Can't Buy Me Love

by Chris Kenry

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

In his bawdy and uproarious debut novel, Chris Kenry takes readers on a rollicking ride with an irreverent, resilient jack of all trades--and master of the naughtiest one.  .  . Buffed, Bereaved.  .  .And Broke Thanks to his wealthy, doting lover, Jack Thompson's biggest daily challenges are the Stairmaster® and deciding whether to read this week's issue of People before or after Entertainment Weekly. That changes with his smitten benefactor's sudden demise--and a decade-old will that naturally doesn't include Jack. Unceremoniously tossed out of their shared home with little more than his rollerblades, Jack wonders who will support him in the style to which he's become accustomed. He certainly can't.  .  .or can he? To Jack's dismay, his half-hearted stints as a terminally bored office temp and disastrously clumsy waiter barely cover the minimum payments on his maxed out credit cards, let alone sprees at Neiman Marcus and Sunday brunches with the boys. What's a homeless and unemployed shopaholic to do? Perhaps nothing more than what comes naturally. After all, with his perfect pecs and sculpted abs, he's one of the most sought-after guys in town.  .  . Though he stumbles into his newfound career running Harden Up, a male escort service, purely by accident, it doesn't take long for Jack to reap the financial rewards of all those workouts. Soon business is booming, especially after he teams up with dark and decadent fellow hustler Ray, who shares his resourceful spirit--among other things.  Now they're making more money than they ever imagined--and falling for each other in the process. With everything going his way at last, Jack can't help wondering.  .  .can a pair of entrepreneurial escorts really live happily ever after in suburban Denver?"A rollicking debut.  .  .the author's talent for catchy, catty dialogue and innovative (and often quite humorous) sexual interplay buoys his storyline.  .  .Kenry shows promise with this first effort and his moxie shines through.  .  .a satisfying confection." -- Publishers Weekly Former milkman, UPS driver, and teacher of English conversation to throngs of adoring Japanese housewives, Chris Kenry currently lives and paints houses in Denver.

Release date: July 19, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 354

Sample

Even now, almost five years later, I still wonder what Paul was thinking. I guess only God knows, and He is being decidedly silent on the subject. Paul was my lover. I say was because he no longer is. He stepped off the curb one bright April afternoon and was struck, dragged sixty-eight feet, and killed by the light-rail train, and thus, to establish a metaphor, derailed my life from the effortless track on which I had been traveling.

The controversial light-rail system had been in place for nearly a year when it happened, and people were only just beginning to get used to it. In its first few months of operation, several cars and a few pedestrians had been struck, so the city’s transportation authority mounted a vigorous ad campaign warning people to pay attention to the trains and not, as many people did, try to race them. It was an annoyingly thorough campaign, with billboards and bench ads everywhere, and one that Paul was surely aware of, so ignorance can’t have been the reason. Nor can it be entirely explained by the fact that he was an Englishman, and as such was used to looking to the right instead of to the left, and had possibly looked the wrong way before he started crossing. The transportation people, for obvious litigious reasons, liked this theory, as did the newspapers, since it gave the story an interesting twist, but Paul had been living here for over twelve years by then, in which time he had crossed many a street safely, so that probably wasn’t very likely either.

I myself theorized that it happened because he was an architect. In fact, that was what had first attracted us to each other. He was an architect and I was an art history major. We shared a love of architecture and were both distressed by the impending destruction of a building designed by I. M. Pei, a swooping parabaloid structure that had been part of a failed department store and was soon to be torn down. This incensed Paul, who loved both Pei’s work and the city of Denver (in which he, Paul, had made his fortune), so he quickly organized a grassroots committee to have the parabaloid designated a historic landmark, and thus thwart the destructive plans of the developer. But, alas, in vain, as the politicians in our fair state of Colorado, most of whom still think the sun circles the earth, could not see something built in the late 1950s as having any historical significance whatsoever. Now, if it had been a sports stadium he was trying to preserve . . . But I digress. The reason I think the I. M. Pei parabaloid was responsible for his errant step into mortality is this: presumably he was walking back to his office from lunch that afternoon and had just strolled past the building a few blocks before he reached the tracks. Having seen it, he was probably preoccupied with its imminent destruction, and was surely thinking of ways to prevent it when he should have been looking where he was going.

