bartender. After placing his order, he spoke
again.
“I’m sorry for crowding you.” His voice was a soft, mellow bari-
tone. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“No problem.” Noah turned again to take another look. He was
tall—over six feet, maybe six two—with broad shoulders, a thick
neck, and a handsome face framed by close-cropped light brown
hair. The stranger had been watching the bartender fill his order, but, sensing Noah’s eyes on him, he looked down at Noah. Noah’s
fears were realized—he had been caught in the act of staring—but
the man merely smiled.
Again, Noah’s instinct was to look away. But he fought it and
managed to smile back.
“Is it always this slow here at Happy Hour?” asked the stranger.
“Uh . . . I really don’t know. I’m not a regular.”
“Oh.” His eyes—brown, clear—returned to the bartender, who
was now bringing him his drink. The stranger excused himself again to Noah as he reached past him to pay for the drink, then once
more when he retrieved it from the bar. Noah felt a drop of con-
densation from the glass land on his pant leg, but didn’t complain.
And then, drink in hand, the stranger nodded at him, smiled
one more time, and slowly walked to the far end of the room.
Noah tried to think if he had been offered a conversational open-
ing he had bobbled, decided that there was none, further decided
that there was nothing he would have done about it anyway, and
signaled for the bartender.
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
53
Still . . . shit . From a physical standpoint, the guy was perfection.
Oh, he might turn out to be a real asshole, but physically: perfection. And really, after months without much human contact, the
physical was all that was important at that moment.
After giving him the initial sexual impulse, though, Noah’s brain
went directly to rationalization mode.
He was with Tricia; it would be a bad thing to pick someone up
while he was out with his step—uh, his father’s wife .
And what if they clicked? He couldn’t abandon Tricia in the bar
to pursue a sexual conquest, and he certainly couldn’t take the
stranger back to the Park Avenue apartment. Even if Tricia was in-
clined to look the other way, Gustav and Mrs. Levy would certainly spin that into something tawdry. Tawdri er .
And anyway, he could, indeed, be an asshole, which would make
the physical encounter even more meaningless.
And, finally, even if all those other factors had a green light, the stranger could be very bad at sex. Very, very bad at sex. In which case the encounter would be less than meaningless.
Not to mention, he didn’t seem interested in Noah at all. Yes, he
had smiled . . . but he had also walked away without a backward
glance. That was certainly an important factor.
Within thirty seconds, he had all but rationalized doing ab-
solutely nothing about the stranger. So a good-looking guy reached past him to order a drink; Noah decided it was not an encounter
worth noting. Even if the guy had handed him a phone number,
Noah wasn’t in the market. He had a book to write, and he wasn’t
even a New Yorker anymore. It wasn’t worth wasting any more
thought.
Still, he stole a glance to the other end of the room, where the
stranger stood quietly, back against the wall, in his tight jeans and loose-fitting shirt with light blue stripes. And he let out an involuntary sigh.
“And what have I missed?” asked Tricia, when she returned for a
refill.
“Absolutely nothing,” said Noah, fairly certain that he meant it.
They had another glass of wine, then decided it was time to leave
Bar 51. As they walked out into the unseasonably warm September
evening, Tricia stopped at the porch and waved to her new smoker
friends. “Bye, Stooges! It was nice meeting you.”
54
R o b B y r n e s
The Stooges, Shemp included, wished her safe travels and pro-
mised to get together again soon, but gave only the most perfunc-
tory
again.
“I’m sorry for crowding you.” His voice was a soft, mellow bari-
tone. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“No problem.” Noah turned again to take another look. He was
tall—over six feet, maybe six two—with broad shoulders, a thick
neck, and a handsome face framed by close-cropped light brown
hair. The stranger had been watching the bartender fill his order, but, sensing Noah’s eyes on him, he looked down at Noah. Noah’s
fears were realized—he had been caught in the act of staring—but
the man merely smiled.
Again, Noah’s instinct was to look away. But he fought it and
managed to smile back.
“Is it always this slow here at Happy Hour?” asked the stranger.
“Uh . . . I really don’t know. I’m not a regular.”
“Oh.” His eyes—brown, clear—returned to the bartender, who
was now bringing him his drink. The stranger excused himself again to Noah as he reached past him to pay for the drink, then once
more when he retrieved it from the bar. Noah felt a drop of con-
densation from the glass land on his pant leg, but didn’t complain.
And then, drink in hand, the stranger nodded at him, smiled
one more time, and slowly walked to the far end of the room.
Noah tried to think if he had been offered a conversational open-
ing he had bobbled, decided that there was none, further decided
that there was nothing he would have done about it anyway, and
signaled for the bartender.
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
53
Still . . . shit . From a physical standpoint, the guy was perfection.
Oh, he might turn out to be a real asshole, but physically: perfection. And really, after months without much human contact, the
physical was all that was important at that moment.
After giving him the initial sexual impulse, though, Noah’s brain
went directly to rationalization mode.
He was with Tricia; it would be a bad thing to pick someone up
while he was out with his step—uh, his father’s wife .
And what if they clicked? He couldn’t abandon Tricia in the bar
to pursue a sexual conquest, and he certainly couldn’t take the
stranger back to the Park Avenue apartment. Even if Tricia was in-
clined to look the other way, Gustav and Mrs. Levy would certainly spin that into something tawdry. Tawdri er .
And anyway, he could, indeed, be an asshole, which would make
the physical encounter even more meaningless.
And, finally, even if all those other factors had a green light, the stranger could be very bad at sex. Very, very bad at sex. In which case the encounter would be less than meaningless.
Not to mention, he didn’t seem interested in Noah at all. Yes, he
had smiled . . . but he had also walked away without a backward
glance. That was certainly an important factor.
Within thirty seconds, he had all but rationalized doing ab-
solutely nothing about the stranger. So a good-looking guy reached past him to order a drink; Noah decided it was not an encounter
worth noting. Even if the guy had handed him a phone number,
Noah wasn’t in the market. He had a book to write, and he wasn’t
even a New Yorker anymore. It wasn’t worth wasting any more
thought.
Still, he stole a glance to the other end of the room, where the
stranger stood quietly, back against the wall, in his tight jeans and loose-fitting shirt with light blue stripes. And he let out an involuntary sigh.
“And what have I missed?” asked Tricia, when she returned for a
refill.
“Absolutely nothing,” said Noah, fairly certain that he meant it.
They had another glass of wine, then decided it was time to leave
Bar 51. As they walked out into the unseasonably warm September
evening, Tricia stopped at the porch and waved to her new smoker
friends. “Bye, Stooges! It was nice meeting you.”
54
R o b B y r n e s
The Stooges, Shemp included, wished her safe travels and pro-
mised to get together again soon, but gave only the most perfunc-
tory
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