Michael's Secrets (7 page)

“How often does the maid come?” Michael asked.

“Oh, I don’t use a maid. I don’t like cleaning up after someone. It’s amazing I’m subletting as I usually don’t want anyone touching my stuff. I’m a little obsessive,” Eric said.

Eric was very energetic, almost hyper, but extremely friendly. Oddly, neither mentioned the fact that they looked so much alike.

“Can I ask you another question?” Michael asked.

“Sure,” Eric answered, “I have no secrets.”

“Why is everything arranged in threes?” Michael asked gesturing around the apartment.

Eric looked around and laughed. “Well, if you must know, I have mild Asperger’s syndrome or as some call it high functioning autism. I’ve learned to control it over the years, but some of my quirks come out screaming.” Eric then laughed.

“I guess that makes life interesting,” Michael said, having read up on Asperger’s syndrome when a friend’s child was diagnosed with it.

Eric was constantly on the move and handed Michael a list. “Yeah, I can’t sit still. My grandmother used to say I was busier than a blue-assed fly, whatever the hell that means,” Eric added.

Michael glanced at the piece of paper, which contained a list of emergency numbers, instructions on how everything worked in the apartment, including how if you baked a cake, set the thermostat twenty-five degrees higher than the recipe instructed and allow seven extra minutes of baking time. Every minute detail of living in this one-bedroom apartment was covered. Michael reached into his wallet and pulled out a check, which covered an entire year’s rent, utilities and a security deposit. Eric looked at it, immediately endorsed it and pulled out a deposit slip filling it out as well. Michael was amazed at how organized Eric was.

“So, Brazil, I guess you’re looking forward to that,” Michael said.

“Actually, it’s not as glamorous as you think. I’m going down there on a government contract to study and write about the impact of aid to poor villages in the country. I may never see Rio except when I land at the airport,” Eric said. “And do you want to hear the weirdest part?”

“What?” Michael asked, intrigued by this twin of his with every move he made.

“I’ve been taking Portuguese lessons for six months now, and I still can’t speak one word of it! Hilarious huh? Sending an Aspy – that is what they call us Asperger’s people – to a foreign country with no working knowledge of the language,” Eric answered and laughed again.

Michael looked over at his suitcases and noticed he had only three bags – of course, three. “Is that all the luggage you’re taking for a year?” Michael asked.

“Look who’s talking. You showed up with three bags yourself,” Eric said pointing to Michael’s bags.

“You’re right, but I’m having the rest shipped,” Michael answered, noticing that he had a “three-thing” going on, too.

“I shipped stuff also and guess how many boxes?” Eric said with a grin.

“Three,” Michael answered.

“Wrong! Two!” Eric said. “Do you know for how long I was rocking and flapping my arms before I could allow myself only to send two boxes?” Eric then laughed again. That made Michael nervous – rocking and flapping his arms. Eric sensed his alarm. “Oh, come on. That’s a little Aspy humor. I don’t rock,” he said then paused. “But I do flap my arms when I get excited.” Then Eric winked. Just then, a blue van pulled up out front, and the driver blew his horn.

“Oh, there’s my shuttle. My cell phone number is on the list if you need anything. I’ll call once a month to see that everything’s OK. Also, I didn’t forward my phone, so if it rings, go ahead and answer it and give anyone my cell number. You can use the phone also, and the number is on the list,” Eric said as he opened the door and walked to the shuttle with two of his suitcases.

Michael grabbed the third bag and followed him out.

“Do you think you forgot something?” Michael asked as Eric opened the door to the van.

Eric furrowed his brow and replied, “What?”

“The keys,” Michael said holding out his hand.

Eric reached into his pocket and handed Michael a key chain with three keys. He pointed out the one for the door, the deadbolt and the one for the steel-reinforced screen door. “Make sure you lock all three. This may be Mount Pleasant, but it is neither a mount, nor pleasant … discuss,” Eric said as he closed the door to the van and they drove off.

Michael waved goodbye and passed a neighbor, who gave him a double-take as he walked back to the apartment.

“Eric, did you dye your hair?” the neighbor asked.

“No. Don’t you think I would have dyed
all
the gray out?” Michael answered, not letting her know that he was not her neighbor.

