Read Online These Things Happen by Richard Kramer - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Kramer
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downtown on a street you've never heard of. And I'd never have gone or even known about it, but my sister Claire had arranged for me to meet a woman whose name was, I think, Diana. She was what I guess you'd call a Young Playwright, and she'd written a trilogy of plays about outsourcing, I think. This was right after Lola left, when she'd met Ben at the hospital and quickly fallen in love with him, and we'd been through our divorce. I wasn't out, so it was before the days of referenda, Rachel Maddow, waxing my nine shoulder hairs. So Diana wanted to see a play, as one friend had written it and another was in it. It was about young women in New York and their terrible dates, and their varied amusing complaints.
And George was in it. He was what all these women in the play had in common, the gay best friend, what he described years later as the Shoulder role. And it wasn't that what he said in the play was especially interesting or funny; I don't even know if he was any good. And maybe it was just that night, how my day had gone and how I'd felt as I'd finally found the place, but there was something about him; the others were acting, and George was just— there. I've never thought of a better word (and I've certainly never told him about it). Diana didn't know who he was. "Oh, just some gay guy," I think she said. "You know New York."
And a year or so went by. Then one night, in the winter, I had dinner plans with Charles and Margaret. They were going to the theater and wanted me, as ever, to join them. But I was close to making partner, and working late nights, so I met them after the show on what I always think of as the O. Henry street; you can imagine those stories, in those brownstones; leaves painted on windows, watches, combs. And there was George, in the restaurant. At first I didn't recognize him, and why would I have? He'd been a Shoulder, in a bad play. But I knew him when I saw his hands; he was holding them in the restaurant as he had in the play. One hand in front of him, held low, the other covering it, and both hands opening, blooming, you might say, as he talks to you, as if he might be about to sing. He makes fun of me about this, asks me what if he were the wrong guy; there are hundreds of hands, he says, in New York alone. I say if he is the wrong guy, he's become the right one, over time. And sometimes I wonder what he noticed about me, how he knew me. But, of course, he didn't. I was the one who knew him. I wasn't anything to him. I could have been anyone.
It snowed that night. And in the restaurant there was an old man, beautifully dressed, eating alone a few tables away from us. I watched while George brought him his coat and scarf, helping him as if he were a deposed prince and George an émigré subject. He gently led the man to the street and helped him into a cab, and told me later he'd been in the original cast of Show Boat , as a boy on the wharf where the Cotton Blossom docks. When he came back in he had snow on his shoulders; I remember that because I remember him brushing it off. As he turned to survey the room and see if we all had what we needed, his gaze came to me. And that was it that night, no more than that; I was someone to take care of, that's all, one among many.
I went back, several times, with new gay friends; I'd started to slowly declare myself by then, nodding to men on streets who were starting to nod at me, crafting my first statements, reading my first Tales of the City book. One night, after a benefit, I suggested we go to Ecco. I insisted on paying, not because I was so generous but so I could attach my card to the check. K enneth E. Bowman, of counsel. I remember how fast my heart beat as I handed it to George, how he asked us if everything was okay, how Jeffrey said, "Cute," as George walked away, how Jerry, who's dead, looked at me and said, "Are you all right?" I said I was fine, but I wasn't. I was thinking, Why did I just do that ? Just to
And George was in it. He was what all these women in the play had in common, the gay best friend, what he described years later as the Shoulder role. And it wasn't that what he said in the play was especially interesting or funny; I don't even know if he was any good. And maybe it was just that night, how my day had gone and how I'd felt as I'd finally found the place, but there was something about him; the others were acting, and George was just— there. I've never thought of a better word (and I've certainly never told him about it). Diana didn't know who he was. "Oh, just some gay guy," I think she said. "You know New York."
And a year or so went by. Then one night, in the winter, I had dinner plans with Charles and Margaret. They were going to the theater and wanted me, as ever, to join them. But I was close to making partner, and working late nights, so I met them after the show on what I always think of as the O. Henry street; you can imagine those stories, in those brownstones; leaves painted on windows, watches, combs. And there was George, in the restaurant. At first I didn't recognize him, and why would I have? He'd been a Shoulder, in a bad play. But I knew him when I saw his hands; he was holding them in the restaurant as he had in the play. One hand in front of him, held low, the other covering it, and both hands opening, blooming, you might say, as he talks to you, as if he might be about to sing. He makes fun of me about this, asks me what if he were the wrong guy; there are hundreds of hands, he says, in New York alone. I say if he is the wrong guy, he's become the right one, over time. And sometimes I wonder what he noticed about me, how he knew me. But, of course, he didn't. I was the one who knew him. I wasn't anything to him. I could have been anyone.
It snowed that night. And in the restaurant there was an old man, beautifully dressed, eating alone a few tables away from us. I watched while George brought him his coat and scarf, helping him as if he were a deposed prince and George an émigré subject. He gently led the man to the street and helped him into a cab, and told me later he'd been in the original cast of Show Boat , as a boy on the wharf where the Cotton Blossom docks. When he came back in he had snow on his shoulders; I remember that because I remember him brushing it off. As he turned to survey the room and see if we all had what we needed, his gaze came to me. And that was it that night, no more than that; I was someone to take care of, that's all, one among many.
I went back, several times, with new gay friends; I'd started to slowly declare myself by then, nodding to men on streets who were starting to nod at me, crafting my first statements, reading my first Tales of the City book. One night, after a benefit, I suggested we go to Ecco. I insisted on paying, not because I was so generous but so I could attach my card to the check. K enneth E. Bowman, of counsel. I remember how fast my heart beat as I handed it to George, how he asked us if everything was okay, how Jeffrey said, "Cute," as George walked away, how Jerry, who's dead, looked at me and said, "Are you all right?" I said I was fine, but I wasn't. I was thinking, Why did I just do that ? Just to
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