It was a neat and tidy explanation, and one I eagerly fed to friends and family for months afterward. It seemed plausible and palatable enough, but unfortunately that doesn’t make it true. I could point to several different possibilities for Paul’s lapse of attention, but as wise Gandhi once told his whining grandson, “Every time you point the finger of blame somewhere else there are three fingers pointing back at you.”

So with that in mind I have to admit that I suspected that Paul’s mind was preoccupied with nothing other than yours truly. The three fingers were undeniably pointing to me as the probable cause of his demise, and I knew it.

If my suspicions were in fact correct, and I was clouding his thoughts, I hoped at least that he was thinking of me fondly and remembering all the happy times we spent together—the many trips we’d taken, the sex-filled afternoons, the look and feel of my chiseled body, the beautiful garden I’d painstakingly landscaped, the Christmas dinners and the birthday parties I’d planned and executed. In short, how deliriously happy I made him.

But who was I kidding. Earlier, on the very same day he was killed, we had what my parents like to euphemistically call “a discussion.” And, in truth, it was a very parental discussion: he was the parent; I was the child. In it he told me, in no uncertain terms, that although he loved me and had never minded supporting me “in quite high style” while I decided what I was going to do with my life, I was now twenty-five, had been out of college and jobless for nearly three years, and really needed to do something other than work out, tan, read magazines, and plan entertaining and expensive dinner parties. And of course he was right. Looking back, I see that my lifestyle then was hedonistic in the worst sense, but I honestly didn’t see it that way, and thought he was being unnecessarily petty. Didn’t he see that I worked very hard? That in my own way I was highly disciplined? I worked out five times a week, sometimes twice a day, I spent months landscaping the side yard and redecorating the house, and when I wasn’t doing that I was busy improving my mind and making myself a more informed member of society by reading Time and Architectural Digest and The Economist (in addition to People, Us, Vanity Fair, Details, Men’s Health, W, Spin, and The National Enquirer).

And yet somewhere in the deepest darkest recesses of my mind I knew he was right. I had gotten lazy, and all of the “work” I was doing was just an excuse, although an excuse for what I had no idea at the time.

Because he loved me, Paul had allowed me to lead a very cushy existence, and I suppose it was inevitable that the spoiled child had begun to take for granted the one doing the spoiling. All the more so because I knew that despite our argument he would never take action on his frustration. He would never make me get a job, would never cut off my pipeline supply of money. Paul was whipped, and all I had to do to smother his misgivings was have raucous sex with him and afterward tell him how much I loved him, would always love him, and on and on and on.... So when he blew up at me that morning as I headed out to my lawn chair by the pool with the new issue of Entertainment Weekly and a bottle of Pellegrino, I barely lifted the earphone of my Walkman to listen, but made a mental note that I’d have to put on quite a show in the sack later that night. He yelled and pleaded with me there in the kitchen that morning, and I’m sure that my eyes, safely hidden behind my sunglasses, were rolling in their sockets at the silliness, the pettiness of it all.

By now you are probably wondering who I am. Call me manipulative, or selfish, or lazy, or even Ishmael, if you like, but my real name is Jack. Jack Thompson. My mother is a devout Democrat and a big fan of the Kennedys, so I was named after President Kennedy, which is fine by me, because I was actually born under Nixon’s reign, and I’d hate to be called Richard, although Dick might have been a more appropriate name, considering. My upbringing was what you could call upper middle class, and I have spent my whole life right here in Denver, Colorado. Oh, I went away to college and have traveled, but for some reason I’ve always returned. I used to wonder why I came back. Denver is not an especially cosmopolitan city, and I’ve often thought myself more suited to New York or Boston or San Francisco, but for me Denver always seemed safe, and I suppose that is why I never left for long. I don’t mean safe in terms of the crime rate or the climate. There are plenty of drive-by shootings and paralyzing blizzards to make one feel insecure, but Denver felt safe because I knew it was a place where I would always be taken care of. Trouble might arise but someone, usually my parents or Paul, was sure to squash it back down for me.

Even right after Paul’s death, when I really should have been afraid, I still felt fairly safe. I went to the morgue to identify him, which was a grisly task as half of his face had been scraped off, and fretted only about what to do with the body. No worries about the loneliness ahead of me or the whereabouts of a last will and testament. No, just a small worry about what should be done with the corpse. My best friend Andre, who is not squeamish about death, having nursed one dying lover himself, went with me.

