten because he's so extremely shy and can't even bring himself to raise an eyebrow at anyone, let alone. Not that he'd ever do anything anyway; I don't think he's actually gone to Miami since his lover Larry died five years ago, and to the best of my knowledge he still hasn't been tested, or refuses to for some philosophical reason, even though for a long while they hadn't been using protection, and I think in the back of our minds now we're all just kind of waiting for his cheekbones to start to show. Well, most of the time it's in the back of our minds, except for those occasions when he nicks a finger while he's slicing a tomato or the smoked mozzarella for a raclette - he has a terrible habit of doing that - and then it's all at the front of our minds again for however long it takes whomever to cover up the cut with gauze and tape and slip another of those little latex finger-condoms over the works. But honestly, I don't know where he ever got the idea I have a thing for blonds - I mean, I do, but no more than for guys of any other hair color. Anyway, so I bring it up lightly.

"Oh," he says, squinting across the bar a little distracted, little derailed-like; then a humoring half-smile waves across his red, finnosed face, "I was wondering about that." "He's beyond blond," I say, grabbing at the shoulder of his flannel shirt, "he's towheaded, a little Bamm-Bamm." Morgan nods; we both ogle; it does look extremely light, the hair, in the pink glow. "The one I like's next door," he says - which I guess is what he came running in to tell me. "Oh, who?" Tall guy, he says; dark hair, jean jacket. I flip up the counter; "Hold the fort," I say, "bet I can find him" - all tongue-in-cheek, mind you; to me it's a game: see if I can spot Morgan's little love interest out of a room of what? thirty, forty people this time of night? Then again I feel like everything I ever say in this place is ironic, that I'm only pretending to say in a very silly way what I am: this isn't really me saying this, my real self knows better. But it's like you leave all right behavior behind when you walk through the gate; suddenly you start gossiping and saying she and looking after people's asses; I think the actual sound of my voice may even change - it jumps up a couple notes, reverses pitch or something, and Jeez! freezing cold outside, so I dash across the little "courtyard," you want to call it that, seven paces from door to door, and the first people I see are Billy and Dominick and Joel standing in a little circle where the piano's kept in the summer, and while I'm pecking their cheeks hello, rubbing their arms, whatever - I especially rub Billy's, he looks terrible, maybe a week or two away from another hospitalization; "How you doin'?" I ask, "Oh, hangin' in there," he says - I spot him to the left of the coffee station; it's easy to do: he is pretty tall, maybe six-three, not to mention he's the only decent-looking guy in the joint (and by the way I use that word intentionally, The Backwoods is a joint - just this big, leftover shell from the '70s; I bet even Bob Healy, its original owner, would never have guessed it would have carried on so long after the party), and then, too, he's the only one wearing a jean jacket in January. He's okay, I think; Whistle has the lights pretty low, so it's hard to get a real idea, but nice enough in a Morgan way, which is handsome without being drop-dead beautiful; little rumpled-around-the-edges, regular-joe-like; he's talking with a shorter, reddish-haired guy, nothing too great, and I'm trying to figure out whether or not they're together when suddenly they both glance over - at least the red-haired one does, with the other I can't quite tell, his eyes keep roving, they don't really land. I think maybe I've caught them by the time he starts moving toward Whistle's bar, shaking his empty beer bottle, and just then he strikes me as maybe sexy - the black jeans, just loose enough so you're not quite sure of what you're seeing, and it's his hips mostly, and the upper parts of his long thighs, something slabby and substantial about them, something haunch-like; in fact, that's what I think of as he's walking over to the bar - the slinky, rolling motion of lion haunches. Maybe you know what I'm talking about, maybe you've seen some slinky lions lately on the Discovery Channel; years ago it was Wild Kingdom, we used to watch that every Sunday; and my father and my older brothers, real beerguzzling sports fans, would cheer every time the pride downed a zebra, then they'd tell me and my mom and sister when it was safe to look again. I could get away with that, you know, when I was around five, but when I was older it was another story. Not that I blame them for being the animals they were; people are animals. Some of us like to think we're not, not governed by hormones and seasonal changes, not driven to survive and dominate, but we are, we're little selfish, rutting, snorting animals, looking out for ourselves and maybe our own if we have any, and now here's this guy slinking back and forth, little primative display before the bitches in heat, and I can see they're finding him worthy, all the pairs of eyes on those haunches, the back of that head; and then I can feel the stirrings of my own primitive instincts, little hungry hollow in the gut and groin, little pressure on the fly, but before it goes too far I look away and tell those guys - Billy et al - "I've got to get back next door, you coming over later?" same shit, and then I'm flying back through the frozen air and in through the dance-club door, and there's that disorientation that comes from going from the one subdued, sleepy room to the thump thump thump and whirling lights of the other. Maybe that's why I just say, "Thanks, Morgan," and don't mention having spotted the guy; he's talking to Peter and his new "boyfriend" anyway - Eric, I think; last week it was some kid named Jamie; all three of them have cigarettes going, so I have to pass through this little cloud. "And the terrible thing," I say, swinging the drawbridge down, "is that I was gone all that time and didn't even miss a drink order." Peter laughs, blowing smoke; he waits tables out in Montauk, he knows what it's like this time of year.

Meanwhile Daddy and Boy are on the dance floor now, the little beauty-bud returning my stares on the sly, and in the short time it takes to pass out a few beers and vodka tonics, I've got a multiple-choice theory going on: a) he's working, and therefore fight not to talk to me, I mean, just in the sense of his own professionalism, and then, what would I ever want with someone like that anyway? b) he's actually this guy's lover and only doing the whole flirty peekaboo thing because that's how it works for him, being unavailable and yet knowing he's got other, younger guys interested - I know people like that, just go around collecting glances, encouraging them, without ever intending to do a thing about it; it satisfies some need to be desired without having to get your hands wet, so to speak, and if that's the case, you should look all you can, it's what they want and all you're gonna get; c) there's just some loose connection between the two and given the right circumstance and a moment alone, Boy'll slip me his number or ask for mine, but the chances of Howie giving his little twinkle a moment alone are slim, I bet, if he knows what's good for him; and he seems all too aware of that danger, his head periscoping ermine-style as he shakes out his left foot, then his right, moves his fists in front of him in tight circles. It's so bizarre, the way people dance; they all have their own little method, you'd never expect it sometimes. I often wonder what an alien might think if he was just to land fight in a dance club and see little clusters of beings moving in odd ways to no apparent end. He'd spend a long time, probably, trying to break the code; and it is information - I mean, I can tell a lot by that twirly, arms-in-the-air thing Boy's started doing down there, enough to help me lose track of him for a while and make a few drinks:

Citron rocks, Dewars water twist, Absolut cran splash of soda lime, fourteen fifty, out of twenty, thank you, couple Rolling Rocks, put out some straws, empty an ashtray, scoop up some ones...then maybe ten minutes and twenty-seven mindless tasks later, I look up and see the Morgan guy and his sidekick strolling in, and is it my imagination, or has the fast-behind pod of forty-somethings followed them over from the restaurant? Wouldn't surprise me. Anyway, this is when I grab Morgan by the shirt again: "Is that the one you were talking about before?" He looks up from his conversation; his group's grown a little: it now includes Terry, who also used to work here, and Leo, a ponytailed Colombian who sells cocaine; any minute now they'll migrate to the ladies' room, begin the swim away; "Where?" I motion over my shoulder; the pair have stopped now on the far end of the bar, same spot Daddy and Boy were occupying not too long ago; Morgan nods. "Bingo," I say, and we swap grins before he turns back to his buddies. Then when I glance again at New One and Two, they're looking slyly over, whispering in each other's ears, and I can just hear what they're saying, He works here, he's the bartender, that moment of putting things together, when it all changes, you know? I'm not one of the free swimmers in the pond, I'm in my own little bowl - which can mean different things to different people; I'd go into just what, but it would take too much time, and there are more thirsty animals at hand now, raising eyebrows, index fingers; "Dan," they say, "Danny." They sound like little kids calling their mother, little cubs whining and climbing over each other to get at me, the big vodka tit. I sling drinks at them, I can sling them pretty fast when I have to, shell out the change; then everything's cleared out of the way by the time the good-looking one leans on the bar, cash in hand.

