Funny, Isn't It

FUNNY, ISN’T IT

By Jer Long

“Funny,” I replied when my friend Stash asked me how it was going with my new beau.

“Funny? It’s been nine months.” Sipping his deluxe caramel-mocha-pecan latte, he stared out the window of Caribou Cafe. “You’re hedging the ultimate question.”

“I don’t honestly know!” I tossed my napkin at him. “You’re pissing me off.”

Catching the eye of a cute ginger-haired man on the sidewalk outside, Stash flashed his deadliest smile, and the poor schmuck smacked into a mink-swathed bison of a woman. She teetered dangerously on her spike-heeled boots; he righted her before chaos ensued.

 “You’re the only person I know whose pheromones can penetrate glass.”

“Still got it at thirty-one.”

“Still waiting for it at thirty-five,” I groused.

“Hush darling, here he comes.” Stash patted my clinched fist. “You’re not mad at me. You’re mad about the man.”

***

Stash’s words echoed in my head as I walked against the wintry blast rushing down Walnut Street. The holiday garland, festooned with glittering gold ornaments strung from one streetlamp to its twin across the way, bobbed about, a gust of wind snapping the tails of its ruby ribbons.

It was Christmas Eve and every shop display window exploded with triumphant décor. From Urban Outfitter’s 1950s-inspired silver tinsel-trees to Ralph Lauren’s iron urns bursting with elegant pine branches to the toy store, Born Yesterday, where carved wooden reindeer, stuffed dancing bears, and velvet kitted kittens stared out at the bustling shoppers with their green glass eyes.

Joyous abandonment laced with melancholy; Christmas stirred up a twist of emotions not only vexing but intimidating in their persistent pluck of the heartstrings. Hundreds of miles from my flock of friends I’d left behind in D.C., my spirit now wandered down the broad avenues, narrow streets, and expansive parks in the City of Brotherly Love, searching for that extraordinary point, that speck of earth in which to re-anchor my roots.

It'd been two years and three months since my move from Washington. From the moment I had stepped off the train in the middle of a blizzard and trudged through three feet of white from 30^th Street Station to my apartment overlooking Rittenhouse Square, I’d fallen hard for Philadelphia. Its unique history, its lush parks, its honest-to-the-point-of-rude inhabitants bowled me over from the beginning. Unpretentious, the city was populated by a plethora of international imports and natives audaciously proud of their grip on the city. Somewhere out there, my instinct assured me, dangled a brass ring keen to be snatched up. Afraid to look down or behind me, I was a mouse scurrying across a highwire rushing from an invisible puss in hot pursuit. Restless and uncertain, I had little choice but to carry on.

In Barnes & Noble’s window, a lavish coffee table book featuring grand country homes of Britain caught my eye. Its cover featured a lush garden brimming with pink Floribunda roses, lavender larkspur, and banana-yellow dahlias so heavy that they needed to be staked.  “Perfect,” I muttered to myself.  

“Silver paper, gold ribbon,” I instructed the gift wrapper behind the counter. He handed me a card and a pen. I wrote “Merry Christmas” with a flourish, but I froze at the pending close. Doubt swept over me. So, I wrote the noncommittal “fondly” and quickly scribbled my name. Perplexed, a spear of anger stabbed at my chest.

“Well, hello,” a young, handsome man said as I stepped off the escalator. I stared at him for what seemed an eternity, attempting to place his handsome face.

“It’s Rudy.”

“Rudy!” I sang, “you’ve grown a beard.” Scenes from the one night we’d spent together years before shuffled through my mind; I blushed at the thought of it and the promise to him I’d broken. “I’m so sorry I never called. It’s just that I’ve been so busy with my new position and...”

“It’s alright. I understand. Life gets in the way.”

Rudy, as sensitive and intense as Dr. Zhivago, was a modern-day Alexander the Great, legendary for his irresistible attractiveness. Curiosity flickered in his Aztec-blue irises. Lithe and limber, his every move was art in motion. A violin major at The Curtis Institute of Music, he’d been snowbound with me my first night in the city. We’d literally smacked into one another when I turned the corner of Locust Street searching for the Wawa my doorman assured me would be open.