“Girl,” he said as we left the morgue (on Planet Andre, everyone is a “girl”), “I suggest cremation, but if that’s not an option then definitely a closed casket.”

But as it happened, even that decision was not one that I had to make. In fact, shortly after his death, every decision regarding Paul and his estate was made for me, even when I decided that I did want to have a say in the matter.

Enter Wendy.

Paul’s only living relative was an elder sister, Wendy, who was named sole executor of her brother’s estate. Wendy and Paul were not close. In fact, in the three years I’d been with Paul there had never been, to my knowledge, a phone call or letter between them. She had never approved of her brother’s “lifestyle choice,” and had, for all intents and purposes, lobotomized him from her memory. However, upon her hearing of his death and discovering that he had become a fairly wealthy architect, her memory suddenly returned, although it certainly did not soften, and, like some atomically mutated monster, she emerged from her lair, wreaked havoc, and then retreated again to where she’d come from.

She arrived at DIA less than two days after being notified of the accident, took a suite at the Brown Palace, and set to work finding a lawyer. When she hired one, she made it his first priority to have me forcibly removed from the house by some very large men with very legal eviction papers, who started changing the locks before I’d even left.

I met her only once, with her lawyer, when I was allowed back into the house late one afternoon to collect some of my belongings, but it was a meeting that had lasting effects on the rest of my life. She was what Andre would call an “old Irish potato,” meaning she was best described by adjectives like “tweedy” and “ruddy.” She smoked endlessly and had, I noticed, developed deep wrinkles around her mouth from the decades of repeatedly forming it into an O around her cigarettes. As the day went on, her crimson lipstick would work its way into these rivulets, making her mouth look all bloody, as though she’d just finished devouring her young. I remember thinking as I watched her that if Paul had aged as gracelessly as she, maybe it was better that he had died relatively young.

Knowing little about Wendy, and naively figuring I’d give her the benefit of the doubt despite the fact that she’d had me evicted, I tried to reason with her as we—she, the lawyer, and I—sat in the living room of the house Paul and I had shared, cardboard boxes littering the floor. They were seated on the bank-green Chesterfield sofa that I’d always loved, and I sat opposite them on one of the cardboard boxes, the rest of the furniture having been packed away or sold.

I have a tendency to gush when I am nervous, filling up awkward silences with a flood of words, and so it was then as she and the lawyer sat stonily observing me, saying nothing. I told her that I completely understood her having me removed from the premises when she did not know me from Adam, seeing as she and Paul had been out of touch for so long. I told her how much I’d loved Paul, and how an hour didn’t pass that I didn’t think of him. I told her all about the memorial service and the flowers I’d ordered and the poetry I’d recited. I then went on to say that I hoped she and I could share our grief, maybe console each other, give each other a shoulder to cry on, and I’m afraid I even shed a few tears.

Christ, why didn’t somebody stop me? If Andre had been there he certainly would have. He’d have yanked me out into the hallway and hissed, “Girl, why don’t you shut the fuck up! That bitch doesn’t care! She thinks you two were Sodom and Gomorrah living here. She doesn’t want to share any of your damn grief!”

And it was true; she had no interest in hearing any of the lurid details of her brother’s seedy life, let alone commiserating his loss with me. In fact, my attempts at commiseration probably had the reverse effect and turned her against me more than she already was. But in the absence of levelheaded Andre, on I gushed. Finally it was Wendy herself who intervened.

“Mr. Thompson,” she said, crushing her cigarette into a piece of venetian glass, which, in retrospect, I should probably have restrained myself from telling her was “never meant as an ashtray.”

“It’s nice to know that my brother was so, uh, loved in his lifetime . . .”

Here she paused and took one of my hands between her dry, scaly fingers, her voice annoyingly condescending. “. . . and I can tell you’re upset. It’s all been quite a shock. Nevertheless, we have to pick up the pieces and carry on, so I think we’d really better get down to the details, as I haven’t much time left, and Mr. Branson”—she gestured with her pointy beak of a nose to the attorney—“is on a tight schedule as well.”

I nodded, wiped my eyes with the tissue she’d pulled from her sleeve, and took a deep breath. She patted my hand, released it, and leaned back into the sofa.

“I don’t know what financial arrangement you had with my brother, for, how shall we say . . . services rendered....” She paused here, and I looked at her for a few moments honestly bewildered, like a foreigner being given complicated directions. A deer in the headlights. Blink. Blink.