My stomach flutters as I step over, flutters without being asked or expected to and, Uh oh, I think, because flutters have been a sign of trouble before; but just as quickly I cast the worry aside and paste on a friendly face: "Hi," I say, standard enough, but you'd be surprised how this can impress some people, especially the ones from the city that expect a bartender to just kind of shove an ear at them - and these two are definitely from the city. "Hi," the guy says, and then the other one says it, smiling more, "Hi." "Can I get you nice little animals something to drink?" No, I don't say nice animals, I say boys, "Can I get you boys something to drink?" which is standard too, but I say it in my best USO-girl, and the cute guy, whom I'm staring at, nods and stammers a little when he's giving me the order; stammers, but then his voice catches stride and it's very resonant, very lulling, the voice of a late-night soft-rock deejay; admit it, you've heard this voice - when you're not listening to Nirvana, of course; in any case, it informs me he's drinking New Amsterdam, the other something with orange juice; I sell maybe one New Amsterdam a month and so that kind of throws me as well. "New Am?" I say, and "Oh yeah," plucking one up from a middle sink; its label's all cock-eyed and pulpy-looking; I try to wipe the thing off, then plant it on the bar away from the column of light, "And what was the other?" "Vodka OJ," he says with the honey-strum. "Vodka," I repeat, worrying that maybe he'll think I'm stupid now, that I can't remember two things at once; a lot of people will jump to that conclusion about bartenders the minute you bat your eyelashes or say Huh? I give the red-haired guy his drink and take the good-looking guy's money. "Thanks," I say, and, "Thanks again," as I carefully count his change before him, "Thank you very much." And he nods and separates a single from the pile and puts the rest in his pocket - which is nothing great, really, on two drinks - and then there's an awkward moment when I'm looking at him and he's looking at me and I'm thinking of maybe asking, "You guys from the city?" or "Did you guys have dinner?" and my mouth even opens a little, but then it just closes again, and he looks like maybe he's got something on the tip of his tongue to say which he likewise doesn't, and we both look at the other one who just kind of looks down at the bar and raises his eyebrows at it, and then before any of us have uttered another syllable I can hear the little chorus of yelps behind me - "Dan," "Danny" - and so step back, patting the bar as I leave; "Cheers," I say, meaninglessly.

Next minute, as I'm going into the far register, I catch his eye and ask, "Is that beer okay?" with probably more concern than that question calls for - which is just like me, really, to try to put a profound spin on the mundane. "What?" he says, eyes widening at the bottle - playfully, it seems - and so I explain it's just that those beers have been in the sink a while, that they've been cold, then warm, then cold again - imagine telling someone this? - and I even go so far as to demonstrate it by moving my hands in an overly-animated fashion from left to right. Not to worry, he says, the New Am's fine, and while I'm doling out the change, fixing another quick order, I figure he mustn't know very much about beer. Morgan, Mr. Lush Connoisseur, can tell when a beer's been turned once, he says it has a metallic taste; "You get this from the sink?" he'll ask, bringing it back to me, "it's got that metallic taste." I've always been impressed with this on some level - level, say, of a vampire bat screeching at a bad line of blood; and so maybe it's a good sign then if this poor guy here doesn't seem to realize that that fine brew he's drinking must have been turned at least three dozen times since the summer; it sort of goes along with the fact that neither of them have lit up since they've come over, or run back and forth to the bathrooms.

Soon as I can I get back there and, before I have a chance to get tongue-tied again, just out with it: "So how you guys doing?" looking from one to the other. "Good," the red-haired says, "yeah," extending his hand, saying his name - Something Something. "Danny," I tell him. "Danny?" he says. Then I glance at the good-looking guy and the mitt he throws my way - big thing with bulging, ropey veins; I feel my own crumple down inside it, "What's your name?" "Andy," he says. Little disappointing; I have a superstition when it comes to names, maybe because words are so important to me, and I want them to sound right. Andy reminds me of any one of my jerk cousins, not many Andys I've been crazy about; still, it's his name. "You guys visiting? From the city?" "I'm visiting," Red says, "He lives here." And this is helpful; it means they're not together, "You do?" I ask Andy. "Well, I have a house I stay at, on weekends," he croons. "Oh really?" I say, my mind rubbing its hands together. "Where?" "Scuttle Hole Road." "Scuttle Hole! I love that road!" I guess I kind of do; it runs north of the highway in Bridgehampton, through these beautiful stretches of "farm" land. You pass by the right time of day and the sun dazzles down on little green fields and fenced-in pond areas, and there are lots of ducks and geese around, even cows. "I've bike-ridden on it many times," I tell him, though really maybe twice, but I figure bike, outdoorsy, health conscious, nature-lover, special soul; he doesn't seem to get any of this, he looks at me as if it doesn't make a bit of difference which roads I ride my bike on, and really, it doesn't; so I try something else: "Ever been here before?" "Here?" he says. "He hasn't," Red answers.

"Really? This is your first time? And you live in the Hamptons?" Fresh kill! I scream. (Not really.) And the vultures sidle closer, black feathers ruffling... "We always stayed in when we came out. And slept," he laughs, looking at Red, "I did." "Mm," I say, "sounds nice. I wouldn't come here either, if I didn't have to." "Ha!" he says, "what kind of advertisement is that?" "Oh come on, you think that matters?" I say, motioning my hand around the room, littered now with frumpy locals: Grandma, Pauley Miller, Derek from the Hess station with his baseball cap on backwards. "Just look for yourself. Welcome to the dead of winter at The Backwoods." And with this my voice achieves the kind of liveliness it loses around guys like him, and I get the little jump in the eyebrows, the bit of a breaking smile I'm after; and just that second - with the feel of his hand still on my palm, and his eyes gazing into mine, mine which I know to be bluish-gray and handsome by some standards, held before him like a net, which he dips into once, dips into again; dips, doesn't fall - the little click takes place. I sometimes think of it as a click or a slide, the moment I decide I like someone; I read something in the brown of their hair, the shape of their face, and things change, become edged with an urgency; there's a marshalling of forces: get this one's number, I instruct myself, make a date.

But first there's drinks to fix, bottles to count, a spill to mop up, then the guy wants his beer replaced and doesn't put any money down; I roll my eyes, "Ah come on, you gotta give me something," just as a walking, bleach-blond beanpole flips up the drawbridge and rushes toward me: Whistle. "Bunny's here," he whispers down at me, by which he means The Xanax Lady; he's got a cigarette between his thick red fingers, and the smoke's going right up my nose; I turn my head a little, try not to breathe. "Bunny?" I say, "I thought she was in a treatment center." "I can get you seven for ten; she said six, but I said no, seven, it was seven last time." "You don't mind?" I say, doing my little coward-cringe while I pick singles from my tip bucket. "No," he says, and of course he doesn't mind, he's happy to promote corruption wherever he can. "Here's twenty," I say, "get me fourteen." He nods, "I'll be back," and stuffs the wad in his pocket. "Where does she get them all?" I say to his back - little after-the-fact throw-in, little throw-in humanity. "I don't ask hard questions," he says over his shoulder. "No," I say. Meanwhile the guy's skulked off with the beer, didn't leave a dime; I spot him in the shadows of one of the side banquettes, but fuck it; I skip back over to Andy & Co.

