WINTER SOULS, Chapter 2 by Brian Hennessey
OK sorry for delay had some technical issues! Enjoy, Brian
*****
WINTER SOULS, Chapter 2
December 23, 2009, New York City, St. Regis Hotel
1:30 p.m.
Cabin fever.
I have cabin fever.
The shades are up on all the windows of this elegant suite, but all I can see beyond the glass is white out. It’s like being painted into a box. It’s too early for the King Cole Bar, and too late for breakfast. I guess I could order lunch, but I really need to get out of this room.
I rub my hand over the condensation on the window, but even when the glass is clear, all there is to see is walls of white. This may be the worst blizzard in New York City history. I begin to wonder if I made a detour to Buffalo sometime during the night.
There is an eerie stillness in the city, businesses closed, last minute shoppers have no good way to get to the stores, if they are even open. Once they leave the subway, they are hit with a sheet of icy needles, thigh high snow and no cabs. Those who planned to drive over the meadow and through the woods to grandmother’s house for the holiday are fucked.
The television gave me insight into the horror the roads and highways have become. Those fools who felt they could beat the odds were piled up or on their sides next to an embankment or just crossways on a road headed out of the city, unable to get the traction to either move forward or retreat. Hassled and exhausted would-be travelers at the airports are sleeping on vinyl chairs or the floor, bitching about being stranded by the airlines. Come on. Do you really want to be on a plane willing to take off under tons of ice coating the fuselage?
There are worse ways to wait out a blizzard than a suite at the St. Regis with hot and cold running room service, butlers and a legendary bar. And yet I feel trapped. Bored.
I should just hibernate for a few days, drink a bottle of single malt and catch up on my sleep deprivation. But I know me. I won’t sleep, I’ll just be bored and trapped and an angry drunk. The sudden shrill ring of the telephone startles me. I immediately think of Justin, but he doesn’t know I am here, and if he knew I was in New York, he wouldn’t know where I was staying. When I pick up the receiver, I hear Ted’s overly dramatic whine.
“Can I go home now, boss? I’ve been working almost seventy-two hours straight and the storms are moving in to Pittsburgh. Please don’t make me spend the holidays eating from the vending machine down the hall and sleeping on the couch in your office.”
“Who said you could sleep on the couch in my office?” I chuckle at his plight. “Books closed?”
“Preliminarily. I want to do a final true up, but can’t that wait until the 26th?”
“Yes. Theodore, go home. Have a merry Christmas with your mom and Em and the rest of the gang. Have a toast on me. Oh, by the way, a little token of the season has been delivered to your condo. Don’t spend it all on boys and booze. Or maybe you should.”
He laughs, his mood elevated by the idea of a bonus. “Thanks Brian, but as tired as I am now, I would gladly spend it all on blackout blinds and a goosedown duvet.”
“Whatever vice you choose, Theodore.”
“Any idea when you will get out of there?”
“How long was the Ice Age?”
“Ouch. Oh, by the way, Justin called to say he would not be making it in for Christmas.”
“He called you?”
“He called the office, for you. I told him you were also stuck in the city.”
“Ah, ok.”
“He asked where you were staying, so I told him. I figured that was ok with you.”
“Sure, why not? I think he’s outgrown his stalking phase.”
“Has he called you?”
“Go home, go to bed, Theodore. Merry, merry.”
I get one of his deep, prolonged Ted sighs. He knows he has crossed over into “none of your business land”. “Merry Christmas to you too, Brian. Travel safely, when you can.”
“Yeah, lock up.”
I hang up and iight a cigarette, or as I like to think of it, another hole punch on my final destination. Interesting he called and also interesting he hasn’t called me here. Enough of this “you first” shit. I punch in his cell number and eventually I hear a foggy voice respond,
“Yeah?”
“Still asleep at this hour? You must have had a better night than I did.”
He pauses. “Brian?”
“How soon they forget.”
“Sorry, I just slept off and on, this loft is so damned cold.”
“You got a loft?”
“Not by your standards. I got a space. In an old factory. No renovation. And virtually no heat.”
“So come uptown and have lunch with me.”
“Are you sending a sled and a team of huskies?”