“Well,” I muttered, “nothing was ever really spelled out, but we were essentially married and managed things the way most married couples do.”

She winced visibly when I said the word married, and took another cigarette from her maroon box of Dunhills, lighting it with a cheap plastic lighter she took from the pocket of her sweater. I went on. “Paul was carrying most of the financial load, until I, uh, got settled into a career.”

“Yes, I see,” she said, inhaling deeply. “And what line of work are you in now?”

I hesitated, but continued, flattered that she seemed to be taking an interest in me. “Well, I studied art history and classics in college, so ideally I’d like to do something in one of those veins. Paul really encouraged that. He was always trying to get me an internship at the Art Museum, or a job in a gallery, but, well, I guess I just never found my niche, so to speak.”

“And what do you do now?” she repeated, her voice tinged with impatience.

“Uh, now? Well, let’s see, mostly I’ve been working as a sort of weight trainer at a gym and teaching some swimming lessons. It pays a little, but I usually take it out in trade.” I smiled shyly. “For workout privileges and supplements,” I added.

“Yes, I see,” she said, arching an eyebrow and examining the end of her cigarette. “In trade.”

After a long, agonizing pause in which she sized me up with her reptilian eyes, she nodded slightly to the lawyer, who then pulled a file from his briefcase, opened it, and took over the conversation.

“Mr. Thompson,” he said, giving me a plastic smile, “whatever the nature of your relationship with the deceased and whatever financial arrangement you may have had with him in the past, he made no provision for you in his will, nor in his life insurance policy.”

At this point he removed a copy of the will, dated 1988, from a manila folder and gave it to me. I had never really given much thought to wills or estates, and certainly never to something as abstract as life insurance! I naturally assumed it would be several years before we needed to consider anything so adult as a will. My family was well off and I had never really known want or need. Every possible form of calamity had been covered by my father or my father’s policy, just like the umbrella in the commercial. If I needed a doctor, I went to one. If I wrecked the car, it went in to be fixed and I drove a rental. When I took a lacrosse stick in the mouth and lost a tooth, I went to the dentist and he made a new one.

With Paul, my life went on as usual; I just had a different provider. His insurance covered domestic partners, so we took advantage of it. I expected it. Took it for granted. When I moved in, he took over my father’s role (as icky as that sounds), and I assumed that if there was something important like a will or life insurance Paul would certainly have seen to it, just as he had seen to my car and medical insurance. But, as I stared down at the paper before me, dated April 11, 1988, long before we had even met, I saw that he had not. His death was sudden and unexpected and had not been prepared for. Certainly it should at least have been discussed, seeing as we were both gay men living in the nineties, and had, between us, attended more funerals than we cared to count. But we had not discussed it, and the potential consequences of that failure to communicate presented themselves to me then. The sun peeked over the horizon in my infantile brain and I began to comprehend the situation. I finished looking over the will, which was all legalese, and looked up. They were both eyeing me with vaguely bored expressions.

“What does this mean?” I asked, my hands suddenly very cold. The lawyer shifted his weight on the sofa and coughed unnecessarily into his hand.

“Essentially what this means,” he said, “is that there was no legal tie between you and the deceased. And my client”—he gestured and smiled at Wendy—“being the next of kin, is entitled to the entire estate.”

He paused and the sun inched a little higher.

“Again, what does this mean?” I asked more urgently, thinking of all my things: the artwork, the venetian glass, the bank-green Chesterfield on which they sat, the pewter gardening tools, the small German kitchen appliances, the copper cookware, the coffee-table books, the little Phillipe Stark lamps, and everything else that I now saw sprouting wings and flying away. It was like an inverse episode of The Price is Right: the show was going backward and all the gifts from the Showcase Showdown were going back behind the curtains. I spun the wheel backward, losing my winnings, and eventually was told by that booming voice of Johnny to go take my seat in the audience with the rest of the nobodies.

The lawyer gave his little cough again, pulling me out of my reverie.

“What this means, Mr. Thompson, is that in the eyes of the law you are entitled to nothing.”

I gasped.

“However,” he went on, “my client, sympathetic to your plight, has graciously selected a few things that you may have.”

“And those are?” I asked hopefully.

He pointed to two boxes, one of which I was sitting on, and a suitcase, positioned conveniently close to the front door.