Alone and lonely, we two starving crows happened upon the single restaurant with its lights on. We wandered into the empty diner’s glowing hope. The haggard-face man behind the counter waved us away. “I was just closing.”

I summoned Dicken’s Oliver from my sixth-grade performance. “Oh, please sir,” I begged.

We must have appeared frightfully pathetic because he took pity on us and ushered us to a booth in the front window. “I’m Ralph, the owner,” he said, his harshness from before shaved to a polite grin. “You two should be happy I only live a block away.” When he winked, I relaxed, secure that my instinct had been on target; he was one of our boys. Then, to our delight, he fried up a hearty ham and egg breakfast that we scarfed down with hypnotic glee.

Ralph sat a basket of hot rolls on the table. ‘Take your time,” he said and disappeared into the back.

Rudy, from St. Petersburg, Russia, and I, transplanted from D.C., sat in the booth, warming ourselves by the steaming radiator and watching the snow cover our tracks on the sidewalk. Evidently, he had arrived at 30^th Street Station from New York within minutes of my train unloading its passengers. We shared our stories and discussed our lives on the verge of a new frontier and the dreams we hoped would ripen in the New Year.

Hours later, wrapping his extensive knitted scarf around his neck, he took my hand, his earnest eyes searching mine. “My place or yours?”

I stared magnificence in the eye and melted into a puddle of desire. Gorgeous, witty, intelligent, Rudy was the entire package, every gay man’s fantasy. However, skepticism swept through my head faster than the Acela train on a greased track. Too young. That was the problem. Too young. Twenty years old. He was only twenty years old. The nine-year age gap between us felt as vast as the Atlantic Ocean.

“I’m sorry Rudy, but I can’t.”

A flash of arrogance swept across his face. “But I …” He shook his head and his features draped dour in the broken light from the streetlamp outside. Our few hours together had sparkled with chemistry, and it seemed our paths had crossed for a purpose. Yet, I knew my heart well enough to know that I’d fall quick and hard for someone as charismatic as Rudy. My past had been riddled with suave guys who’d tossed me aside when they bored of me. Believe me, it took every ounce of strength I could muster to refuse his offer.

***

Taking my arm, Rudy guided me to the Barnes & Noble café. “How long since that night? Two years?”  He spoke English with a British accent which only heightened his appeal. “You look wonderful. Ten years younger.”

“I caught your incredible solo at the gala last year,” I spit out enthusiastically.

“And you didn’t come backstage?”

I sat, blushing before him. “I…I…I couldn’t.”

“I’m told I’m exceptionally good. I received a standing ovation.” Holding his chin high, he stared down his well chiseled nose at me. “You didn’t like it?”

“Heavens no! You were spectacular. When the strings of your violin snapped during Rimsky Korsakov’s Fight of the Bumblebee, my heart was in my throat.”

Secure in the fact that I had worshipped him from afar, and with his ego now fervently stimulated, he dominated the rest of the conversation, blathering on about his triumphs as one of Curtis’s resident prodigies. “I’m playing with the New York Philharmonic next month. You should come with me. You can warm me up and cheer me on.”

My eyes glazed over, smearing the buzzing crowd into a blur as he rattled on about his accomplishments. I was alone with him once again, but my heart didn’t skip jolly as it had before. Instead, I could practically see my soul shrink under the table and skitter past my feet. The realization that I’d always be second fiddle to this virtuoso flashed like a neon sign in my head. “Oh my God!” I stood up so fast that I jostled his cup of hot chocolate. “I’m sorry, but I need to go.” Grabbing my bag with the present neatly tucked inside, I laid my hand on his. “You’re Stravinsky and Mozart and I’m craving Brahms.” Bewildered, he glared at me. I kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Rudy. You’ve saved me.” Sprinting across the floor, I dashed out into the cold.

