“It’s a long story,” he says. “Aha, just when I thought I’d die of thirst.”
Preston wedges his way up to the high, circular table they’ve gathered around. Between his two massive hands, he balances four glasses. “Right, okay,” he says, distributing them. “A bourbon on the rocks for Paul. Mark takes the Guinness. I’ve got the IPA. And a vodka-soda for my babe.” He leans over and kisses Crosby on the cheek. “In any event, gents, I’m sorry that took so long. Evan was predisposed, pouring a round of regret for some teenybopper with nary a pube to be found, no doubt. Had to practically lasso him to get his attention.”
The bar is pure back-room Berlin: black walls and black floors and waist-high black boxes that, at least on weekends, play stage to go-go boys in tighty-whities, their cocks bouncing and flopping to Whitney Houston. For now, though, they’re empty save the drunk twink and his band of merry boys; the only thing making use of the dance floor is a pair of colored spotlights, playing a game of erratic, loopy tag. Posters and fliers plaster the walls of the square room, advertising strip-bingo nights and eighties theme events and a biweekly dance party hosted by the statuesque Catherine de Veuve—a blond New York queen who’s 80 percent legs and 20 percent hair and who’s the reason why Miss Burner has been relegated to Tuesdays.
“I’ll tell you one thing: Evan could pour me a round of whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and I’d be there to drink it up,” Crosby says.
“Christ, Crosby,” Mark says. “There’s no accounting for taste.”
“Look at his arms. Like you’d kick that out of bed.”
“He may have arms…” Mark slugs from his Guinness. “Unfortunately, though, there’s no such thing as a gym for your face.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Preston slips his long arms around both of them. “You’re both being absolutely terrible. Under normal circumstances, I’d enjoy it. Would revel in it, really. It’s Tuesday, though. And Tuesday’s hardly a time for reveling.”
They met the couple a year and a half ago now, about six months after they moved from New York to Philadelphia. A fellow Ph.D. candidate of Mark’s at Columbia had suggested that he look Preston up once he arrived at Penn, where Preston had recently won a tenure-track position teaching Georgian literature in the English department (his thesis—an exploration of the use of eating utensils in Jane Austen’s earlier work—remained a constant source of anxiety and wonder for Paul; he could scarcely pick up a fork anymore without thinking of the Bennet sisters). Within a week of arriving at Penn that August, a dinner had been arranged. Paul’s first impression was that they were sort of an odd couple: Preston, with his lanky, ropy build, his boyish face, his inexplicable Etonian affectations; Crosby, with his short, thick frame, perpetual tan, and tendency toward business-casual attire. Preston had selected the restaurant—a small Italian place on Chestnut that couldn’t have had more than ten tables. (“Don’t be fooled by the red-and-white tablecloths,” he’d said to Paul when they walked in. “The food’s heavenly. Order the linguine with clam sauce and then look me in the eye and tell me that you wouldn’t murder an infant for a second serving of it.” Paul did as he was told, and found that Preston had been right: the food was delicious.) Over the course of one, and then two, and finally three hours, the men had gotten to know one another: Preston and Mark explaining their research; Crosby discussing his plans for when he finished his M.B.A. at Wharton; Paul trying to detail the nature of his work at the clinic without coming across as pathological himself. Fifteen minutes short of midnight, they finally paid the bill and stumbled home, their mouths tasting like cotton and their minds whirling through a Chianti fog.
“Speaking of reveling,” Mark says, “I’m liable to be deaf by the end of the night if this music keeps up. Anyone mind if we take this all downstairs?”
Preston performs an urbane bow; Crosby lightly elbows Paul in the ribs and rolls his eyes, and Paul smiles. On the other end of a near-vacant dance floor, Tina Burner finds her footing again and the beat, once irregular and vapid, becomes fuller, louder. Mark catches Paul’s eye and mouths let’s go.
It’s tamer at street level—more suburban wine bar than East German disco—though the bass from upstairs still manages to disturb the peace whenever someone opens the door and stumbles down the staircase connecting the two floors. There’s an empty red couch beneath a framed portrait of a trio of bronzed, shirtless surfers, and they make their way over to it.
“So, wait,” Crosby says, “why does your mom keep calling you?”
Paul sinks deep into the velvet cushions. He fingers a crusty stain next to his left thigh. “To tell me that my half sister Eloise is getting married.”
“Well! That’s great!” Preston clinks his glass against Paul’s. Paul looks at the naked ice cubes and shriveled lime at the bottom of his cup and regrets drinking his bourbon too quickly.
“Eh,” he says.
Crosby angles himself on the sofa so he can face Paul. “What do you mean eh? I love weddings. I kill at weddings.”
“It’s true,” Preston says. “He loves them. Dances with anyone. Grandmothers, bridesmaids, groomsmen. One time I thought the mother of the bride was going to send out an amber alert when he took up with a flower girl during the electric slide. Would’ve caused a terrible scene, really.” Crosby rolls his eyes again, and Preston grins. “In any event, why the ambivalence, Paul?”
“To be honest, it’s more of a matter of—”
But he doesn’t finish, because Mark cuts him off. He stands, drink in hand, and says: “Eloise’s father was Paul’s mom’s first husband. Some big-shot French guy that she met in Paris. Obviously it didn’t work out—there’s a story there, but for expediency’s sake, let’s keep it at that: it didn’t work out. As evidenced by the fact that Paul is sitting here with us, and he was sired by a different fellow: Donna’s second husband, a certain Mr. Bill Wyckoff.” Here, he takes a breath. “Rest in peace, of course.”
Preston finishes his vodka. “Ashes to ashes, my friend.”