Chapter 8
It takes a full day to recover from my birthday. Despite my initial objections, Omar made sure that I had access to ample tequila, pulsating dance music, and a boisterous group of friends from the neighborhood, all to help me escape my troubles. There’s no shortage of queer bars in Hell’s Kitchen and we hit all our favorites. I spent yesterday with a splitting headache but today I am feeling more myself. I wake up and find Omar making breakfast in my kitchen, which means his is covered in too much fabric to be functional. A foggy memory comes to me as I sit down at the table to join him.
‘I had the craziest dream last night. My mother showed up here on my birthday with this idea that I let her be in charge of my dating life.’ I rub my eyes trying to get to a more alert state but the dread I felt in the dream lingers.
Omar puts his coffee down, walks over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Sam, that wasn’t a dream. That’s your reality.’ Then the memory of the morning of my birthday rushes back. My mother. The Letter. The Promise.
‘She doesn’t think I would seriously consider it, does she? It’s not… real.’
Omar raises his thick eyebrows. ‘We are talking about your mother, correct?’
I collapse on the table in the kitchen.
‘Can I make you a coffee?’ Omar asks.
I nod and rest my head in my hands. ‘She’s out of her mind. There’s no way I would allow this. Like I would let my mother pick the men I date.’ Omar pours an espresso from the tiny aluminum mocha pot. The rich brown liquid is capped with a tan foam that coats my spoon as I stir. I take a sip and the caffeine helps me remember the details of my current nightmare. ‘Yesterday she texted six times asking for my password to SecretSlam and a bunch of apps I’ve never even heard of like something called FeetFanatics. My mother thinks she’s going to create a sex profile for my feet?’ I’m almost shouting the last bit. I guess it’s going to take longer than twenty-four hours to recover.
‘Well, maybe it’s not such a terrible idea,’ Omar says without looking at me.
I almost do a spit take, but the espresso is too good and too expensive to waste. ‘You approve of my mother pimping out my feet?’
‘No, not that part, although I wouldn’t be so quick to judge anyone’s fetish. What makes a foot so different from a bicep or an elbow? And you have very nice feet.’ It’s too early in the morning for me to start ranking the inherent eroticism of different body parts. ‘What would be so bad about going along with her plan? Sam, you’re my best friend, but let’s face it. Your dating life isn’t exactly…’ Omar searches for the right word.
‘Don’t say it. I know.’
‘And you can’t say you don’t want a boyfriend because I know you do, or else you wouldn’t have put up with Paul for as long as you did,’ he says in a rare moment of disapproval. Is that why I was with Paul? Just because I wanted a boyfriend? ‘You just happen to pick the wrong men.’ For a second, I think about protesting, but he’s not wrong. Ever since Matthew back in New Jersey I’ve had a keen ability to pick guys who are unavailable emotionally or physically or in any other capacity in which lack of availability would apply.
I’ve tried to learn from my mistakes. Guys who were my age or younger than me were often sexy but almost always emotionally immature so they were off my list. Guys who didn’t have gainful employment were usually fun to be with but lacked stability. They got a strike-through. But the biggest black mark I held was against artists. I dated more than my share, and they always turned out to be self-involved, and the minute I asked for something more, they dumped me. I thought someone like Paul was perfect. Older, great job, non-artist. At this point I’ve either created the perfect list or a room without a door.
‘How much worse could she be at picking dates than you are? Because of your mom, Damola met Jimena.’
I was worried this would be entered into evidence. Our friend Damola lives on the top floor and uses Plant Daddy as the base of operations for both his dog-walking business and his music production. He remixes sounds from early hip-hop tracks. He’s friendly, quiet and doesn’t mind being polite to my mother when he passes her in the building. About a year ago, my mom met the most beautiful woman working at the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s. What my mother was doing at Bloomingdale’s remains a mystery. Somehow she found out the woman was volunteering at a fundraiser for Healing Justice at the Audre Lord Project. My mom purchased a ticket for Damola so he could attend the event as well. She thought they would be a good match. Now they live together in apartment 5-b in cohabitational bliss.
