David Gates - The Wonders of the Invisible World

“Yes, I can see it must’ve been hell,” Finn said, appalled that he couldn’t shut up.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” said James. “I’ve been off the plane for all of two minutes, and already we’re in one of these things. ”

“I’m sorry, Jamie. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

“Can we not stand here in the middle of all this?”

“Sorry. Here.” Finn touched James’s shoulder to guide him. “We’re parked down this way.”

They walked a few steps toward the escalator and James stopped again. “Look,” he said, “would you rather I just took a cab into the city and got out of your life?”

“Jamie, I’m truly—”

“Because I don’t seem to be making you very happy, and you’re driving me out of my mind.”

“You’re shouting,” said Finn.

“What, these people have never seen a pair of bickering faggots before?” Well, he was shouting now, at any rate.

“James,” said Finn. “For Christ’s sake.”

“You want to know about my tan? Well, my parents have a pool, man. In their backyard. Which is where I sat for nine days, man, watching game shows with my mother. She keeps a TV out there so she can work on her tan. She looks like distressed leather. My father, meanwhile, sits in the den with the blinds closed, watching — I’m not kidding — old Super Bowl games on his VCR. He’s got tapes of all but four of however many fucking Super Bowls there are. And he’s scared shitless and he eats so much Valium his flesh is turning to balsa wood.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Finn.

“Look,” James said, “do you mind very much if we get out of here?”

In the parking garage, Finn unlocked the passenger door first. James in turn reached over and unlocked the driver’s door, which Finn took as a sign of conciliation. He decided not to nag James about his seat belt. He reached over and stroked the back of James’s head. James allowed it.

When they came out into the sunlight — it was still only five o’clock — Finn put on the air conditioning. James had taught him that it was more fun to keep the windows open when the air was on, even if less efficient. On the Grand Central, traffic in the other direction was halted, but inbound it was moving right along.

“I hate to backseat-drive,” said James, “but shouldn’t we be in the other lane?”

“Ordinarily,” Finn said. “But I need to make a quick stop-off in midtown.”

“For what?”

Finn drew a long breath, let it out. “For something you don’t approve of.”

“Oh.” James looked at his watch. “You know, it’s going to take hours to get in and out of Manhattan at this time of day. You couldn’t have done this on your way?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll make this as quick as I possibly can, but I get to the city so seldom that I really mustn’t pass up the chance.”

“So that’s why you were so hot to come down and pick me up,” said James. “Tell me something. Do you ever think your tastes might be a little depraved?”

“We’ve been over this,” Finn said.

“Then let me put it in another light for you. Did it ever occur to you that it might be insulting to me ?”

They were caught behind a huge yellow school bus. The lanes on either side weren’t moving any faster, but Finn cut to the left in front of a cab — the driver leaned on his horn — just to get behind something he could see past.

“You’re not going to provoke me,” he said. “We disagree about this project. I respect your view. I’m asking you to respect mine.”

“Project?” said James. “What project? This isn’t a project, for Christ’s sake. It’s one more old queen who likes to watch young dudes get it on. You can dignify it because you used to be some hot-shit filmmaker.”

Finn looked over at him, this idle boy with his dirty blond hair blowing. Who made him waste his time and now had contempt for him because of it. He had let himself become an aging man with no family, who no longer prepared before meeting his classes and whose taste for good wines was giving him broken veins in his nose. He was this young man’s sugar daddy. He turned back in time to avoid ramming the BMW ahead of him by lifting his foot quickly from the gas pedal: to hit the brakes would call James’s attention to his bad driving.

“For whatever reason,” Finn said, his heart beginning to pound in delayed reaction, “I have done almost no work in the time I’ve known you. This is going to come to a screeching halt.”

“You haven’t done any work for five years, man,” said James.

Seven, thought Finn. “I’m not putting it off on you,” he said. His heart was pounding harder. “But I won’t allow you to interfere with what I need to do.”

James said nothing.

“And I might add that it’s probably time for you to start thinking about what you’re going to do when you grow up.” The pounding began to subside. “It’s a waste of life, and it depresses me severely.”

“Would you like me to go to night school and become a hairdresser?”

“That, my dear, is up to you,” said Finn. “What I mean to do is to make a stop in midtown. For one hour, no longer. And then we’ll be on our way. If you’re coming.”

“Finn,” said James. “It’s your car, it’s your life. I don’t really have anything to say about it.”

“Now, if you prefer,” Finn said, “it is getting late-ish. We could have dinner in the city, leave when the traffic’s thinned out and maybe put up for the night somewhere along the way.”

James didn’t answer. Finn looked and saw that he was crying. Not sobbing, just letting the tears go down his face.

“Just please do what you’re going to do,” James said at last. “All I want is to get home.”

• • •

James had been back almost a week before Finn had time to sit down and go through the videos he’d bought in Times Square. Made time, he corrected himself. But James had come down with a summer cold, and Finn did have to nurse him, bring him ice cream and ginger ale and magazines, go to the drugstore for cough syrup and Comtrex. And they did have to ask Peter and Carolyn over to hear James’s report and to discuss what might have to be done in the time remaining. Which of course involved preparing a decent meal, and what with the shopping and the cooking, that was another day shot to hell. And the lawn had needed another mowing. He’d neglected it while James was gone.

But now, at last, a quiet day. James, recovered, had borrowed the car for the afternoon. Acting mysterious about it, too. Perhaps out buying a thanks-for-taking-care-of-me gift, since before leaving he had — wonder of wonders — done the breakfast dishes and straightened up the bedroom. So Finn, having run out of distractions, sat alone in his study with a notepad, watching something called Hellfire Club. Two men lay side by side on a bed as cheap, nasty music went wacka wacka wacka on the soundtrack. One, with mustache and short hair, decked out in leather jacket, leather pants and motorcycle boots, was propped up on a pillow, angrily puffing a cigarette. The other, with a platinum-dyed Mohawk, wore only a black leather collar with diamond-shaped silver studs. He lay facedown, his body a uniform dingy white; you could see sores on his legs. (At least this film wasn’t arty.) The leather one took a final drag, tapped off the final ash and stubbed his cigarette out on the Mohawk one’s white buttock. The Mohawk one twitched, then lay still again.

Finn suddenly felt sick to his stomach; and these were only the opening minutes of a sixty-minute film. He hit STOP and the screen went snowy. Was his discomfort a sign that here was something worth his attention? Had he needed to turn the thing off because it was too powerful? Or was it just ugly and frightening, period, without any significance? Why did these films fascinate him? Did they fascinate him, or was he in fact burned out and desperately willing himself to be fascinated?