Vincent was bummed. The boeuf bourguignon had bombed. He’d tried—Lord, how he’d tried: two hours simmering, chopping herbs, adding stock and wine in precise measures, more simmering, more babying. But no, something was off, the damn thing was heavy and dull. Perhaps he’d used too much flour in the beurre manie or whatever the hell they called it, or maybe not enough wine. Yeah, that was probably it, not enough wine. The French: he loved them; loved their parks, their paintings, their mansard roofs, their deux-cheveaux. Their wine. But they could be so damn obtuse—Ah, Monsieur does not know zat too mauch of thyme weel make flat ze entire oeuvre, alors?
Well, whatever the reason, the boof was a bust. And so, dinner being the foundation of the evening, the failing fatale of the main entree sent out a long ripple, and the party went into premature decline. Oh, the guests were good sports; they smiled, they cooed, they certainly put away plenty of grape. No worries on that particular score! But seconds were not called for and coats were, way too early in what should have been a long and festive soiree. Merde.
Crunching his granola and yogurt, Vincent brooded over the letdown and considered how its ripple very possibly rippled as far as the bedrooms of certain of the guests, and in some sly, insidious way upended the intended late-night doings. Sex: it was all about sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. Le Sexe. His hot zone burned even now, thinking about it, thinking about his lips on Mal’s shoulder, pressing her against the kitchen counter when the promise of le boeuf glorieux still hung rich in the air, like a coiled spring of connubial energy. Come, Monsieur le serpent, and after ze sex weez your beautiful wife we weel make zee beautiful mag-eek in zee keetchen, yes?
Non. Vincent shook his head sadly. Mal had tried to comfort him; she always did. “Oh, honey,” she said in bed the next morning, “it wasn’t bad.”
“Hmph,” Vincent had snorted into her shoulder. (She liked it when he snorted into her shoulder. At least, he thought she did.) Yeah, some ringing fucking endorsement: he had thrown away a whole afternoon for “not bad”? Well, screw it. Next time, burgers. Yep, can’t miss with burgers. Hmm—burgers bourguignon?
Vincent slipped on his suede coat, kissed Mal goodbye, and trudged uphill to the bus stop. The morning was dank and chilly, and Vincent stood with the usual knot of regulars, still fuming about the bourg, the weather, the office. Goddamn Callie, wanting the report so soon. Why the hell was he reporting to her, anyway? Oh well, screw it, the report was kid stuff, like so much of work and life anymore. Everything by and for kids. Still, no one else in the firm had his touch, his background, and they damn well knew it.
The bus hissed up. Vincent took his usual left-side seat and gazed blandly out the window. Surveying the passing scene was his morning ritual, carried over nostalgically from early days as a fledgling graphic designer, when he thought he might glean insight from the American landscape. But he found only discouragement in the dingy commercial strips and sad cinder blocks with their lifeless lawns and tatty unpainted “rustic” decks, Levittown gone bad, the postwar dream betrayed by succeeding generations, each one more callow, crass, and ignorant than the last. How could one explain it, except in terms of feral animal energy, energy that took everything from earth, trees, hills, and valleys, and gave nothing in return.
The bus stopped opposite a small used car lot and Vincent performed his daily ritual tongue-out at the USED CAR’S sign and noted the Camaro still sitting on its pedestal. The proud green machine wasn’t that old and looked to be in cherry condition, but it was a long-nosed gas-guzzler in a lean and snub-nosed era, a one-time prom-queen now a wallflower. Vincent felt sorry for the thing; was it possible no one would ever buy this poor car, that its radio would never serenade young lovers or buoy up a young man aprowl upon a raging night? What then—the shredder? The thought was as sad as the landscape. The bus farted and moved on. ALL WEll DRINKS $1, said the plastic sign on the Posthole Restaurant. Well, thought Vincent, if your name is Weii, this is your lucky day. Did men really die at Chickamauga and Guadalcanal for this?
A few stops later, a hulking, pasty-faced kid in a Chicago Bulls parka slipped through the back door without paying. Vincent’s heart lurched. The bus drivers never did anything, the other passengers never did anything. Gorge rising, Vincent glared at the kid and was on the verge of calling him out. He stopped himself. What would he say? What would it prove? Probably just get himself beat up, or worse. So many kids packed heat now. Vincent scowled out the window in disgust. We take it all and keep taking it: the crummy moonscapes of capitalist predation, and the crummy behavior of capitalism’s victims. Americans just didn’t get it; so many of them had never been anywhere else, so many knew nothing of the wider world. “What’s the problem?” they would ask. It is what it is. No worries. On Facebook, some dope had actually written “no worry’s.” God, you wanted to reach in and slap them. What were they teaching in school anymore? Platitudes: America had become a paradise of platitude.
