Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) (18 page)

The man at the sink lifted his head and his eyes met Lionel’s in the mirror. Some middle-aged, pink-faced bozo … definitely
not
Franklin Potter. Lionel turned his attention to the other man, the one at the urinal, and all at once recognized the billowing brown hair.
Definitely
Franklin Potter.

He casually ambled over to the urinal directly to the left of Potter’s, right across from the toilet stalls. He unzipped himself and pulled his penis through the fly, and managed to summon up a stream of piss loud enough to allay any suspicions the man at the sink might have about his motive.

And then he waited for the unwanted third party to leave. After what seemed an eternity of primping and preening, he eventually did so, leaving Lionel and Franklin Potter alone in the men’s room, at exactly adjacent stalls. It was too exciting to be believed.

Lionel took a deep breath and then sloooowly turned his head. And before he could see Franklin Potter’s face, he could smell Franklin Potter’s breath, which was like a distillery. A very
busy
distillery. And when his eyes dared to settle on the actor’s face, he was amazed to find him asleep — his eyes shut, his cheeks puffing gently with each breath. Franklin Potter was so trashed that he’d conked out while standing at a urinal!

Lionel checked his watch. It was two minutes to eight; at any moment, someone would come in looking for Potter. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and he had only seconds to seize it. He had been given, by a benevolent God, the perfect chance to stare with impunity at the unveiled splendor of Franklin Potter’s cock.

He leaned over a little, and could see the actor’s arm reaching into the interior space of the urinal; but he couldn’t yet see his hand, nor what that hand was presumably still holding. So he leaned in a little further — he could make out the golden tones of Franklin Potter’s wrist; a little further — and there was a glimpse of telling pinkness — that glorious expanse of unsheathed skin — if only he could get just a
little
closer —

And that’s when Franklin Potter began to topple. Lionel had pressed into the actor’s shoulder, upsetting his balance. His arm slid down the wall and back to his side, and the weight of that arm pulled him away from the urinal and toward the floor. Lionel yelped and grabbed, him, and pulled him upright again.

Which was a big mistake. Because now, instead of slumping to the floor, all hundred-and-seventy-odd pounds of Franklin Potter’s dead weight was falling on Lionel. He tried to push him away, but the tiled floor was slippery, and he lost his footing. Attempting to regain it, he stumbled back into a stall, where he fell and hit his head against the base of the toilet. He barked in pain, then shook the stars from his eyes, caught his breath, and sat up to find Franklin Potter lying on top of him, his face pressed right up against Lionel’s exposed penis.

He panicked; he cried out.

His cry had two effects: the first was to partially revive Franklin Potter, who began to stir; the second was to summon into the men’s room a handful of men who had overheard him and come to help. Among these, as fate would have it, was Perlman, who carried a plate of Vienna sausages rolled in pastry shells, which, at the sight of Lionel and Franklin Potter lying together in a toilet stall with both their phalluses hanging out, appeared to become less appetizing to him. He set the plate on the counter and forgot about it.

“Lionel,” he said — and he was the only one of those assembled who was able to find his voice — “what the
hell
is going on?”

And Lionel opened his mouth to explain, but no sound emerged. He was facing a final and bitter defeat. Even worse, he had brought this exposure on himself, all for the sake of a petty, voyeuristic act that wasn’t even a
real
sexual experience. The autumn leaves with Tracy began to go up in smoke.

Lionel found Tracy sulking in the hotel lobby. She sat with her arms folded and her lips pursed, the delicate webbing of her dress pressed beneath her carelessly, as though she’d thrown herself into the chair; that dress would certainly not look right again for the rest of the evening. She had one knee crossed over the other and her foot was bouncing in the air, as if eager to kick anyone who passed too near.

He sat opposite her. She couldn’t not know he was there, but she refused to look at him.

“You’re not going to believe what just happened to me,” he said.

She arched an eyebrow, intrigued; she obviously hadn’t anticipated
this
as an opening gambit. But still she said nothing.

“I went to the men’s room to take a leak, and ended up standing at the urinal right next to Franklin Potter.”

A hint of interest; the foot stopped bouncing momentarily.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “And get this, the guy is so blotto, so smashed, that he’s standing there
asleep
.”

She finally met his eye, but with a do-you-take-me-for-a-moron look.

“I’m not kidding! He had one arm against the wall like this,” and here he demonstrated, “propping himself up. And it was, like, two minutes to eight, and I knew he was supposed to emcee the banquet, so while I was whizzing I kind of elbowed him and said, ‘Hey. Hey,
Potter
.’”

Tracy’s foot went entirely still. She couldn’t resist him any longer. “And?” she asked.

“You’ll never guess.”

“Not going to try. What’d he do?”

“He
fell
on me.”

Her hand leapt to her mouth.
“What?”

“Tipped right over, on top of me. Knocked me into a stall, and I hit my head on the toilet and I guess I yelled a little. ‘Cause next thing I know, who’s charging in to see what’s wrong but
Perlman
.” He could see her eyes widen with alarm and delight, and so he warmed to his story. “And there’s me, lying on the floor with Franklin Potter, who’s just now coming around, and both our schlongs flapping out of our zippers.”

