Chapter 31
I walk the last two blocks to Brands in the pouring rain, still mad at Paul but trying to focus on my new dilemma. If my mother thinks I’m not taking her plan seriously, it will mean all the work I’ve already put in will be for nothing. I have to choose one of her horrible dates to join me at Thanksgiving.
The elevator doors open at Brands, and I head over to the kitchen area to make a hot cup of tea and dry out before I start pounding away at whatever tasks have been backing up in the digital workflow. No one else is around so I sit and let the hot liquid heat me up from the inside as I use a few paper towels to wipe off my face. As I’m trying to gather myself, Robert comes in followed by… Finn. At first, I panic that I missed a meeting, and then I panic because I realize we haven’t really talked since our trapeze date night, and then I panic again because I look like I swam down the Hudson to get here.
‘Hello,’ I say as they walk into the kitchen. ‘I hope I haven’t missed a meeting.’ I grab a wad of paper towels and press them to my shirt, hoping they will soak up some of the wetness.
‘Not at all,’ Robert says, heading to the coffee station. I can tell from his wrinkled nose that he’s judging my lack of an umbrella. ‘I asked Finn to come in so I could convince him to be a part of our team.’ I hate when Robert or anyone uses the word team to describe the workplace. A team is a group in a game or sport. It’s something fun. Work is not fun. It’s work. It’s the very opposite.
‘Hello, Sam,’ Finn says. I search his eyes to get some kind of read on how he’s feeling toward me, but they are inscrutable.
‘Hi, Finn,’ I say, and I notice the sides of his mouth turn up just a bit.
‘Sam, I had absolutely no luck with him.’ Robert makes himself a cup of coffee with the fancy machine that’s usually broken. ‘Maybe you can help convince Finn how wonderful we are here at Brands. We need someone to run visuals for a number of big clients we’re taking on.’
Finn working here? He is so not a ‘normal’. I can’t see him putting his art on hold to create a pitch deck, logging every working hour, or wearing ugly pants. Not to mention that I don’t want work to be any more stressful than it already is.
Robert looks at his watch and says, ‘I’ve got a client who needs some extra hand holding.’ He walks out leaving me alone with Finn.
I look at him and he returns my gaze but neither of us say anything. Should I say something about the other night? It feels weird to bring it up here. I’ll accept any reason to avoid the topic so I ask, ‘Do you want to work here?’
‘Not really,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Robert pressured me into coming in. I felt I had to with Miami coming up and I didn’t want him to think I don’t like working with you.’
‘That’s very nice. Thanks,’ I say, blotting myself one last time before throwing the towels in the trash can and giving up.
‘I’ll never be rich making art but I can’t see myself working full-time in an office.’
‘I understand. I couldn’t see myself here either…’ I look around the sterile kitchen area with the prerequisite offering of vending machines. ‘Until I could.’
‘Why do you work here?’ he asks and stops immediately. ‘Wait. That did not come out right at all. Sorry.’ He’s flustered by his stumble and it’s very sweet. I even hear a bit more of his Southern drawl when he’s nervous. He usually keeps it under wraps. ‘Everybody needs a day job. I’ve been lucky with my grants and gallery sales. But this place? Full-time?’ He looks around at the fluorescent lighting and dull office furniture designed to be inoffensive. ‘It seems so corporate and stifling. How would you find the time to write if you had to come here every day?’
‘I had another gig before this where I got to do more writing, sort of. It was…’ I look up at the ceiling as I search for the right word. ‘Complicated.’
‘Would you tell me about it?’ His voice is warm and sweet like when he was working with Ekaterina. He pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. I do the same.
I take a sip of tea and debate how much I should tell him. He sits quietly, patiently, like he’s ready to listen when – or if – I’m willing to talk. Truthfully, it makes me want to tell him everything. I couldn’t open up about it when he asked at the Statue of Liberty. He was right. I changed the subject and avoided an honest answer. At Swingers I was too focused on not dying. I don’t know if it’s my conversation with Paul or the pouring rain or the fact that I’m beginning to trust him, but today his intentional softness makes me want to open up at least a tiny bit. I take a breath in and hold it for a second before I start to share my story.
‘For a bunch of years,’ I begin, ‘I worked for this woman. I’m not sure you’d know her. She had this big breakout book in the late nineties that became a huge movie – The Jilted Belles of Bel Air. ’
‘I know that movie.’ He smiles at the recollection. ‘It’s kind of campy and funny. Wasn’t Katie Diane in it? And some other big Hollywood actors.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘That movie was based on the book written by a woman who went by the name Justine Jasmine. I wasn’t around during Jilted Belles . Way before my time.’
‘I’ve heard that name,’ Finn says. ‘I see her books all the time, like at airports and places like that. You worked for her?’
‘I was her.’ I dramatically raise my paper teacup.
He looks at me curiously, and I can practically see the cogs in his mind try to fit into place. ‘Like in drag?’
‘No, although we used to joke about me doing appearances as her. She was known for being a fashion icon, and I could never walk in stilettos. I’ve tried. I always fall over.’
‘Same. Weak ankles,’ he says with a chuckle and it helps me keep going.
