When You Don't See Me

by Timothy James Beck

Genres: LGBT Gay

Synopsis

Being Invisible Is Nick Dunill's M.O. For nineteen years, he's been "the one who disappears" to his disapproving, Midwestern family. And now in New York City, a metropolis of anonymity built on not making eye contact, he feels right at home. Walking the streets of the Village, sneaking into dive bars, cleaning apartments, and trying to co-exist in a cramped apartment with his three roommates, Nick's trying to find his way without doing anything to put his wounded heart at risk, all the while wondering, "Does anything last" But Nick's vanishing act is about to be challenged in ways he never dreamed. Little by little, he's being forced into the land of the living-into relationships and opportunities, love and sex, truth and acceptance, into the heartbreaking secrets of his past and the hopeful chances of his future. And the more visible Nick becomes, the more he realizes that in life and love, disappearing is not an option . . . "A book to get lost in" -Bay Area Reporter on Someone Like You "Funny and touching with wonderful characters" -The Texas Triangle on He's The One "A charming, humorously appealing tale" -Publishers Weekly on It Had To Be You Timothy James Beck is the author of Someone Like You, I'm Your Man, He's the One, and It Had to Be You. He divides his time between California, Texas, and New York, where he's hard at work on his next novel.

Release date: October 1, 2007

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 304

Sample

I ducked beneath a diner’s awning and decided that the city had finally made me her bitch. The freezing rain on an already-frigid February day made me want to lie down in the middle of Madison Avenue and wait for a bus to finish me off. Worse, I was getting a cold. My sinuses were killing me. My throat was starting to feel scratchy. I spat a glob of phlegm on the slushy sidewalk. A woman next to me cringed and ran to the next awning down, freeing space for a guy with dreadlocks and an Army coat.

The shitty weather forced us to stop pretending we were all invisible. Until the weather cleared, we had to deal with each other’s presence. There were about fifteen of us crowded under the awning. When someone new arrived, we’d shiver and nod, but nobody said anything.

I peered through the diner’s window. It was packed. If someone left the counter, I’d buy a cup of coffee. If I had money.

While I counted the change in my pocket, a guy ran across the street, shielding his head with a newspaper. He bumped into me, rendering me visible, and I dropped two quarters.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” he said, wiping flecks of ice from his glasses.

“Fucker,” I grumbled. I grabbed my quarters from an old man who’d picked them up. “Give me those. They’re mine.”

“Just trying to help.”

“He was just helping,” a woman said.

Suddenly everyone began talking about me like I wasn’t there. It felt good to bring strangers together. Another man ran across the street to join us and started a heated conversation with Newspaper Head. I pocketed my change and pretended to consult a bus schedule that I already knew by heart. I glanced at the two men as casually as possible. Pointless, considering that everyone around us was blatantly staring at their performance.

Newspaper Head’s friend was in that vague age range that could be late twenties or early thirties. He was blond and wore Diesel jeans and a beat-up leather jacket. He reminded me of Rocky in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Especially when he glared and sort of grunted at Newspaper Head, who was a sheepish, older guy, definitely in his forties. Total geek. My curiosity was piqued when Newspaper Head’s new friend said, “I didn’t sign up for this!”

I didn’t know why Blond Diesel said it, but I completely understood how he felt. I’d said the same thing a lot. The first time I boarded the wrong subway and wound up in Flatbush, Queens. When I saw the metal detectors on my first day at P.S. 35. And especially after I was mugged, which I’d never told anyone about.

I definitely didn’t sign up to catch a cold just in time for moving day.

“Why would you think I’d want to move to Chicago?” Blond Diesel asked.

“It’s a promotion. You know how hard I’ve been working. You know how difficult it’s been for me there,” Newspaper Head whined.

“What about me? I can’t just pick up everything and move.”

There was a lull, a stalemate, during which two Hassidic Jews came out of the rain to consult the menu taped to the diner’s window. Water dripped from the curls that framed their faces. I sniffled and was overtaken by the smell of their wet wool, until my sinuses clogged up again seconds later.

