Three

 

 

Fifth Avenue, Seventy-Second Street. The dogs await Sebastian’s arrival. As they begin to walk, a Great Dane pushes to the front, forcing the entire pack into a triangular formation. There’s a gray-coated schnauzer, a chocolate cocker spaniel, a duet of pigeon-toed pugs (one fawn, the other black), and a golden retriever. Sebastian trails behind, a rainbow of leashes wrapped tightly around his wrist.

Aside from the gray CREATE on his chest, Sebastian’s fully dressed in black: the T-shirt, the sweatpants, baseball cap, and fleece jacket. His stuffed backpack, which carries a gaggle of clients’ keys, also holds a change of clothes for the office.

Sebastian flinches as Olga marches toward him, her feet turned out in first position, like a duck. She wears a pink-and-white Oscar de la Renta suit, typical attire for an Upper East Side grande dame. Her own dog, a brilliant-white standard poodle, pulls her along the avenue. Edgar (the Great Dane) drags Sebastian and the rest of the pack toward Boss Lady.

“Shit!” Sebastian yanks the gathered leashes. “Sorry, Olga!” he calls as she and her pooch beat a hurried retreat in the opposite direction. Big mistake. That wasn’t the right pair to chase off the sidewalk. The pack barks and strains at the leashes, forcing him into unplanned choreography: hop step, hop step, hop step. His wrist flexes from their pull. “Ow!” He loses his grip for a split second and they’re off, barreling down Fifth Avenue.

“Edgar, Biscuit, Oscar!” Sebastian calls out as he dashes past, nearly tripping over several people on the sidewalk. Despite himself, he chuckles—with a little fine-tuning, this chase would make a great production number. Thankfully, he finally halts the stampeding pack. As he gathers the leashes, he sighs. Olga’s never going to let me hear the end of this.

 
. . .
 

Next stop: Park Avenue South near Grand Central. Although it challenges him the most, because he hates corporate settings, the software development company pays the least of all his gigs—even less than his tap class at the community center. Sebastian’s convinced that the office regulars—with their bug eyes trained on him, all probably hopped up on their third cup of Starbucks—call him Copy Boy behind his back.

The hospital-green walls are appropriate for the fast-paced environment; tons of dead and walking wounded in this ER, though no one would actually admit it. The ceiling is depressingly lower than that of the other floor they occupied when Sebastian first started work here six months earlier. That location had to be vacated because of budget cuts.

Gray work cubicles run along the center of the space like an endless chain of railroad cars. If only Sebastian could take the train out of this place. But he needs the cash. Along the outer walls of the cubicles are glassed-in offices, some with windows that look onto Park Avenue South.

No caps, sweats, fleece jackets, or CREATE T-shirts allowed here, not even on Friday. Sebastian changes out of his all-black dog-walker outfit and into his all-black office uniform: slacks, button-down, tie, and dress shoes. On some level, he knows all the dark clothing, while slimming, is awful on him. But every morning, when he rifles through the piles of shit in the middle of his apartment, the color that wins is black. It’s a sharp contrast to the stacks of white folders Sebastian hauls from cubicle to cubicle, office to office.

Sebastian’s a glorified copy boy. He Xeroxes and distributes things. It’s busy yet uncomplicated choreography, which is good because his office skills are limited—What the fuck are PowerPoint and Excel, anyway? he wonders; lucky he’s lasted six months.

He checks his watch: only four hours until the audition. He exhales, catches his breath at the thought of the impending battle. Suddenly it’s a dreadful proposition, having to be on display as the now forty-year-old chorus boy.

 
. . .
 

Sebastian closes the dance studio door. As he heads down the hallway, Frank’s former “date item,” as Chloe would say, startles him.

Greg’s twenty-seven now, and not necessarily the spring chicken he pretends to be; still, the troll’s in twink territory, Sebastian reasons. He’d just turned twenty when he seduced Frank. They met at a benefit performance for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS. Greg was in the opening production number, while Frank had volunteered his services as a drop-in mental health counselor for several months before the benefit. According to Daddy Frank’s version, Twink Greg had cornered him at the postshow reception. But that was before us, Sebastian reminds himself. It was a mismatched liaison that had lasted only two months, much to Sebastian’s delight then and now.

Although Sebastian hates to admit it, Greg’s stunning. His dark hair and green eyes make matters worse. He’s chiseled where it counts: pecs, arms, butt, and face—a typical chorus boy any casting director would want, so long as he keeps his mouth shut.