"What kind of work do you guys do?" Ridiculous, asking it jointly like that. Red answers first, just out of some school, looking for some job; Andy's a network news producer. I keep him talking about that, I've never known a producer before, and as I lean down on the bar, I find the sound of what he's saying very beautiful - deep, melodious, rolling tones - but I don't really hear any of it; the words, the lingo, skim right past my ears. Instead I watch his lips move: definitely-edged, dark-colored lips; I try to absorb the shape of his chin, big and cleft like a bone knuckle. Then suddenly the lips stop moving and I realize the question's come around to me; Andy's asked it, "What do you do?" - that's the trouble with these kinds of questions, their boomerang nature. Red hits his arm, "What do you mean, what does he do? He bartends." "Oh yeah," he says, like he hadn't thought of that, "but you don't do anything else? You're not an actor or anything?" "Andy," Red says. "It's all right," I say, straightening up, "I do do something else." "What?" Red asks. "Well," I say, "write" - just sort of push the word out the side of my mouth, then look away long enough for any skepticism to fade from their faces. "Really," Red says, "what?" "Fiction." (Slide it out.) "Stories, you mean?" "Novel." "What kind of novel are you writing?" Andy asks. "What do you mean?" I ask. "What do I mean?" Red says, "You know, is it a mystery, an adventure?"

"A romance..." Andy suggests; they laugh; Red rips an imaginary bodice. "No, nothing like that," I say, looking down the bar, but unfortunately everyone's fine for the moment. "Is it gay?" Andy asks. "What do you mean?" I ask. "He means does it have gay characters," Red translates; Andy nods. "Sure," I say, "as gay as you and me." "As us!" Red squeals, "you would write a story with us in it?" "That would definitely be a gay novel then," Andy says, "especially with this mary," he elbows him, "Say something memorable. This guy could be our Tom Wolfe, our F. Scott Fitzgerald. Years from now we could be read about in high school English classes, two city fags in a turn-of-a-century dance club in the Hamptons. I'd like to be called Will." "Will?" Red says. "And you should be Carl with a C." "I like that." "Say something like, 'I miss the taste of cum.' Something very early-90s, full of despair and sexual hunger." "Sexual hunger!" Red squeals again.

"Say, 'Sex is dead, sex is lost.' You, Carl with a C, say, 'Sex is lost.'" "I - I'm afraid it's lost,'" he says, "'I wipe' - wipe - 'I weep nightly for it like a deceased friend.'" "Oh now that's good. Isn't that good?" Andy asks me, but I'm a little dazed by this, I just blink and stutter. I mean, I knew he was cute and a producer and everything, but I didn't think he'd also be witty and risque. Finally I mumble, "I don't even say that word anymore." "What word?" he asks. I shake my head: the S word. "For a writer you seem to be at a loss for words," Red quips; Andy doesn't laugh, thank God. "So what's it about?" he asks instead (and now a few yards down a long-haired kid leans over the bar, waving a twenty), "Do you hate that question?" I do, it's very high on the Most Feared Questions list, though truth be told it's hardly a novel, it may not even be fiction, just these little journal entries, written like stories. I keep thinking I'll put them together somehow, but the couple times I tried I couldn't find any larger structure or sequence to them, and came away fearing I'd written the same basic story over and over, with just the name of the good-looking guy changing. "Well, it's..." I say, "It's like a..." "For a writer you seem to be at a loss for words," Red says again. "Isn't that funny," I say to Andy flatly. He tries to help me along: "What's the basic plot? Who's the main character?" But the kid's starting to huff and roll his eyes; "Excuse me one second," I say.

"Thank you," Kid stresses queenily, little queen-in-training, "Two shots of your best tequila, and a glass of water." His hair's kind of tangled, sandy-blond; must be from The Springs. Then Derek with the hat wants another Bud and drinks for these two Brooklyn boys he's panting after, probably tooting them up in the bathroom; right behind them's a gaggle of grandpas - a smiley, big-bellied one in a tight leather bomber gives me the order in dribs and drabs, and all the while I keep glancing down the bar at Andy, trying to hold him there till I can get back. "Vodka OJ, vodka cran, and was that a Dewars with water or soda?" "Soda." "Tanqueray and tonic. Light beer. You want lime with the gin?" "Yes, and a coke." "I'm sorry, was that a Dewars and...?" "Soda," he says, little frown; doesn't have mama's complete attention. "Excuse me, do you have any salt?" (Kid again.) "Sorry, I'm out," apologetic look, "maybe next door," and, "I always mix that up," to the Dewars guy, just as Matt and Kevin squeeze in from behind. Of course I ran out of salt ages ago, if I could only remember to grab a new container from the kitchen. "Little Wally!" I say - which is what I call Matt, I forget just why, some story one night - and the next second I remember we started that kissy-face stuff by the door last Saturday; pretty tacky, I always roll my eyes when I see other queens doing it. Don't make out with anybody. Isn't that like a rule for bartenders? You know, in bars that have rules? Then I can tell by the way he leans over to peck hello - his cheek is so damn soft as it brushes against mine; the hair, too, on the back of his neck, little kitten fuzz - that he's on his way to tying one on. That's what surprised me last week, he stopped drinking early, which is why we came so close to going to Miami, I guess. If you would just not get twisted one night; I had imagined saying that to him once, explaining how afraid I was to be alone with someone high. l feel like they're swimming away from me, I feel like there's yards and yards of water between us - and this of course, the legacy of Glen, my last real boyfriend, which has to be five, six years ago by now, you'd think I'd have gotten on with things - but then it was like Wally magically heard my thoughts, and came up to the bar almost sober, ordering plain tonic. At the door, I believe I even went so far as to ask him what he was doing later. I did. Later? what are you getting at? he said. I don't know, I said. I'm going home to go to bed, he said. You're going home to go to bed? I don't know, maybe I'll stick around. Not if you want to go home. What time do you close? Not for a while, three or four, you don't want to wait around that long. Three or four? Yeah, that's too long, you should go home. Maybe I don't want to go home now. Go home, Wally. All right. "You mean you haven't with him yet?" Whistle was covering the bar when I got back. "I would have thought long ago," he said, shaking his head over me, "you're just like Morgan; you take it past the point." I liked that, it had a truism-like quality, little Whistle-nugget, You take it past the point. "Yeah, but I never know what the hell I want," I said, waving a flippant hand; I think he nodded. I hate the way people believe what I say around here. I mean, just look at me for a second: how well do I know once I set Wally's order on the bar that I want to get back to Andy? So well I don't even hear what I say before I back off and hop right over.

"All right," I bark, and they both look up, "how about, 'bartender on the East End trying to write his way out of a hellhole,' one of those." It takes a second, then they laugh: "Does Barnes and Noble have a section for that?" Andy asks; "It's not autobiographical by any chance, is it?" Red's second stab at humor; unfortunately Andy smiles this time - big, thoroughbred teeth; they send me searching for defenses, reaching back as far as my SUNY workshop days, where questions like this were met with scorn and one of several philosophical arguments - you know: ever-blurry lines between fact and fiction, the nature of memory and narrative, of words themselves, the "separate life" of words. But these arguments are looking pale now, weak from lack of exercise; I hesitate to send them out into the swells of megabass and keyboards, a hundred and twenty beats per minute; there isn't enough oxygen in the house to compete with Martha Wash's ear-crunching shrieks, and so I just roll my eyes, frown a little; Andy leans closer: "Have you -" he asks, voice faltering, and I brace myself, I know he's going for MFQ #1 "- published anything?" And there it is. "Oh," I say, "no," and right away his eyes drop to the bar; "Not yet," I add, my vain attempt to raise them. "Oh," he says, just "Oh." "I haven't really tried that much." "No?" "It's very hard to break into publishing." "I've heard." "Impossible: no one wants to publish an unknown." "Sure." "You have to know someone, or be very lucky." "Sorry I asked." "Not at all." Still, my moment's gone; he's looking for someone successful, a male worth mating - who isn't? At last his eyes lift, take a long slow stroke across mine, then jump past my shoulder, "You've got someone on the corner."

