Arthur Nersesian - The Fuck-Up

“What’s his name?” I asked. He didn’t want to tell me just yet: this only whetted my appetite all the more.

“Orson Welles?” I asked, knowing that at the time Welles was desperately trying to make a swan song film and had trouble getting backing.

“No,” Marty replied, only adding that the filmmaker had no immediate plans to live steadily in New York. The great director had lived his life in several countries and probably spent more time in lofty transit than anywhere else, keeping an operation center/bachelor pad in almost every glamorous world capital. In New York, for instance, he had purchased a spacious SoHo loft when lofts were still just warehouse space flooding the market. He stocked his large space with many valuables, captured after long and great safaris in endless auctions, galleries, boutiques, and curio shops.

“Is it Zeferelli?” I asked, knowing that he had a fear of wide open spaces.

“No,” Marty replied, rambling on about how over the years the great director had fallen from lofty metaphysicist to staunch empiricist. Marty explained how other renegade materialists had appropriated his goods. In other words, he had been burglarized three times this year alone.

“Huston?” I asked.

“No.”

“Kubrick?”

“No.”

“Capra?”

“Capra? No!” Suddenly I felt Miguel nudging me under the table. My catlike curiosity was getting the better of me. I apologized and listened.

“He wants a house sitter. That’s all you’ll need to know now.”

“What sort of rent range does he have in mind?”

“He’ll probably only be asking for a nominal rent to see that you’re responsible. But the catch is that occasionally he does come to the city, and during those few times he’ll probably want the place to himself.”

“You mean that he might just pop in at any moment and bang, I’ll have to split?”

“Unfortunately.”

“No matter what hour of the night?”

“It’s not like that. He’s extremely formal. If he comes to the city once a month, I’d be amazed. And actually I guarantee that he’ll notify you well in advance.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good, but he’ll have to meet you first. Understand that nothing will be in writing; all arrangements will be verbal.”

“Which means I’ll be unprotected. He’ll be able to chuck me out any time.”

“Unfortunately yes, but Sergei is a decent guy.” Eisenstein had died in the forties. What other great directors were named Sergei?

“Keep in mind,” Marty continued, “that in essence you’re getting something for nothing.”

“What country is Sergei from?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Listen,” Marty continued. “This might sound a bit strange, but if you really want this place, a word of advice is look now.”

“Now?”

“He’s very taken by those who are very gay and very fashionable, very ‘now.’”

“You do look more ‘then.’ For a posh loft,” Miguel stated, “looking ‘now’ is a pretty small trade.”

“All right,” I replied, without the slightest notion of how I was supposed to transform into this ideal image. But if there was indeed an apartment in the balance I’d certainly try to tip the scale to my favor somehow. I agreed to find the proper attire, and then trying to contain the excitement amidst all the noise and cigarette smoke, I pardoned myself for a brief suck of air.

Although it was chilly outside, I slowly became intoxicated over the spectacular windfall. It was like winning a lotto without even waiting on the long line with losers; a poem published and a loft in SoHo. Standing in the iciness, outside looking in, a fanatical fantasy unfurled: palls of hashish and marijuana smoke streamed from the loft skylight, dust bunnies of cocaine gathered trembling in the chandelier. The permanent temperature of my abode would never breach above or below the mid-eighties so that nude bodies would never be made self-conscious by the cold. There would be no more hard or edgy surfaces to fall against. I: a sultan who had finally found his harem, a thick juicy nerve in search of well-deserved stimuli. Poetry would be written between orgasms. Tonight long-deserved rewards had finally toppled into my lap. I returned to the moment, reentered the restaurant and resumed my seat and pose.

“So who is my patron going to be?”

“Please don’t ask me that,” Marty responded.

“Why such a big secret about his identity?”

“Sergei is very nervous about his privacy being invaded.”

“And what exactly is his need for a gay?”

“Well, other than the fact that he thinks they’re cleaner, I think his girlfriend might be coming to town. I’m not sure. He might feel insecure about that.”

“So he wants a court eunuch?”

“I guess so,” Marty replied with a grin. “But you’re gay, so all that is settled.”

In his mind I was gay and in this instance that meant I was invincible. I could witness the interlocking of the sexes and remain unfettered. So after I had polished off my pierogis, Marty explained that the celebrated but insecure Sergei would be notified and we’d all have a meeting.

The long rideto Brooklyn that night seemed much shorter. When I got in, Helmsley was deep asleep. He had slept silently during my voyage to and from Manhattan. Silently I undressed and cuddled to sleep with the thought that this hard couch under me would soon be replaced by a king’s bed. Sleep came quickly.

The lights were suddenly flipped on. Through squinted eyes I made out the figure of Angela.

“Hey! Turn off those lights,” I moaned, and then pulled a pillow over my face.

“I oughta throw you the fuck outa here!” she yelled back drunkenly. “Who the fuck you think you are?”

“What is going on?” I heard Helmsley say, and looking up I could see him knotting a bathrobe over his pajamas.

“This cocksucker cursed me out and I’m gonna teach him who’s dumb,” Angela said, pointing at me.

“Christ, Helmsley, she’s drunk.” Looking into Helmsley’s puzzled face, I knew he was in for a tough one.

“Ya just gonna stand there?” she addressed him.

“Look Angela, I didn’t give you my key so that you could barge in here like a lunatic.”

“You faggot! God wasted a dick on ya.”

“Let’s go to bed,” he replied. Grabbing both her shoulders, he slowly tried to steer her into his room.

“I oughta get my brothers to kick the shit out of ya. That’d put hair on yer chest.” In a moment Helmsley succeeded in enclosing her in his room, but several seconds later, I heard a scream—hers. A moment later, a cry, his, and once again the door smashed open and she reemerged, stopping before me.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I want you out.”

“This ain’t your house,” I replied.

“Don’t tell me what the fuck house this is, I’ll bash ya.” Helmsley now limped out of his room, cupping his testicles over his pjs.

“Angela!” he winced. “Stop this now!”

But she was beyond him. Her eyes were targeted toward me now. Helmsley proved himself ineffective as a protectorate. I looked to the floor and saw my shoes and pants. Glancing toward the window, I noticed it was almost dawn.

“I want you out of this fuckin’ house,” she repeated as she stared at me.

“I ain’t going.”

“Please,” Helmsley appealed. “Go.”

“I ain’t going.”

“I’ll give you money for a hotel,” he implored.

“No.”

“I’ll get him out for you,” Angela said, taking a step forward.

“No,” Helmsley commanded.

“Then call the fucking police!” Angela yelled. Helmsley stood still and looked about miserably. She screamed louder this time, “Call the fucking police!”