He touched the
Mezuzah
on the front door frame and kissed his hand before entering the apartment.

Here he was, back in D.C. after almost twenty-five years. Michael had not been here since his maternal grandmother died, and he was actually looking forward to it. About an hour after Eric left, Michael’s boxes arrived. What timing. Within two hours, he had everything unpacked and was settled in.
Now, who is obsessive?
He thought.

Michael called Sharon to tell her he arrived safely and would see her Monday when she returned from her mountain retreat in West Virginia. Then, he ordered some dinner from the Chinese take-out menu he found on the refrigerator and settled in for the night.

The next day was Saturday, and he spent most of the day walking around the neighborhood and running errands, grocery shopping and the like.

In the evening, Michael was restless, so he went online to see what the nightlife in Washington had to offer. It had been years since he had been out to a bar, but he lacked for anything else to do, so he printed out a list of bars and dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt and sneakers. He walked to 16
th
Street and hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to the D.C. Falcon on New York Avenue. Within twenty minutes, the cab pulled up to a nondescript building with a door that had written on it, “D.C. Falcon.” He paid the fare and exited the cab.

The neighborhood looked a little dicey, and Michael was glad he was wearing sneakers in case he needed to make a fast getaway from a mugger. He walked quickly to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. Michael pulled the list of bars from his wallet and checked the hours of operation. The D.C. Falcon was supposed to be open from 6:00 pm to 2:00 am, and Michael looked at his watch and saw it was a little after 10:00 pm. He looked around the door and saw a button that he figured was a bell, so he pushed it. Within a few seconds, the door opened, and a large bearded man, wearing a harness, leather chaps and a leather jock strap opened the door and eyed Michael up and down.

“Yes?” the bouncer asked.

“Are you open?” Michael asked as he looked inside and saw there was a sizable crowd in the darkened bar, most of whom were dressed in black or leather garb.

“Yes, there’s a $10 cover to get in,” the bouncer responded.

Michael reached for his wallet and stepped inside. He pulled a $10 bill from his wallet to hand to the bouncer, but the man shook his head no to Michael and said, “I can’t let you in. We have a dress code.”

Michael gave the bouncer a puzzled look and asked, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“You’re wearing sneakers,” the bouncer said pointing to Michael’s shoes.

Michael looked at his shoes and didn’t think they looked bad as they were gray with blue lettering and practically brand new.

“So?” Michael asked.

“The rules are black leather shoes or boots, preferably boots and absolutely no sneakers,” the bouncer said as he opened the door, signaling for Michael to leave.

Michael turned around and walked out then he turned back to the bouncer and said, “I don’t think you realize whom you just kicked out of your dump.”

The bouncer responded, “From what I can see another pretty boy who wants to play with a daddy.”

Michael shook his head and walked to the curb in the hope of hailing a cab before he was accosted by some hood. As he stood there, he heard the door to the bar open, but he didn’t look back to see who it was. He heard footsteps behind him, and then someone tapped his shoulder. Michael jumped and yelled, then he turned and said, “I’m leaving, asshole, I’m just waiting for a cab …” But, it wasn’t the bouncer.

Standing in front of Michael was a man in his thirties, who was around five-foot-nine, with a crew cut, a goatee and, from what he could see in the dark, gray eyes. The man was wearing a black T-shirt that hugged a large muscular frame and jeans, similar to Michael’s.

He smiled and said, “Do you call everyone asshole?”

Michael looked at his feet and saw the man was wearing black leather boots and pointing to them said, “Why did they kick you out? You’re wearing black leather boots.”

The man looked at his boots, looked up at Michael and smiled, “Is that why you left? I was wondering why?”

“Yeah, and I’m going home to get my size seventeen, black leather stilettos, just to piss off the bouncer,” Michael said as he turned toward the street again to look for a cab.

The man inched closer to Michael and looked up the street as well and said, “You won’t get a cab just standing here. You’ll need to call for one inside. They don’t like coming to this neighborhood if they don’t have to.”

“Great,” Michael said. “Where should I go then to catch one? I just moved here yesterday.”

The man reached out his hand and introduced himself, “I’m Steve. Come with me into the bar.”