Three guidos from up-island, and oh Christ, they want an Iced Tea, a Margarita and a White Russian, so I have to ask Morgan to run across for some half-and-half. "Please," I say, when he gives me a look, "I'm in a rush." "You're in a rush to go talk to my boyfriend again," he grins, eyes shinier now, starting off shore. "What are you saying your boyfriend?" I grin back, not without guilt, "Andy, you mean." "That his name?" "What a honey." "Told you." "He's a news producer." "From the city?" "Yeah." "That's funny; he doesn't look like a news producer." "Why, what does a news producer look like?" "I don't know. Not like that." "I'll send him a beer for you." "No!" he says; I knew he would say no, otherwise I would never have offered. But then it takes forever for him to get back, forever to make the drinks, and once the guidos leave their sparkling quarters behind on the bar - they always stiff you, the ones that bust your balls - I have to water Morgan down for payment, then all his buddies: beers, they want, and Woo-Woos (shot with vodka, peach schnapps, cranberry; they do shakerfuls, all night long), and so by the time I get them to cough up a few bucks and hop down to the other end of the bar, they're gone.

It's always a terrible feeling, to find the space that had just held him empty; a little shock goes through me, and I catch my breath. But it's okay this time because I spot him right away, head and shoulders, at the back of the floor - with Red, I guess, dancing to Deeper and Deeper. I scramble down the bar, trying to get a vantage point, see what those slinky haunches are up to, but all those old queens are out there now, paddling through the lines of sight; they love their Madonna, something they can sing to. And so for a moment it's just me and the thudding waves again, me and the spray of cliches: I can't help falling - hmm, hmm - I fall deeper and deeper the further I go. She says in love, but that's not it, it's something else, stronger, but a falling nevertheless, a giving over to a kind of whirling; and in the refrains, Deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and DEEPER!, I sense the little tornado of feelings - jumbled, unnameable, razor-sharp - winding up inside, and I imagine spinning with it, faster and faster, until my mind starts breaking apart, little pieces flung this way, that, and I'm left with just the hollow, numb, unthinking shell; I'd prefer that now, just the shell; you don't need much more to fill a juice container, smile cutely, pick up ones and quarters; thinking and feeling will only interfere. "Hey, Kevin," (Wally's friend, back already), "two Absolut-and-tonics?" He nods; someone else needs a match; of course we're out of matches; but as I'm hunting around the register for a stray pack, I stumble on an orphaned disposable lighter beside the grenadine. "Here ya go, sweetheart, leave it on the bar," and, looking left, "Hey!" can't remember his name, Something Stewart, haven't seen or thought of him in months, "Whadaya know?"

"Danny Boy," he says, clapping my shoulder and smiling widely; brings out his early crow's feet, row of gleaming veneers. He's like thirty-five, light-brown hair, nice face; got this little slip of nose he might've had some work on. Then of course he's a banker, supposedly loaded; has a beautiful house in Southampton, best kind of BMW convertible, the whole thing. I think of Ernest Hemingway when I see him because he has this boxer thing he does on the floor, hopping like crazy and flailing his fists around, that and he punched me in the chest once, right after he called me a flirt or cocktease, some name like that. "And you're good at it, too," he said, "that's why they've got you back there." They, who the fuck are they? Whistle? Big Daddy? You'd think he was talking about the mob or something, you'd think he was Oliver Stone. Then his fist thumped down on my chest, not too hard, but it surprised me; I felt like whoever it is gets punched in The Sun Also Rises - the Jew; I hadn't been punched in years; actually, that may have been the first time I ever was punched. I have to remind myself of that sometimes - my brothers were the ones who got it, not me, a benefit of being the youngest: I watched the scuffles from the sidelines and quickly learned the art of not pissing my father off, the art of being just outside his field of vision whenever possible, which was pretty often; but in any case, that punch of What's-His was a while ago, and no harm done, and all because, I imagine, I never called the number on the card he slipped me - he gave me a few of those cards in the summer and fall - not that I didn't think about it, not that I ever gave him mine. My number, that is; bartenders don't have cards, or at least they shouldn't.

"So where've you been? What can I get you?" "I haven't been out. I've been staying in town for the weekends. Do you have a light beer?" "Sure. Staying trim for tennis?" "Don't remind me," he laughs, "I have to resurface the court this year." "Oh yeah?" I say, trying not roll my eyes, "what do you resurface it with?" like I know anything about tennis courts or care, and he tells me - clay, whatever - and I say, "Well, ya ain't missing nothing," very Cheers-Woody all of the sudden, "you won't be missing anything till May." "That's what I figured. But I wanted to use my fireplace at least once this winter." "Aw, you have a nice fireplace?" and I mean just what I say, but he takes it differently, narrows his eyes a little, "I have a very nice fireplace." So I go along, "Don't be braggin'." "If you'd played your cards right you'd have known all about my fireplace by now." Then the eyes look behind me: Whistle's at the corner, waving. "Hold that thought" - I almost say Ernest; "What, Whistle?" He passes me a little silver case the size of a credit card - "What's this?" I ask - then gives me a hard stare and looks over each shoulder - at Morgan, Leo. "Inside," he explains. "Inside?" and so I start to open it and he says, "No," almost laughing, then sticks one of his thick hands over mine and flips the counter up with the other; next second he's right alongside, whispering down, his breath flowered with Heinekens and Bend-Me-Overs (don't ask), "It's the Xanax, silly." "Oh my God," I drop the case beside the register, "I completely forgot." He nods eagerly. "How stupid," I say. He nods again; he's standing way too close; there's like half an inch at most between his crotch and my hip, and he never wears any underwear, so his dick is a real presence, you can never not be aware of it. And why is it the only time he remembers he used to have a crush on me is into a Saturday night like this, after too many? Then he'll just stand this way and stare down, not like he has anything to say, but like he has too much, and it's all jamming in his mind and colliding in his throat, "Um, I, yeah," resulting in nothing said, and with that big free-swinging flumper of his, gathering blood. I inch away, not too far - he's my boss; "I really appreciate it, I was running low, they help me get to sleep," I say, all fast and elided because he's still staring, "you know how I can have problems sleeping." But I want to get back to Ernest, and my solution is to pull Whistle across the bar, "Whistle, do you know -?" "No," Whistle says, "hi," and then the second their hands unclasp he says, "Excuse me," and walks down to the drawbridge again, tossing back a look as he goes - part grin, part wide rolling eyes; who could ever interpret it?

