"Goddamn clubs." Greg muttered to himself as he walked through the
door. He removed his notes from the inside pocket of his suit jacket
and tossed the jacket into the washer. He still felt sweaty, and he
was sure he smelled like a used ashtray. All in a night's work.
The gig had gone okay, but he couldn't help himself from wanting to
pick it apart, trying to figure out what needed to be worked on.
Except he knew that if he tried to do that now, he'd just wind up
feeling like more of a hack than he already did. He was still too
antsy from the club to be objective, and his brain was in full let's-
tear-it-down mode.
He knew he should try to get some sleep, but the thought of lying in
his bed staring at the ceiling wasn't terribly appealing. He thought
maybe he should eat something instead, to give himself something to
do, but he didn't have anything in the refrigerator that he could
just heat up and be done with. Cooking bored the hell out of him. He
settled for pouring himself a vodka, turning on the stereo and
settling on the couch. He leaned his head back against the leather
and shut his eyes, pressing the cold glass against his forehead and
trying to just focus on that.
Except he couldn't. He didn't want to stay still, felt like he had to
pace. And whenever he shut his eyes, the voice in his brain would
start yammering at him.
*Did the bit about Dubya really work? Don't you think you could fine-
tune it? Isn't that bit about Elizabeth Hurley getting a little, I
don't know, old?*
"Christ," he muttered, took a swig of vodka, and stood up. He lit a
cigarette, against his better judgment (he thought he'd been smoking
too much lately), and tried to figure out what to do.
The sad thing was that he actually felt bone-tired, but he just
couldn't make his brain shut up enough or his body un-tense itself
enough to actually fall asleep. He sighed and gave up trying to avoid
picking the act apart. It was really the only option open to him.
He grabbed his black journal from the bookshelf next to the stereo
and took out his notes again. This was the best way to do it, he'd
found---it was easier to pinpoint what wasn't working if he could
write it down. He sat back down on the couch and began scrawling in
the journal in careless shorthand.
Opening bit, okay. Always good to start off talking about California.
Not sure if the segue into the stuff about Dubya is clear enough.
Maybe next time if I draw the opening bit out more and talk about
Hollywood, I could figure something out---And then his phone rang.
Greg cursed and tried to guess who would be calling him. It was after
eleven, so it couldn't be anyone calling about a job, but it also
could be his parents, or his sister...He gave up and answered the
phone, sandwiching it between his ear and his shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, keeping the journal open in front of him. He
wondered if he could pick the act apart while he was talking, but he
doubted it. He drew a little peace symbol in the borders of the page.
"Hey, man," said Wayne's familiar voice. Greg smiled in spite of
himself.
"Hey, Wayne," he said, deliberately keeping his tone casual. He
wasn't in the mood for company. Not really, anyway.
"How'd the gig go?"
For a moment he tried to figure out how Wayne knew he'd been at a
gig. Then he remembered: he'd mentioned something about it the last
time. Shit, when was the last time? A week ago, two weeks, something?
This was becoming a habit.
"Fine." Greg answered curtly. Underneath the peace symbol he
scribbled a largish five-pointed star. He wasn't about to spill his
guts over the phone.
"Really?" Wayne said. When Greg didn't answer he said, "Well, good
job."
"Thanks."
"Hey, Greg? Did I leave a black jacket at your place last week?"
Greg laughed out loud. "Jesus. You got to work on your game, man.
That was just sad."
"Oh, come on." Wayne said. "I really did leave it there. What the
hell?"
"What the hell," Greg echoed. "Anyway, shouldn't you be at home with
the wife about now? Getting your swerve on?"
Wayne said, his voice light and gentle, "Come on, Greg. Come on."
"I'm busy."
"No, you're not. You're stressed out and you're bored. I can tell."
"I...I am not." Greg said. He shifted the phone to his other
shoulder. His neck was beginning to ache. "Anyway, it's too late."
"Oh, fine." Wayne said with a laugh in his voice. "Let me freeze to
death, then."
"Oh, sure, dude. Because L.A. is the frozen tundra of the West
Coast."
"Come on, Greg." Wayne said again.
Greg was beginning to weaken. His house was too empty. "Wayne..."
"Two seconds." Wayne said. "I'll be in and out."
"You're sure about that?"
"Positive."
"Fine," Greg said and sighed. "I'll try to find whatever it was."
"All right." Wayne said and hung up.