The bus slipped into a pleasant, tree-lined thruway and Vincent thought of Mal, slinking around the house on her day off from the clinic. What was she doing? Watching TV? Going shopping? Meeting a lover? No, not likely, but oddly, he didn’t care. One thing he had always found most attractive about her was her independence, her vaguely Continental que-sera-sera air. Lately, he had gotten a feeling that Mal was not quite so “Continental” as she had seemed—that her air of superiority was really more a feline indifference, even obliviousness. Maybe she wasn’t really all that smart, maybe she was just like the rest: blissfully ignorant. Was he losing interest? Vincent hated himself for thinking it. Mal was sweet, eager to please, tidy, and horny as hell in the morning. Nevertheless, he felt weary, listless, and bored.
The old buildings and busy sidewalks of downtown banished his sour mood, and he felt his usual happy anticipation arriving at the office with its cheery yellow glow and sizzling youthful energy. He loved his work and was good at it. Callie—short for what? Calliope? Calpurnia?—smiled brightly as he handed her the report. She was always smiling. What’s up with the frozen grin, Callie dear? He smiled back, coolly. Callie wasn’t a bad sort as thirty-something corporate climbers went. But how did she get the job? Fuck it; he had no worries, himself. The Zaphara graphic was coming along nicely and he had some great workups for the Rauf job, too. Vincent hummed softly as he returned to his office; he would never lose his touch.
A hand knocked on the door jamb. Rey: sweet, slim, trim, tousled, immaculately clothed Rey, from Caracas. “So, Vincent, how did the boeuf bourguignon come out?” he asked, leaning in. Rey was in his almost extravagantly-youthful forties and openly gay, but in a wordless, matter-of-fact way that made him much sexier than some who trumpeted their sexuality to the world.
Vincent sighed, flexing his hands. “Well, it was a bit of a dud.”
“Oh, no!” Rey crooned. “Sorry, man.” His voice was warm and confiding. Vincent liked Rey for his enthusiasm, his visual sense, and his sense of humor. He liked how Rey called him “man” and made him feel like part of some secret conspiracy.
“So, my friend,” Rey said, moving into the room, “what did you do wrong?”
“What,” Vincent smiled, mock-chidingly, “you automatically assumeI did something wrong?”
Rey smiled sweetly. “Tch-tch, you know what I mean.”
“Yeah…” Vincent swiveled in his chair, put his hands behind his head. “I don’t know. It just came out wrong: heavy, bitter, even. Too much wine, maybe, or maybe the beurre manie.”
Rey nodded sympathetically. “Mmm,” he purred. “How much wine did you put in?”
“Oh,” Vincent said, “a cup, at least.”
“One cup? How many people did you serve?”
“Six.”
“Ah, no, I think for six you must put one entire bottle.”
“A whole bottle? Really?”
“Absolutely. It dissi-pates, you see, and must be correctly timed. Yes, for six I would put one whole bottle of very good Burgundy.”
“Sheesh!” Vincent tipped back in his chair.
Rey stood into the little room, stared into Vincent’s eyes, and said, “Okay, what we have to do is, you come to my place and we make this boeuf bourguignon together.”
Vincent’s warning signals lit up. Rey, with his form-fitting dress shirts and impeccable slacks; Rey, with his dazzling smile; Rey, with his cozy voice; Rey, with his dark eyes that bore—no, lasered—in on you.
“Ah, well, thanks, Rey, but I think I’ll just move on. Next time, it’s burgers—no more boof for me.”
Rey pouted in mock disgust and held out his hands in that classic gesture familiar all over the Latin world. “Tch-tch, Vincent, you must first pronounce correctly. You must enter the world of the food you wish to prepare. Respect, Vincent, first, respect. And second, I have to tell you that I make very possibly the best boeuf bourguignon in the city.”
Vincent smiled. Rey’s “I have to tell you” was a running office joke. His culinary reputation, however, was not, and the office dinner he fixed a year ago was still the stuff of reverential whispering. No, an offer of kitchen help from Rey was nothing to brush off. Why hadn’t he and Mal had him to dinner?