"Whistle's the manager," I say with a hint of sarcastic despair, lost on Ernest: he just nods, says, "So how's the writing going?" Christ, what is it today? "Oh," I tell him, "not great. The holidays threw me off." "The holidays? It's almost February." "Don't say that. You didn't have to have dinner with my family." And I'm thinking, as he begins the saga of his own holiday in Connecticut, that it's good we're getting a chance to chat while Andy's away, so he won't feel neglected or anything later, but pretty soon we're interrupted by this long-black-haired woman, friend of the queeny blond, tequila shots, and when I turn for the register, I see the silver case again. So I toss her her change quick and turn back to the bottles and open it kind of low: inside's a mini ziploc bag filled with the little white oval tabs, reminds me for a second of those things they give out at weddings - what are they, candy? nuts? in the little white fishnet? Same shape. And is it just me or do those favors look like testicles? Bunch of little white castrations, tossed on all the tables. I shake the tiny bag to get them off of one another, then count; there's only twelve, and so did Bunny get her way, I wonder, or did Whistle eat a couple on his skip across the yard? Whatever; I shut the case and go back to Ernest, "So what did your step-father say when you told him to go to hell?" and he starts up again, but the next minute Kyle mixes in some Janet Jackson bubble gum that empties the floor, and before long Andy's standing off a ways to our right while Red continues on to the bathroom; then it's a juggling act, looking Ernest in the eye and nodding, and staring past his ear, trying to watch Andy: he's glancing over his shoulders, little stiff, paranoid looks around, his shoulders themselves are stiff, his whole body; anyone in the world can see he's not comfortable standing there by himself, Mr. Lion Haunches turned Trembling Abandoned Whelp, and it's not a big jump from there to figure he probably leans on Red, uses him to meet other people, even smaller when he starts swigging from his beer, just keeps raising it and raising it and raising it again, and then finally he shakes it, and glances at the bar and at me and at Ernest, and edges toward us. "Excuse me," I say, and hurry over before he gets too close, for a couple masons: a) there's no way I can deal with both of them at once and b) you don't have to be a genius to know that if you're after one of the two best-looking guys in the joint you try to keep him away from the other.

"New Am?" I say, and have it opened and on the bar before he has time to answer. "Good memory," he says, people always say that to bartenders. "Oh please, you think that's hard?" I say; then he hands me a ten, and I wave it off, "Let me buy this one," which is something I should never do; it starts something bad, I'm not sure what. Here's a rule: you like someone, make him pay for every drink. "No," he smiles unobjectingly, then glances over at Ernest again. "No, really," I say, this twanging starting up in my stomach, "I'd like to." And now Ernest is looking back, first at me, then at Andy, his eyes narrowing again - which can mean a few things, none of them good. "Well, thank you," Andy says, quickly re-pocketing the ten, and this I never understand, not tipping on a free drink; anyone else, I'd scowl and walk away. But it's like I need to say something more to him, only I can't think of what, and in the meantime ask, "Anything with that?" and then his forehead wrinkles, though it's not such a strange question, really - a shot, a drink for Red; still it's not working, and the next knee-jerk thing I say is, "Where's your house out here?" and he says kind of slowly, "Scuttle Hole," and I say, "Oh of course, you said that already," and it's all so utterly failing that I wave Ernest over and, as he moves in to our left, point to him and say, "Christopher," God knows why; then I look back at the other one and can't think of his name now either. Doesn't matter; Ernest extends his hand, "What's your name?" "Andy." "Andy?" "And yours?" "Gene." "Gene, that's right," I say, "what the hell did I call you Christopher for?" "You called me Christopher?" He raises his fist, I block it. "See that?" I say to Andy, but I'm sure he doesn't understand. "You got it right before," Ernest says naively. "I know your name is Gene," I say, and point to each of us inanely, "Gene, Andy, Dan," and I see Andy roll his eyes at this, then look at Red, returning to our right, and so, Stop, I tell myself. You're acting like an asshole now, and I take a little step back with the thought, watch Andy turn to Ernest with what looks like interest. "Where do you live, Gene?" he asks, and all at once I see how it will go: Ernest will talk about his house, his job, his fucking tennis court; Andy will be impressed with that - it's impressive in a way, the way being a bartender behind a bar is not: in no time at all, I'll be totally out-antlered. And I was the one who introduced them! I hear myself saying to Whistle, or whomever's standing next to me when they leave together. Funny the way things turn; you never expect it, but you should.

There's a definite change in my mood after that; my head drops a little, and I start to pace, like any lesser buck would; I start to dart around, like any goldfish in a bowl. I pace, I dart, I pick up empty cups and throw them out; I rack restaurant glasses; look for ashtrays to clean, bottles to rearrange; hope for a customer: Morgan, calling for more Woo-Woos, calling from yards and yards away, grinning his yards-away grin; beneath that grin, packs of viruses are eating him from the inside out. Jesus Christ, what kind of thought is that?

"How's it going with Mr. News Producer?" he asks; he's not too wasted to ask this, it's something you can be wasted and still remember. "I don't know," I say, "I think he likes Ernest." "Who's Ernest?" "Gene Stewart, the banker. He lives in Southampton." "They all live in Southampton." "Yeah, well, they're like chatting away down there," I flip my hand at them, "thick as thieves." He glances over my shoulder; I don't think he can see; "I can't see"; then he grins, exposing the grayish-brown grooves between his teeth: "Well, I still love ya, Dan," he says, looking down at the bar, and this stops me for a second, but just a second. Professions of love from so far away mean nothing; I learned that early, from my brothers - if they loved you, it was after half a case of beer; then cold sober they were just that. And in this particular case, when you combine it with the fact that he's probably glad Andy's talking to Ernest and not me, it means less than nothing. "That's very nice of you, Morgan," I say, lining up five cups and pouring out the punch, "Cheers."

Still there's a warmth in my cheeks as I turn for the register; it vanishes as I catch a glimpse of John Bettleman in the mirror, the real estate agent. I can see he's trying to get my attention, so I keep my head down. Talks endlessly, this one, especially if he's been tooting up, which is just about whenever. "Dan," I hear him say. Still I keep my head down, turn again, grab up the shaker, rinse it out. "Dan," he says. Finally I look up: "Betty," I say, with as much as I can muster, "what are you doing here?" He's gotten heavier, and is wearing, of all things, a lumpy Irish knit sweater, which makes him look like a white seal, a white seal with the face of a jowly Englishwoman. "I've been next door talking to Whistle," he says, leaning over the bar to kiss me - right on the lips, wet; they leave a slimy feel, "I wanted to stop by and say hello. It feels like ages since I've seen you." "It has been ages." "We never go out anymore." "Drew's here too?" "No, in the city." "Oh really?" (Disappointed face; I want to wipe my lips, but not in front of him.) "He's having an affair with one of the cater-waiters that was working at Ryan's memorial." "You're kidding me." "No." "What's he doing that for?" "Oh please, he's always having affairs. I'm like the only person he never sleeps with." He's said this before; I'm sure it's true, I've seen Drew in action; "That's terrible," I say. "Not really," he laughs and pushes his half-full glass toward me, "Do something with that, will you? There's like nothing in it; I don't know what Whistle's doing over there. He's out of his mind; I think he's on mushrooms or ecstacy or something. And he's talking with those two guys that wrote that book on UFOs, and now Ben's there, telling them about the time he was abducted." "Oh my God"; I turn for the well, wipe my lips on my sleeve. "That's why I came over," he says. "Vodka?" I ask. He waves his hand, "Absolut." "Soda?" "Just a splash." But now down at the other end, I see Andy and Ernest have stepped back from the bar a little, away from the lights; I set Betty's drink down and keep on walking. "Wait," he says, "I have to tell you something." "In a minute."

But on closer inspection they're just talking - Ernest is; on a roll, it seems, gesturing with his beer bottle. Andy's just standing there, sweetly listening; I stare hard at the side of his face, willing it to turn my way, but it doesn't turn; I keep staring. What's that old Laurie Anderson song? Look at me, look at me, look at me! That's what I feel like. Kyle, however, has something else in mind; he's mixing in that All-over-my-body-I-wanna-feel-your-body-all-over-my-body remake; spare me; but I suppose it is getting to be that time of night. A hand waves in front of my face: Red's. "Hell-oo?" he sings. I wipe my lips again and pick up his half-empty drink. "No more for me," he says. "It's on me," I say.

