Henry flung the door into its frame. The wood and steel slammed together beautifully.
And he stood there, catching his breath, letting his emotion subside, satisfied the scene had played out so clean and sharp.
Then he thought: Now what? He had just fired his assistant. Or no, she quit—it was one of those simultaneous acts where cause and effect merged. Was that what he wanted? He waited a moment, expecting Jessie to come back so they could discuss the scene and understand what was appropriate or inappropriate here. But this wasn’t a fictional piece they could do again. She did not return. Which gave Henry a whole new reason to be angry with her. The silly bitch—he was careful not to think cunt—had quit. Damn her.
He did not need this today. His inner life was already a muddle. Did his outer behavior have to be a muddle as well?
She had left the computer on. Henry stood beside it, looking at the TV part, trying to remember what button one pushed to turn it off. He collapsed helplessly into the armchair. “Oh, Jessica.”
What would he do without her? How would he get through his days? He’d have to hire a new assistant, wouldn’t he?
But today was Wednesday. He had a matinee in two hours and another performance this evening. There was no time for life on matinee days. Life would have to wait until tomorrow. He had not even showered or shaved yet.
He went into the bathroom, prepped his face with hot water, then sculpted shaving cream over his chin and cheeks. He hated shaving with a safety razor and preferred an electric, but he needed a close shave for a show, what with all the makeup and cold cream.
While his whiskers soaked in foam, Henry faced himself in the mirror, a shabby fellow with dyed hair and a creamy white beard, like a punk King Lear, but gentler than Lear, sweet and harmless.
Why did Jessie quit? Was it something he said? Well, of course, it was something he said. They’d both said too much. So he was just an old queen? Old Queen Lear. But his words had been nastier than hers. How had he allowed their argument to get so out of control?
He held the safety razor under the hot water, lifted his chin, and slowly drew the blade up his throat.
I am such an anus, he thought. Why had he lost his temper? Because of Toby. If only Toby had been better sex.
He rinsed the blade under the tap and began a new swath.
In heartier, lustier times, he would’ve just fucked the bumptious boy and been done with him. Now, however, he was in his fifties; his cock was no longer the be-all and end-all of sack time. He had to think about their pleasure, their satisfaction. Which could be quite enjoyable. But if they weren’t enjoying it, then he couldn’t and it was no longer sex. Which was what had happened last night. Which should have been the end of it. But Henry wanted to see Toby again. He needed to see him again.
The blade scratched beside his ear, a loud, gritty, sandy sound.
Why see Toby again? He couldn’t fuck the boy, he couldn’t eat him. The boy was useless to him. Yet Henry wanted to see Toby again. So badly that he’d even agreed to go see his bunch-of-unemployed-actors-put-on-a-show-in-somebody’s-cellar kind of play. Toby said they were doing an after-midnight performance on Friday and he was sure he could get Henry in.
He knocked the razor against the sink to dislodge a clot of soap and whiskers. It rang like a spoon on a glass calling a room to order.
He must be falling in love with Toby. Or something.
Whatever it was, the whole business made Henry angry, testy. And he had taken it out on his silly-billy assistant. Didn’t she know him well enough by now to ignore his uglier moods?
When he finished shaving and splashed cold water on his face, he saw a new face in his mirror: Queen Lear. Was that such a bad thing? She’d be kinder than King Lear, wiser and better tempered. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d be just another bitch.
He took a quick shower, then dried himself and dressed in his usual sloppy going-to-the-theater clothes. His sole nod to fashion was a nicely tailored Burberry trench coat for the rain.
Passing through the living room, he saw the computer was still on. Oh, Jessie, he thought. The hell with you. The hell with Toby too. He left the machine running and hurried out the door to the elevator.
Downstairs the rain continued to fall, a gauze curtain of water. Go ahead and piss. He opened his umbrella and plunged in.
His reprise of temper surprised him. But it was Wednesday. He had two shows ahead of him and would have no time for life today, no emotions until Thursday. Thank God.
At the first crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, he felt himself being watched. He leaned his head back and peeked across the ridge of his nose. He saw a short, gawking, white-haired woman under a bright yellow umbrella that gave her a look of jaundice.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re somebody, aren’t you?”
He took a deep breath. He turned to her. He smiled and nodded. “Yes. Henry Lewse. So nice of you to recognize me.”
She continued to stare. “Why would I know you? You on TV?”
“No, madam. Theater. But thank you just the same.” He looked back at the crosswalk light, wishing it green.
“It can’t be theater. I don’t go to theater anymore. It’s too expensive. Where else?” she demanded. “Help me here!”
He faced her again. “How the hell should I know! Maybe you bloody dreamed me!”
She didn’t even blink. “You don’t need to get nasty about it.”