Commitment Issues Read online

  "What do they have you doing?"

  "Trash cans and dishes,” he said. “Water seeks its own level."

  "Hang in there. It does get better."

  "I hope so,” he said as he looked at his right hand. There was a broken nail, and I noticed that each of his little fingers had nail polish. The little finger on his left hand was black, and the little finger on his right hand was chartreuse.

  "Colorful,” I said. “Just your little fingers?"

  "Done it for years, but I gotta make these last. My ex kept all my—no, I shouldn't say anything."

  "Why not?"

  "You bought me a book, and you're springing for food. I don't want you to restock all my fingernail polish."

  "Big collection?"

  "Some of the colors don't actually exist in nature,” he laughed. “For some reason, my ex didn't include any of my toiletries in the stuff he threw out on the sidewalk. Or maybe he threw them in the dumpster."

  "Sounds like a jerk,” I said.

  "Yeah, I can really pick ‘em.” That made me wince. I was hoping that I wouldn't ever be lumped into the same crowd as his ex-boyfriend. I am responsible. I am responsible. I am responsible.

  It was so hard to concentrate on helping Wyatt. I mainly wanted to write poetry and sit in a field with wildflowers and hummingbirds.

  Be responsible, Sean. Keep your hands off the poor guy, Sean. He's a fragile kid.

  When we were finished with our food, we stayed and talked for a couple of hours. Wyatt was an artist. Like so many of us in AA, he had proved to the business world that he was unreliable. Hiring a drunk Wyatt was just as risky as hiring a drunk Sean. He had made a name for himself, but it wasn't the kind of name you'd use in polite company. He missed the deadline for finishing a four-page newspaper spread for a store's biggest sale of the year, and it cost the store millions of dollars. When the advertising agency fired him, Wyatt got a job dressing mannequins in the main window of a downtown department store. That worked well until he stayed up late one night reworking the Christmas display in the store's front window. When people came to work the next day, they saw male mannequins having sex in the main window.

  "I think I remember that,” I said. “It was really funny."

  "Missionary position,” he said. “One had his legs up in the air, and the other was wearing a Santa Claus hat."

  "I remember thinking it was funny. You probably brought holiday cheer to lots of grumpy perverts that year. I wish that I had seen it."

  "You still can, because there was a picture in the newspaper. All you have to do is go to the library, and you will see my work enshrined forever."

  "They printed a picture?"

  "Yup, but they censored the interesting parts."

  "Sounds like the kind of story that isn't going to go away quietly. Got any prospects?"

  "Art work?” he laughed. “It's going to be some time before anybody wants to hire me."

  "Been there, done that,” I agreed. “I took a job writing obituaries for the newspaper, and I worked at a pizza joint for a few months."

  "I don't see you tossing pizza dough into the air."

  "Well, we didn't have to toss it, but I really wasn't very good at making pizza. I always dripped sauce on the edge of the crust. You wouldn't believe how complicated a pizza really is. The standards on arranging olives and pepperoni are much more strict that I would have guessed."

  "Maybe I need to work at McDonald's or something,” he said, staring at the table. When he thought about the reality that was facing him, he stopped being funny and perky.

  "Maybe, but why not concentrate on going to as many meetings as possible for a while?"

  "I should, but I really don't want to stay at the 24 Hour Club longer than I have to."

  I wanted to invite him to stay at my place, but that would have been the stupidest thing possible. There was no way that Wyatt and I could live under the same roof without me ripping his clothes off. I had to be the “hand of AA” for now. Sometimes this sobriety stuff is more difficult than you might think. Why can't Wyatt and I just be regular people without the need for AA? Why can't we date and have fun like a regular couple? The man of my dreams had arrived. He was sitting right across the table from me at an all-night diner, and I couldn't touch him. The only relationship (if you could even call it that) was one guy with a couple of years of sobriety helping a newcomer. I was playing the part of the “hand of AA,” and I really wanted to play a different part with Wyatt.

  I added some extra money to the tip to make up for us hogging one of the waitress's tables. It was almost sunrise when we left. There were a few construction workers coming in for a really early breakfast. It was still dark, but I could feel the city starting to wake.