“Oh. My. God.”
She put her hand on her heart. “You must’ve
died
.”

“No, I was too disoriented. I think
Perlman
almost had a heart attack, though. Fortunately, right then Potter’s manager comes rushing in and is all apologetic, tells us this is something the guy does all the time — gets drunk at events and goes to sleep it off at the urinals. Because apparently the only time everyone will leave him alone is when he’s having a slash, so he’s learned how to maximize the opportunity.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I don’t think Perlman will
ever
stop ribbing me about this.”

The clouds in her face entirely dispersed and she laughed sunnily. “Serves you right for being such a big homophobe,” she said, picking up her purse and getting back to her feet. “God was punishing you for what you said.”

Maybe not for what I said,
though Lionel as they headed back to the ballroom.
But possibly for what I thought.

More determined than ever to become an upstanding heterosexual, Lionel took the Almighty’s warning to heart, and for the rest of the evening was as attentive and charming to Tracy as he knew how to be.

For his part, Franklin Potter demonstrated that amazing ability many celebrities possess of being able to perform exceedingly well while exceedingly wasted. During the entirety of the ceremony he was witty, polished, and well-paced, and no one in the ballroom who hadn’t seen him sprawled out on the men’s room floor, both tongue and dong hanging limp, would’ve guessed that he was anything but stone cold sober.

A Gold Trippy Award was in due course presented to Deming, Stark & Williams, and Perlman went up to claim it. Becca applauded energetically, deliriously happy for her husband. That happiness was doubled by the way the Leo Burnett table kept committing what she considered blunders of etiquette serious enough to warrant her running condemnation. (“Look at them
now
,” she kept sneering to Tracy, who, in the face of a greater evil, she had quite forgiven for her earlier outburst.)

While Perlman was at the dais, shaking the presenter’s hand and accepting the plaque, Magellan got to his feet and gave him a standing ovation. Lionel, in spite of himself, got a little lump in his throat; didn’t they all work hard, and wasn’t it somehow moving to have their work lauded not only by their peers, but at the same time by their client, in whose cause they toiled? Following Magellan’s lead, everyone else at the table got to his or her feet as well, and continued applauding until Perlman returned to the table flush with success, his suntanned forehead slick with nervous sweat. He shook Magellan’s hand and, grinning like cats, they all sat again (except for Dolores, who happily stayed on her feet applauding until her husband rather brusquely pulled her down again — which brusqueness was, oddly enough, sufficient to shift her wig into its correct position, so that she found herself suddenly able to see from both eyes and accordingly raised no objection).

Lionel, who perhaps with justification regarded the award with no small measure of propriety, looked at Tracy, who in turn looked at him, and when their eyes met they couldn’t help giggling. Ridiculous their bosses might be, but it was a grand night, and he was proud of them … they were proud of each other. He reached under the table and took her hand; squeezed it. She squeezed back, and they held each other that way for several longish moments, until Lionel grew embarrassed and withdrew, pretending to have to adjust his cummerbund.

Several other awards were yet to be presented, but for the Deming, Stark & Williams table the evening was essentially over. After another round of drinks, during which client and agency toasted each other with palpable cheer, the conversation broke up like clay, and each couple found itself making eye signals at each other, silently negotiating their imminent departures.

Had the Magellans been the first to go, the agency people might have taken the opportunity to linger and discuss the evening’s triumph more freely than they’d been able to in his presence. But after waiting what they all considered sufficient time for him to take his leave, he remained in place, ordering black coffee after black coffee for his wife, on whom the megadoses of caffeine were having no discernible effect. (Lionel knew it was hopeless when a waiter two tables away let a few dishes drop and shatter, causing Dolores to burst into sobs because it was “such a waste, such a
waste
.”) Finally, the Demings got up, showered their tablemates with extravagant goodbyes, and departed. Then, once Becca had had a chance to cast a few final aspersions on the parentage of the waitstaff, she and Perlman got up and followed suit. That left Lionel and Tracy alone with the Magellans, which was clearly a danger; Dolores’s tongue may have been swollen, but it might still prove too sharp for polite company, and Tracy’s love of mischief might inspire her to make things worse.

But now, when push had come to shove — or would shortly, if they followed tonight’s romantic agenda — Lionel felt himself completely disinclined to leave the table, no matter what Dolores might say or Tracy do. The very idea of leaving the hotel and taking Tracy home — and of confronting what came after that — made him go as flaccid as a deflated balloon. Fear and inertia kept him in his seat, and he could feel Tracy’s eyes on him, could almost see her quizzical expression as he and Magellan exchanged an occasional word about some triviality that could easily be discussed during the week. Eventually it became apparent that even Magellan wanted them gone, so that he could deal with his sodden wife without risk of further embarrassment.

Lionel got up and stood behind Tracy’s chair (he resisted the urge to say “We who are about to die salute you”), and went through the motions of helping her slide it back from the table. Then they said goodbye to Magellan, who again thanked Lionel for all his hard work, and as they exited the ballroom they could hear Dolores muttering “Son of a bitch” to something her husband had now said to her.