Greg stood up and stretched, his back making an audible popping
noise. He tried to remember a black jacket. Finally he found it in
the hall closet. He laid it over the couch and rubbed at his
forehead. He really, really wanted another cigarette.
*Shit, the journal.*
He grabbed it, along with his notes, from the coffee table and
stashed it on top of the bookcase where it couldn't be found easily.
It wasn't like there was anything terribly personal in the journal,
plus his handwriting was so sloppy it could barely be interpreted,
but he didn't want to take the chance of anyone coming across it. He
didn't want to look like an idiot.
He vaguely hoped he'd be able to remember where he'd put it
afterwards.
The doorbell rang. He sighed, walked to the door and opened it. Wayne
was standing in the doorway, his arms folded casually across his
chest.
"Hi, Wayne." Greg said.
"Hi." And then Wayne wrapped his arms around Greg's neck, pushing him
back into the house. Greg tried to break the embrace, but he was
laughing at the same time he was fighting, and Wayne's hands were
insistent.
"Wayne..." he finally said, still struggling weakly, fighting against
his own quickening heartbeat. "Not now." He pushed Wayne away gently.
"Why not?"
"Didn't you want your jacket?" Greg walked into the living room. He
tossed the jacket to Wayne. "You've got to remember where you leave
your shit."
Wayne put the jacket around his shoulders. He moved closer to Greg.
Greg had always admired the confidence Wayne moved with. He could
walk into any room as if he was perfectly comfortable with it, as if
he owned it. Greg leaned back against the couch.
Wayne stood next to him, adopting his posture, gently mocking. "So
now I've got the jacket..."
"And now I've got stuff to do." Greg said. "Your wife's gonna be
worried."
"She's at the club with her friends. She's a party girl." As always,
there was amused affection in Wayne's voice when he brought up his
wife; for a moment he seemed like the usual loving husband, tolerant
of the spouse's quirks.
Greg took his elbows off the couch. "You've got the answers to
everything, don't you?"
Wayne looked at him levelly. "Not everything."
"Wayne, I've got so much shit to do."
"It can wait."
"No, it actually *can't.* What happened to `I'll be out of here in
two seconds?'"
"Oh, I can take two seconds." Wayne glanced at him. "But you wouldn't
like it much."
Greg started to walk away. Wayne touched his shoulder. He turned
around.
Wayne reached his hand up and stroked the skin along Greg's jaw, so
lightly it was barely a touch, running the tip of his index finger
against Greg's earlobe. His hand stayed cupped around Greg's cheek.
Greg let his breath out shakily.
"Don't tell me to go, Greg," Wayne said, dropping his hand from
Greg's face and letting it rest on his shoulder. With his other hand
he reached up under Greg's tie. Greg could feel the imprint of
Wayne's hand against his stomach.
"Wayne..."
"I like to see you." Wayne said. He began loosening Greg's tie. "I
like to see you, and I like to talk to you."
"Since when do you like to talk to me?" Greg said, but his voice had
thickened. He let Wayne maneuver him over to the couch.
"When do you think?" Wayne was fumbling with Greg's zipper.
"Wayne..." Greg said, his voice a low growl. "Goddamnit..."
"Shh."
Greg knew that he should, by all rights, pull away and go back to the
journal, that he was too old to be responding to booty calls. But the
only problem was that he was sinking into Wayne's mouth, Wayne's
tongue flicking expertly over the sensitive slit in his cock. Wayne's
hands were warm and strong, gripping him tightly. He felt the tension
in his body build, until it was almost painful, until it flooded out
of him. He moaned.
Wayne's warm brown eyes looked up at him with amusement. He patted
Greg's stomach gently, then stood up and walked into Greg's bathroom
before Greg could even catch his breath.
Greg sprawled backward on the couch, feeling his heartbeat slow down.
He realized he had to piss. He stood up and staggered into the
bathroom.
Wayne was standing at the sink washing his hands. He smiled at Greg,
stepping up behind him.
"I'll see you at work tomorrow," he said, rubbing Greg's back.
"Yeah." Greg's thinking had slowed to a crawl; he really just wanted
to go to bed. "You're not staying or anything?"
"No, I want to be back before she gets home. See ya." And then he was
gone.
Greg flushed the toilet and stumbled into his bedroom, where he
barely managed to get his glasses off before dropping into a
restless, uncomfortable sleep.
******
It was amazing, Greg thought, how easy it was for him and Wayne to
turn professional once they got to work. It was like a light switch;
flick it on, flick it off. In moments of quiet, though, outside
thoughts kept nagging at him.
