Except now, he wasn’t. He racked his brain for an angle, a convincing argument, a counterpoint. None emerged. No! This could not be happening.
“The thing is,” he began, licking his lips.
“Yes?” His mother sipped her wine.
“The thing is,” he repeated. “The thing… is—”
“Hello, Livingstones.” Darlene stood at the table, smiling politely. Under her cropped denim jacket, she was wearing what she usually wore to jazz gigs: a floor-length, high-necked ivory silk dress, plus a glossy black bob wig. Sexy, yes, but also modest. Classy.
Zach was on his feet. “The thing is, I have something to tell you. We have something to tell you.”
“We do?” Darlene asked.
“Yes, we do. We weren’t ready to do this because it’s so new—very, very new—but given the, uh, circumstance.” Zach put his arm around Darlene’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Darlene and I… Well, we’re… in love.”
Darlene stared at Zach in total disbelief. “We’re in what?”
21
At first, Gorman found the concept of adult education vaguely embarrassing. Wasn’t there something sad about a roomful of adults well past the flush of youth sitting around a poky little classroom? Like wearing overalls or doing shots, it did not seem suitable for those over fifty. But Eliot’s death, and Savannah Shipley’s arrival in New York, had reminded Gorman that life was short. The week after E died, Gorman signed up for a playwriting class at a local community college. He’d spent his actual collegiate years wrestling with his sexuality by having closeted sex with wrestlers. But now, Gorman was an adult-education convert. His Monday-night playwriting class was one of the best parts of his week. He enjoyed meeting with “the over-forties Breakfast Club” for high-minded discussions about how form serves content or the sonic effect of alliteration. Each student spent the year working on a full-length play of their own, and the whole venture felt like a salon or a secret society. He was comfortable with this routine—Gorman always sought comfort wherever he was—but as he entered the classroom on Monday night, his cozy tradition had unexpectedly transformed.
“We have a new student,” announced Jon, a rotund, bearded young man who’d had two productions staged at downtown theaters. “Gilbert.”
Gorman twisted in his seat. He expected to see a former bus driver seeking the sublime or a supermarket employee who fancied himself a philosopher (they already had one each of those). Gilbert was neither.
“Hello.” Gilbert gave a little wave.
“Hello.” Everyone chorused. Everyone except Gorman.
Gilbert was adorable. Sandy-blond hair, round glasses, and a cute, friendly smile that revealed bleached white teeth. Easily a decade younger than the next youngest person in the room. Gilbert couldn’t yet be thirty.
“I sent Gilbert all of your works in progress to catch up on.” Jon smiled at the new student. “Hope we didn’t overwhelm you.”
“Not at all,” said Gilbert. “I’m loving them. Especially Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail. I can’t put it down, my roommates are like, ‘Enough with the snail!’ ”
Gorman’s cheeks burned. He felt slightly dazed.
“Well done, Gorman,” Jon said. “Always nice to get some positive reinforcement. Okay, gang, let’s pick up where we left off. Act Two of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, and we’re keeping an eye out for the social and historical context.”
The class thumbed through their books. Gorman swiveled around again. Gilbert smiled back eagerly, pointing to a dog-eared printout of Gorman’s play and mouthing, Love it!
Gorman dipped his head in thanks and returned to his copy of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, having completely forgotten where he should be directing his attention.
* * *
Afterward, most of the class decamped to a nearby Irish bar known for its generous pours. Gilbert didn’t join them, which was both disappointing and oddly relieving. Gorman had just gotten comfortable with a glass of fruity merlot and was preparing to discuss the second act of Woolf with the sublime-seeking bus driver when a cheerful voice sounded behind him. “Is this seat free?”
The class made room for Gilbert to sit next to Gorman. Gorman’s heart picked up, like someone realizing they were, in fact, standing next to a celebrity.
“Sorry I’m late.” Gilbert unzipped his jacket, revealing a T-shirt that read No Bad Days! “There’s a credit card minimum; had to find an ATM machine that does ten-dollar bills.”
Good grief, that really did take him back to college. “It’s just ATM, you know,” Gorman said. “ATM machine is redundant. Automatic teller machine machine.”
Gilbert widened his eyes, like a baby owl. “You’re right. That’s hilarious. You’re obviously brilliant. Really glad I signed up for this class.”
“Why did you sign up for this class?” Gorman asked, and Gilbert began a monologue about dropping out of college to become an actor in LA but finding it too sunny and thinking maybe he’d move to the mountains to write a novel but then his sister telling him that was a dumb idea because he’d never written anything longer than an email… It was not uninteresting, but it certainly wasn’t interesting. Confidence, Gorman realized. That was a defining quality of youth. Confidence that what you had to say was worth listening to. And people did listen to you, when you were as pleasing to look at as Gilbert.
They fell into an easy if not especially stimulating conversation about the class and living in New York and the downtown theater scene. Gilbert’s worldview was so much more expansive and permissive than Gorman’s had been in his midtwenties. Back then, a same-sex kiss on TV would set everyone’s hair on fire and send advertisers fleeing. Gay marriage was a wildly radical fantasy. How much had changed for the younger generation. Their confidence made them expect equality.
While Gilbert was certainly fond of his own voice, he was also fond of Gorman, who he’d apparently decided was someone worth listening to. I hope he doesn’t ask me to be a mentor, Gorman thought, as he bought the pair their third round of drinks. He didn’t really see himself as the mentor type.
But that wasn’t what Gilbert had in mind. “Have you heard of HERE Arts Center, Gorman?”
Gorman nodded, handing Gilbert his rum and Coke. “Off-off theater in SoHo?” By the corner of Spring and Sixth, near a now-closed piano bar he used to frequent in the nineties.
Gilbert nodded. “My aunt owns it. And I think this”—he brandished Gorman’s play—“would be perfect for it. I love the absurd humor, feels contemporary and totally classic at the same time. And I love that Egor actually turns into a snail at the end—very Ionesco.”
Heat seeped under Gorman’s collar. Gilbert was more fluent in theater than he expected. “That’s exactly what I was going for.” When he was young, life was full of magic and opportunity. These days, surprises were few. This, he felt, was a true plot twist.
“I’d love to show it to my aunt and talk about a run,” Gilbert continued, “if I got to play Egor.”