“I am absolutely serious.” He sidled closer to Vincent’s desk. “Come on, it will be fun! In fact, bring your lady—Mallory?—and we’ll make an evening. Okay?”
Vincent was helpless. “Okay. Sure, Rey, thanks.”
There had been other Reys: dark-haired, faintly exotic Mike Spano in sixth grade, with whom he had an unspoken agreement to race to school every morning; and Hal Morley, at summer camp, sleek, lissome Hal, Hal with the worldly air and the radiant ear-to-ear grin. How did he keep his teeth so white? There’d been one night in a tent, and, well—it was only kids touching, nothing more. What kids didn’t fool around a little? But love? No. Vincent loved Mal.
Two Saturdays later, Vincent hit the buzzer at Rey’s downtown highrise. He was alone; Mal had been called to work at the clinic, but she would be off in plenty of time to help out.
Rey answered the door in an immaculate white T-shirt, slim jeans, and a broad smile. Vincent made a mental note to get to the gym more often. A saxophone played softly, the lights were low, the apartment sparsely but beautifully decorated in sixties chic. Something smelled good. Incense.
“Vincent, welcome,” Rey said, his warm voice even warmer. “Mal is not with you?”
“She’s working, but she’ll be over later.”
“Ah, good. I’m looking forward to meeting her.” He put a gentle hand on Vincent’s back and ushered him in. “Okay, you brought a good Bordeaux?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. First a little wine, then we can begin.”
An hour later, the meat was browned and the sauce well underway, and Vincent and Rey were laughing over the fourth installment of wine to the sauce.
“Darn it, Rey, I put in four doses, too.”
“Ah, but when you put them in? That is essential question. Too soon, there is no taste of wine. Very boring.” They both laughed. “Too late, maybe a bitter taste, as you say.”
“Yeah,” sighed Vincent, “guess I put in too much, too late.”
Rey looked up into his eyes. “It is very necessary to pace the wine, let it be in harmony with the meat. In cooking, always harmony. Like life, eh?”
Vincent raised his glass. “Absolutely!” His heart raced. Vincent knew he shouldn’t have any more, but hey. Wine: the great up-ender. He looked at Rey as he worked, and saw—saw grace, confidence, and competence. And sex. Shit.
The sky was darkening. His cell rang: Mal. She was sorry, she would be late, her relief hadn’t shown up, and she couldn’t leave until he did. “Ah, damn,” sighed Vincent, setting his glass down with an angry clack. “I’m sorry, Rey…”
Rey was unperturbed. “She is delayed? No worries! We will carry on, and by the time she is here, she will sit down to the best dinner in the town.” He put on a Gato Barbieri CD. “You like jazz, Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“I like it, too, but I like most musics. I like most foods, too. There is so much to like in this life, why waste it in not liking things, eh?” He shot Vincent a vulpine look. “So, tell me about you and Mallory. Where did you meet?”
Savoring his wine, Vincent gazed out on the falling twilight, into the shadowy corners of the apartment, and at Rey’s white shoulders. “Mal’s a sweetie,” he said. “We met, oh, what, four years ago at a party. She was a budding young artist.” He took a swig of wine. “Still is, but works as a medical tech.”
“Oh, she is artist? What—painter?”
“Fabric art. She does collage and things.”
“Ah, very nice. And you, too, are artist, I think. You do very good work.” Rey leaned in close to Vincent, his head cocked toward him, his smile warm. Christ.
Vincent was getting faintly but undeniably hard. No, no! He shrugged nervously. “Oh, well—I don’t know…I’ve always loved to draw.” He took another sip and looked at Rey: “You?”
“No, I am not an artist, at least in that sense. I love all of fine arts, but I never learned to paint or draw very well, so I have to admire at a distance. Ah, more wine, I think.”
Rey walked over to a cabinet to pull out another bottle of wine. Vincent’s eyes followed him, studying his shoulders, his butt. “Mmm,” said Vincent, “we do that, don’t we? Admire at distances. Many distances…” Watch out, dumbass. Where the fuck was Mal? He blurted, “I almost got into it with this kid on the bus this morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rey looked genuinely intrigued.
“Yeah. Bastard snuck on without paying. I really hate that.”
“Snuck on, how?”
“Through the back door, the driver didn’t see him.”
“Tch-tch. Kids, eh?” Rey shrugged.
That philosophical Latin response again. Vincent wished he could shrug things off that way. “Yeah, only this ‘kid’ was about six-foot-four and two hundred pounds-plus. He just waltzed on like he was special, this stupid grin on his face. I mean, I wanted to confront him—go, Hey, pal, you’re stealing from the rest of us. You know? But no. I just sat there.” Vincent shook his head in self-loathing. “Chickenshit.”