“I’m not moving,” Blond Diesel said.

“Look, this isn’t a choice I expect you to make on the spot. I just wanted to bring it up for consideration. Could you think about it?”

“Why? It’s obvious you’ve made your decision. Now I’ll make mine!” Blond Diesel loudly announced. He added, “I’ll be at Ed’s, if you care,” then stormed away into the rain.

“Is this where we applaud?” mumbled a Hassidic Jew, and his friend chuckled. “Is it intermission? I don’t know.”

“Does anything last?” I asked out loud.

“Death,” Hassidic One said, and Hassidic Two nodded sagely.

They went inside the diner. I followed and ordered a cup of coffee. I took a sip, savoring the hot, metallic-tasting liquid, added sugar, and stirred it with a spoon. I tasted it again. Once I was satisfied with the sugar-to-coffee ratio, I nonchalantly dropped the spoon into the pocket of my cargo pants. After I finished, I left two dollars in change on the counter. I discreetly dropped the empty mug into my pocket and tried not to wince when it clinked against the spoon as I walked to the door.

It didn’t matter. It was too loud in there for anyone to hear. But as I left, one of the Hassidic Jews caught my eye and shook his head disapprovingly. Then he went back to sipping his matzo ball soup, and I was invisible once again.

 

Everyone I knew got a family tag as a kid. My fraternal twin, Chuck, who I beat into the world by three minutes, was “the one who breaks things.” Toys. China. Vases. Cars. Bones and teeth—his and mine. Anything breakable was at risk around Chuck. It paid off for him, because our parents freaked at what he might do to the vacuum cleaner or the lawn mower.

Our older brother, Tony, was “the one who never shuts up.” Also known as “the one who asks dumb questions.” Since Chuck and I were a couple years younger than Tony, we missed out on his Why is the sky blue? phase. But even when I was a little kid, I knew why Tony came up with gems like Do dogs have headaches? He didn’t want information, just a reason to speculate out loud about the answers. Uncle Wayne used to offer Tony five dollars in exchange for five minutes of silence. Tony’s piggy bank went hungry.

If sibling rivalry was a game, those two shouldn’t have been much competition for me. But in all other ways, they were the pride of the Dunhills. Good athletes. Good grades. Good looks. They left me no choice except to be “the one who disappears.”

It was Dunhill family lore that my mother repeatedly left me in stores as a baby. She always claimed she was overwhelmed by having three kids in diapers. I thought I was just the victim of a shopping snob. I’d never known my mother to look for a bargain or a sale. Having twins was like some kind of two-for-one affront to her. She ditched me to get rid of the evidence.

As I got older, I tended to vanish on my own. Not just when we went places as a family. Even in our house, I could disappear by not fitting in. My parents didn’t know how to deal with an inferior Dunhill, so I tried to make myself invisible.

Where’s Nicky? someone would ask, even though I was ten feet away, tucked between the back of the sofa and the den window with a comic book or a sketchpad. Who knows? was the standard answer, but it sounded more like Who cares? Then Tony the Talker would recap my misdeeds from the day. Eventually, it would end with my parents tracking me down to ask, Why can’t you be more like your brothers?

All that was years ago, but recently, I seemed to be trying to fulfill their fondest desire. Like Chuck, I kept breaking things. My Discman. My umbrella. My promises. And like Tony, I kept asking dumb questions of an indifferent, possibly even a cruel, city.

Maybe the city hadn’t made me her bitch. Maybe it was Mother Nature. Rain hit my neck and ran down my back as I hurried to join a herd of people under a bus shelter. I read the Village Voice over a man’s shoulder. Then my eyes stopped on an ad that made me turn in disgust. Apparently my favorite Hell’s Kitchen restaurant had switched to serving Thai—the third time that had happened to me. I hated Thai food. I again asked aloud, “Does anything last?”

A woman next to me thought I was talking to her. “It wasn’t supposed to rain today. Should clear up later, though.”