“We determined which personal effects belonged to you and which belonged to the deceased. Since you were essentially a lodger here, you were given all of the clothing that was determined to be your size and one bike and one pair of Rollerblades, as there were two sets of each in the garage. I think you’ll find that my client has been more than fair.”

The sun was searing me now. I was getting screwed and I really didn’t want to listen to someone tell me that I was getting a good deal. I stood up but was so angry and shocked that it took a while for anything to come out of my mouth. I felt the helplessness of the wrongly accused, the shock of the innocent victim, the stupidity of the cuckold, and when the words finally did come, they were not witty.

“Rollerblades? I don’t want fucking Rollerblades! I get Roller-blades?”

“And a bike,” Wendy added cheerfully.

“Mr. Thompson, please!” the lawyer protested. “You’re getting more than you’re entit—”

“Please yourself!” I shouted. “These aren’t just things; these are my things.”

I tried to cry, thinking that might help my case, but the tears wouldn’t come so I just stood there looking constipated. Again there was a long silence in which the lawyer and I exchanged nasty glances, our jaws clenched, while Wendy sat, calmly sucking on her cigarette. She exhaled noisily, as if thoroughly bored and annoyed, and then rose from the sofa and walked to the stairs. When she was halfway up she turned, as if she’d just remembered something.

“Oh, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “There is one more thing you’ll be getting.”

“And what’s that?” I asked, my tone sarcastic, wondering what she could possibly concede. Again she formed her lips into a bloody O and said quite simply, “Out.”

She then turned and skipped like a schoolgirl up the remaining stairs, flicking her ashes on the carpet as she went.

The lawyer escorted me out with my boxes and the Rollerblades, which I violently hurled into the bed of the truck I’d borrowed. I’d anticipated making several trips, but that was it—two boxes, a suitcase, a pair of Rollerblades, and a bike. Obviously she had not given me all of my clothes, since my socks alone would have filled the suitcase, but at that point it felt useless to argue, and I was feeling a little ashamed that I had shown myself to be more upset about losing the twelve-speed Waring blender than about losing Paul. I drove slowly down the driveway, past the rows of lilac bushes I’d planted last fall, now in full bloom. When I was far down the driveway, out of sight of the house, I reached out and ripped a large branch from one of the bushes. It was an unsatisfying gesture.

I drove around aimlessly for a while, not knowing where to go or what to do. I felt I’d come unexpectedly to the end of a book. I turned the page eagerly to see what would happen next but there was no more type, only blank sheets of paper. Paul was gone, and for the first time since his death I felt a tinge of worry as I realized that he would not be coming back. Until then, I’d sort of believed that he was just away on a business trip and would be back soon to sort out all the lunacy that had transpired in his absence. I had watched much too much daytime TV as a child and far too many episodes of The X-Files as an adult, so as I drove I indulged myself in the imagining of several different conspiracy theories:

I believed that he would somehow come back from the accident, and it would all have been a bad dream. It hadn’t really been his body in the morgue, but that of another dressed like him. An impostor! The real Paul had been kidnapped and was being held in some underground hovel by strangely silent criminals who were not asking for ransom.

Or he really had been injured and, suffering from amnesia, was being nursed back to health in a mountain convent by kindly nuns who would patiently help him regain his memory and take back his life.

Or the whole accident had been staged as part of the Witness Protection Program and Paul would return with a new face and identity, like when an actor got fired or quit a soap opera and a new one was hired to take his place. I would accept this new Paul without question.

Whatever the scenario, I thought, he would return. He’d come and get the house and belongings back from his evil, withered sister in a big dramatic showdown worthy of a nighttime soap opera like Dynasty or Falcon Crest, and we’d live happily ever after.

Of course I knew that this was ridiculous and absurd. No one in a soap opera ever lives happily ever after, and I had, without a doubt, identified his all too real dead body in the morgue. But maybe my theories were not all that ridiculous. His whole death had been absurd, and when a death occurs suddenly, like Paul’s, it is incomprehensible in its simplicity and the shock does take some time to wear off. As I drove around that day it was definitely wearing off. I felt sad, yes, but more than that I was disappointed. Like at the end of a good night at a dance bar when they suddenly turn up the lights and start herding everyone toward the exit.