‘That’s different. My mother sees Damola and Jimena for who they are, as adults. My mother still sees me as the little boy who needs help crossing the street and tying his shoe.’
‘You did almost get hit in the bike lane last week on the way to the gym. I had to physically pull you back,’ Omar says and I give him a sharp look.
‘I’m an adult. I know what I’m doing.’
Omar takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Do you?’ My phone rings. It’s her. I’m sure it’s her. I’m awake enough at this point to realize it was not a nightmare. She has been calling me non-stop since she introduced her scheme. It’s time to put it to an end. I will pick up and tell her in no uncertain terms that she can forget about it.
‘No. No. Absolutely not. No. No way,’ I say before she can even get a hello in.
‘In the South we usually just answer the phone with some form of hello,’ a husky voice with a laid-back drawl says. I’m still in my morning fog so I don’t recognize the caller.
‘Who is this?’ I snap.
‘This is Finn.’
‘Yes. Of course,’ I say and my voice cracks. I’m mortified by how I answered. I rub my eyes and try to focus.
‘Right. Finn Montgomery, we were supposed to…’ Suddenly I remember I asked him to meet me at Plant Daddy for a coffee this morning to get started on his rebranding. I look down at my watch and realize I’m over twenty minutes late. This is not a good way to start.
‘I’m so sorry. I got very behind today. I’m sorry.’ I don’t know what else to do. ‘Are you there now? At Plant Daddy?’
‘Yeah,’ he says.
‘I live in the building. A few flights up. I’ll be down in five minutes. Tell Kai that you’re waiting for me and they’ll take care of you. Short, grey whiskers. Stunning wrinkles around his eyes. He’s usually wearing a paisley shirt and watering something.’
‘Met him. Made me an oat milk matcha latte and scolded me for touching the leaves of a rhododendron he was watering.’
‘Yes, that sounds like him. I’ll be right down.’
I run to my room and don’t even change. The sleep pants and T-shirt I’m wearing can double as streetwear. As I brush my teeth, I notice that my hair is sticking up like a collection of stalagmites in a cave so I grab a baseball cap from the back of my door.
I race down the stairs, walk out of the building, and stand outside Plant Daddy to look through the window. I see a few of the regulars at various tables. Damola is hunched over his laptop with his headphones on, with Jimena next to him working on her beaded jewelry. Madame Angelika is doing a Tarot card reading. Maggie is next to the register with her foot on her opposite knee in some kind of yoga pose.
I keep scanning the room until my eyes stop on Finn. He’s at a table in a back corner, away from everyone, with his laptop opened in front of him like a shield. I can tell he’s observing people but keeping his distance. Maybe he’s not sure what to make of the denizens of Plant Daddy.
I open the door and Kai rolls past me with a container of coffee beans on the tray of his wheelchair. ‘Thanks for taking care of Finn,’ I say as I pass. He nods, and I can tell he’s still stinging from the leaf-touching situation. I give quick hellos to the friends I saw through the window and take a seat across from the man I’m going to be working with for the next few months.
‘Finn, I’m so sorry for being late. I apologize.’
He looks at me for a few seconds. I’m suddenly wishing I took an extra minute to change or take a shower or comb my hair or anything that might help my appearance. He’s wearing tight jeans and a black T-shirt that clings to his body in the right areas. His attractiveness seems so effortless. It takes an act of Congress to make me presentable.
‘This is a great place,’ Finn says breaking the silence as he looks around Plant Daddy. ‘I love the vibe here.’ Kai has created a Hell’s Kitchen version of Barnaby Lane. People meet friends here, do work, hang out and sometimes buy coffee or plants. There’s always something going on, and I’m grateful to live a few floors up, even if my studio sometimes has water that looks like acid rain. Old pipes are a small price to pay.
‘Kai is a great guy but don’t let him hear me say that. He prides himself on being a cranky old man but we all know better. Just be careful around the plants. He takes them very seriously.’
‘So I learned. He slapped my hand.’ He rubs his left hand with his right which must still sting. ‘Hard.’