Now, sitting at Raleigh and watching Colin and Ryan's backs as they
did Sound Effects, with Wayne sitting beside him, he found himself
thinking that he was almost forty two and he was sneaking around like
a sixteen year old. It irritated him.
What irritated him the most was that he had no fucking clue what
Wayne wanted from him. If it was just for a fuck session, well, that
would be acceptable. He'd always said that he never considered actual
relationships to be that important. But if Wayne wanted something
else...but what else would he want? That was the thing. Why did he
keep showing up?
It wasn't the relationship itself, he realized, as he reached for the
glass of water beside him. It was Wayne. He couldn't figure Wayne
out. Wayne was a nice Christian boy from Florida. What was he doing
with him?
*Shut up, Proops,* the voice in his head piped up. *You're getting
laid by a good-looking guy. And just look at you. That should enough
for anyone.*
Well, it wasn't. What would be enough would be figuring out exactly
what the fuck was happening. He certainly didn't want anything else.
Jesus, who could imagine him living in a nice suburban house with two
calico cats and someone waiting for him by the door?
*You could. You just did. You sap.*
*Oh, shut up.*
"Greg." Wayne's voice cut through the thoughts piling up in his
brain. He felt someone poking him. "Earth to Greg, man."
Greg jerked his head up. "Oh, me. That would be me. Yeah?"
Wayne pointed at Drew, who was staring at him. "I just called your
name, man. Improbable Mission. You going senile?" The audience
laughed. Ryan and Colin looked back at him, amused looks on their
faces.
*Real professional, dude. You're too self-absorbed to even do your
fucking JOB.*
Greg stood up, giving the cameras his most charming smile. "Oh, you
know me, Drew. I'm just dazzled by the bright lights and shiny colors
that comprise this show." He went after the microphone Drew was
holding out to him.
"Apparently someone put some acid in Greg's water before the show
started." Drew said, handing over the microphone. "Anyway, can I get
an everyday activity from someone? Washing your hair, something like
that?"
Flick it on, flick it off.
One thing was certain, Greg thought, as he launched into his
usual, "Good morning, gentlemen," speech. He had to sort some things
out.
******
Chain-smoking, Greg sprawled on his couch, trying to get distracted
by the combined noise of the stereo blasting the Beastie Boys and the
television blasting ESPN. It wasn't working. He felt like he was
fumbling in the dark, trying to figure out what was happening, but
then that had always been the case. He was remembering the beginning
against his will.
It had begun at the cast party at Drew's house, a few months ago. It
was after the last taping before the summer hiatus. It was also one
of the rare times when Greg had actually felt good about his
performance, and he'd celebrated by drinking more than he usually
did.
Colin had found him lying on the couch in the living room of Drew's
house, about to burn a hole in the couch with his cigarette.
"You," he'd said, "are smashed."
"I'm not smashed at all." Greg struggled up and crushed the cigarette
out. He looked up at Colin. "I really love you. You're so great."
"Now I know you're drunk." Colin said. He sat down on the couch and
patted Greg's head. "You only start being nice when you're drunk."
"I'm *always* nice."
"Yes, of course you are, Greg." Colin snagged the Corona Greg was
holding and put it on the coffee table. "Let's call a cab to pour you
into, okay?"
"Spoilsport."
"What's going on?" Wayne appeared in the doorway.
"I'm calling a cab for him," Colin said.
"I don't need a cab. I'm totally, absolutely okay." Greg
said. "Where'd my beer go?"
"Someplace far away." Colin said.
Greg sighed and started to sit up. The couch moved beneath him; he
caught his breath and put his head forward into his hands. "All
right, I don't need another drink."
"You know, I'm just about to leave, Colin." Wayne said. "I can take
him home."
Colin glanced at Greg. "Probably wouldn't be a bad idea."
"All right, Rico Suave," Wayne said to Greg. "We're taking off." He
came closer to the couch. "Help me get him up, would you?"
"No, no, don't." Greg said. He was beginning to move from the happy-
drunk stage to the feeling-slightly-sick-drunk stage, and going home
seemed like the best option. "I can get up. Just give me a hand or
somethin'."
Wayne held his forearm as he stood up, letting his other hand rest on
the small of Greg's back. The floor beneath Greg's feet seemed to be
moving now; he grabbed onto Wayne's shoulder. Colin stood looking at
him worriedly.