"In that case..." "How do you know him?" "Andy?" "You're just friends, right?" "Oh yes," he says, quickly launching into it, and my eyes drift past him, back to the man in question; I have a three-quarter view of his face now, and if I stare long enough, he'll notice; then he does, looks right into my eyes and keeps looking, and I keep looking back and try not to smile - try not to, but it's like ridiculous, because the song is crescendoing, caught in a hysterical loop: All over my body I wanna feel your body, all over my body all over my body I wanna feel your body all over my body: so I do, I smile slightly, to take the edge off it, I can't so thoroughly leer, but then he doesn't seem to smile back; instead, as his eyes roll to Ernest, his tongue pokes out a little and touches his upper lip - unconsciously maybe, otherwise dirty pool; either way, my heart does a three-second steeplechase; when it's over, I breathe in deep to calm that racehorse down, then look back at Red. He's been taking his story all over the place, eyebrows jumping, hands waving - trying to be charming I guess; it's not working, and the whole thing boils down to friend of former girlfriend years ago. "Andy's a mess," he concludes. I figured so much; "How so?" Dumped by longtime lover; but he doesn't say how long ago, he's more intent on talking about this. "This always happens," he keeps saying. "What does?" I ask. He motions behind him: "He's the one who says,'I'll only go if we leave by one.' Then it never fails, he winds up meeting someone and we're here all night." It's now progressed to meeting someone, that someone being Ernest. I nod; "Well, he's very cute," I say, cringing a little to resort to such grade-school tactics. "What?" he says, like he didn't hear me; we all do this. "He's cute," I repeat.

"Andy, you mean." "Yeah."

He nods - dutifully, if you ask me - then sighs, "And he's a really nice guy, too." "Mm, but a mess." "Huh?" " But like you said, a mess." "Oh yeah." "Dan," Betty calls.

"Excuse me. Yes, Betty." "I have to tell you this story about these people that gave me a ride home last week, you're never going to believe what -" "One more minute." I've let things go; cubs are glaring, waving bills. I sling a few at them, pat their shoulders, "Sorry to keep you waiting." "That's all right," very forgiving; I don't see Morgan now. "Where did Morgan go?" "I don't know," Terry says, "he was just here." "I hope he's not in the bathroom." "You want me to check?" "No. Yell at him if he comes out with Leo." Back to Betty, and he starts describing this guy with dark hair and a goatee, did I ever see him before? But how do I know? lots of guys have goatees, and then he starts describing someone else, the guy's girlfriend. Girlfriend? There's more, a flood of words, but I'm having trouble concentrating, I don't see where the prefacing is going, so I lean down on the bar, sigh a little, see Andy's tongue again, gliding over his lip. I could take a Xanax right now, there's nothing stopping me, little half, zombify myself, join the hooked generation - Morgan & Leo, on the other side of the wall behind me, crammed in a stall. How many T-Cells does a line of coke kill? Coke like another wolf, running with the virus-wolves, eating them up from the inside. How much longer? How long till I turn to that corner of the bar and Morgan's not there, not in the bathroom, not anywhere? Stop this - I imagine bursting in on them, like police - didn't you learn anything from Larry? Or I could say Bob or Vince or Nathan. I feel my teeth chatter; I clench them to keep them still. Next second I see Andy and Ernest moving from their spot, cutting across the bar, and I start a little, thinking maybe they've decided to leave; but then they stop a couple arms off, looking down at the dance floor, and I have a good view of Andy's left hip, the side of his long thigh, I have a very good view, too good, and I tell myself not to keep stating, not to drive myself crazy, but of course continue, and then when Ernest says, "Come on," the hip shifts and turns, the whole right, beautifully-round cheek jiggles slightly, which is more than I can stand, a direct stab to the gut, and I feel this little groan squeeze past my teeth, nearly inaudible, even to me, and instantly carried off by the tide of music and shouted conversations. "Dan, you're very preoccupied tonight," Betty says; at least he says this. I stand up, "I hear what you're saying: guy with a goatee, girl with long hair, they drove you to your house." "Right, but there was this blond with them, too..." And now down on the corner, Red's by himself, elbow on the bar, notably more at ease than his buddy before. I look away just as he senses my gaze, then scan the dance floor, and find them over to the left: Ernest with his tight-fisted, boxing thing, a little more contained than I remember it - refined, maybe, over the year; Andy with a cool sway, holding his right arm out a little, then his left, not that graceful, but not awkward either, and this style reminds me a little of Glen, the way he would recede into himself, become so chillingly aloof; I can feel my stomach tighten the way it used to, wanting to pull him back. Meanwhile Red's still staring; I look over and he kind of waves. "Hold on, Betty," I say, interrupting midstream.

"But I haven't finished my story yet." "I know. All by your lonesome?" I say to Red.

"Who's this guy you keep talking to?" "Betty," I say. He laughs, "What's she going on so much about?" "I'm not sure exactly, I haven't figured it out yet." He laughs again, harder; he'd laugh if I said Timbuktu right now, so I try it: "Timbuktu." (Just kidding.) But why? Why does he do this? Who the fuck am I to him? Two hours ago he didn't even know me. Don't grovel, I want to say, have some fucking pride; instead he sinks lower. Do I have a boyfriend? I don't understand the emphasis; "What do you mean?" I ask. "Do you have a boyfriend," he repeats, and so how to get out of this - wanting to be single for Andy, but not for Red; truth seems the only option.

"I don't understand that, how can you be single and work at a bar like this?" "Easily." "You're very attractive -" he says this "- you must get numbers all the time." "Get out of here." "No, tell me the truth, how many numbers do you go home with on a night like this?" He looks around him, as if for potential number-givers. "Why? No," I say, "I don't want to talk about that, I don't count numbers." In fact I have a drawer of them at home, little could-have drawer with practically every one I've ever gotten; now and then I sift through it, like going through old photographs: could've had this one, could've had that one... "Doesn't matter," I tell him, "I don't call them." "Why not?" he asks. I dram my fists on the bar, straighten up; "Honestly?" I say, holding his eyes, "because they're never from the guys I really want to meet." Then I look toward the floor again - at Andy, tall amid the dwindling dancers - and drift down the bar:

Derek's got his coat on, he slaps three dollars on the counter, "It's all I've got left. Can I get a Bud?" I shrug; time for a buy-back anyway. "Can I get two?" "That's pushing it." "Don't open them." I frown, sliding them at him, "You know I'm not supposed to do that." Peter and Eric ask for their coats. "I don't have them." "Yes you do, Morgan put them on the shelf beneath the register." "When?" I look and they're there - two black leathers; all this coat business is giving me a knot in my stomach. But down below, Andy and Ernest are still going strong, the boxing, the swaying; Red's still hanging on the corner; and so finally I succumb to Betty's calls: once again the guy with the goatee, the girl with long black hair, the blond. "Oh wait," I say, "I know who you're talking about. They're here tonight, the girl and the blond; they're drinking tequila." "I know," he says, and so the story's a little more interesting now; the guy with the goatee actually came on to me once, months ago - which surprised me, he seemed pretty straight, straight and seedy, but not bad-looking. "Well, they like came up to me at last call and asked me where the party was, and I needed a ride home anyway, I did not want to get behind the wheel of that car, and so I said, 'If you can drive, it's at my place, I've got some beer and wine in the refrigerator, you can make yourself at home,' and then the guy with the goatee, he was pretty hot -" "Yeah." "He's like, 'Fine, perfect'; meanwhile it's the girl's car, and she's -" but now here comes Little Wally with a long face; I suck in my breath, I've forgotten all about him. "Leaving already?" I ask, giving him my pained, squinting look; he nods, leaning up against the bar, and it's like he doesn't stop leaning, like the action goes on a long time; I kind of catch his head with my hand, hold my cheek against his. "Little Wally, are you twisted?" I whisper in his ear, then pull back and look at him, and he pouts kind of cutely, pushes his lips out. "Aw," I say, robbing the back of his neck before I drop my hand; and it occurs to me in a little flash that maybe part of why he got so bad was the way I plopped his drinks down on the bar earlier and sailed back over to Andy; then the flash passes; "You're not driving, are you?" He shakes his head. Sure. "Do you know what this means?" he asks, handing me a folded bevnap. "What?" I ask, opening it, but he waves his hand like forget it and steps back. Inside's the number 143, huge, edge to edge; "What is it?" He smiles, puckers his lips at me, and starts to weave away; I stare at the napkin: street address occurs to me, but I don't know the name of his street, does he realize I don't know the name of his street? For a second I panic - until I say to myself, Dan, it's not like you're gonna go, and this voice, of course, is right. "Call me or something, Wally," I yell after him, so he won't be waiting; he'll probably pass right out anyway, wake up in the morning and not even remember giving me this, whatever it is; I stuff it in my pocket. Things keep winding down, couple spent clowders padding for the doors; the knot in my stomach winds tighter. I look for Andy and Ernest, and they've stopped dancing now, are talking over in a far corner - to one side enough, in the shadows enough, to kiss, if they're going to kiss; if they kiss, it's over for me; if they kiss, I'll give up. But Betty grabs my hand, spares me this sight: And so they get to the house and everything, and they light up this joint, and they're all getting really high, and the blond keeps jumping up and going into the kitchen, asking him where everything is. Then he comes out with this big bowl of milk."

