With his eager and laconic look, I knew he expected something from me. It was my first day on the job as a junior editor for a pop art magazine, and when he asked me out to lunch, my first reaction was to say "thanks, but no thanks." After all, I'm only nineteen. But as I came round to the desk, I shot an airplane at Andre just to let him know that I appreciated his invitation.
Andre Silk asks me out for lunch the next day, ostensibly to discuss the details of my new position. When he walks close to me, my pants tighten, these new white jeans I know he admires. Andre is so aesthetic, and well-known as an art critic and as a minimalist, that even I want to count my words.
At The Greek he orders for me. I want to be in control of the situation, but feel very vulnerable. Here is a man, ten years older than me, well-established and confident, and he chose me from seventy applicants for this job. Is it my looks that always gets me into trouble? Not that I ever wanted to go straight. But why on the first day did Andre move from being professional to feeling me out? Maybe at the interview I acted like a member of his admiration society when I told him I had seen his work since I was fourteen.
Andre moves his hand over mine as I hold the menu kind of stiffly in front of me. I begin to go back over my own life as I murmur "grape leaves" to the waiter. It started when I was five, and my sister's boyfriend Paul gave me piggyback rides. I felt excited. Then a few years later, in the sixth grade, I met Jim at the playground. I went up and down the slide with him.
"Ouzo, thank you," I mumble to the cute Athenian waiter, as I look at Andre through my water glass, lightly.
"Kid, look alive!" he says to me.
"I just can't believe I'm here. I'm a freshman in college and you hired me-why? And most of the applicants were so much older, and I'm sure, wiser."
"I knew you weren't a wise guy, and you would learn on the job. I read your essay and I realized you knew more about me than I knew myself."
"That's why you hired me - personal reasons?"
"Why do we do anything?"
"I don't know. I hope I'll be the best you ever had."
"Where are you living?"
"In a room off campus. Dad is paying for it. My parents were divorced a couple of years ago. It's been hard for me. Sometimes I think my Dad is paying me off. You know the story, he was never around-absent father, workaholic."
"I'm not your psychiatrist, but I'd like to help you. Since I'm always in South Europe, I'd like someone to look after the loft. I want my paintings protected, and I trust you."
"I want to trust myself."
Then I begin thinking of Tony, whom I met at gym class, who taught me about sex and who still calls me; and about Malcolm, my senior high art teacher. He really loved me; I know he did.
"Kid, wake up. You can't be high on one half carafe of ouzo."
"Oh, yes I can. I'm not used to all this."
"What did you think of my latest series, the one at the Modern?"
"Your best ever."
"I believe you, more than all the critics uptown."
I can feel his leg next to mine. Is this all a summer's job in the life of Andre? I don't want to believe he's just a pop artist.
"I'm not your father, but I feel love towards you. Does that shock you?"
"How come you like me?"
"Who knows these things?"
I am thankful I don't have to be in the closet at this job. But I want to learn about editing and art criticism, and now we're talking basics already.
"Well, what do you think of my proposal?"
"Of me moving in with you?"
"Wait a minute. I just said to look after my affairs. You don't seem up to having an affair."
I hesitate, not yet knowing reality from romance. I picture Malcolm and I walking by the lake the same time last year, knowing I never could be just his "best student" again. And him telling me he had a crush on me all year, but couldn't act on it. But now that I was out of school, he wanted to let me know.
"Ben, look up at me."
I see how handsome Andre is. Perhaps, like me, too friendly for his own good. I wonder what he was like at my age. I know, in a way, Andre can relate to me. The waiter comes by. I watch Andre's strong hand love- tap the waiter while he tips him well.
I finally stare Andre out. I want to act cool, though I'm sweating this thing out.
"Do you think I need a pop artist? Don't you think I can feel your leg against mine under the table? Who are you trying to kid? Maybe you need me more than I need you."
"Do you think you're the big man around here?"
"I'm having second thoughts about the job."
"What, do you want to be a lifeguard at that lake again? Or give tours at the museum? When I'm paying you the most I've handed out to someone in your position?"
"I'm grateful, Mr. Silk, really I am."
"Then at least let's have a toast to our friendship."
It's hard for me to get up from the chair. I feel like calling up Malcolm. I know he really cared for me. But I'm where I ought to be. Andre puts my leather jacket on me. If I'm not with Andre now, I'll expect the same pain as when my parents got divorced. It takes a real artist to bring me out. Now I can be confident on the job. It starts to rain outside. Andre orders a cab, but I tell him, let's walk, and he listens to me.
B.Z. Niditch appears in The Writer's Forum, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Greensboro Review, Webster Review, Asylum, & the Wisconsin Review.
For other stories by B.Z. Niditch, click here.
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