Losing Joel

“You lost Joel?” Marcos was leaning over the railing from the third floor landing. He gripped the banister and looked down at me standing on the fifth step. Francesco was at the top of the stairs, his boxers Lucy and Rocco watching silently. Even Guido the yappy Chihuahua held his bark. For a change. ”You LOST Joel?” Marcos repeated.

“I turned around and he wasn’t there,” I said nervously. How do you explain not coming home with your neighbor?

“Did you call him?” Francesco asked.

“He didn’t take his phone with him tonight. He was wearing tight jeans and said it would ruin his lines.”

“Where were you?” Francesco asked.

The night began innocently enough. Craig called to say he was heading into Manhattan with two friends visiting from Montreal. I hadn’t seen him in a few months and we’d been playing phone tag, so I decided to turn a Sunday night doing laundry into an evening. Joel was hungry, so we headed out to grab a bite before meeting Craig.

“I was standing on the corner of 8th and 23rd with Billy yelling at me for not going to the Eagle earlier and Craig was mad at the Canadians …”

“You LOST Joel in Chelsea?” Marcos inserted. ”How do you lose Joel, he’s not THAT small.” Marcos lives in the apartment directly above mine. He grew up in New York. Recently shaved head, new tattoo, saucy attitude. He periodically knocks on my door or sends text messages asking to borrow my mop. He always has a supply of chips and salsa, a stack of comic books I haven’t read, and a huge collection of DVDs I’ll never get around to borrowing.

“Where did you go?” Francesco asked.

My mind was addled. ”We went to Xes. To Drag Queen Karoeke,” I said. Then softly added “it was Craig’s idea.”

“Who is Craig?” Francesco asked.

“The pilot,” I said, as if that explained anything. ”Joel was in the bathroom and Craig went to get another drink and when he came back he told me to go talk to a lesbian from Sarasota he’d just met. And when Joel came back they decided to go to a different bar. And then he told that joke about not having television in the Philippines and her brother thought it was funny …”

“You lost Joel to a lesbian from Sarasota?” Marcos asked.

“And her brother,” I said.

I was worried, Marcos was laughing, and Francesco stayed calm. “He’ll be fine,” Francesco said. “He knows Chelsea and if he doesn’t have cab fair he has friends there.” Francesco has a soothing presence, a voice like velvet and smiling eyes.

But tonight I wasn’t sure. I took Joel out and then came home empty handed. I continued: “When we left Xes, Billy and the Canadians finally showed up, there was some commotion, and when I turned around Joel was gone.”

“Who are the Canadians? How many people were you with?” Francesco asked, the dogs still quiet, their eyes darting from one of us to the other.

And then the downstairs door opened and we heard the heavy thump of Joel’s Kenneth Coles climbing the stairs.

“Joel!” I shouted and grabbed his shoulders when he came in sight.

“Don’t touch me,” he said and pushed past up to the third floor landing. ”You left me with those weird people.”

“Where did you go?” I asked. ”I thought we’d find you in a bathtub full of ice and your kidneys missing.”

“So did I!” he said, his almond eyes round and gelled hair standing a little higher. “We went to another bar and you and your friend never showed up.”

“What bar? How did you get away?” I asked.

He sat on the top step and removed his boots. “I told them I was going to the bathroom, then left and hailed a taxi.”

“I knew you’d be OK,” Francesco said and moved the dogs back inside his apartment.

“Anyone have any milk?” Marcos asked, the night’s drama neatly concluded.

“I’m sorry I left you. I was distracted and couldn’t find you,” I offered. I knew it was a pathetic thing to say.

Joel shook his head, the vodka and tonic having an effect still. “You left me. Alone. With those people.”

“Is it true the one was the editor of Out?” I asked. “Craig said he was the editor.”

Joel gave me the look, climbed down the stairs and went into his apartment. His door closed tightly, the sound of the deadbolt echoing in the stairwell.

The night over, I went back into my apartment, content.

In Praise of Feral Cats

They’re at it again. In the evenings I can hear the wild cats in the gardens behind my Brooklyn apartment. They play hard to get before finally going at it. On the street side the song from the local ice cream truck plays into the night, his customers staying up beyond bed time tossing a ball or skating or engaging in their own mating rituals.

My new apartment is in an old building; four rooms in need of some Tyrus Loving Care. I’ve been here since April Fools Day, pulling bastardized shelves off the trim lined walls, painting them, hanging curtains, fretting about the ugly probably asbestos made tiles throughout the apartment, wondering if the roaches will make an appearance, contemplating the security of that window that filled with water during a rainstorm, assessing the lean of the kitchen and the smallness of the bathroom.

Old friend Marc (ten years this June) has been out twice to frustrate at my slow pace and disorganization. New neighbor Joel appeared one Saturday to insist I take down the cupboards in the kitchen. Upstairs friends Marcos and Francesco invite me up to their dens of cleanliness.

From just over one month ago, I can see progress. The flaming orange that once covered three walls is now restricted to a heating pipe. A set of empty shelves grace one wall. The refrigerator resting in a new spot. But still living out of suitcases, it’s time to buy some furniture. And a pot (or two) to cook in.

And in the night the cats call. Their song a taunt to those “sleeping single in a double bed”. But their presence a smiling reminder that rats don’t dig in the trash cans. And that life punctuated by sounds from outside my four rooms continues, progresses.