In my life I have found nostalgia to be a very dangerous thing. Unlike hindsight, which shows you your folly in a painful, morning-after clarity, nostalgia is a pretty store window into the past, smeared with Vaseline, all dreamy-looking. If hindsight is 20/20, then nostalgia is a look back through rose-colored glasses. Rose colored glasses that filter out all those pesky rays of truth, showing you happy times, usually much happier than they actually were, that are gone forever. Sure, you’ll be happy again in the future; you may even be happy in the present, but nostalgia takes you by the hand, leads you into the past, and shows you a happiness you’ll never quite have again—because you never really had it in the first place. To most people nostalgia is sweet. To me it is bitter and masochistic, but most of all, completely useless. Nevertheless, here’s a hefty dose of it:

Paul and I met, as most gay men meet, at a bar. We didn’t really meet there, but it was the first time we noticed each other. I was still in college, home for the summer, working for a landscaping company during the day and going out nearly every night with Andre. We had the bars on a tight schedule back then, according to which one was likely to be the most crowded on a given night. Mondays we went to the Compound, Tuesdays to Charlie’s, Wednesdays and Saturdays to the Metro, etc.... On Sunday afternoons there was always a crowd at a bar called Soc’s and, like faithful little lemmings, we were there every Sunday. Its unabbreviated name was Club Socrates, as in a place to corrupt the youth of Denver. Get it? If not, don’t worry, neither did anyone else, which is why they shortened it to Soc’s and made it into a sports bar. The bar itself was small but it had a huge patio and dance floor outside, so most of their business came during the summer. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who went there in the winter, but everyone who was anyone in the gay community went there on Sunday afternoons in the summer.

On this particular Sunday in August, Andre and I were there, of course, drinking and dancing and being our fabulous selves, boldly eyeing guys we thought were good-looking. Paul was one of these guys. He was funny to look at because he was so short and was with a group of friends who were all very tall, and I remember that I kept losing sight of him when his friends would crowd around.

“Who’s the midget?” I asked Andre. He spun around excitedly, clearly hoping to see an actual midget, and followed my gaze over to Paul.

“Oh, that one,” he said, his voice revealing his disappointment. “Girl, that’s Paul Oswald. English, I think. He’s some big-deal architect, or as big a deal as an architect can be in this town. Big fish in a little pond. He did that new building for Channel Eight—that one with all the columns that looks like it was left over from the Ben Hur set.”

“He’s not bad-looking,” I said, staring at him. Andre winced and gave an expression most people reserve for entering Porta Pottis on a hot day.

“That little limey?” he cried. “You don’t want him! He’s one of those weird fags who didn’t come out of the closet until he was, like, thirty-five, and from the look of him, that was not yesterday.”

I watched Paul as he gazed up at his tall friends like a child who’d wandered into his parents’ cocktail party, and then, finally, he caught me looking. We held eye contact for a moment and smiled at each other, but then his view was blocked by a wall of bodies, and Andre, hearing the opening bars of a Madonna song, impatiently dragged me through the crowd and onto the dance floor.

That was it. We didn’t see each other again that night, nor even that summer. It wasn’t until late autumn that we actually met. I had returned to school in Boulder, and was taking a class on classical Roman architecture. It was an interesting class made boring by an uninspired professor who hated the subject he was teaching, so I strolled into the classroom one Wednesday afternoon expecting the monotonous worst, as usual, only to find Paul sitting at the front of the class waiting to give a guest lecture on the Pantheon. He looked familiar but I couldn’t really place him until he took his place behind the podium and nearly disappeared behind it. Aside from being short, he was handsome. He had a beautiful mop of dirty blond hair that was always attractively unkempt, and a long, elegant nose. His chin was pronounced, and he wore round tortoiseshell-framed glasses. He looked classically beautiful in a studied, Ralph Lauren way. Or, if I am less nostalgic and charitable, in a false, pretentious way. He gave a wonderful lecture in his crisp, concise English accent, growing more and more animated with each slide he clicked onto the screen. He really was brilliant when talking about architecture, and it was clear from his enthusiasm that he had found a career he really loved. I think that was partly what I found so intriguing about him.

After the lecture, as I was waiting in line in the cafeteria of the student union, I noticed him sitting at one of the tables wearily listening to the drone of the usual architecture professor. I watched them shake hands as the professor pointed to his watch and got up, leaving Paul sitting alone. I quickly paid for my coffee and wound my way to his table before one of the other students had the chance to jump in.

“Was he boring you as much as he bores us?” I asked, gesturing at the departing professor.

“I suppose he is a bit dry,” he said shyly.

“You’re too kind,” I said, and moved into the seat recently vaca