Exhausted of conversation and sated by their meals, both Lionel and Tracy were silent on the elevator to the parking garage, and exchanged only a few words in the car, largely to do with the best route to take home at this late hour. But there was a tension between them — the tension of not being sure What Happens Next. As Lionel drove up Lake Shore Drive he had to resist the urge to swing onto the beach and plow into the water, because however much doubt there might be about What Happened Next, he was growing increasingly certain about What Wouldn’t Happen Ever. Tracy was enchanting, she was a soul mate, and he was fairly certain she regarded him as nothing less than Mr. Right. But Lionel’s withered loins assured him that, whatever fleeting waves of desire he might have felt for her tonight, he was definitely the wrong Mr. Right. He recalled the incident with Franklin Potter and thought, maybe it
wasn’t
God punishing him; maybe it was God’s
warning
. Accept yourself, he might have been telling Lionel; take this as proof that you cannot change.

I really can’t,
he admitted to himself as he glided onto the Belmont Avenue exit ramp. Tracy rolled down her window to take in the sailboats napping in drydock. She rested her arms on the window ledge and sighed. Contented creature, natural creature; woman, through and through. What had she hooked up with?
Accept
himself? Could the Almighty really ask him to do anything so loathsome? To accept that he preferred a hairy Romanian anarchist who scratched himself in public to an ethereal blonde
gamine
in a strapless cocktail dress?

His head was spinning and, becoming a fatalist, he actually ran a yellow light in order to get Tracy home all the sooner. He no longer cared to delay the inevitable. He wanted to have it over, as quickly as possible, over and done with, and then he would do whatever he could to repair the damage.

He pulled up in front of Tracy’s building, shifted into park, but pointedly did not turn off the engine. He turned to her — his seatbelt still tight about his waist — and said, “What a wonderful evening. Thanks for coming with me.”

She giggled, as though he were putting on an act for her, suddenly becoming coy to amuse her. Although she was seemingly calm, he noticed that she’d used the thumbnail of her right hand to scrape all the nail polish off the thumbnail of the left. So she must be as nervous as he was, and that didn’t help at all. Better if she didn’t care, if her ego weren’t so vulnerable to his every move. Because his every move was now dedicated to escaping her.

A little chasm of silence opened up between them, and a moment later she shrugged, gave her thumbnail another scratch, and said, “Come up for a drink?”

“Oh, I don’t drink,” he said at once. “Liquor is poison. It kills millions every year.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed a little. She couldn’t help being amused, but was fighting it. His wit was the last thing she wanted from now.

“Then come up and have an
Ovaltine
,” she said. “I’ll nuke it for you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” he said with faux earnestness. “Microwaves release deadly radiation. It kills millions every year.”

She put her hand to her forehead and shook her head.

“It’s a fact,” he said insistently. “I read it in the
Enquirer
. Right next to the story about the colony they found on the dark side of the moon that’s inhabited entirely by clones of Elvis and Eleanor Roosevelt.”

She scrunched up her face and turned away from him, not wanting him to see that she was laughing; but her shoulders shook, giving her away. When she regained control of her voice, she said, “Get out of the car and come upstairs.”

It was close to a command as she could make it. Lionel’s heart hiccoughed. “I
couldn’t
,” he said in desperation. “Do you know how dangerous stairs are? They can trip you and smash your face in. They kill millions every —” She whirled and looked at him with such an expression of manic frustration that the words died in his throat. He paused, swallowed, and said, “I couldn’t and remain a gentleman.”

The engine was idling high, causing the car to vibrate. “For God’s sake, Lionel, no one’s
asking
you to be a gentleman,” she said, a little edge of exasperation in her voice. “Come up for a drink. For God’s
sake
.” She reached over and unlatched the passenger door, which fell open a few inches. Exhaust fumes seeped into the car.

She turned and saw he wasn’t following.
“Li
onel,” she said, now fully irritated. “This isn’t
funny
. What’s wrong?”

He gulped, and felt like a boa constrictor swallowing an ostrich egg. “
I’m
wrong,” he said. “Don’t ask why.”

“Why?”

“I told you not to ask.”

“I don’t take orders very well.” She shut the door again. “Lionel.
Look
at me.” He obeyed. “What’s the matter?”

“
I’m
the matter.”

“Oh, for —” She reached over and pulled him close to her, and kissed him on the mouth.

He let himself be kissed, but didn’t reciprocate. She let him go with a gasp of anger, then looked at him with naked hurt on her face. It broke his heart to see her this way.

“You’re not going to come up, are you?” she asked, her voice cracking.

He shook his head, mortified, ashamed. “No.”

“Just come upstairs,” she said, almost pleading. “It’ll be all right.” She put her hand back on the door handle, and Lionel noticed that thumbnail again, bare of polish except for a few remnant flecks. The sight of it caused him so much grief. This must be what he was doing to her heart, just scraping away at it.

“I can’t come upstairs, Tracy. I mean, I
can
, but it wouldn’t do any good. I’m — I’m —” He ran his finger along the cool vinyl of the steering wheel, staring at it as he felt its contours and textures. “I’m actually from the planet Remulak, you see, and —”