“Yeah and some sables to throw over your frozen ass. I have heat and an expense account. Sound good?”
“I’m not sure I can get there. I’m sure the cabs aren’t out in any number. Wonder if the subway’s running?”
“Let me put it this way. I’m in Room 415 if you can find your way up here. If you can’t, stay warm and have a merry Christmas.”
“I’ll try.”
We hang up. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Jeans and a sweater, hair going ten different ways, not yet exposed to a comb, the brush of a beard beginning to sprout. At least I showered and brushed my teeth. I decide not to change a thing. He’s seen me worse, and I don’t want to look as if I made a big effort.
Vanity. When do you outgrow that conceit? On second thought, I decide to do something to tame my hair. The stubble stays.
En route to the hotel, 2:15 p.m.
Oh my fucking god! I cannot believe I am doing this! I have never been so cold, everything aches and the snot has frozen in my nose, making breathing an agony. The subway was cold, but this trek is death defying and it’s only three blocks! I am wearing every warm piece of clothing I own and I can move about as well as the little brother in the Christmas Story after his mom wrapped him up.
And yet, I am frozen.
My feet are numb. My hands are numb. My eyes are too cold to tear up. My ears will probably come off with my hat. I duck in a couple doorways to warm up on the way, but it’s useless. The wind finds me and pelts me with its white needles.
I really wonder if I could die. And how fitting that I die on my way to see Brian fucking Kinney! Who other than Brian fucking Kinney could get me out on a day like this? Don’t think I don’t take note that I am the one braving the cold, not him. Damned straight he is buying me lunch, and dinner and probably a room. I am not risking this trip home unless the weather changes dramatically.
When I finally make the hotel, I just stand there in the warm, welcoming lobby until the shaking stops. The thaw out is painful and my body is shook with waves of tremors as my blood begins to reach something akin to normal temperature.
A waiter or someone with a silver tray offers me hot tea, or coffee or chocolate, but I am shaking too hard to trust my hands. I can see me splash it all over myself and the floor. I shake my head and a flurry of snowflakes fly and melt. I get to the elevator and push the fourth floor. Now the ice coating has melted and my clothes are wet. Cold and wet. I start shaking again. The snot melts too and begins to flow. I wipe off what I can on a wet woolen scarf.
When I find his room, I am angry and miserable and those emotions increase when he opens the door and laughs. He looks his usual gorgeous self, cashmere sweater, expensive jeans, cashmere socks. And he has the nerve to laugh.
“Fuck you!” I greet him and he laughs again.
“You look like shit. Frozen shit.”
I push past him, shedding soggy clothes as I go. By the time I reach his bathroom, I am down to my long johns. I turn the shower on full bore and begin to peel off the wet underlayer, My skin resembles a plucked goose, it is so pale and so bumped up. He is in the doorway, staring at my naked body, but I have no shame and no pride, I am freezing to death.
“Let me know if you lose any useful appendages as you thaw out,” he teases, answered by my slam of the glass door.
******
While Justin stands under the warm water, I bring in the heavy terry cloth robe from the closet that I haven’t used along with an extra pair of cashmere socks. I leave them on the vanity. I remember the days when I would have joined him in that shower and thawed him out inside and out. He did look good naked, despite the shrivel of the cold. But he is obviously stressed and miserable and I don’t want to make the wrong move after all he went through to get here.
Instead I order lunch, making sure every dish is warm and cozy. He is in there a long time and then I hear the hair dryer, assuming he didn’t want the chill of wet hair. He finally emerges wearing the robe and the cashmere socks, any exposed flesh pinked by the steam.
I smile at him. “Well, if it isn’t Frosty the Snowman’s younger, thinner brother.”
He pulls the duvet off the bed and wraps himself in the cocoon as he slumps into a chair and glances out the window. “I could have died out there.”
I nod. “Unlikely, but possible I suppose. Don’t worry, the St. Regis St. Bernards were on standby to rescue you with a keg.”
“You think it’s funny?”
“I think your drama is funny.”
“It’s not drama, Brian! It’s true! I didn’t see you out in it!”
“You’re younger, you heal faster.”
“It is white death out there!”
“So why did you come?”