“Sebastian! Haven’t seen you in at least a month!” Greg squeals through pursed lips.

Yep, Sebastian tells himself. Still looks like Superman and sounds like Lois Lane. Aloud he says, “Nice to see you too, Greg.”

Greg rests his chin on a knuckled hand. “And how’d you get in on this call?”

“Chloe has a friend.” Sebastian hugs his notebook to his chest.

“Hmm.” Greg licks his lips, his green-eyed stare locked on Sebastian. “Still got connections, the old hoofer.”

Old. The word rings in Sebastian’s head. When did it become such a dirty word to him? The New York Times review of his last Broadway show is archived in his brain: “As for the chorus members of this monster musical, erroneously titled There Shall I Go, one wonders if Geritol should be passed out at half-hour, curtain, intermission, and before the eleven o’clock number.”

Sebastian clenches his jaw. It’s true: He’s forty years of skin crammed into black slacks and a matching button-down. But compared to his competition, Sebastian’s earned his hide over the years, avoided slaughter. Most of these boys huddled along the wall in their tightly fitted spandex, some as young as eighteen, probably couldn’t even moo through a song, much less carry a tune.

No! Sebastian’s earned his place here. He lived through the aptly named cattle calls of the late eighties, got herded into countless sweaty dance studios with only a number safety pinned to his chest for identification. He’s a veteran compared to these boys.

Sebastian sizes up the wall of hopefuls. So much for Chloe’s assurance that this would be a “selective” chorus call. Other than Greg, no familiar mugs in sight. Either way, chances are it’s flooded with twinks from the casting director’s “I wish I could screw him” files. Some are probably even friends of the director-choreographer.

“Believe it or not, Greg,” Sebastian says with a sigh, “maturity does have its privileges.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Note taken.”

Sebastian clenches his jaw. Even though he knows it would hurt his hand, he wants to sock the troll square in his chiseled jaw. The thought that Frank ever dated him is repulsive.

“Did they have you read after you sang?”

“No,” Sebastian mutters, stepping away from the doorway.

“Did they ask you to dance?” Greg persists.

“No. They didn’t.”

“So they asked you to stay to dance?”

“Hello? I said no.” Sebastian pictures himself whacking Greg upside his block head. “Anyway, I don’t think they’re having people stay to dance today.”

Greg purses his lips and snaps his fingers in the air. “They asked me to stay.”

Sebastian’s heartbeat revs to an allegro pace. “Good for you.” This is exactly what he hates about the whole audition game. There’s always a prick eager to compete with him. This one is just better at raising his blood pressure than others.

“Yeah, getting older sucks, doesn’t it?” Greg scratches the tip of his nose, seemingly too bored to wait for an answer.

“Excuse me?” Whenever this troll stands before him, Sebastian can’t help but remember that night, the last time he saw Frank. It was obvious that night, wasn’t it? Greg wanted Frank back. That night. It wasn’t just the hospital paging his husband that made Sebastian angry. Greg’s a huge part of the reason they fought the night Frank died.

Greg’s eyes widen. “Wake up, Sebastian! It’s not like you can be a chorus boy forever.”

The urge to play Rock ’Em, Sock ’Em Robots with Greg’s face grows stronger. “I really have to go,” Sebastian says through gritted teeth. “Another job.”

“That’s right.” Greg shakes his block head. “I heard you’re still teaching at that community center.”

The groan that rises from Sebastian’s belly rumbles inside his head. Chloe probably blabbed his business during some drunken club outing.

“Yeah,” Greg continues, “I guess you’re strapped since Frankie’s gone.”

“Frank!” Sebastian barks. He allows the exhalation four counts before he scoops up his backpack.

“Sorry, darling. But he didn’t mind me calling him Frankie.”

Sebastian shoulders his backpack. “To you, it’s Frank.”

“Whatever.” Greg narrows his green eyes. “Here’s to a second callback,” he says, licking his lips. “Because I know I’ll definitely get one.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll use your charms to get under the director, as usual.”

“Aww,” Greg says, patting Sebastian’s back. “How nice of you to say.” His mouth corkscrewed, nostrils flared, he shrugs his broad shoulders. “And good luck to you with . . . whatever.” He pivots in the opposite direction and saunters away.

Sebastian grunts as he raises both middle fingers at Greg’s back. “Whatever,” he says in as mocking a tone as he can muster before bolting out the studio door.