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Authors: Rob Byrnes
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good-byes to Noah.
“I see who the popular one is,” he said, as they walked down
Fifty-first Street.
“That’s because I put in an effort. Maybe if you went back there
and talked to them . . .”
“Sorry.” Noah rubbed his temple. “I’m just tired.”
Something made Noah stop when they reached the corner of
Ninth Avenue. He glanced back at the entrance to Bar 51, where
the rainbow flag flapped in the gentle breeze and the Four Stooges held court on the smoking porch.
And he saw the handsome stranger walk out of the bar . . . di-
rectly toward them.
“Who’s that?” asked Tricia, seeing him, too.
“I don’t know,” said Noah. “He came into the bar a while ago . . .”
“Did you talk to him?”
Noah sighed. “Not much.”
“He’s cute. He’s not too young for you, is he?”
“He’s not interested in me. Come on.” Noah took Tricia’s arm
and walked her to the curb, where he started searching for a cab.
As he stood at the curb, he felt compelled to take another back-
ward glance . . . and when he did, the stranger was passing right behind him.
“Have a good night,” he said, and he smiled as he walked
past.
“Uh . . . you, too,” Noah said softly.
“Hi!” Tricia shouted. The stranger glanced back over his shoul-
der and smiled broadly, but kept walking north up Ninth Avenue.
“Cute,” she said approvingly. “I think you’re wrong. I think he
likes you.”
“You’re drunk,” said Noah—not with condescension—as he took
her arm to steady her.
“I should hope so. Seven glasses of wine. And I’m such a little
thing . . .”
And then, with a particular elegance befitting a Park Avenue
Trophy Wife, she tripped on the curb and collapsed in a heap.
*
*
*
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
55
Cute guy , thought Bart, as he walked up Ninth Avenue toward Lincoln Center, vaguely hoping he would encounter something interesting that would delay his return to Jon’s apartment on West
Sixty-fifth Street. Day Two of his vacation, like Day One, seemed to be ending far too early.
As he walked, he thought again about the man in the bar.
Although Bart tended to like men a bit older—those in their late
thirties or early forties were his ideal, and the man at Bar 51 was probably no older than his early thirties—he had the dark good
looks and slim physique he was instantly attracted to. And he was
so . . . handsome? No, handsome wasn’t really the right word. He
was cute . Yes, that was it.
Too bad he didn’t seem very interested in Bart. He had looked,
and he had smiled, but the minute Bart tried to talk to him, the
cute guy had shut down.
He didn’t understand that. New Yorkers could be such a strange
breed.
Fifteen minutes later, Bart reached the busy intersection where
Ninth Avenue—now Columbus Avenue—intersected with Broadway
and West Sixty-fifth Street. There had been no distractions, and, as he crossed with the light, he accepted the fact that he would be
spending another night chatting with Jon. He would have to make
the following day, the third of his vacation, count.
Maybe a museum, he thought, as he searched his pockets for the
key to Jon’s building. He would have to see how Thursday shaped
up.
Early the next morning Tricia and Noah learned that Max
Abraham’s doctors would only be keeping him in Lenox Hill until
the following day. Things were looking good—the heart attack had
resulted in minimal damage, and could be treated fairly easily—
but, still, it was a heart attack. As bad as they felt for him, they were both secretly grateful for their own selfish reasons. In Tricia’s case, she had an unforgiving hangover; in Noah’s, he wasn’t in the mood
to deal with his father.
While Tricia spent large parts of the day in bed, Noah alternated
between sitting in the guest room listening to music or wandering
the apartment, looking for something to occupy his time. By late
56
R o b B y r n e s
afternoon, he
“I see who the popular one is,” he said, as they walked down
Fifty-first Street.
“That’s because I put in an effort. Maybe if you went back there
and talked to them . . .”
“Sorry.” Noah rubbed his temple. “I’m just tired.”
Something made Noah stop when they reached the corner of
Ninth Avenue. He glanced back at the entrance to Bar 51, where
the rainbow flag flapped in the gentle breeze and the Four Stooges held court on the smoking porch.
And he saw the handsome stranger walk out of the bar . . . di-
rectly toward them.
“Who’s that?” asked Tricia, seeing him, too.
“I don’t know,” said Noah. “He came into the bar a while ago . . .”
“Did you talk to him?”
Noah sighed. “Not much.”
“He’s cute. He’s not too young for you, is he?”
“He’s not interested in me. Come on.” Noah took Tricia’s arm
and walked her to the curb, where he started searching for a cab.
As he stood at the curb, he felt compelled to take another back-
ward glance . . . and when he did, the stranger was passing right behind him.
“Have a good night,” he said, and he smiled as he walked
past.
“Uh . . . you, too,” Noah said softly.
“Hi!” Tricia shouted. The stranger glanced back over his shoul-
der and smiled broadly, but kept walking north up Ninth Avenue.
“Cute,” she said approvingly. “I think you’re wrong. I think he
likes you.”
“You’re drunk,” said Noah—not with condescension—as he took
her arm to steady her.
“I should hope so. Seven glasses of wine. And I’m such a little
thing . . .”
And then, with a particular elegance befitting a Park Avenue
Trophy Wife, she tripped on the curb and collapsed in a heap.
*
*
*
W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T
55
Cute guy , thought Bart, as he walked up Ninth Avenue toward Lincoln Center, vaguely hoping he would encounter something interesting that would delay his return to Jon’s apartment on West
Sixty-fifth Street. Day Two of his vacation, like Day One, seemed to be ending far too early.
As he walked, he thought again about the man in the bar.
Although Bart tended to like men a bit older—those in their late
thirties or early forties were his ideal, and the man at Bar 51 was probably no older than his early thirties—he had the dark good
looks and slim physique he was instantly attracted to. And he was
so . . . handsome? No, handsome wasn’t really the right word. He
was cute . Yes, that was it.
Too bad he didn’t seem very interested in Bart. He had looked,
and he had smiled, but the minute Bart tried to talk to him, the
cute guy had shut down.
He didn’t understand that. New Yorkers could be such a strange
breed.
Fifteen minutes later, Bart reached the busy intersection where
Ninth Avenue—now Columbus Avenue—intersected with Broadway
and West Sixty-fifth Street. There had been no distractions, and, as he crossed with the light, he accepted the fact that he would be
spending another night chatting with Jon. He would have to make
the following day, the third of his vacation, count.
Maybe a museum, he thought, as he searched his pockets for the
key to Jon’s building. He would have to see how Thursday shaped
up.
Early the next morning Tricia and Noah learned that Max
Abraham’s doctors would only be keeping him in Lenox Hill until
the following day. Things were looking good—the heart attack had
resulted in minimal damage, and could be treated fairly easily—
but, still, it was a heart attack. As bad as they felt for him, they were both secretly grateful for their own selfish reasons. In Tricia’s case, she had an unforgiving hangover; in Noah’s, he wasn’t in the mood
to deal with his father.
While Tricia spent large parts of the day in bed, Noah alternated
between sitting in the guest room listening to music or wandering
the apartment, looking for something to occupy his time. By late
56
R o b B y r n e s
afternoon, he
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