‘After some big successes she wanted to enjoy the fame and money but she didn’t want to write the books. My agent knew her socially and suggested…’ I lean just in case some ‘normal’ is in earshot. ‘I write the books under her name. Like a ghostwriter.’
Understanding spreads across Finn’s face. He nods slowly and says, ‘So you are Justin Jasmine. Wait. Is Justine Jasmine a real person?’
‘Very much. I mean, the name is made up. Her real name is Olivia. And we worked together mostly on the books. She taught me a lot and…’ I trail off and bite my lower lip. I’m still under a non-disclosure but when I look at Finn, I have this feeling deep inside that I can trust him.
‘Wait. Books plural? How many did you write for her?’
‘About six,’ I say matter-of-factly.
‘You’ve written half a dozen books and you still don’t consider yourself a writer?’ He tilts his head to look at me with wide eyes.
‘But my name was never on them. Sometimes she would thank me in the acknowledgments but not always. They were her stories. I just did the heavy lifting.’ I shrug.
‘You’d go to bookstores. See the book with her name on it or see people reading it, knowing you wrote it, and you could never tell anyone?’
‘Yeah, that’s the job,’ I say. I remember Paul saying that to me just a little while ago about his work. I guess every job has its obstacles and punishments. ‘I’m still not supposed to tell anyone but things changed when she decided to retire. Although I was doing most of the work she still did appearances and stuff like that. Her editors didn’t know I was writing most of it.’
I realize I haven’t really done a post-mortem on the whole Justine situation. When everything unfolded, I was too devastated, and then I thought I could find success independently. When that didn’t happen, I felt too humiliated to truly confront everything.
‘Was that hard for you?’ His eyes are soft and gentle, searching my face for the answer.
‘Not really,’ I say, but realize that’s what I always say. I always told myself that the money was good, she was a nice enough person, so it didn’t bother me. But if I’m putting all that behind me, I also need to confront the truth. ‘Scratch that,’ I say sitting up in my chair. ‘It did bother me. I was never mad at her or my agent. I knew what I signed up for, but writing a book is hard and at the end you want some kind of recognition.’
There, I said it. Out loud. I wanted people to see me as a writer. Why is it so hard for me to acknowledge it? I had to give up writing to admit it.
‘But now you can write your own stuff,’ he says casually, not knowing he’s pushing on a wound that hasn’t healed yet.
‘Tried that. Didn’t work out.’ I grab my tea which is now cold. ‘Even submitted the last book I was working on before she retired. Same exact kind of book to the imprint that published dozens of hers and they rejected it.’
‘That’s something I can understand. I get a lot of rejection too. Bad reviews. People who don’t get what I’m trying to do with my photos. Things like that.’ He shakes his head and runs his fingers through his hair. ‘But maybe it sounds like it was still her stuff you submitted?’
‘It was kind of. It just had my name on it. That’s why I was so upset when they passed.’ I’m able to talk about this with him but the feeling in my stomach is making me aware that it’s not a topic that has completely lost its volatility.
‘No, I mean, no wonder they passed.’ He looks at me like he’s not sure I understand. ‘Maybe you were still writing as her even though your name was on it. Maybe it was still in her voice. Her story. You have to write your own story.’
‘Oh really?’ I put my elbow on the table and place my head in my hand. ‘Do you think the world is waiting to hear about a thirty-five-year-old gay man with a boring job and overbearing mother who lives above a plant store cafe where his friends hang out? I don’t think so.’
‘Maybe you don’t think so. Sam, you have to be the first person to believe you have something to say.’ His eyes are searching mine looking for a way in. ‘Sometimes when I meet a subject they’re shocked that I want to interview them. They think their story isn’tworth telling. I try to help them see that their stories are important, not just to them but to others who need to hear them. Don’t you think that you have your own story? Your own voice?’
I’m not sure. Or maybe I’ve never really had to figure it out because I was executing Justine’s vision. ‘All I know is I got rejection after rejection this summer and it broke me. And that was with stuff in her voice. I can’t imagine…’ I trail off. I’ve been trying to avoid these feelings but now he’s making them bubble up. My heart begins to beat faster.
He scratches his temple like he’s figuring it as well. ‘I’m sorry that you feel broken. But you’re stronger than you think. I’ve seen you try things you didn’t think you could do. I loved watching that. Seeing you conquer your fear on the trapeze was a real turn-on,’ he says, and then catches himself. He blushes, and I might also. ‘I mean, it’s exhilarating to see anyone do that.’
I’m thinking about the accidental kiss that happened at Swingers. I’m wondering if he is too. Do I tell him I didn’t want it to happen when I’m the one who let my lips linger? Do I tell him I don’t want it to happen again even though when I look at his face now I can still feel his stubble on my cheek? The conversation we are currently having is the less difficult of the two, so I stick with the topic at hand and leave my questions unanswered.
‘That was a physical feat, not something creative,’ I say, taking a sip of my cold tea to cover my unease. ‘I just had to jump. It’s totally different.’
‘They’re both leaps of faith,’ Finn says. ‘One is faith that the harnesses will hold you. The other is faith in yourself.’