Milk?"

Betty nods, "He's just walking very slowly and trying to carry it to the chair, and I'm looking at him, like, 'Um, can I get you a cup or some kind of glass for that?' It was really strange. I forget what we were doing. But anyway, then the girl and the guy with the goatee start arguing, I have no idea why, and she says she wants to go, and he keeps saying another minute, another minute, and finally she just gets up and flies out the door, and they go flying out after her -" "They leave? That's the story?" "Wait. But then the guy with the goatee comes rushing back in and says, 'Okay, we've got five minutes.'" "You're kidding me." "And so I said, 'Well what do you mean?' and he said, 'You've got five minutes to do whatever it is you do.' And then he started grabbing me and leading me over to the bedroom and I said, 'Oh, well, sure,' and so we went inside and he sat on the bed and then all of the sudden I just fell to my knees and you would not believe the size of this thing, it was the most enormous cock I have ever seen, and well, of course I immediately started sucking him off, and he was saying all these things like, 'Oh, I just love the way guys suck dick,' and it was so much better than the girls he knew, it was like this whole bisexual thing. He came really fast."

"He came?" Not in your mouth, I want to add; "And they were waiting in the car?" "That's the thing. He got out there and -" "Dan -" Ernest now, sweaty-haired, solo; I jump a little; how'd he get up here so fast? "Where's Andy?" I ask automatically; how embarrassing; did you kiss him? was it nice? "Over there," he says, wagging his head at the corner - back with Red now, just the two of them, like old times; "What do you know about this guy?" "Not much," I say, "not enough." Again the gleaming veneers, happier: "What do you mean, not enough? You like him?" "He's a doll." "He is a doll." "Funny," I say, "smart." "He is funny." "Never saw him before." "Even better." "Go for it," I say, hating every word of that expression. He nods, and stalks off. "Who was that?" Betty asks. "Gene," I say.

"He's gorgeous."

"He's not gorgeous." "He's very attractive."

I frown, watch Ernest sidle up to Andy, clap his shoulder with orangoutangish grace; they smile at each other, and I look back to Betty, "Got out there and what? We have to wrap this up." "They were gone." "Wow. So what did you do?" "What could I do? Neither of us had a car." "How did he get home then?" " He didn't." "He stayed with you?" " Yes." "Where did he sleep?" " With me." "No." "We fucked for hours." "Really?" I say, a little taken back by the idea of the goatee guy in Betty's bed, him and his satyr-dick, able to leap tall buildings; I hope you used protection - another thing I don't say, I'm sure they didn't, "And you had to tell me this?"

He laughs, picks up his drink, and waddles away - waddles, flaps, whatever white seals do - leaves me with my head in my hand, biting my lip. Not for long: in a moment, Ernest waves from the corner, at which point I suck in my breath, place my hand on my stomach: it's either goodbye or a pen. Pen. "Sure," I say, get me involved, and go looking around the bar, but can't seem to find any; one of the overhead lights has been out for weeks and it's really dark in spots. And so does this mean they're not going to Miami tonight? Who doesn't want to, Andy or Ernest? Andy, probably. Make him wait a little, chomp at the bit. "There was one here just a minute ago," I say, back at their corner, wishing I could smile more while I'm looking, seem lighthearted, unaffected, but as it turns out, my sour puss doesn't matter, Andy's not looking. Then suddenly he is, coming out of a conference with Red, who says, "Dan, we're trying to plan some kind of branch for tomorrow." Maybe as I glance up I look stunned or something, because his smile drops and he says, "I mean, if you want to do something like that, have a kind of branch." "I - no," I say, "I'd love to - if - if I was going to be here -" I touch his shoulder, he seems so put off "- but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be here." It doesn't sound true, it isn't. I mumble more, something about plans to see a matinee - matinee! - with a friend from up-island, and now they're all looking at me, six searing eyes, and Red suggests giving me the number at the house in case my plans change. "Number?" I say, and go looking for the pen again, which I find finally on a run of counter I've passed over several times already - it's black, like the formica, so that's my excuse. "Well, then, numbers all around," I say, laying out bevnaps - four of them, exactly, I've plucked up; there's a point where experience becomes a handicap.

Andy reaches eagerly for the pen; he's an eager little pen-reacher, quickly scribbling his name and number down and sliding it over to Ernest; then he looks on intently as Ernest writes, looks not only at his fingers, but up at the side of his face and into his wavy light-brown hair - very endearing, that kind of tender examination, that deep focus, but now Red grabs the pen and swipes up one of the two remaining napkins. Fuck, I think, watching Andy and Ernest gaze into each other's eyes; they have different methods of folding the numbers - Ernest crumple-folds his and slips it casually into his shirt pocket; Andy folds his in neat quarters, then unfolds it again, reads it, and smiles as he slides it into his front pants pocket, smiles widely and gratefully, as if he's getting away with all the booty. "Dan," Red says. Fuck, I think again, and turn, and he hands me hanky #3: Gregg, his name is, three G's - why do fags always have to play with the spelling of their names? Then below it there's one number for tomorrow, an up-island number for normally, another for work. "Is there someone I should contact in case of an emergency?" But I don't say this, I stuff the napkin in my back pocket, realizing, with some bitterness, that the tomorrow number is Andy's place in Bridgehampton. "Now that's not just any number," he says, motioning to it. "Right," I say, almost sighing, "it's yours," then pick up my ice scoop and move a few cubes around in the well, and I shouldn't be doing this, I should be hightailing it to the other end of the bar, but I just keep standing there, I don't know why - yes, I do, I want to stay close to Andy, these are our last few minutes, and so of course, the next second it happens: Three G's points at the lone napkin on the bar and says, "Write yours"; then all the eyes are on me again. "Oh," I say, and stare at the blank white square; the absurdity of complying isn't lost on me; in fact, it fairly immobilizes me for a moment, and the poor guy has to nod again at the napkin before I pick up the pen. This is bad, very bad, I tell myself, but I don't see any alternative now, I mean, what am I supposed to say, no? I'm sorry but I don't want to give you my number. Danny, I write, then Burke. Ernest is leaning in over my left shoulder: "That's your name?" "For your information." "What are you, Irish?" "No, Swahili," and he shows me his fist again; we stare at each other: his eyes are a light color, his cheeks freckled like a boy; they never really grow old, these people from Connecticut. Then I realize why he's leaning in so much - I'm about to write the number I never gave him, never give anyone; now I'm giving it to Red; how odd. I don't want to do this, my eyes say, then they look at Andy, I really don't want to do this. Finally they look down again, and I scribble the digits out and push the napkin across the bar.

