The Fuck-Up

People poured into the street, coagulated into lumps, which broke away and dissipated. I waited outside for Miguel to lock up. When he was finally done, a bunch of people had collected, waiting for him, or waiting for the few people who were waiting for him. I was about to bid him goodnight, when he asked me if I was hungry.

“Yeah, but I’m broke.”

“I’ll advance you,” Miguel offered. “You made us a tidy bundle tonight.”

So a group of us walked over to Second Avenue and south toward the Kiev where the cuisine was a mix of Eastern European and American greasy spoon, prepared by Indian short-order cooks. The waitress pulled together a bunch of small tables and after we took our seats, she quickly took our orders. I got a mixed pierogis with sour cream and a side of fries. Fragmented conversations started. I ate and listened to one group in front of me yapping about the film. When one guy called it “a low budget 2001,” I turned to my left and started eavesdropping on snatches of conversation in that direction, “Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X’s mentor, was the one who had him assassinated…and when Mayor Laguardia died they found that all he had was eight thousand dollars in war bonds…I’ve heard that both Roddy MacDowell and Uncle Miltie have the largest penises in Hollywood…” Although the details were interesting, they were difficult to follow.

One guy that Miguel had casually introduced to me earlier that evening, an older, responsibly dressed fellow named Marty, was whispering excitedly to Miguel at my right. Keeping my eyes fixed on the bore who was talking about the film, I leaned into Marty’s direction and listened:

“Well, he’s only in the damned place like once every two months or so. Particularly now, since he’s working in Paris.”

“Do you think burglars were watching the place?”

“I’m sure of it. Anyway, it was all insured but now the premium is going through the roof.”

“Well, I only wish I needed a place.” Carefully I propped my right elbow up on the table so that my hand was against my right ear limiting the peripheral noise.

“It is too bad,” Marty replied, “because you’re just the right type. I only wish I was gay.”

“Now what’s this compulsion he has with gays? Is he?”

“No, it’s just the opposite—he’s an insecure heterosexual. Also I think he thinks they’re clean or something.”

“Well, I’m a pig myself.” Miguel giggled. “What kind of rent is he charging?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s not a money question.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Nada,” Miguel replied tiredly. “What’s new with you?”

“Nothing, I’ve been spending all my free time apartment hunting, and it’s really frustrating.”

“Rents are ridiculous.” Miguel replied.

“It’s not that. Frankly I think that they’ve been deliberately restricting me because I’m gay.”

Miguel glanced over to Marty.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Marty asked casually before taking a sip of his fruit compote.

“Oh, I’m not very selective. Heck, I don’t even mind room-mating with someone so long as they’re clean.”

“It sounds preordained, Marty,” Miguel said outright.

“Preordained?”

“I think I might be able to help you,” Marty started.

“How?” I asked wide-eyed.

Marty told me in slow detail about a famous film director who was in his prime during the sixties but since then, due to a series of profitless films and subsequently a broken marriage, had been convalescing. Yet during the last five years or so, while hunting down backers, he had been slowly producing his last film, a real swan song.

“What’s his name?” I asked. He didn’t want to tell me just yet: this only whetted my appetite all the more.

“Orson Welles?” I asked, knowing that at the time Welles was desperately trying to make a swan song film and had trouble getting backing.

“No,” Marty replied, only adding that the filmmaker had no immediate plans to live steadily in New York. The great director had lived his life in several countries and probably spent more time in lofty transit than anywhere else, keeping an operation center/bachelor pad in almost every glamorous world capital. In New York, for instance, he had purchased a spacious SoHo loft when lofts were still just warehouse space flooding the market. He stocked his large space with many valuables, captured after long and great safaris in endless auctions, galleries, boutiques, and curio shops.

“Is it Zeferelli?” I asked, knowing that he had a fear of wide open spaces.

“No,” Marty replied, rambling on about how over the years the great director had fallen from lofty metaphysicist to staunch empiricist. Marty explained how other renegade materialists had appropriated his goods. In other words, he had been burglarized three times this year alone.

“Huston?” I asked.

“No.”

“Kubrick?”

“No.”

“Capra?”

“Capra? No!” Suddenly I felt Miguel nudging me under the table. My catlike curiosity was getting the better of me. I apologized and listened.

“He wants a house sitter. That’s all you’ll need to know now.”

“What sort of rent range does he have in mind?”

“He’ll probably only be asking for a nominal rent to see that you’re responsible. But the catch is that occasionally he does come to the city, and during those few times he’ll probably want the place to himself.”

“You mean that he might just pop in at any moment and bang, I’ll have to split?”

“Unfortunately.”

“No matter what hour of the night?”

“It’s not like that. He’s extremely formal. If he comes to the city once a month, I’d be amazed. And actually I guarantee that he’ll notify you well in advance.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good, but he’ll have to meet you first. Understand that nothing will be in writing; all arrangements will be verbal.”

“Which means I’ll be unprotected. He’ll be able to chuck me out any time.”

“Unfortunately yes, but Sergei is a decent guy.” Eisenstein had died in the forties. What other great directors were named Sergei?

“Keep in mind,” Marty continued, “that in essence you’re getting something for nothing.”

“What country is Sergei from?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Listen,” Marty continued. “This might sound a bit strange, but if you really want this place, a word of advice is look now.”

“Now?”

“He’s very taken by those who are very gay and very fashionable, very ‘now.’”

“You do look more ‘then.’ For a posh loft,” Miguel stated, “looking ‘now’ is a pretty small trade.”

“All right,” I replied, without the slightest notion of how I was supposed to transform into this ideal image. But if there was indeed an apartment in the balance I’d certainly try to tip the scale to my favor somehow. I agreed to find the proper attire, and then trying to contain the excitement amidst all the noise and cigarette smoke, I pardoned myself for a brief suck of air.

Although it was chilly outside, I slowly became intoxicated over the spectacular windfall. It was like wi

“So who is my patron going to be?”

“Please don’t ask me that,” Marty responded.