“Great,” I muttered, both at her and the bus that stopped to pick us up.

Inside the bus I stared at the floor and felt fried. All I wanted was to go home. I looked up and tried to see out the window, worried that I was on the wrong bus. For a second, I couldn’t remember where I was going. Then it came back to me. Home was uptown now. Way uptown.

Some hippie once said freedom was another word for nothing left to lose, a phrase that flashed through my mind when I signed a two-year lease after weeks of searching for an apartment. Of course, my generation torched Woodstock when we learned that corporate America jacked up the price for freedom. My freedom cost two thousand dollars a month, plus utilities. Even though the rent was expensive, there was no way I’d burn the place down. Especially after all I went through to get it.

Finding an apartment in New York City, I learned, was a lot like trying to find a boyfriend. You could search ads in the newspaper, like I did, and realize the descriptions and photos never matched up to the real deal. A studio the size of a closet could look damned near palatial if it was photographed with a good lens. I visited something described as an “EVil, flr thru loft, with fplce and skylight,” which turned out to be the moldering attic of a former factory in the East Village with a hole in the roof. The fireplace was a hibachi with a dead rat in it.

Ads on the Internet were pretty much the same, although most of them were faked in an effort to lure homeless saps to a brokerage firm. It seemed ridiculous to pay an agent thousands of dollars for something I could do myself. Kind of like paying an escort to pose as a boyfriend. However, walking all over the city looking at apartments I couldn’t afford, and ones that made me want to bathe in peroxide after I was in them, left me appreciating the idea of paying someone else to do the dirty work.

Uncle Blaine always told me fate brought him and Daniel together. Daniel told me in private that fate had nothing to do with it. He saw what he wanted and went for it. Fate led me to a random coffeehouse in SoHo, where I overheard some dude complaining to his friend that he had to move and hated to give up his apartment. From that point on, I went for it and got it.

It was a small, one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of an ancient tenement in Spanish Harlem. It was dingy, the four rooms were tiny, and the apartment was in the back, so all the grimy windows faced the brick walls of the neighboring buildings, but I didn’t care. In my eyes, it was perfect. At any rate, it was good enough to give up the search. It was my freedom, after all.

I’d moved the day before—as soon as ConEd turned on the electricity—and spent the first night on my own. I barely slept since I spent the majority of the night listening to the noises of a strange apartment. It was the first time in my life that I felt really alone. No brothers, parental figures, or anyone to fill the silence between the bumps in the night. Sometime around two in the morning, I heard a man yell in the apartment above me, a door slam, and heavy footsteps on the stairs.

When I woke up, I discovered a cat who seemed to live on the fire escape. He wasn’t conversational after I opened the window and tried to talk to him over my steaming cup of tea. I finally left him so I could do a housecleaning job for I Dream of Cleanie: a Midtown loft, which made my new place look even worse.

Still, it was home, so when I got off the bus at my stop, I was determined to make the best of things. I immediately stepped into a small pond. My feet made sloshing noises with every step I took. I crossed against traffic to a deli on the corner and used my debit card to stock up on orange juice and Ramen.

Finally, I entered the ugly brown behemoth of a tenement building I now called home. Even though I’d lived there less than twenty-four hours, I checked my mailbox. I liked writing people more than talking to them on my cell phone. Now that I no longer had a computer and e-mail, anyone who wanted to keep in touch would have to buy a stamp.

I hadn’t unpacked anything but a box of kitchen stuff. The rest of my boxes, bags, and other things were piled just inside the doorway of the apartment. I closed the door and rooted through a Duane Reade bag filled with toiletries until I found a half-full bottle of NyQuil, uncapped it, and chugged. A knock on the door startled me, almost causing me to choke.

The first of my roommates had arrived.

 

I had only the vaguest acquaintance with Kendra Bowers. We’d sat next to each other in a class during my first semester at college, bitched together about the instructor, and found out that we liked the same music. Then we bumped into each other by chance in a restaurant where Kendra was waiting tables. During our conversation, we discovered that we were both looking for a place to live.