‘I’ve never been very good at that.’ I look out the window. The rain has stopped and the sun is peeking through the clouds.
‘Why don’t you apply to Art Barn?’ he asks. ‘It’s an artists’ retreat upstate. I always spend a month or two in the spring. It’s a great mix of creatives – painters, poets, sculptures… writers.’ I can hear the excitement in his voice. ‘You would have the space to take yourself seriously as a writer.’
A month away from Brands? I can’t imagine Robert would allow any of the full-timers to take that much time off. Plus, Paul would never go for it, me leaving him alone for weeks. I get a flash of the anger I felt when I was on the phone with Paul earlier. I can’t be pulled back and forth in different directions. I can feel my seams being torn apart.
‘I appreciate the advice,’ I say stiffly, trying to control my emotions. ‘I’ve got a plan in place. There’s a full-time position opening here that will keep me so busy I won’t even think about writing. That’s what I need.’ I try to make my voice clearer and more assured.
A sadness appears across Finn’s face. ‘I think what you need is to take yourself seriously as a writer.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ I say and now I feel it. Whatever I’ve been holding back has risen to the surface. I’m angry. This has been a friendly conversation, and I know he’s been thoughtful and kind to me, but the fact is he’s just a client – or maybe a new friend or something else. But whatever our connection is, I don’t need him trying to pull me back to a place I made a conscious effort to leave. ‘Look, Finn, I get that a job here isn’t for you,’ I say, ‘but that doesn’t mean it isn’t for me.’
‘I’m not talking about the job. I’m not saying you shouldn’t—’
‘That’s exactly what it sounds like.’ I interrupt him. ‘It sounds like you think you know better. After all, you’re one of the Thirty Under Thirty. Good for you. You’re the right combination of talent, intelligence, and good looks.’ As soon as I say the good looks part I wish I hadn’t. ‘Finn, you don’t know me.’
‘Argh!’ he yells, standing up from his seat. ‘You are one of the most frustrating guys I have ever met.’ He turns his back to me and paces in the small space, his hands jammed in his pockets like he’s trying to control himself.
‘So are you!’ I shout back.
He turns back to face me, his face pink with emotion. ‘As soon as we get close to having a real conversation about your work you pull out. I see you. I think I see you better than you see yourself.’
I see myself as a failed writer who couldn’t get anything published in their own name, who has to take a full-time job at a place that makes him feel like he’s slowly dying. That’s who I really am. Everything else is a fa?ade. I’m not ready to go where he wants to take me. I’ve cracked open the door but I need to seal it shut.
‘You don’t know me,’ I say, my voice full of indignation.
‘But I’m trying to.’ His voice is soft and sincere as he slowly sits back down. He’s listening and he’s trying. The softness in his eyes reveals a depth of patience I’ve never seen before.
I take a moment to regain my composure. I look down at the table to center myself and breathe in and out and to let my mind clear. Why does he push my buttons? Why did I get so angry just now when he was only trying to help?
It only takes a few seconds to I realize I’m not mad at Finn. I’m angry about a lot of things in my life, but he’s not one of them. He doesn’t know I’ve been through all this in my mind a million times and I can’t find any other way forward than what I have planned. I’m really angry at Paul for canceling Thanksgiving and leaving me to deal with finding someone else to take to dinner. Paul is the one who left me feeling raw and on edge this morning. But the more I think about it, it’s not just Paul. I realize it’s the first Thanksgiving my mom and I will have without Shug, and all my emotions are coming to the surface. Maybe that’s why I’m so upset about Paul’s cancellation. Maybe it was a bad idea to spring him on my mom during the holiday anyway.
The point is, I shouldn’t take all this out on Finn. He doesn’t deserve it.
‘Finn, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up. I don’t want to go any further with this topic.’ I try to find words that are more professional than emotional. ‘It’s not an excuse but I have a lot going on at the moment.’
‘I push too much. I’m trying to do this thing where I have a normal conversation with a person instead of turning it into an interview.’ He covers his face with his hands and then moves them up pushing his hair back. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s not you. I have a lot of pressure with Art Week and I have to figure out Thanksgiving with my mother. I still don’t have a…’
‘Oh, yeah, Thanksgiving.’ He chuckles. ‘I keep forgetting about it.’
That’s when I remember: Finn isn’t close with his family, plus he’s new in town. I put my hand to my chin to think for a moment. It just might work, and it’ll show him that I’m not the jerk I just revealed myself to be.
‘You know,’ I say. ‘If you don’t have any plans for Thanksgiving, you could join me at my mom’s. It’ll just be her and Kai and Omar. And I think Omar’s bringing a date.’
I watch him carefully to see if I can predict his answer, but before I can render a guess he says, ‘Yes. Thank you. I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.’ A big smile stretches across his face, and it’s like his happiness transfers to me, and suddenly I’m smiling too. Whatever emotions were threatening to erupt a few minutes ago have been subdued.
‘Then it’s a date,’ I say. Through the window behind him, I can see that the rain has stopped, and the clouds have given way to clear blue skies with sharp rays of autumn sunshine. It’s turning out to be a beautiful day.