I can sometimes be willed by my partners. I wrote that in my journal like two years ago, trying to explain why I'd let that adorable Canadian guy in South Beach put me inside him without a rubber, and with one an arm's distance away: I could see, I can still see, the little blue packet on the night stand, and I can see, too, that if I reach for it, everything will stop. Of course, they say the risk is much greater the other way around, but who knows when that way will come? Guy from the Navy or something, presses all your buttons at once. Not to mention all the other things you can contract, like gonorrhea, syphilis, chlamydia, herpes, warts - ever see a picture of a nice venereal wart? But why do I go on? I lucked out, I tested negative like three times after that. Finally the woman at the clinic asked me not to come back, just to make sure I protected myself. "Oh, I will," I said, and I have: I have never gone back to Miami, if you see what I mean now.

I watch Gregg pocket my number; I've been such a jerk about the whole thing I can't believe he still does this, doesn't throw it back at me, say fuck you, whatever; and then just to make sure there's no misunderstanding I repeat myself, "But like I said I have plans." "Yeah," he says, "I know. And you probably don't want to call me any other day, either." Ataboy. "Never get 'em from the people you really want 'em from." There you go. But again they all look at me, and this is an uncomfortable spot, I mean, how do you respond to something like that? I don't, except to show Gregg my open mouth; You should have more confidence in yourself, I almost tell him, but thank God don't. Instead Ernest says, "Well..." and the three of them break up in stages, go for their coats on the banquettes, sort through the scarves and gloves; when they have their things they wave to me, and I wave back cheerfully, as if my little twisted stomach hasn't started a free fall to my shoes. Andy nods as he passes, the lovely Andy; then he looks again, and does something I don't expect, something maddening - backtracks and extends his big hand; "Good night," he says. "Oh," I say, "good night." We stare at each other another second; and finally, as his mouth opens to say something else, Ernest steps in from behind, placing a hand on his shoulder, and it closes again; "Ciao," he mumbles, just Ciao; goodbye, but in a different language. "So long, Dan," Ernest says, and they walk toward the door. In the dance floor mirrors, I see them pass out into the electric brightness of the courtyard before the door swings shut.

And I imagine the rest - their walk to the gate and the parking lot, the little tour around the BMW. Maybe that'll be the straw that breaks Andy's back, and he'll hop right in it, and Gregg will drive back to Bridgehampton alone; then so much for that brunch I guess. Hope to see you again, Andy. Shit, why did I just stand there? why didn't I say anything? Hope to see you again. Something simple like that; then if he was interested, he would've known to come back; and if he wasn't, it could've been like any old thing a bartender says to a customer when they're leaving. But you always think of the perfect thing to say later, and chances are now if I do see him again it'll be a summer afternoon at Fowler's Beach with snip-nose Ali in tow, and all because I never open my mouth, because I'm not aggressive enough, I've never been aggressive enough; in the wild, I'd be this little timid, grass-nibbling thing, I'd be anyone's easy meal.

And no sooner do I think this than I start to case the room - quick, crazy looks around like Andy before, when Gregg left him standing alone, and I'm looking for, of all people, the blond - Boy, remember him? - but Boy is most definitely gone, probably snuck out while I was deep in Andy's shit and so serves me right I guess, no number again. And then I remember the napkin Little Wally gave me, the 143; with a little research, I could find out the name of his street - look him up in the phone book, ask someone who lives in Sag Harbor, and my heart starts to drum thinking of that, what it would be like to walk into a guy's dark strange room at four in the morning, to kneel down beside him while he sleeps and slip my hand over his dick, warm-soft skin your hand just glides over, like the sweet softness of his face, the fuzzy little hair at the back of his neck, and I imagine myself lying naked beside him, all my unprotected skin brushing over all of his, and it's a feeling too wild, too unbearably free, and then I remember how drunk he was, and will still be, and how the bedroom will reek with the smell of sour, exhaled liquor, be stuffed with the smell, and when I kiss him, his breath will be laced with it, his sweat will be, his entire body, like it was marinated in Absolut, like he's his own little bottle of it, and so nothing then - no Wally, no blond, no Andy, the whole room now, barren of possibility, an empty, unswept place: few diehard alcoholics and coke junkies clustered at a couple points on the bar, a circle of them probably in the bathroom, a small group sitting on the stairs by the dance floor - Betty's friends; in fact he's with them, possibly arranging some bisexual thing; and then I think of my room at home, the silent blue walls, cold wood floors, and I can't imagine going back to it, can't imagine approaching the big unmade bed, its graying, dusty-rose sheets, and perhaps it was too late for him now, perhaps he would never change, never grow, never love, all his humanness - gone, whatever chance there had been for it; and he was a shit for so many other reasons, he was a wasted talent, he had drifted into idleness, ignorance, the day-to-day and week-to-week he had always despised and criticized people for and was now his own. "No, please," I say, and dart down to the left end of the bar, slap my hand on it.

"What's the matter with you?" Terry snorts, but there's a glass wall all around me; through it, I watch his mouth move, his eyes widen, themselves glassy.

"Where's Morgan? Did he leave?" "Long ago." "I can't stand it," I say, and dart to the far corner, examine the empty spot where they were standing, throw away their empty cups, pick up the last empty New Am. I consider touching my lips to the opening, then recoil at the thought, and throw the bottle away and dart back to Terry and Leo and say it again, I shake my head while I say it, "I can't stand it anymore." "Oh my God," Terry says, "what are you talking about?" "I don't know what I'm gonna do." "What do you mean?" he giggles, and smacks his cheek like, Oh mary; Leo looks over his shoulder at someone; everything's distorted by water, glass; I start to dart back to the other end, then stop abruptly at the sight of the little silver case on the register. I pick it up and carry it to the middle of the bar and think about the pills inside, think about laying them out along the little space of shelf before the first row of liquor bottles. And next to them I imagine placing the pills I know I have at home - three more Xanax from the last time Bunny came in, a couple pretty old and different-colored Valiums and Adavans and sleeping pills. I wonder how many it would take; probably more than I'd have; I wonder if I'd have the guts to swallow them. Bunny had, twice already, said alcohol gave her the courage to do it; I could try it with alcohol, buy more pills from her and swig them down with vodka - I wouldn't even have to buy the vodka, just take a bottle home with me; or I could sit in the car with some kind of hose rigged up from the exhaust, swigging vodka and taking Xanax, fire at the enemy from all sides.

At the enemy. Oh great. And so what does that mean, what is this now? Me, the one who won't smoke, won't drink, won't this, won't that, probably has like fifteen hundred T-cells per whatever; what an ingrate I'd seem, what a spoiled fucking brat. No, fuck all that, fuck those people; what good is health if you don't like your life? So change your life. Like it's so fucking easy, just snap my fingers, right? Get yourself out of this.

I chuckle softly, a little crazily, and look up from the counter. In the mirror, in the spaces between the bottles, I can see shadowy sections of my face, the dark reflecting surfaces of my eyes. You better get yourself out.

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Title Annotation:	short story
Author:	House, Tom
Publication:	Chicago Review
Date:	Jan 1, 1998
Words:	13569
Previous Article:	From 'Straight Poets I Have Known and Loved.'
Next Article:	Shirine: a thousand and one nights.
Topics:	Fiction