"I'm okay," Greg said when the floor stopped moving. He let go of
Wayne's shoulder. "I'm really sorry, you guys..."
"Don't worry about it." Wayne said, his voice very close to Greg's
ear. He still hadn't removed his hand from Greg's back; Greg guessed
it was there for support.
Colin said, "It happens to everyone." He rubbed Greg's
shoulder. "I'll see you in the fall sometime."
"Yeah." Greg said.
Wayne said, "All right, let's roll."
Greg barely remembered the ride back to his house. He spent most of
the drive slumped in the passenger seat, holding his hand over his
eyes. Wayne drove Greg's car like he had been born in it.
"Oh, Christ," Greg said. The drive had been a painful blur, but he
felt a little more sober than he had been. "What about your car?"
"I'll pick it up tomorrow." Wayne said. "No big thing." He pulled
into Greg's driveway and turned off the engine. "Want your keys?"
"Yeah." Greg put the keys in his pocket and opened the car door. He
swung his feet out too fast, misjudging his sobriety; his head
swirled alarmingly. He took a deep breath and lowered his head,
resting his elbows on his knees.
"Whoa." Wayne said. Greg heard the other car door open and shut;
there was a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"
"I would assume so." Greg said faintly.
"Need some help?" Before Greg could answer Wayne pulled him up,
slowly, both hands on his shoulders, keeping them there. Greg laughed
hesitantly, raising his own hands to Wayne's shoulders. His thinking
was fuzzy, but he had a vague idea that something important was
happening.
"You are *so* damn cute," Wayne said, his light Southern accent
turned soft and inviting. His eyes were unreadable in the dark light.
Greg laughed again. He looked at the ground.
"You never look anyone in the eye, Greg," Wayne said. "Want to tell
me why?"
Greg shrugged. "So I have to have a reason?"
"Maybe." Wayne said, tilting his head up and pulling him close. And
Greg found himself responding, sliding his hands under Wayne's shirt,
stroking the hardened abdomen muscles. Wayne's skin felt like velvet
covering iron, the softness distracting from the strength.
Wayne drew away from Greg's mouth, backing away from Greg's eager
hands. "Inside," he said, running a finger over Greg's
jawline. "We've got to have some privacy."
Greg fumbled with his keys opening the door. They made it into the
bedroom, and it began. It was something unexpected in Greg's life, a
good-looking, married guy pursuing him, and for a couple of months,
he had enjoyed it.
But now...Greg shook his head to try to clear it of the memories, of
the sound of his own voice pleading Wayne, nearly *begging,* "Don't
stop. Don't stop," with a lack of control that terrified him more
than he would ever admit. He wasn't a kid anymore and he should start
behaving like one. He stubbed out his cigarette, turned off the
television and the stereo, and dialed Wayne's cell phone number.
"This is getting ridiculous," he said when Wayne picked up.
"Do you even bother to say hello anymore?"
"Don't fuck around."
"I'm not." Wayne's voice was suddenly calm and cold. "What is it?"
"I'm just getting kind of bored with the routine, Wayne. You get your
rocks off every two weeks or something, and that's about it."
"You're not."
"What?"
"You're not getting bored. That has nothing to do with it."
"I don't have a clue what you're talking about."
"You want it this way, Greg."
"Don't tell me what I want."
"Greg, if I ever tried to get serious with you, you'd kick me out the
door. You hold everyone at arm's length. Me, Ryan, Colin, everyone. I
don't think there's one person out there who knows who you really
are, and that's the way you like it. So don't tell me that you're
sick of what we're doing."
Greg winced. What Wayne was saying was true, to an extent. He'd never
thought he had anything really important to tell anyone, so he'd
never bothered. But Wayne had him on the defensive, and he was
pissed. This wasn't the way things were meant to go down.
Greg said, "Yeah, but it's the way you want it too, right? You've got
it both ways. You've got your nice pretty wife to make appearances
with you, and then you've got me. It's the all-American dream, isn't
it? You can look like the perfect clean-living Christian..."
"Don't you *dare.*" Wayne's voice whipped over the phone line. "Don't
you dare bring my religion into this. What I do with my life is
between me and God, and you're not going to twist it around."
In that minute Greg knew he'd gone too far. His mouth had gotten
ahead of his brain again. He stared at a crack in the ceiling.
"You know what I think it is?" Wayne said. "It has nothing to do with
me. It's because it's something you can't control, and it's driving
you nuts. What would you say to me if you were in my place?"
Greg still said nothing. He got up off the couch and started pacing.
