Antonio was standing curbside as Tim pulled up, a gesture that Antonio probably didn’t give a second’s thought to but which was fraught with meaning for Tim. My TV star boyfriend is so eager to see me, he waits outside the restaurant. The fact that Antonio was one of the best-looking guys in Boy’s Town—that stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood famous for great-looking gay men—made it mean even more.
Of course, there was a challenge ahead. Tim was now forced to parallel park on a busy street in front of his boyfriend. That’s pressure. He remembered when Ann was studying to be a boil-in-the-pouch shrink and came home exhausted one night. “You won’t believe the day I had,” she’d said, slumping into a
chair. “I had to make a left-hand turn in front of my psychology professor.” Ann would understand what Tim was going though. Luckily, Honda Civics are small, easy to maneuver, and besides, Tim had been driving Hondas even before he was of age, when his dad would let the two boys drive around the unpopulated sections of Newman’s Super Honda late at night, after closing, making their friends very jealous.
Tim slipped into the parking space like a real grown-up. He almost waited for Antonio to blurt out, Hey, great parking job. Instead, Antonio shrugged. “I really don’t understand why you’re still driving that thing,” he said. “You’re on the verge of being a famous writer. You should have something special.”
“I’ll be getting rid of it soon,” said Tim. “My dad can get me an Acura Integra at cost.”
“Whatever.” Antonio snorted with disdain.
“What do you mean, ‘whatever’?”
“I’d just rather see you in something European, that’s all. It’s more you.”
“I’d rather see me in something European, too. But European costs money.”
“Not that much.”
“Is there some sort of bargain Mercedes I don’t know about?” asked Tim.
“Screw Mercedes. That’s a car for old people. You need a BMW. Not a big one—those are for old people, too. Just a small one. A three-series. They’re cheap, but really cool.”
Tim had to agree that there was something very cool about a BMW, and he actually liked those smaller three-series Beemers much better than the big pseudo-limos. BMWs, as Simon James would say, were very upper Los Angeles. A Honda Civic couldn’t be more lower L.A. With the extra syndication money and the likely IPO jackpot in his future, a modest BMW didn’t
seem like such an extravagance. He liked the idea of telling the valet at Asia de Cuba—any valet, really—“It’s the white BMW, please.”
“Maybe I will,” mused Tim.
“Why wait?” snapped Antonio. “Let’s do it now.”
As they headed toward Beverly Hills BMW just a few miles away, Tim couldn’t help but think that he had just wasted a spectacular job of parallel parking.
Normally, a tousled-haired twenty-six-year-old journalist in jeans and a T-shirt would have as much luck getting noticed by a BMW salesman as he would by the president of Paramount. But with Antonio leading the way, the finely tuned antenna of even the densest car salesman picked up the signal.
There are two lessons to be learned in visiting a BMW dealership: There’s no such thing as a cheap BMW, and the salespeople and surroundings adopt a certain affectation befitting the product. Customers sat in leather chairs far posher than the uncomfortable metal chairs his dad used to decorate Newman’s Super Honda. The salespeople wore elegant suits and had offices, not cubicles, with carpet and music and Starbucks coffee.
Tim started at the top of the three-series, then moved downward, each model being slightly more basic than the one before. Four doors became two. CD players became tape decks. Leather became cloth. Automatics became stick shifts. And although the price dropped each time, it was still a staggering amount.
At the very bottom of the BMW food chain was the 318ti, a car that Tim knew would have been humble even by Kia standards. A tiny hatchback, it was clearly smaller than his Civic, but it claimed to seat four, even if the backseat was barely suitable for a double amputee. It looked more like a Pez dispenser than a car, but it had a sunroof, and it said BMW
on the hood, on the trunk, and on each of the four tiny little wheels. With tax and license and despite hard bargaining (which sounded like begging), it was under thirty thousand dollars—at least by a few bucks. With eight thousand for trading in the Civic, it was practically affordable. Before he knew it, Tim was drowning in paperwork, staggered by tax and license, and listening to a spirited sales pitch for Lojack.
“What have I done?” asked Tim when Antonio took him out for a celebratory dinner.
“You did the right thing,” Antonio assured him. “You look great in that car, really sexy. And BMWs hold their value. You can upgrade in no time.”
“I’ve never bought a car without my father before,” moaned Tim. “None of us has. He owns a dealership, for Christ’s sake. He won’t understand.”
“He knows what cars mean in L.A.,” said Antonio. “Who would better understand the importance of owning a BMW in our business than a man who sells cars for a living? He can’t have any delusions about Honda, can he?”
“Why don’t you come with me when I show it to him and find out?”
“Taking me home to meet the parents? Isn’t that a bit bold for the good son who’s still in the closet?”
“I’m serious. They’re having a party and I have to go. They’ll expect me to bring a friend, so that won’t seem weird. And my dad will be much too busy to spend time berating me for a foolish purchase.”
Antonio was stunned at the prospect. “A party in the Valley with old people.” He smiled. “How can I say no?”
“We won’t have to stay long,” said Tim. “And you’ll get to see my roots, get a sense of where I come from.”
“I guess,” said Antonio, sounding only slightly convinced. “Maybe that means you’ll write another story about me. I’ve
got new projects coming up, and you’re going to need stuff to write about.”
Tim didn’t hear him. His BMW key came with a built-in light to help you find the keyhole. Tim flashed it on and off rhythmically. So far, it was the only part of the purchase that pleased him.
That night in his apartment, Tim started throwing up. He didn’t know why, but he narrowed the culprit down to three possibilities. One: bad shrimp. Two: the inevitability of hearing his father saying, “I could have gotten you a new Honda with leather seats and a six-disc changer for less than half what that … that thing just cost you. What were you thinking?” Three: He was taking Antonio to his home, where he’d meet Tim’s parents, his brother, and assorted relatives and family friends.
Any one of those could cause nausea. It was amazing that the combined forces of all three didn’t kill him right there on the bathroom floor.