Rey put his hand on Vincent’s arm. “No, no, Vincent, I don’t think it’s chicken-shit to avoid trouble. I call it wise, my friend.” The wine was delicious, the smell of real bourguignon becoming itself was intoxicating.
Vincent’s head was light, his crotch heavy. “Okay, I get it.” He let his eyes bore into Rey’s. “But, Rey, tell me this: are we just supposed to ignored crappy behavior like that? I mean, this big, dumb, arrogant fuck—picking our pockets. Picking our fucking pockets! I wanted to belt him one!” Vincent felt himself unraveling, but he didn’t care. “Instead, I was chickenshit. Typical little middle-class nicey-nice passive-aggressive Seattle chickenshit. Blecchh!”
“No, Rey, I don’t think you were chickenshit.”
Vincent let the wine carry him gently. He looked again into Rey’s warm, brown eyes. “So, what would you have done?”
Rey rested his elbows on the counter and leaned toward Vincent. “Mmm, I can’t say, really. I think you have to be there, you know? Ahh, I suppose, most likely I would have let it go. I think I am like you, being cautious.” He pronounced it “cow-shus,” sweet, so sweet. “Yes, I think so. To be cow-shush—prudent, you say—is not chickenshit, it is being wise to what is important in life and what is not.”
Wise words. Vincent took them in like fine Bordeaux, feeling his self-assurance returning. “That’s a very healthy and mature way of looking at things, Rey,” he murmured. But something would not let him relax. “Yeah—I don’t know—this acceptance of life in all its beauty and its stupidity. ‘It is what it is,’ ‘No worries!’ Everybody says that, now—‘no worries!’ I say it, you say it. What does it mean?”
“Well, Vincent, sometime it is what it is.”
“Arrgh! I hate that expression! So, what—we just accept any fucking thing, oh, that’s okay, take my money, walk all over me, it is what it is…?”
“I’m not saying accept everything—nonono! I’m just saying sometimes, it just is just what you see before you, that simple, nothing more. Sometimes, we want to make things too compli-cated.”
Now, Vincent shrugged. “I guess…” He wanted to believe, wanted to “go with the flow,” embrace que-sera-sera. Still, he rebelled. It is what it is what it is. It was like pi; the irreduceable, perpetual motion, pure kinetic impulse. Gibbering idiocy, some might say. Was it?
“English is very funny language,” said Rey, well into his third glass of wine, to no apparent detriment. “Sometimes, it says the opposite of what it’s meaning. Sometimes…”
“Like ‘que sera, sera’.”
“ ‘Que sera, sera’—this way of saying is now also English, I think—same thing—how do you say, where something in one language is taken by another?”
“Ahhh—streptocrocus.” Vincent giggled. “No, telekinesis. No…” Rey looked at him with canine puzzlement, a look that shot Vincent in the heart. “Sorry, Rey, I’m just joshing you. I don’t think there is a word for that. Just borrowing…”
“Joshing. I don’t know that word.”
“Means joking around, teasing—fooling. It’s a very American word.”
“Josh-ing.”
“Yup! Say ‘josh’ or ‘joshing’ and folks’ll know you’re American. Not that that’s anything you want folks to think.”
Vincent smiled bashfully. “Well, I’m pretty happy just being what I am.”
“It is what it is.”
“It is what it is.” Vincent held up his glass, Rey clinked it. Again, their eyes met.
“Yes,” said Rey, “I think you and me—you and I—we are alike this way. This is why we are popular at the office, yes? We—how to say it—maneuver instead of conflict. Conflict is a wasted energy, you see? Why you should get into maybe harmful situation with some stupid kid? You have to pick the battle, no?”
Vincent nodded, smiling dreamily. He and Rey were friends for real, now. Only, where the hell was Mallory? She should be here, dammit, be in on this, help things along—help him, for god’s sake. Why didn’t she come, or at least call? The sauce was settling, the meat tenderizing, the apartment a fragrant pocket of near-heaven.
“It’s starting to smell quite French around here,” said Vincent.
“Have you ever been?”
“Yes, once. I loved it. We hope to go back.”
“You should go, soon. Don’t put off your dreams.”
“No…You know, I think I see where I went wrong on the boof. I think I did it too hot. See, you’re barely simmering.”