  Just before he went over to his car, Wyatt hugged me tightly and gave me a big kiss on the mouth. He held me tight and wouldn't let me move. When he relaxed, I saw that he was crying again.

  "Call me if you get squirrely,” I said as I held his hands.

  "I've been squirrely for years, you know,” he laughed as he wiped a tear from his face.

  He nodded and turned to walk to his car. It wasn't really a walk. Wyatt glided or floated or something. There was a little bounce in his butt, and that made me crazy. I pretended to get my motorcycle ready to ride, but I was really watching Wyatt. If he saw me watching, he didn't acknowledge it.

  So pretty. He was at the other end of the spectrum from Chico. Wyatt was soft and looked cuddly. Chico was fierce, and Wyatt was tender. Chico knew that he just wanted to be my talent agent with some sex on the side. My ass had been a ride at Chico's amusement park, which was fun but not the kind of thing that would last forever. Wyatt was tentative and unsure what he wanted or what he ought to be doing. Chico was hunky, but Wyatt was exquisite.

  Exquisite, and so off-limits to me. Nobody decent who had been around AA for any length of time would try to get cozy with a newcomer. We (try to) let the newcomer concentrate on staying sober. It's all about the program, not about me being in heat.

  Even if Wyatt and I were grizzled veterans of AA, it still wouldn't work. I am such a bottom in bed, and guys who are as girly as Wyatt are bottoms too. I don't know why, but they are. I am the butchest bottom that I know. It isn't an act that I rehearsed; it's just the way I am. My ride is a Harley, but that doesn't make me a grease monkey top. Riding a motorcycle just makes me a motorcyclist. When I am in bed with a guy, I don't insert anything anywhere. They insert stuff into me: mouth, ass, I don't care. You don't even have to play with my dick if you don't want to. I want you inside me, and I am completely satisfied with that. It's the way I'm built. I've tried the other way, and it never worked. The last time I tried to mount a guy, it grossed me out. Having my dick inside his ass was awful. It was perverted, and I went limp quickly. I was built to be a bottom, and it was killing me. I wanted Wyatt so much. Knowing that I would never have him made tears come to my eyes.

  Wyatt and I would have nothing to do in bed except talk. I guess we could have pretended that we were a lesbian couple or something, but that was gross. I was a bottom and Wyatt was a bottom, and I needed to get used to it.

  Maybe we could live together and go over to Chico for the occasional nookie. Chico had texted me about an orgy, so maybe he could just do Wyatt and me at the same time.

  Wow, listen to me. I have everybody's life all mapped out. Give me a baton, and I'll conduct the entire orchestra. Maybe I should invest in a yellow legal pad so I can write “Wyatt is a newcomer” about a million times. I could stand to write “Remember Chico is too intense for daily use” and “Chico is too rough for Wyatt” too. No, that's stupid. Why would I even think about Chico and Wyatt

  It was almost enough for me just to be near him and to look at him—almost. I wanted him so much that I could taste it. Maybe I could go to counseling or to a hypnotist. Maybe they could turn me into a top for Wyatt. Maybe Wyatt might even want me as a top. Or maybe he would just see me as not being up to his high standards.
I was handsome, but I didn't just step out of a magazine. Even as a top, I would still not be good enough for somebody like Wyatt. I was so fucked.

  I really thought about calling Chico again, even though it was about four in the morning. He would kill me, but maybe he could slap some sense into me. Maybe he could twist my nipples and tie them into a knot, and that would help me forget about getting Wyatt to bed.

  * * * *

  Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic. And I am fixated on somebody that I can't ever have.

  "Hey, I got a job,” Wyatt said the next week.

  "Art?"

  "No, John. The boss's name is John,” he said. “Art is John's lover, but I didn't meet him yet."

  "No, silly,” I said. “Art. Did you get a job as an artist?"

