Tim to Fifty-Ninth

Andrew Sarewitz

Somewhere between 8:15 and 8:45 on Sunday nights, Tim and I walk to the West 4th Street subway station. Upper level platform. We ride the C train uptown to 59th Street, Columbus Circle. I exit, he continues to his home and family in Harlem. For that sliver of time, even in a packed rail car, we are alone, coupled in discussion. Argumentative or in agreement, sober or drunk (that would be me), the colloquy began and became ritual back when Tim and his wife lived east of West Village. We’d head to Astor Place where I’d catch the Number 6 subway to Lenox Hill. Tim said I was the first person he allowed to walk him towards home after he finished work. That reads obnoxious. With his coming off two weekend shifts slinging drinks at a crowded bar, dealing with a franchise of personalities in constant demand for his attention, I heard it differently. I heard it how I wanted. I know the choreography. For decades I worked in high-end sales. The “lifers” (a self-diagnosis), understand that you are as important as the product and place you represent, particularly if you depend on repeat business. Many of my

clientele I genuinely liked. But there is a difference between liking someone and wanting to be a friend. Forget the word “love.” “Friend” is one of the most misused words in the English language. Ask anyone who’s lived in Los Angeles. A few years ago, my friend Aaron, barfly of a different species, wanted to meet at a popular dive in Greenwich Village. In New York City’s evolution, West Village is not the center of the gay world as it had been when I first came to Manhattan. By the mid 1990’s, the gentrification took a strong hold in Chelsea. Capricious and easily bored, the next gay tent pole was Hell’s Kitchen, where rents were not as obscene. And arguably, it’s more of a neighborhood than the stretched city blocks in Chelsea. There still are gay bars in the Village, which include the celluloid stereotyped Christopher Street. It’s not the fashionable place to be anymore but it’s where Aaron asked me to come. There was a bartender he wanted me to meet. A seasoned bartender, which Tim is, has regulars. There’s an expectation of recognition and importance. This includes prompt attention, strong pours, and something that makes you believe that while here, you are special. It’s not necessarily disingenuous. At Tim’s bar, I watch as set patrons not so subtly compete for their place in the caste. A talent balances the inebriated and sensitive fans to keep them coming back. A rare badge a barfly can earn, if he wants it, is friendship. Aaron and I have an enduring friendship. Many persons seem to have a similar connection with someone in their life. We can meet often or not for long spans of time and it’s always immediate and comfortable. Aaron is set in his ways so you either fit into it or you don’t come at all. I’m the same. He is the one soul for whom I’ve altered my rigid rituals in order to share his time. Now with our schedules juxtapositioned, we see each other much less. Texts keep

dialogue current. Sometimes they’re political but more often it’s shallow communications: men and sex. For all the years we have known each other, we share no friendships and very few acquaintances. Privileged, I have more than one front of friends. Unwilling to prioritize the contradictory landscapes, they are each part of who I am. Tim is sexy. Like an actor’s appearance is magnified on screen, working behind a bar heightens the impression of attractiveness. Tim is also straight. His primary customers are gay men. He’s a handsome black haired white man just past the 30 year marker. He has a well defined cyclist’s body with an imperfect nose and a smile to melt a mother-in-law. What he may lack in a fireman’s physique is compensated by his electricity and a charisma you can’t teach. Bringing the grade all the way down, Tim looks best in tight jeans with an untucked t-shirt seamed short enough that when stretching high, he exposes a triathlete’s flat stomach. Not that I’ve noticed... I don’t mean to, but I see people sexually. A male trait, I’m sure. With straight friends, I keep any attraction I may feel at bay with a crossed-heart contract not to infect the friendship. I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that Tim knows I’m attracted to him. I’d go so far as to say he likes the power. Not to protest too much, but me thinks it’s relevant that I’m not in love with him. As with a few men where I’ve sparred against desire, they took it as a compliment. If we couldn’t handle it, it wouldn’t be much of a friendship. To thrive behind this genre of bar, however you sexually identify, you need to have an exhibitionist’s blood in your veins. I envy that arrogance. Even some beautiful people confess they have inhibiting insecurities driven by a sabotaged adolescence. In Tim’s case, I think being objectified feeds his confidence. I don’t make a study of his behavior, but I narcissistically imagine how I would react when someone aims to

kiss me on the mouth or thinks it’s his right to touch my ass due to the permissive setting. Tolerant, I’ve only seen Tim lose it when some moron snaps his fingers to get his attention—that really pisses him off—or if a drunk becomes a loud, abusive slob.

Tim’s way. He leans in on the bar, eyes fixed on you, pouring drinks he’s memorized, listening with focus and attention. I wasn’t looking for anything beyond being treated well. At the beginning, I came in once or twice a week without routine. When seeing me, I was almost always met with his smile and a giant “HI!” I’d stay. I’d drink. We’d talk. Soon, I saw myself as being separate from his sycophantic crowd. I have a fine-tuned bullshit meter. Tim wasn’t acting for my business or the obligatory treatment of a good repeat customer. This was the starting line for a friendship. Evidenced by discussing our upbringings, his wife and kids, our parents, his singing, my writing, his education, our political views, my mood, his competitive nature. Still it wasn’t the chosen subjects that were convincing, it was our duologue; crossing into privacy. I can’t time-stamp when it set in, but the bar was no longer the common denominator.

When Tim’s shift is done he rounds the bar, walks behind me, touches the center of my back and tells me how long he thinks he’ll be. I have to throw my tip at him or he won’t pick it up. He descends to the subterranean office to reconcile the bar’s take. I don’t order a drink from the bartender that’s come on, I just watch the video screen until Tim re-emerges and asks, “you ready?” I try to capsule Tim and myself. It may be as simple as two guys getting to know each other. Stepping through the intersection of conversation, passions and trust to form a bond, translucent but clear. I sometimes look back to a time when

straight and gay didn’t balance without social consequences. Dissecting my adult behavior, I recognize I obsess over my 1970’s adolescence. It may be true that a child’s personality is formed before the age of four, but the way I navigate my life is complexly shaded by surviving the teen years, having been an overtly flamboyant kid in a hard world. Stating it simply, it was easier befriending girls. In school, a boy would inevitably have to defend himself for hanging out with a faggot. Accurate or not, the guts it took back then for a young man to be my friend penetrated as invaluable. If Tim was gay or a woman, I might not see this as a price above rubies. Since we met in a setting where gay is the house norm, it seems ridiculous I still think this way. For Tim, he probably would say, “what’s the big fucking deal?” Next week, Tim won’t be working. It unearthed the thought that when he quits the bar, I may never see him again. It won’t be his intention, but the dynamics make me think it’s probable. Circumstance effects even the most well meaning relationships. I’d be happy to be proved wrong. For now, I look forward to the half hour or so I spend traveling north toward home with my friend each Sunday night. Separate from our respective lives. Singular and precious.