Autumn: a Sunday around four o'clock in the afternoon. I'm atBarney's, buying cuʃ links. I had walked into the store at twothirty, after a cold, tense brunch with Christie's corpse, rushed upto the front counter, told a salesclerk, "I need a whip. Really." Inaddition to the cuʃ links, I've bought an ostrich travel case withdouble-zippered openings and vinyl lining, an antique silver,crocodile and glass pill jar, an antique toothbrush container, abadger-bristle toothbrush and a faux-tortoiseshell nailbrush.Dinner last night? At Splash. Not much to remember: a wateryBellini, soggy arugula salad, a sullen waitress. Afterwards Iwatched a repeat of an old Patty Winters Show that I found onwhat I originally thought was a videotape of the torture andsubsequent murder of two escort girls from last spring (the topicwas Tips on How Your Pet Can Become a Movie Star). Right nowI'm in the middle of purchasing a belt—not for myself—as well asthree ninety-dollar ties, ten handkerchiefs, a four-hundred-dollarrobe and two pairs of Ralph Lauren pajamas, and I'm having it allmailed to my apartment except for the handkerchiefs, which I'mhaving monogrammed then sent to P & P. I've already madesomewhat of a scene in the ladies' shoe department and,embarrassingly, was chased out by a distressed salesperson. Atɹrst it's only a sense of vague uneasiness and I'm unsure of itscause, but then it feels, though I can't be positive, as if I'm beingfollowed, as if someone has been tracking me throughoutBarney's.Luis Carruthers is, I suppose, incognito. He's wearing some kindof jaguar-print silk evening jacket, deerskin gloves, a felt hat,aviator sunglasses, and he's hiding behind a column, pretendingto inspect a row of ties, and, gracelessly, he gives me a sidelongglance. Leaning down, I sign something, a bill I think, andɻeetingly Luis's presence forces me to consider that maybe a lifeconnected to this city, to Manhattan, to my job, is not a goodidea, and suddenly I imagine Luis at some horrible party,drinking a nice dry rosé, fags clustered around a baby grand,show tunes, now he's holding a ɻower, now he has a feather boadraped around his neck, now the pianist bangs out somethingfrom Les Miz, darling."Patrick? Is that you?" I hear a tentative voice inquire.Like a smash cut from a horror movie—a jump zoom—LuisCarruthers appears, suddenly, without warning, from behind hiscolumn, slinking and jumping at the same time, if that's possible.I smile at the salesgirl, then awkwardly move away from him andover to a display case of suspenders, in dire need of a Xanax, aValium, a Halcion, a Frozfruit, anything.I don't, can't, look at him, but I sense he's moved closer to me.His voice conɹrms it."Patrick? ... Hello?"Closing my eyes, I move a hand up to my face and mutter,under my breath, "Don't make me say it, Luis.""Patrick?" he says, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"A hideous pause, then, "Patrick ... Why aren't you looking atme?""I'm ignoring you, Luis." I breathe in, calming myself bychecking the price tag on an Armani button-up sweater. "Can'tyou tell? I'm ignoring you.""Patrick, can't we just talk?" he asks, almost whining. "Patrick—look at me."After another sharp intake of breath, sighing, I admit, "There isnothing, noth-ing to talk—""We can't go on like this," he impatiently cuts me oʃ. "I can'tgo on like this."I mutter. I start walking away from him. He follows, insistent."Anyway," he says, once we've reached the other side of thestore, where I pretend to look through a row of silk ties buteverything's blurry, "you'll be glad to know that I'm transferring... out of state."Something rises oʃ me and I'm able to ask, but still withoutlooking at him, "Where?""Oh, a diʃerent branch," he says, sounding remarkably relaxed,probably due to the fact that I actually inquired about the move."In Arizona.""Ter-riɹc," I murmur."Don't you want to know why?" he asks."No, not really.""Because of you," he says."Don't say that," I plead."Because of you," he says again."You are sick," I tell him."If I'm sick it's because of you," he says too casually, checkinghis nails. "Because of you I am sick and I will not get better.""You have distorted this obsession of yours way out ofproportion. Way, way out of proportion," I say, then move over toanother aisle."But I know you have the same feelings I do," Luis says, trailingme. "And I know that just because ..." He lowers his voice andshrugs. "Just because you won't admit ... certain feelings youhave doesn't mean you don't have them.""What are you trying to say?" I hiss."That I know you feel the same way I do." Dramatically, hewhips oʃ his sunglasses, as if to prove a point."You have reached ... an inaccurate conclusion," I choke. "Youare ... obviously unsound.""Why?" he asks. "Is it so wrong to love you, Patrick?""Oh ... my ... god.""To want you? To want to be with you?" he asks. "Is that sowrong?"I can feel him staring helplessly into me, that he's near totalemotional collapse. After he ɹnishes, except for a long silence Ihave no answer. Finally I counter this by hissing, "What is thiscontinuing