True Story

I think it was that Rhonda Byrne book on the nightstand.The Secret. Or that
lonely guest bedroom with a single, and two windows wide open to steal a cool breeze
from the harbor. As soon as I saw that book I wondered why the hell they’d put
something like that in a guest bedroom. I would never do shit like that. It’s bad enough
when you’re not staying in your own place; when you’re staying in the beach house of a
friend of a friend, who you’ve never met before. Someone who you don’t know how to
behave around, or at least not yet. I’d forgotten his name twice already since we got
there. But then again, I was always bad with names. Faces, on the other hand, I’m
particularly good with.

They stuck me in a bleak room, something that belonged in an old Cape Cod bed
& breakfast that was just waiting to be torn down. The furniture wasn’t real. I mean—it
wasreal, but not something anyone would actually choose to put in their home. It
seemed like a room staged for old TV shows. There wasn’t any character in the small
bed, the dark wooden nightstand with its long, thin legs, and that wooden chair with a
egg-white cushion that was too rough to sit on. AndThe Secret, tossed on the nightstand
as if someone had been sleeping in that room every night, turning those pages every day.
Like someone was expecting to come back and read it again. If it was me I’d at least fill
that space with some David Sedaris, or maybe a solid western like my grandpa used to
read. Maybe a Louis L’Amour. What kind of host strives to depress their own house
guests with a self-help book?

Maybe it wasn’t even the book though. I should add that there was a party going
on in the apartment that night. Usually I’m a little more social—or at least try to be—but
I didn’t have any effort that night. We’d gotten to Provincetown around 2 PM on a
Friday. I came with one of my co-workers, Chris, and his Irish boyfriend who I’d never
met before that day.
Let’s face it: 2 PM is way too early to arrive in a vacation spot if you’re not
feeling the vacation.

I should also add that this PTown trip was spontaneous. It went something like
this: I was the manager at a high-end restaurant in Boston, that wore the fuck out of me
every single week, and kept me from going anywhere. For two months one of my
friends, a server, begged me to go to Provincetown with him for one weekend, a short
trip. He had this friend there: Danny, or Donny. Maybe Derek. Maybe it’s just Don. I
couldn’t remember.

This Don (we’ll call him Don) had a sweet setup: a 3-bedroom apartment in
Provincetown, and a short walk from the beach. Don was also single. And looking.
Why the fuck I’d want to meet a single guy who lives in Provincetown was beyond me,
and I knew that Chris only wanted an excuse to not spend money on a hotel. I was the
solution.

And so at 2 PM on a Friday we arrived at Provincetown, at a 3-bedroom condo
owned by this guy Don. He was the kind of guy who had to tell us about five times that
he lived in a 3-bedroom in Provincetown,after we’d toured the apartment. I think he
even ran off the square footage at one point. I knew that the party Don was throwing for
us was gonna be flooded with just about every douche bag in the Cape. And believe it or
not, the gay Doucheoisie isn’t all that different from the straight one. The outfits are Ed
Hardy or Ivy-league college sweaters, the conversation is work and money, and everyone
is drinking cosmos as if they’re about to go out of style.

So that explains why at midnight I was still in the guest room. I wasn’t alone—
don’t get me wrong, if I wanted to do my own thing in Ptown there are about thirty
different options aside from sitting in the world’s most depressing guest room. Some
people had wandered in; mostly the smokers who wanted a discreet place to light up. I
remember a green hookah with three hoses that one of Don’s friends lit. I remember a
guy in his forties wearing skin-tight black jeans, who sat on the bed with his legs folded,
a pensive expression on his face. Something sad just beneath his eyes; maybe the slow
way his lips twitched.

“Hunter! Hunter, are you having fun?” Chris had wandered into the guest room
at some point, while I was sitting on the bed, in-between puffs from the green-glass
hookah, slowly flipping through Rhonda Byrne’s book on life and the law of attraction.
Chris was drunk at that point, and it was easy to tell. I was used to seeing two versions of Chris every night. There was the work version; trim and proper and perfectly put-
together, soft-spoken, big smile, black clothing expertly selected to fit his thin physique.
This version could easily pass off as an executive assistant in a big Boston law firm, or as
the junior manager of some Copley hotel.

Unfortunately, there was that post-work version, when he’d roll his sleeves up,
slouch at the bar, and with each drink you’d see more and more hand waving. It was like
Liberace was hiding in his pants and all he needed to do was loosen up his belt with a
couple drinks. Sober Chris was cute—not my type, but cute. Drunk Chris was a bit
much for me.
“Yeah,” I replied. I don’t know why I replied to that question. The awfulare you
having fun? line. No one wants to get asked that at a party, especially not by a friend.

Did Ilook that miserable? “I’m just hanging out,” I added. I don’t know why, but I felt
like I needed to add something to convince him. As if it would make him suddenly
believe me and then return to the party.

“Come on,” he playfully called from the doorway, waving at me with one hand. His voice had gone up at least a few scales since pre-party. I wondered if his boyfriend was into that. “Don’s really into you, but he thinks you don’t like him.”
I guess Don wasn’t as dumb as I thought. Still, close to it.

“I’ll be in—gimme a few minutes. I’ve been talking to Glenn.” I pointed to the guy in tight black jeans who was still lingering on the bed, sitting in bad posture with his body leaned in towards the hookah. He didn’t look at me and I had no idea ifGlenn was actually his name. I wondered if he’d come alone or if there were some people out in the party who knew where he was.

While I was looking over to see ifGlenn had heard me, I missed whatever Chris
had drunkenly mumbled at the entrance. He’d drawn the suspicious attention of two
stoners who were sitting Indian-style in the corner of the guest room, and I noticed them
stand up to move elsewhere.
“Where’s your guy?”