"You just can't leave a good thing alone." Wayne said. His voice had
lost the angry edge. Now he sounded almost sad. "You pick at it and
pick at it until it's no good anymore. I'm hanging up."
"Wayne..."
"You're going to wind up very lonely, Greg." Wayne hung up.
Greg tossed the phone away from him. "Shit."
******
He'd fucked up big time and he knew it. He started taking inventory
of his life. His house looked like anyone could have lived there. He
had bought it three years ago with grand sweeping plans to decorate,
put up his movie posters and the art prints he'd bought in London,
repaint the sterile off-white walls that didn't feel like him, but
his posters and prints were currently moldering in storage and the
walls had stayed the same color. He had told himself that he was just
too lazy to redo the house, but it was beginning to feel like more
than that. He didn't want to put anything that reflected himself out
for display.
He hadn't spoken to Wayne since the phone call, although they treated
each other with icy politeness at work. He fell back into the regular
routine: standup, tapings, then going back to his house that had
never felt like home and staring at the television.
*Try to leave a good thing alone.*
He gave up. He was bored and he was lonely.
He waited until the taping was done for the day and knocked on
Wayne's dressing room door. *Big star,* he found himself thinking. *I
can't remember ever having my own dressing room.*
"Who is it?" Wayne's voice was casual and detached.
"It's me." Greg said.
A long pause. "Oh."
"Can I come in? For a second?"
Another pause. "Yeah, okay."
Greg opened the door. Wayne was sitting cross-legged on the floor,
his eyes focused on the small television that he had insisted be
installed in the room, playing what Greg guessed was Racer Zero.
Wayne had been obsessed with playing it for the past two months. The
room was filled with the sound of electronic tires roaring.
Wayne turned off the Playstation and turned his head towards Greg,
not getting up. His face was guarded.
"I'm old and set in my ways, Wayne," Greg said.
"I sort of figured that out."
"It's not something I can just...disengage. It's fucking *difficult*
to just be satisfied."
Wayne stood up from the floor stiffly. "I know. You have a hard time.
It's just I've always known exactly what I want."
"Well, what do you want, Wayne?"
Wayne sighed. He leaned back against the dressing room table. "I
want...I want to keep working. I want to keep singing. I want the
show to do well. I want a house up in the Hills where I can grow old
with my wife. I want kids and a couple of pets. And you. I want you."
"You see, that's what I don't get." Greg said. "You know. Why both?
Why don't you toss me out and go home to her? Why don't you pick one
or the other?"
Wayne looked at him levelly. "Because this is the way I want it. Is
it possible?"
"It might be."
"Is that your offer?"
"No repercussions. How are you getting home?"
"My wife's got the car. She's meant to come to the studio to pick me
up."
"Can she take a rain check?"
"She'd love to. She wanted to go see her sister today, anyhow." Wayne
got out his cell phone. Greg withdrew from the dressing room without
being asked, waiting outside until Wayne appeared.
******
"Do you think this looks weird?" Wayne said in the car, going back to
Greg's house. "You think the valet was getting ideas?"
"I don't think so. Maybe it would if we had...you know."
"Huh."
"Maybe we should have. Loud and proud."
Wayne looked at him mischievously. "Oh, sure. That'd be a good career
move. `The Wayne Brady Show, starring Wayne Brady, the black gay
guy.' It'd go over really well in Alabama."
Greg pulled into his driveway and turned off the car. "Want to come
in for a drink or somethin'?"
"Or something."
Inside the house, they touched more hesitantly than before, almost
nervously. Before, Greg thought, Wayne had barely been in the house
for five seconds before they were all over each other. Now they
touched as though they were afraid of offending each other.
And then there were Wayne's hands, Wayne's mouth, his cock. Greg's
hands brushed over the silky, tender skin below Wayne's abdomen, and
for a little while he didn't need to think, just respond.
When it was over, their bodies sheened with sweat, Greg found himself
easing back into that sleepy, post-coital fog. His eyes were just
beginning to shut when he felt Wayne sliding out of the bed.
"You don't have to go yet," he said.
"I do...she's waiting." Wayne leaned over and kissed Greg's forehead
lightly. "I'm getting myself a cab. I'll see you at work." And then
he was gone.
Totally awake, Greg rolled over in the bed and lit a cigarette. He
could still feel Wayne's body heat emanating from the empty space
beside him. He laughed harshly.
It occurred to him that even after everything, he still might end up
lonely.