“That’s right—gently, gently, no high heat. High heat kills the flavor. With bourguignon, it must be low and slow, yes?”
“Ahh…” Vincent closed his eyes, inhaling the aroma of the food and the room, the room and something more obscure and infinitely more delicate. Life was so strange. “Yeah, Vincent nodded, “I think that’s what killed it, right there. Poof goes the boof…” He sighed, shaking his head in wonder. “I see—I smell, anyway. Mine smelled pretty good, too. But not like this.”
“Yes,” said Rey, sidling closer, “not like this.” He put down his wine, sidled close to Vincent, and kissed him on the mouth.
Rey’s lips were warm, his breath hot, his eyes glowing. Vincent pulled back. “Rey—no…”
Rey held his face, his dark, smiling face, close. “Yes, Vincent. Why not? You have no good reason. I am not making demands, I am simply making a moment’s love to you. I will not ask you to marry me.”
Vincent felt suddenly, weirdly, angrily jealous. Who would Rey marry, someday? He put his hand on Rey’s shoulder and kissed him, full-mouthed, hungrily, eagerly. “Rey,” he breathed, “I’m a happily married man. Straight…”
“Yeah,” Rey murmured, “I know. It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Vincent laughed, a laugh like he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. He didn’t move, didn’t push Rey away. He was hard. Rey kissed him again; him, Vincent, a forty-two-year-old straight male. Sex, sex, sex, cock, cock, cock, now, now, now.
No. “Rey,” Vincent backed away. He shook his head. “Rey—ah, shit!” He stood up, walked to the window and stared into the night. Mal was out there, somewhere.
“Mal—I have to be with her. I can’t go off…No one else.”
“Sure, Vincent, no problem.”
Vincent looked at Rey and laughed. “No problem. That’s another one—‘no problem!’ Sure, no problem. Only—this.” He kissed Rey again, and Rey wrapped his arms around him tightly.
“Vincent,” he said, softly, “You are good guy. I like you. I like you almost immediately at work. We are good workmates, you and me. Now, we are friends. Friends may kiss.”
Friends may kiss. How un-American was that? Vincent’s mind reeled. He wanted to love Mal, he did love Mal. Did he love Rey, too? The two men held each other close and kissed some more, saying nothing, enjoying only the essence of themselves in the moment. This—this!—was living. Vincent understood Rey, now; understood him fully. Less talk, more feel. The boof would be fantastic, and making love with Mallory beyond fantastic. He couldn’t wait.
“Let’s just do the boof and be buddies, okay? Boof buddies.”
Rey giggled. “Yeah, okay, I dig.”
“My friend—Rey…” Vincent kissed Rey again on the cheek. “I am a faithful companion to both my friends and my wife.”
Rey slipped aside, making Vincent miss him intensely. “Your Mallory,” Rey said. “English, I think?”
“A pure American girl.”
Rey nodded, “Ah, nice American girl.”
“Yes—nice.”
“‘Nice’: this is American word? What does it mean, exactly?”
“God, I wonder! It means pleasant, or good, or something like that. Mallory is nice, I’m nice, I guess…pleasant, agreeable. Most of the time, anyway…” Vincent let his wine sit. He felt the moment, the joyful intimacy, slipping away. He wished Mallory would arrive.
“I wonder,” said Rey, “if maybe ’nice’ is not always really so nice. Maybe it is more like a word people use to hide things.”
“What things?”
“True feelings—passion…”
“Oh, man—passion, that’s trouble, you know.”
The two men laughed. Each wanted desperately to kiss the other, but did not.
“Hmm…oh, it’s nice, all right. If not, civilization is screwed!”
Rey tasted the beef once more. “Our bourguignon is ready, I think.”
Vincent tasted it. The wine, the mushrooms, the meat. Our bourguignon. “Fantastic!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “What did we do that I didn’t?”
“You know what: timing, pacing, heat, and wine. And two friends.”
Vincent leaned toward Rey. The buzzer shrilled. Mal. Vincent straightened. “Here she is.”
Rey opened the door and Vincent greeted Mallory happily. “Hi, sweetie, how are you doing?” Even after overtime, she looked terrific. Vincent beamed proudly as Rey took her into his arms. “The famous Mallory,” he beamed. “It is so good for you to come.”
“Oooh,” she purred, “it smells really good in here!”
They sat, poured wine, and smiled at each other. Vincent dipped his fork into the stew, brought it to his mouth, and tasted ecstasy. It couldn’t be anything else.