  "Being an artist is all I got, Sean,” he said with a wink. “I ain't no rocket scientist, you know. I used to know somebody who worked over at NASA, and I asked him if I could qualify for work there. He assured me that I'm not qualified. Even if I invented some resume, they'd be able to spot the forgery after talking to me for less than a minute. He even offered to call some of his friends at NASA to confirm it. I'm an artist and built to stay that way. I'm working at INK."

  "INK is a tattoo parlor!"

  "Yup,” he beamed. “Ain't that a kick in the balls? I start tomorrow."

  "I know you've done commercial art, but do you know anything about tattoos?"

  "How hard can it be?” Wyatt said with a shrug. “The boss says it's like doing airbrush, and I can do airbrush. I'm all over airbrush work. I can use cans of spray paint too, but I have to wait for the statute of limitations to run out on graffiti before I admit to that on a resume. Plus it is really hard to get the side of a building or a city bus into your portfolio binder."

  "Do you have any tattoos to show?"

  "Never did a tat, but I'm just an apprentice."

  "I didn't know there was such a thing."

  "Yeah, there is,” Wyatt said. “It isn't common, but they do that sometimes, and INK is even paying me. It's minimum wage, but that's more than a lot of apprentices make. It's more than Vincent van Gogh made in his entire career."

  "Wow."

  "No shit. I was in the store looking at all the work on the wall, and I asked for a piece of paper and a pencil. I started drawing just for the hell of it. I don't want to get too rusty. Anyway, John chats me up when he sees the rose I drew. After he saw me finish a dog, he was really interested. He asked if I could draw Our Lady of Guadalupe. When I showed him a quick sketch, he told me that he wanted me to work there."

  "Apprentice,” I said.

  "Yeah. I asked him if they got much call for religious artwork, and he told me that it was right up there with tribal scroll work."

  "Who knew?"

  "I know,” he laughed. “To start with, I am going to learn how to keep all the tools clean. I'm kind of the janitor with an autoclave. I have to learn how to keep from spreading disease to clients and to the staff. I have to learn how to draw tattoos in a way that they can become stencils to transfer to somebody's skin. Once that's done, it's kind of like paint-by-the-numbers. All the while, I'm supposed to be drawing."

  "On paper or people?"

  "They bring in frogs and snakes from a pet store,” he said. “Just paper to start with, silly. One day I will graduate to oranges. When everybody is sick of eating tattooed citrus and they see that I am able to handle the tattoo equipment, they get me a pork roast. Pig skin is my final exam."

  "Congratulations,” I said as I squeezed his hands. “You got any tattoos?"

  "Yeah, wanna see ‘em? We have to get naked."

  "I... I mean...."

  "No tattoos on me,” he grinned. “There's a sign at INK that says: ‘It's all about the pain. The ink is just a souvenir.’ I hate pain, and I'm terrified of needles."

  "But you're training to be a tattoo artist."

  "I hate pain on me,” he whispered, “but I don't mind causing you pain if you pay me enough."

  I squinted and waited to see if he grinned or laughed. He didn't. I thought he was serious.

  "You need supplies?"

  "Thanks, Sean. You're absolutely the best. But INK is getting me some sketch pads and charcoal."

  "Hey, I have to be out of town for a day. Are you going to be okay?"

  "Radio?” Wyatt asked.

  "How'd you know that?” I asked.

  "I love your beer, man,” he said, “and your voice makes me almost cream my pants. After we first met, I even recorded one of your shows so I could jack off to your voice."

  "Why didn't you say anything?"

  "About recognizing your voice or about jacking off to it?"

  "Both."

  "Didn't know if you were trying to keep it secret. If I didn't recognize your voice, I'd still be able to tell that you're a natural for radio or TV. Plus, I didn't know how you'd react to me saying that your voice gives me a hard-on."

  "React?” I said. “I think you're a little pervert."

  "You ever do TV?” he said, laughing.

  "Naw, after all my drinking, I'm just happy to have any job in broadcasting. I'm national now on the beer and a new show, and I don't want to rock that boat. Plus, I have a great writer who is putting a kid through parochial school. And my engineer has one kid in college and another going to college."

  "So you're holding yourself back for their sake?"

  "I'm holding myself back for me because I'm fine where I am, and TV scares the crap out of me, but it makes me feel better to say it's all for them."