‘Maggie overwatered a bonsai a year ago, and she still hears about it. But he’s the one who makes this place special. A bunch of us just sort of hang out here and he never cares if we nurse a cup of coffee all day and work on a gig or even if we don’t buy coffee at all. He says humans give off CO2, so he only puts up with us to help the plants, but no one believes him.’
‘I watched you walk in. Looks like you know everyone in here.’ Finn is keenly observant.
‘I do,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I mean not everyone.’ I look around, and there’s one woman with a stroller who I don’t know. ‘Not her.’ I nod my head in the young mother’s direction and then I remember I chatted with her last week about a friend of mine who sells organic baby food upstate. ‘I’ve lived upstairs a while, and Hell’s Kitchen is like a queer, diverse small town inside a big city.’
‘Yeah, I get that vibe, but small towns can be just as intimidating as big cities,’ he says with a bit of apprehension in his voice. He seemed so confident when we met in the office the other day but less so here. ‘New York is overwhelming. Inspiring but it’s a lot. Still, it’s a great place for artists. Is that why you’re here?’
I thought I came to New York to become an artist but instead the opposite seems to have happened. I’ve slowly become something else. What exactly? I’m not sure. I knew when I was ghosting for Justine I was artist adjacent. I thought if I could get something published in my own name… Why is he even asking me these things? Most people I work with for Brands love to talk about themselves. I once did a profile on a startup guy who called me Frank for the entire month. I never corrected him.
‘What makes you think I’m an artist and not just some guy doing his job?’ I ask.
‘I looked you up. I take my career seriously and I didn’t want to put it in the hands of just anyone. You won a Seggerman award for a short story. Very impressive. Tried to find a copy of it online but couldn’t. Maybe you can send it to me?’ That damn short story award still comes up when you search my name. It’s so embarrassing. I was proud at the time but now it just reminds me that I peaked too early.
‘Sure,’ I mumble without any intention of doing so.
‘Tell me what you’re working on now?’
Why does he want to know anything about me? I guess this is the price for being assigned someone who does documentary photography instead of someone who’s overcome nausea.
‘Right now, I’m working on building your brand. I’m the one who is supposed to be asking the questions.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it. When I meet someone and I get a vibe that there’s more than what’s on the surface I want to know more. I can’t turn off my instinct.’ When I first came in, he seemed uncomfortable, but now that we’re talking about work, he’s confident again. At least he’s talking about himself. I use the opening to refocus the meeting. ‘Tell me about what you are working on?’ I ask, emphasizing the pronoun you so that he understands I am throwing the ball to his court.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘I’m not scared to talk about my work.’ Is he poking fun at me? Is he implying that I’m scared to talk about my work? I’m not scared – I just don’t have anything to talk about. Then, for a split-second, I wonder if the reason I don’t have anything to talk about is because I’m scared. Luckily, he begins talking, and I start taking notes.
Finn Montgomery has been working as a photographer since he got an MFA at Cal Arts. He is well-known for his series of photographs documenting queer cultures and sub-cultures in the South. He uses a combination of portraiture, abstraction, and ethnography. I saw some of the images at Brands to the Rescue and they have been in my mind ever since. Soulful portraits that are simultaneously beautiful and painful. His latest work focuses on the lives of queer immigrants who have come to this country to escape persecution and, in some instances, threats of death in their homeland. He’s relocated to New York for the project.
‘It’s a very serious subject matter and I try to give it the respect it deserves,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ I say. I take other people’s work very seriously. It’s only myself I don’t do that with.
‘Queer refugees often escape a life of darkness. They want their lives in this country to be full of light and hope.’
I write down what he says and I try to capture that last bit as accurately as possible. I re-read my words. He has this way of talking about himself and his work that isn’t cocky or boasting. He talks about the people he photographs and how he works with them to tell their story. It’s very humble but not self-effacing. A balance I’ve never understood. ‘You should meet them,’ he says and closes his laptop.
‘Who?’
‘Some of the people sharing their story.’