Kendra’s sunny disposition made her an appealing roommate prospect. Most of the people I knew were creative and seemed to think that cynicism and angst were mandatory traits of an artist. Kendra was definitely one of those glass-is-half-full people. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have somebody with her attitude in my life.

Kendra’s brightness seemed to dim while I showed her around the apartment, a three-minute tour. It was hard for me not to take it personally, and I said, “Maybe you shouldn’t have left it up to me to find the place. But since you’re working two jobs—”

“It probably looks better when it’s not so gloomy outside,” Kendra said hopefully. I figured sunlight would only illuminate the apartment’s flaws, so I kept quiet. After a minute, she said, “Morgan will be here soon. I guess she and I should take the bedroom. Girls need a closed door.”

“Sure, whatever,” I said, unable to come up with a decent argument.

Kendra turned down my offer of help. While she rolled her bags into the bedroom, I went to the kitchen and emptied the pockets of my cargo pants, taking inventory of the day’s piracy. The spoon and cup from the diner went into the sink. Another pocket held a bungee cord I’d found on the street, and two refrigerator magnets. One for a restaurant, the other for a plumber. Shit in, shit out. I slapped them on the refrigerator and dug in the next pocket. Two pens, a small spiral tablet that I kept to make notes of my boss’s instructions about the places I cleaned, and in the bottom, two condoms. With a sigh, I dropped those on the counter and reached inside another pocket, where I found what I was looking for: a bag of green tea that I took from the loft I’d cleaned that morning.

I didn’t normally steal from I Dream of Cleanie’s clients, but who’d miss a single tea bag? Green tea was supposed to be healthy. I’d done my bit for good karma by wiping down the inside of the client’s refrigerator, which wasn’t on my list of duties.

I turned on the burner under the kettle and glanced at Kendra as she walked in. She homed right in on the condoms and raised her eyebrows. That distracted me for a second. I’d never noticed that her eyebrows were black, which made me wonder if she was a real blonde. I checked out her roots, thinking about my friend Davii, a genius with hair color who often provided commentary on the hair don’ts of people around us. I figured Kendra’s hair color must be real, because even with two jobs, she seemed as broke as I was. She couldn’t afford someone like Davii to make her look naturally blond.

“Is there something in my hair?” she asked, nervously running her fingers through it as if she might find a roach.

“No. Sorry I was staring,” I said.

“Are you having those with your tea?” she asked, pointing at the condoms.

I slipped them back in my pants pocket and said, “I don’t know where they came from. I guess one of my tormentors.” She cocked her head. “My uncle and his friends,” I explained. “My friend Blythe calls them my gay mentors. I call them my tormentors.”

“Like bondage or something?” Kendra asked, her blue eyes huge.

“Ew. No. Uncle Blaine, his boyfriend, their housekeeper, all their friends. They’re always giving me advice and warnings about the dangers of living in a big city. How to avoid being bashed, mugged, or otherwise assaulted. How to have safe sex. I’m sure one of them dropped those in my pants when I was at my uncle’s.”

“It’s sweet that they look out for you,” Kendra said warmly, as if I’d restored her faith in humanity.

I was still staring impatiently at the kettle when Kendra’s friend Morgan showed up. I stayed in the kitchen while Kendra let her in. I tried to ignore the furious whispers that indicated that Morgan, too, might be finding the place less than luxurious. Then her voice went from whisper to bitch in ten seconds as she condemned her last landlord to eternal damnation and declared that her moving men were know-nothing pigs.

My anxiety about Morgan’s desirability as a roommate boiled a lot faster than the kettle of water when she stepped into the kitchen and I saw two snakes wrapped around her arms.

“Uh…” I said, trying not to back away.

Morgan was short and dumpy. Her uneven hair was black—definitely an unprofessional dye job—and her skin was pale and doughy. Her eyes were like little black currants set deep in her face, and their expression was hard and challenging, as if the snakes were some kind of initiation I had to pass.