                                                                                  ***

Clark was late arriving for dinner at my place. The temperature had plunged below zero after nightfall. I sighed with pleasure when the blast of heat from the oven shrouded me in warmth as I pulled the roast out of the oven.

“You’re freezing!” I rubbed Clark’s iced ears when he kissed me hello.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

A touch corny, a tad mischievous, a smidge stuffy at times, Clark was, I had often prayed, as uncomplicated as he appeared. Five years my senior, he’d taken control of our situation from the get-go just nine months ago. That first evening is forever brandish on my brain.

***

The bartender handed me my drink. “I think you’ve caught someone’s eye.”

Across Woodies’ jam-packed bar, stood a handsome, compact man with a cockeyed smile and Basset eyes ringed with gratitude. I smiled. He smiled. His friend whispered something in his ear, and he smiled at me again.

Then, as if someone had plopped me down on the set of a Cecil B. DeMille movie, the sea parted, and Moses made a beeline in my direction. “I’m Clark,” he said and took my hand as if we’d known each other since childhood. After introducing me to his friends, he whisked me off to a quiet coffee house where we talked into the early morning hours.

It was after three a.m. when Clark walked me to the front door of my building on Rittenhouse Square.

“Thank you. I had a marvelous time.” I said and awkwardly stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Well, good night.” I turned to go, but he clasped my hand, and I froze in mid-step. Without hesitation, before God, and the doorman, he slid his hands around my waist, and pressed against me. His breath on my cheek, I gasped lightly, and he slid his silky-smooth lips onto mine. A flame burst in my chest, thawing the block of ice that had encapsulated my soul since my college sweetheart had abandoned me five years before. “Wow,” I whispered in his ear when my feet touched the ground again.

***

After feasting on our sumptuous holiday dinner of roasted pork, baked potatoes smothered in Gruyere cheese, and grilled beats over sauteed spinach, Clark and I exchanged gifts.

“Thank you!” I held the cufflinks made from antique stamps up to the light. “They’re gorgeous!"

“Oh my God! I’ve wanted this book since I spotted it Barnes & Noble’s window weeks ago.” Then, popping up, he scurried into the hall and snatched his coat off the rack. “Come on,” he said and tossed me my coat.

***

The Philadelphia Museum of Art sat regal and deserted on Christmas Eve. The spotlights highlighted its intricate architectural details. A fresh dusting of snow enhanced the building’s beauty. Wrapping our coats tightly around us, we sat on the steps, scanning the twinkling lights dotting the cityscape. Sparkling Christmas lights decorated every tree and shrub lining the parkway running the length of the mall before us, its splendor unleashing a volcano of affection inside me.

“Merry Christmas,” Clark whispered and rested his head against mine.

Shoving my frozen hand into the pocket of his Brook’s Brothers toggle coat, I gazed into his warm, brown eyes. “I have one more gift for you.” My trickling tears tickled my upper lip, and he brushed them away with his gloved finger. “I love you,” I stated proudly, assuredly.

Wrapping his arm around me, he held me close and began to cry. “I love you too.”

“Funny, isn’t it? The night we met, I was passing the bar on my way home after seeing the movie, The Grass Harp at the Bourse Theater. I had no intention of going in, but when I heard the laughter and Cher blasting, I Believe from the speakers, I couldn’t resist.” The cold rushed up the steps, unable to penetrate the bubble of warmth we had created between us on that frigid December night. I rested my head on his shoulder and we soaked up the view, which now appeared resplendently dressed in celebratory cheer.

“Funny.” He gently squeezed my arm. “I was beginning to worry that you didn’t care.”

Having said those three magical words to one another, the sense of quandary lifted, revealing a liberated winter sky streaked with shimmering silver and a brilliant moon dashed with glistening gold.  My breath, a visible fog, my mind clear, and my sense of direction restored for the first time since leaving Washington, I sat contented on the cold concrete, thrilled that my love and I had stumbled home in the dark.