inability you have to evaluate this situationrationally?" I pause. "Huh?"I lift my head up from the sweaters, the ties, whatever, andglance at Luis. In that instant he smiles, relieved that I'macknowledging his presence, but the smile soon becomesfractured and in the dark inner recesses of his fag mind herealizes something and starts crying. When I calmly walk over toa column so I can hide behind it, he follows and roughly grabsmy shoulder, spinning me around so I'm facing him: Luis blottingout reality.At the same time I ask Luis to "Go away" he sobs, "Oh god,Patrick, why don't you like me?" and then, unfortunately, he fallsto the ɻoor at my feet."Get up," I mutter, standing there. "Get up.""Why can't we be together?" he sobs, pounding his ɹst on theɻoor."Because I ... don't"—I look around the store quickly to makesure no one is listening; he reaches for my knee, I brush his handaway—"ɹnd you ... sexually attractive," I whisper loudly, staringdown at him. "I can't believe I actually said that," I mumble tomyself, to no one, and then shake my head, trying to clear it,things reaching a level of confusion that I'm incapable ofregistering. I tell Luis, "Leave me alone, please," and I start towalk away.Unable to grasp this request, Luis grabs at the hem of myArmani silk-cloth trench coat and, still lying on the ɻoor, criesout, "Please, Patrick, please don't leave me.""Listen to me," I tell him, kneeling down, trying to haul Luis upoʃ the ɻoor. But this causes him to shout out something garbled,which turns into a wail that rises and reaches a crescendo thatcatches the attention of a Barney's security guard standing by thestore's front entrance, who starts making his way over."Look what you've done," I whisper desperately. "Get up. Getup.""Is everything okay?" The security guard, a big black guy, islooking down at us."Yes, thank you," I say, glaring at Luis. "Everything's ɹne.""No-o-o-o," Luis wails, racked with sobs."Yes," I reiterate, looking up at the guard."You sure?" the guard asks.Smiling professionally, I tell him, "Please just give us a minute.We need some privacy." I turn back to Luis. "Now come on, Luis.Get up. You're slobbering." I look back up at the security guardand mouth, holding up a hand, while nodding, "Just a minute,please."The security guard nods unsurely and moves hesitantly back tohis post.Still kneeling, I grab Luis by his heaving shoulders and calmlytell him, my voice lowered, as threatening as possible, as ifspeaking to a child about to be punished, "Listen to me, Luis. Ifyou do not stop crying, you fucking pathetic faggot, I am going toslit your fucking throat. Are you listening to me?" I slap himlightly on the face a couple of times. "I can't be more emphatic.""Oh just kill me," he wails, his eyes closed, nodding his headback and forth, retreating further into incoherence; then heblubbers, "If I can't have you, I don't want to live. I want to die."My sanity is in danger of fading, right here in Barney's, and Igrab Luis by the collar, scrunching it up in my ɹst, and pullinghis face very close to mine, I whisper, under my breath, "Listen tome, Luis. Are you listening to me? I usually don't warn people,Luis. So-be-thankful-I-am-warning-you."His rationality shot to hell, making guttural noises, his headbent down shamefully, he oʃers a response that's barely audible.I grab his hair—it's stiʃ with mousse; I recognize the scent asCactus, a new brand—and yanking his head up, snarling, I spitout, "Listen, you want to die? I'll do it, Luis. I've done it beforeand I will fucking gut you, rip your fucking stomach open andcram your intestines down your fucking faggot throat until youchoke on them."He's not listening. Still on my haunches, I just stare at him indisbelief."Please, Patrick, please. Listen to me, I've ɹgured it all out. I'mquitting P & P, you can too, and, and, and we'll relocate toArizona, and then—""Shut up, Luis." I shake him. "Oh my god, just shut up."I quickly stand, brushing myself oʃ, and when I think hisoutburst has subsided and I'm able to walk away, Luis grabs atmy right ankle and tries to hang on as I'm leaving Barney's and Iend up dragging him along for six feet before I have to kick himin the face, while smiling helplessly at a couple who are browsingnear the sock department. Luis looks up at me, imploring, thebeginnings of a small gash forming on his left cheek. The couplemove away."I love you," he miserably wails. "I love you.""I'm convinced, Luis," I shout at him. "You've convinced me.Now get up."Luckily, a salesperson, alarmed by the scene Luis has made,intervenes and helps him up.A few minutes later, after he's suɽciently calmed down, thetwo of us are standing just inside Barney's main entrance. He hasa handkerchief in one hand, his eyes are shut tightly, a bruiseslowly forms, swelling beneath his left eye. He seems composed."Just, you know, have the guts to face, uh, reality," I tell him.Anguished, he stares out the revolving doors at the warmfalling rain and then, with a mournful sigh, turns to me. I'mlooking at the rows, the endless rows, of ties, then at the ceiling.