His baby blues fix on me as he contemplates that question and finally says,
“I wish I knew.”
*****
WINTER SOULS, Chapter 2
December 23, 2009, New York City, St. Regis Hotel
1:30 p.m.
Cabin fever.
I have cabin fever.
The shades are up on all the windows of this elegant suite, but all I can see beyond the glass is white out. It’s like being painted into a box. It’s too early for the King Cole Bar, and too late for breakfast. I guess I could order lunch, but I really need to get out of this room.
I rub my hand over the condensation on the window, but even when the glass is clear, all there is to see is walls of white. This may be the worst blizzard in New York City history. I begin to wonder if I made a detour to Buffalo sometime during the night.
There is an eerie stillness in the city, businesses closed, last minute shoppers have no good way to get to the stores, if they are even open. Once they leave the subway, they are hit with a sheet of icy needles, thigh high snow and no cabs. Those who planned to drive over the meadow and through the woods to grandmother’s house for the holiday are fucked.
The television gave me insight into the horror the roads and highways have become. Those fools who felt they could beat the odds were piled up or on their sides next to an embankment or just crossways on a road headed out of the city, unable to get the traction to either move forward or retreat. Hassled and exhausted would-be travelers at the airports are sleeping on vinyl chairs or the floor, bitching about being stranded by the airlines. Come on. Do you really want to be on a plane willing to take off under tons of ice coating the fuselage?
There are worse ways to wait out a blizzard than a suite at the St. Regis with hot and cold running room service, butlers and a legendary bar. And yet I feel trapped. Bored.
I should just hibernate for a few days, drink a bottle of single malt and catch up on my sleep deprivation. But I know me. I won’t sleep, I’ll just be bored and trapped and an angry drunk. The sudden shrill ring of the telephone startles me. I immediately think of Justin, but he doesn’t know I am here, and if he knew I was in New York, he wouldn’t know where I was staying. When I pick up the receiver, I hear Ted’s overly dramatic whine.
“Can I go home now, boss? I’ve been working almost seventy-two hours straight and the storms are moving in to Pittsburgh. Please don’t make me spend the holidays eating from the vending machine down the hall and sleeping on the couch in your office.”
“Who said you could sleep on the couch in my office?” I chuckle at his plight. “Books closed?”
“Preliminarily. I want to do a final true up, but can’t that wait until the 26th?”
“Yes. Theodore, go home. Have a merry Christmas with your mom and Em and the rest of the gang. Have a toast on me. Oh, by the way, a little token of the season has been delivered to your condo. Don’t spend it all on boys and booze. Or maybe you should.”
He laughs, his mood elevated by the idea of a bonus. “Thanks Brian, but as tired as I am now, I would gladly spend it all on blackout blinds and a goosedown duvet.”
“Whatever vice you choose, Theodore.”
“Any idea when you will get out of there?”
“How long was the Ice Age?”
“Ouch. Oh, by the way, Justin called to say he would not be making it in for Christmas.”
“He called you?”
“He called the office, for you. I told him you were also stuck in the city.”
“Ah, ok.”
“He asked where you were staying, so I told him. I figured that was ok with you.”
“Sure, why not? I think he’s outgrown his stalking phase.”
“Has he called you?”
“Go home, go to bed, Theodore. Merry, merry.”
I get one of his deep, prolonged Ted sighs. He knows he has crossed over into “none of your business land”. “Merry Christmas to you too, Brian. Travel safely, when you can.”
“Yeah, lock up.”
I hang up and iight a cigarette, or as I like to think of it, another hole punch on my final destination. Interesting he called and also interesting he hasn’t called me here. Enough of this “you first” shit. I punch in his cell number and eventually I hear a foggy voice respond,
“Yeah?”
“Still asleep at this hour? You must have had a better night than I did.”
He pauses. “Brian?”
“How soon they forget.”
“Sorry, I just slept off and on, this loft is so damned cold.”
“You got a loft?”
“Not by your standards. I got a space. In an old factory. No renovation. And virtually no heat.”
“So come uptown and have lunch with me.”
“Are you sending a sled and a team of huskies?”
“Yeah and some sables to throw over your frozen ass. I have heat and an expense account. Sound good?”