“Lucifer,” she said, holding up one arm to better display a yellowish snake. It eyed me with a look that made me remember a fifth grade teacher who’d been pure evil. “Hugsie,” she added, pointing a black snake at me. That one began to writhe as the kettle shrieked at us.

I was grateful to have a reason to turn away and said over my shoulder, “Nick Dunhill. I guess you’re Morgan.”

“Brilliant. If you ever enter my room without my permission, you can kiss your ass good-bye. Which will be easy, because I’ll make sure your head’s stuffed up your ass, just like every other man in Manhattan.”

“I’m pretty sure not every man in Manhattan has been stuffed up my ass,” I said, turning around and locking my eyes on hers. It almost seemed like she was going to smile, in that Wednesday Addams if-I-smile-I’ll-die way. Then she left the kitchen as abruptly as she’d entered, snake bodies trailing behind her like feather boas. Maybe they were actual boas. I had no idea.

When Kendra came back in, looking a little fearful, I hissed, “What did you say she does?”

“She works for an animated children’s program,” Kendra whispered hesitantly, as if she knew the probability of that was highly questionable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about the snakes.”

“You’re the one who has to sleep with them,” I said, adding with sadistic satisfaction, “behind a closed door.”

 

Roberto finally showed up with the clothes on his back, two milk crates full of CDs, and furniture he’d found on the street: a futon, a tiny café table, and two rickety wooden dining chairs. I tried to cover up how lousy I felt when I helped him haul his loot into the apartment. Not that he was paying attention. He answered three calls on his cell phone while we trudged up and down stairs. If it were anyone but Roberto, I’d think he was dealing drugs. But I could tell from his side of the conversations that he was fielding calls from one or more of his brothers. He had four.

I knew Roberto from high school. Although he grew up in the Bronx, we had a few things in common. Mostly our exasperated families. Roberto’s mother had hoped that art school would put his skills with spray paint and walls to good use. Even though he pretended he had no interest in school and was just biding time until graduation, Roberto was extremely talented. Our teachers often compared him to Jean Michel Basquiat. Without the heroin habit.

“I’m sorry we’re stuck in the dining room,” I said. “The girls claimed the bedroom. I get the idea they think the apartment sucks overall.”

“This is a room? I thought it was a broom closet,” Roberto said. “The futon takes up half the room.”

I opened a small door and said, “No. This is the broom closet.”

He laughed and said, “I’m just teasin’, Nickito!”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Who gives a shit what anyone thinks? What matters is, we have our own place, yo!” He high-fived me, then saw Kendra standing in our doorway. “It’s got a good view, too.”

“I just wanted to give you my share of the deposit, Nick.” She took a tentative step into the room and handed me a check. “You know, while I’ve got it? Before I accidentally spend it on something silly, like food.”

“Or the power bill,” I said.

She sighed and asked, “How much was it to get the lights turned on?”

“They’re billing us. It won’t come for another month.”

“Not me,” Roberto said. “I could pop at any time.”

I couldn’t tell if Kendra was grossed out or trying to figure out what Roberto meant. I introduced them. When she left and I heard the bedroom door close, I turned to Roberto and said, “Roommates are off-limits.”

“We got two honeys in our house and you’re telling me I can’t—”

He was cut off when Morgan knocked loudly on our door frame and said, “Hey, you.”

“Nick,” I reminded her, then sneezed twice. “Sorry. I don’t know if it’s a cold or—”

“Listen, just because we’re sharing this glorified shoe box doesn’t mean I want to hear your life story, okay? Kendra told me she gave you her share of the rent and deposit. I don’t want you thinking I’m some freeloader, so here.” She slapped a check on top of my duffel bag. Before she left, she said, “You should get a door or hang up a sheet in this doorway. I don’t want to walk by and accidentally see your man-bits or anything.”

I stood and breathed through my mouth. Roberto was silent next to me. I wasn’t sure what he was contemplating. Probably that one of the “honeys” wasn’t such a catch after all. The miracle would be if he tried to catch her and didn’t get his ass kicked. As tough as Roberto might be, I’d put my money on Morgan. If I had money.