“I don’t know,” a solemness overtook Chris, as if I’d just told him some really
awful news. In fact, his expression changed so quickly that I wondered if the boyfriend
had bailed Provincetown. Chris had this sad look, like something you’d see on a cartoon

character, or an old stage actress. “I don’t think I’m into him anymore,” he whined, and
pulled his body closer to one side of the doorway as the two stoners exited the guest
bedroom, leaving me alone with Chris and the quiet guy in the tight black jeans.

“Why don’t you go back to the party and we’ll talk about this later when you
sober up.” I really wasn’t in the mood to try and reason with a drunk. Chris was acting
like an idiot, and the fact that I was his boss at work made things all the more
complicated. I could see his eyes widening and contracting as he shifted his balance in
an effort to remain erect.Erect. What awful word choice with drunk Chris in the room.
If anything, I think my penis had shriveled up and retreated into my body.

“Well come out soon,” he muttered, but he wasn’t looking at me. Something caught his attention in the hallway and he spun around quickly, and within a couple of seconds he’d disappeared from the doorway. A regular David Blaine.

I sighed in relief and laid back down on the bed, briefly resting my head upon the floral-patterned mattress. It really was a hideous mattress. I don’t even think they make mattresses like that anymore.
“I can’t believe you’re still here.”

Even though I was sitting so close totight pants, I’d completely forgotten about
him. Or maybe it’s just that he seemed so mellow and robotic that I didn’t actually
expect him to open his mouth. It caught me off-guard; especially the warm sound of his
voice. Like that older elementary school teacher who all the kids are in love with, who
speaks quietly and wisely and wears the same v-neck sweater Monday through Friday.
He sounded like a gay Mr. Rogers, clad in tight jeans and a gaudy t-shirt with an Italian
designer’s name stamped on the front.

I’ve always been into older guys, but my style is more geared towards a Robert
DeNiro in Deer Hunter. And how can you blame me? When he was running naked
through the dark streets of that Pennsylvania mining town; that was sheer porn. Who
wouldn’t want to go hunting with him, and then fuck later, right up there in the
Appalachians, on a cold night when it’s too windy to make a campfire, and the only way
to stay warm is to hold on to each other inside a lone sleeping bag, listening to the sounds
of the surrounding forests as we fuck, deep into the first minutes of sunrise.

It wasn’t Tight Pants’ fault that I didn’t notice him.Glenn. He just wasn’t the

type of older guy that I’d notice.
“Oh, I’m sleeping here tonight.”
“Doesn’t mean you have tobe here,” he said, and pointed one of the hookah hoses
at me, waving it like a small wand. He spoke eloquently.
“Alright. Well what’s your excuse?”

I diverted the attention to him. I wasn’t in the mood to be grilled. The fact is, I
was in one of those grumpy moods that comes out of nowhere. Maybesomewhere, but I
was content thinking that it had come out of nowhere. And I felt much better keeping to
myself.

I think that he could tell I wasn’t in the mood to talk. Maybe because I wasn’t
looking at him. Because my eyes kept flickering between him, the hookah, those pale
yellow walls, and the Rhonda Byrne book, flipped open to a random page that I’d already
read before. I’d read it before—or part of it. I just couldn’t bring myself to finishThe
Secret, maybe because I knew that the thing I wanted most—or the person I wanted

most—wasn’t going to return to my life. And as much as I’d thought about him and
hoped that he’d come back to me, and pictured the two of us together again, Ms. Byrne’s
law of attraction didn’t seem to be working.
“I’m not in the mood,” is all he replied. He was matter of fact. I waited for more
of an explanation, but didn’t get one. His legs were folded in a position that made me

uncomfortable just thinking about it. Or maybe it was just the tightness of those jeans.
“Do you know—.”
“No. Two friends brought me.”
“Where are they?”
He smiled at me. I didn’t know where this was going. He seemed warm enough;

non-threatening, despite being much older. I felt safe with him, for some reason. I guess
because these types didn’t go after guys like me. He looked like the kind of queen who’d
be running a Studio 54, divvying out his love between blonde teenager dancers and
affected twinks.
“I don’t know. I don’t feel lonely or anything—,” he paused, and rested his chin
on one fist in a pensive expression. “They’re trying to cheer me up.”
“Bad week at work?”
“I wish. No, I think if I’d had a bad week at work, I’d be out there drinking right

now.”
“Yeah, I guess so. You going to be all right?”
He smiled. I guess he appreciated the concern.
“Um—I don’t know yet. A couple weeks ago I lost my life partner.”
I closed the book and looked up into his eyes. He wanted to talk, and until then,
his interaction was the first genuine thing I’d encountered since I arrived in
Provincetown.

“How long were you two together for?” I didn’t know what else to ask. Not that
the length of time really mattered—I mean, there are five-year relationships that are
stronger than twenty year relationships. I didn’t want to sayI’m sorry. It would’ve
sounded too cliché, especially when you don’t know the person. He had opened up to
me, a complete stranger, and I meant to let him know that I respected that. And Idid feel
for him. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was in love. It was more than
sadness—more like the reflection that comes with the realization you’ve lost something
important that you can never get back.

“Twelve years,” he replied. He was watching the doorway that led into the
hallway. He had a better view than I did of whatever was going on down there, although
I don’t think he was paying attention to the party. “But we’d been friends before that, for
quite a long time. We danced together. Same New York ballet company.” He smiled
again, but this time he was looking at me. “I was always in love with him though. It
was—I don’t know how to describe it—.Amazing when we finally connected. And I
treasured every day. We had so much fun—.”