“I’m not sure I can get there. I’m sure the cabs aren’t out in any number. Wonder if the subway’s running?”
“Let me put it this way. I’m in Room 415 if you can find your way up here. If you can’t, stay warm and have a merry Christmas.”
“I’ll try.”
We hang up. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Jeans and a sweater, hair going ten different ways, not yet exposed to a comb, the brush of a beard beginning to sprout. At least I showered and brushed my teeth. I decide not to change a thing. He’s seen me worse, and I don’t want to look as if I made a big effort.
Vanity. When do you outgrow that conceit? On second thought, I decide to do something to tame my hair. The stubble stays.
En route to the hotel, 2:15 p.m.
Oh my fucking god! I cannot believe I am doing this! I have never been so cold, everything aches and the snot has frozen in my nose, making breathing an agony. The subway was cold, but this trek is death defying and it’s only three blocks! I am wearing every warm piece of clothing I own and I can move about as well as the little brother in the Christmas Story after his mom wrapped him up.
And yet, I am frozen.
My feet are numb. My hands are numb. My eyes are too cold to tear up. My ears will probably come off with my hat. I duck in a couple doorways to warm up on the way, but it’s useless. The wind finds me and pelts me with its white needles.
I really wonder if I could die. And how fitting that I die on my way to see Brian fucking Kinney! Who other than Brian fucking Kinney could get me out on a day like this? Don’t think I don’t take note that I am the one braving the cold, not him. Damned straight he is buying me lunch, and dinner and probably a room. I am not risking this trip home unless the weather changes dramatically.
When I finally make the hotel, I just stand there in the warm, welcoming lobby until the shaking stops. The thaw out is painful and my body is shook with waves of tremors as my blood begins to reach something akin to normal temperature.
A waiter or someone with a silver tray offers me hot tea, or coffee or chocolate, but I am shaking too hard to trust my hands. I can see me splash it all over myself and the floor. I shake my head and a flurry of snowflakes fly and melt. I get to the elevator and push the fourth floor. Now the ice coating has melted and my clothes are wet. Cold and wet. I start shaking again. The snot melts too and begins to flow. I wipe off what I can on a wet woolen scarf.
When I find his room, I am angry and miserable and those emotions increase when he opens the door and laughs. He looks his usual gorgeous self, cashmere sweater, expensive jeans, cashmere socks. And he has the nerve to laugh.
“Fuck you!” I greet him and he laughs again.
“You look like shit. Frozen shit.”
I push past him, shedding soggy clothes as I go. By the time I reach his bathroom, I am down to my long johns. I turn the shower on full bore and begin to peel off the wet underlayer, My skin resembles a plucked goose, it is so pale and so bumped up. He is in the doorway, staring at my naked body, but I have no shame and no pride, I am freezing to death.
“Let me know if you lose any useful appendages as you thaw out,” he teases, answered by my slam of the glass door.
******
While Justin stands under the warm water, I bring in the heavy terry cloth robe from the closet that I haven’t used along with an extra pair of cashmere socks. I leave them on the vanity. I remember the days when I would have joined him in that shower and thawed him out inside and out. He did look good naked, despite the shrivel of the cold. But he is obviously stressed and miserable and I don’t want to make the wrong move after all he went through to get here.
Instead I order lunch, making sure every dish is warm and cozy. He is in there a long time and then I hear the hair dryer, assuming he didn’t want the chill of wet hair. He finally emerges wearing the robe and the cashmere socks, any exposed flesh pinked by the steam.
I smile at him. “Well, if it isn’t Frosty the Snowman’s younger, thinner brother.”
He pulls the duvet off the bed and wraps himself in the cocoon as he slumps into a chair and glances out the window. “I could have died out there.”
I nod. “Unlikely, but possible I suppose. Don’t worry, the St. Regis St. Bernards were on standby to rescue you with a keg.”
“You think it’s funny?”
“I think your drama is funny.”
“It’s not drama, Brian! It’s true! I didn’t see you out in it!”
“You’re younger, you heal faster.”
“It is white death out there!”
“So why did you come?”
His baby blues fix on me as he contemplates that question and finally says,
“I wish I knew.”