  With that, Wyatt scooted around to my side of the booth. It was a corner booth with a circular bench seat. He put one palm on each side of my neck and let his fingers meet behind my neck. His palms were so warm and smooth and gentle, and he just held me for a while. He leaned in so our foreheads were touching, and Wyatt hummed.

  "You are really special, Sean. I am so glad that I know you."

  I felt my dick jump to attention. What's with this guy? He's a complete swish... so delicate and funny... with a devilish twist to his personality. He called me special. That is so sweet that—

  "Can I have your autograph?” he asked just as I was about to get tense and pull away. Wyatt was seriously messing with me.

  I got a quick mental picture of Wyatt tattooing his name on my heart while I sang in iambic pentameter. What was with all the poetry? I hate poems. They make me want to throw up, and yet Wyatt was a big magnet that pulled out verse after verse from someplace deep inside my soul.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Five

  ... That's Perspective America. Thanks to Janie at the newswire and Ronny at the knobs. Special thanks to Wyatt. Reporting from New York, I'm Sean Roberts...

  "And, we're clear. That's a wrap,” Ronny said through the studio speaker. He and Janie Marroquin were at our regular studio, and I was at an affiliate station in New Jersey.

  "Wyatt?” my manager said as he walked into the broadcast booth.

  "Guy back home,” I said.

  "We don't usually do shout-outs on the air, you know."

  "He's a fan and going through a rough spot, and nobody but you and I noticed."

  "We have a car to get us over to the Marriott."

  "Times Square?"

  "Yup."

  * * * *

  Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic. And I'm a national star of radio syndication. I pressed the flesh and schmoozed in a meeting room of the Marriott in Times Square. It's a crazy hotel built on the ruins of a famous Broadway theater. They put a shiny new theater in the new hotel building, but I've always thought it was harsh and impersonal. The hotel part is an empty tube of a building. The lobby is eight floors off the street, and you can look up forty-five floors as elevators shoot up to the rooms. I hate the hotel because I am afraid of heights. Who makes an atrium forty-five stories high? The hallway for each floor is a balcony that overlooks the big hole in the middle of the building. I remember getting to my room in
the Marriott, terrified by having to walk along the balcony. I stuck to the far side of the balcony, but I knew that one wrong move would send me crashing down forty-five floors. I got inside the room and looked at the window. The glass went all the way to the floor. Great, just great. I swore that I'd find a different hotel if I ever stayed in Times Square. There were other hotels nearby, and I was sure that they didn't have issues for somebody afraid of heights.

  No problems this trip. We came out at the crack of dawn, and we'd be heading back on the last flight out of Newark. Up and back was cheaper than staying the night. I didn't complain because there wasn't any reason for me to be in New York. It was Friday, so I could sleep in the next day.

  I was there for a mid-afternoon social for the managers of our syndicate from all over the country. The room was full of people who made decisions that translated into money for me and Janie Marroquin and Ronny and everybody else around me.

  My talent agent, Chico, had been giving me schmoozing tips for a week. He taught me how to “press the flesh” (his phrase). I asked Chico why it was important. Wasn't it my ratings that drove their decision to renew our show? He said that they'd ignore an occasional ratings drop if they liked everybody. If I was a horse's ass, then all I had was ratings. If I was nice, there was some goodwill to buffer ratings problems. Chico said everybody had ratings dips and valleys, so I needed to make sure everybody liked me.

  I was their rising star because my ratings were in the top three in almost every market. In medium and small markets, I was an unrivaled power at midday. If anything, the managers were pushing the company to give me a second timeslot. They were pushing for an afternoon drive-time newscast that could be edgier than the lunch offering. I thanked everybody for their kind words, but I didn't mention that I even wanted to double my workload. It made me feel really good.

  * * * *

  Hi, I'm Sean, and I'm an alcoholic and a big radio star.

  "Hey, kiddo,” I said when I answered my cell phone.

  "Hi, handsome,” Wyatt said. “You back already?"

  "Still in New York. I won't be home until about one or two in the morning."