“I’m Michael, but they won’t let me in,” Michael said shaking his hand and noticing the strong grip on this stranger who followed him out. “Weren’t you leaving?”

“No,” Steve said. “I saw you come in and then turn around and leave, so I decided to follow you out to see if I could meet you.”

“It must be slim pickings inside tonight if you need to find a trick by watching the door for rejects,” Michael said with a laugh.

Steve looked Michael up and down and said, “You’re no reject. Come with me, I’ll get you in.”

“And, what makes you think you can get me in?” Michael asked without moving.

“I’m Mr. D.C. Falcon,” Steve said as he walked back to the door and motioned for Michael to follow him.

Michael hesitated for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and followed his new acquaintance to the door. Steve rang the bell, and the bouncer opened it, smiling at Steve but then throwing a frown at Michael.

“It’s OK, Jim,” Steve said as he grabbed Michael’s arm to lead him in. “This is my date, Michael.”

Michael walked past the bouncer and smirked as the bouncer huffed back at him, saying, “Yeah, well your date isn’t dressed right.”

Steve turned around and walked up to the bouncer, staring up at the big man who stood a good six inches taller. The bouncer bowed his head at Steve, who growled at him, “Boy. You know better than to sass me. Now, you apologize to my friend. He just moved here, and I wouldn’t want him to think we’re not respectful to our guests!”

The bouncer walked up to Michael who was watching this play out with much curiosity, got down on his knees, grabbed Michael’s right hand and said, while looking at the floor, “Forgive me, sir. I did not mean any disrespect.”

Michael, who was a little taken aback by the bouncer’s behavior, looked at Steve for direction. “What do I say?” Michael mouthed.

“Put your left hand on the back of his head and tell him he’s forgiven,” Steve said as if anyone should know this.

Michael did as Steve instructed and said, “You’re forgiven.” Then he looked at Steve, who nodded approvingly, and took his hand off the bouncer’s head and said as he then put it under his chin and tilted the big man’s head up, “But, boy, I don’t care if I come in wearing a party dress and Mary Jane’s. You let me in next time.”

The bouncer said, “Yes, sir.” Then he stood up and walked back to the door.

Michael reached for his wallet and pulled out a $10 bill and walked over to bouncer and handed him the cover charge. He then walked back over to Steve and said, “I always pay my way.”

Steve took a seat at the bar and motioned for Michael to sit next to him. Michael seated himself and asked, “What the hell was that all about with the sirs and the boys?”

Steve looked at Michael and said, “Role playing,” as if anyone knew that.

Steve then ordered a bottled water, and Michael ordered a Diet Coke and paid for both and tipped the bartender. Michael noticed that people were staring at him as he sat there with Steve. “Why are people looking at me?” he asked.

Steve looked around and said, “Oh, I’m sort of a celebrity here, and my boyfriend and I are on a break, but they don’t know, so they probably think I’m cheating on him. And, you
are
new meat.”

“You have a boyfriend?” Michael asked, looking at Steve.

“We’re on a break. It’s OK,” Steve said.

“I know it’s OK; we’re just sitting here talking,” Michael said as he sipped his drink.

“So, where did you move here from?” Steve asked as he turned in his stool to face Michael, brushing his leg.

“Santa Monica,” Michael answered. “I’m just here for a year working on a project.”

“Really? What kind of project?” Steve asked as he put the bottled water to his mouth.

Michael studied him and wondered if he should answer his question or remain vague about it. He decided to go ahead and tell him. “I’m co-writing a screenplay with a friend of mine.”

“Wow, that’s cool,” Steve said. “You ever done anything like that before?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, offering nothing else. “What do you do when you aren’t Mr. D.C. Falcon?”

Steve laughed at Michael’s question and took another sip of his water. He didn’t answer the question and ordered another bottled water, while Michael gave him a puzzled look.

“Is it something illegal?” Michael asked.

Steve paid the bartender, set the bottle down, opened it and took another sip. “I’m a security consultant for a government agency. Really boring, but it pays the bills,” Steve said, finally answering the question. “So, what else have you written?”

Michael reached back for his wallet and handed Steve his card. Steve looked at it and raised his eyebrows. “You’re the head writer of
Los Angeles Live
?” he asked, looking up at Michael.