‘That would be great but, ah, where are you going? We’re just getting started. I have a lot more I need to know.’
‘I’ve got an appointment. Sorry,’ he says. ‘I have a rule. I don’t keep people waiting.’ Ouch. I think that’s a dig but it’s not undeserved. ‘Text me and we can set something up.’ He grabs his bag and heads out. I look down at my notebook and realize I barely have enough to get started.
Kai suddenly appears at my side pulling the brake on his chair. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’ I ask Kai.
‘Guess who Finn asked to be in his latest documentary project? None other than everyone’s favorite queer disabled he/they plant-loving, coffee-serving Indonesian immigrant. He wants me to tell my story.’ Kai’s usually prickly tone takes a back seat to enthusiasm.
‘That’s great, Kai.’ I was thinking about their story when Finn was talking. Kai puts Finn’s empty latte glass on his tray and then wheels over to the window and takes down the ‘Help Wanted’ sign.
‘You found someone?’
‘Yep. I think this person is going to be a great fit. They’ve been in here before and they were looking for something in this area. On this block actually.’
‘That’s pretty specific. Is it someone I know?’
‘You could say that.’ His eyes dart down to the floor.
I wonder if it’s Tony, that guy who only drinks tea with three teabags. I think I heard him say he was looking for an extra gig.
‘Is it Tony?’
‘Someone you know better than that,’ he says. ‘They’re going to be here any minute for their first shift.’
The bells above the door ring and there in the doorway wearing her Sounds Gay I’m In T-shirt and aqua high-tops is…
‘Gloria Carmichael reporting for duty.’ She holds her arm above her forehead in a sharp salute.
‘Mom, what are you doing here?’ This must be a nightmare. I thought I was having one earlier but maybe this is one of those dreams within a dream.
‘I work here now. Didn’t Kai tell you?’ she asks turning toward him.
‘I thought it would be more fun as a surprise.’ A sneaky grin crosses his face.
‘Kai, what have you done?’ I think about grabbing the ‘Help Wanted’ sign he took down and taping it back to the window.
‘What he has done, my son, is make a very smart choice. I know a lot about plants and I can learn to make the matchie mucha mochas or whatever they are,’ my mother says proudly.
‘But… I live upstairs.’ I point to the ceiling. ‘I’m here all the time. This is where I work. It’s where I hang out.’
‘I know,’ my mother says, joy oozing out of her. ‘And they just changed the bus schedule, so I can take an express on Tuesdays and Thursdays, unless there’s a religious holiday. In that case, I’ll have to change buses, but it will still only take thirty minutes. Unless there’s traffic, but I figure there won’t be much on religious holidays. Isn’t it wonderful how this all worked out?’ She rushes toward me and wraps her arms around my body in one of her trademark squeezes; the smell of her rose-scented perfume envelops me.
‘Yes, wonderful,’ I say giving Kai the dirtiest look I can make. ‘I have an appointment I have to get to.’ I release myself from my mother’s grip.
‘Oh,’ she says, excitement running through her voice. ‘Is it a date?’ She looks at me and then scrunches her face in disapproval. ‘Because you’ll need to change. As long as I’m in charge you are not going on a date wearing… that.’
‘There is nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.’ There is a lot wrong with what I’m wearing. I ran down here in glorified pajamas. ‘It’s not a date. And more importantly you’re not in charge of anything in my life. I am a full-grown person. I am able to choose my own dates and my own life!’
She is silent and then looks toward Kai. ‘See, this is why you’re so smart. Plants don’t mind when you are just trying to help them.’
‘True,’ he says. ‘Though I do have a ficus that can get a bit fresh with me. Let me show you.’ He gestures for my mom and they head to the group of plants by the window and the ficus that I know in fact can be a bit saucy.
‘Mom, you can forget about your ridiculous plan,’ I shout back to them as I pack up my stuff to leave but they both ignore me as they head to the other side of Plant Daddy. ‘I mean it,’ I say knowing they can still hear me. ‘That contract won’t hold up in a court of law.’ At least, I don’t think it would.Would it?