While I put both girls’ checks in my wallet, I sneezed three more times and remembered my cup of tea. It was stone cold, but I drank it in the kitchen while Roberto made a couple more phone calls. Then I went back into our room, trying to summon up enthusiasm for unpacking.

“Let’s get out of here,” Roberto said abruptly, picking up my hoodie and tossing it to me. I slipped into it, understanding his need to leave. Four people sharing the rent was an appealing idea. Four people inhabiting the same small space at the same time was less so. Plus Morgan’s movers were due any minute. Something told me that would entail a lot of drama.

I considered my scratchy throat and said, “Let me get a heavier jacket.”

It had finally stopped raining, but the air was still cold and damp. While we walked, Roberto entertained me with a perfect imitation of Morgan. When I realized where we were heading, I wiped my nose with alternating sleeves of my jacket and asked, “What’s up? Where are we going?”

“Listen to you, all suspicious. It stopped raining, so I thought we’d get out and—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I meant, why are we going to the subway?”

Roberto looked like he was about to deny my accusation, but stopped when he saw me staring at the subway entrance at the end of the block. We could see people descending and ascending the stairs beneath the sign for the 6 train. He glared at me and said, “Suck it up. You can’t ride the bus forever, and taxis are expensive. We’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“Manipulative asswipe. You had to bring trust into this, didn’t you?”

“You know I think of you like a brother. For you to doubt me, to think I’d willingly put you in harm’s way, is like a slap in the face. A knife in my heart. A snake’s fangs in my—”

“Enough! Fine. I’ll do it.”

We fought our way into the subway against people elbowing their way out. I slumped in a seat still warm from the behind of its previous occupant. I did everything I could to distract myself, so my mind wouldn’t think about what could be happening above while we were trapped below. I tried counting the dingy white tiles of the station wall outside, but the train lurched forward and thwarted my plan. I counted sneakers. There were twenty-four; twelve pairs. Then I worried all that counting was a sign I had OCD, so I stared at Roberto and tried to send him a telepathic message: I hate you for making me do this. He stood in front of me, obliviously holding on to the bar overhead while staring at some girl’s ass. I started counting asses.

When we exited at Sixty-eighth Street, I had to cover my ears because of the noise. Across the street from the subway entrance, behind a tall blue construction fence, a building was being torn down. As part of a brick wall crashed down, I glared at Roberto, who stared straight ahead and pretended nothing was happening. I followed him, wanting to get away from the noise and destruction. Since he seemed to have a plan and I had nowhere to be, I stayed silent until he stopped at the zoo and reached into his pocket to pay.

“You don’t have to do that,” I croaked.

Roberto looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Forget it, man.”

We walked in silence, avoiding the sea lions in the Central Garden. I wasn’t sure if the sparse crowd was because it was nearly closing time or because of the weather. I hadn’t spent much time there. Or in any zoo, for that matter. It was small. Intimate. It might have been a nice date if I wasn’t walking toward death’s door with Roberto.

“Here we are,” Roberto announced.

I looked around. “The North Pole?”

Roberto ignored me to stare at a polar bear, who took little notice of our arrival. The bear undoubtedly loved winter in New York. I wondered what he did during the summer. Probably spent most of it swimming. Maybe he had a time-share in Greenland.

“What up, iceberg?” Roberto greeted the bear. “What’s the fizz, fuzzy?”

“You and the bear are close?” I asked.

“He’s not bad for a white dude. I come here a lot when I need to think. Or be alone, you know?”

“You usually have the zoo to yourself?”

“You usually such a smartass?”

“Sorry. It’s the cold medication talking.”

“No, I don’t usually have the place to myself. But even when it’s crowded, I can tune it all out. Make everybody invisible, like they don’t exist.”

“Do you always come to see the bear?”

“Yeah. No. I mean, yeah, I always come to see him, but not always just him. I like to spend time with the sea lions, too. But that’s . . .