Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Now if the juggler entertaining the tourist crowd in the middle of Washington Square Park would just stay still for a moment, I’d have a better view through my binoculars as to the identity of the persons sharing a bench with Naomi at the other end of the park. I already know the where of Naomi in her life after Me; if I could just know the who, I’d have the closure I need to move on with the rest of my life.
Tomorrow may have to settle for ringing in the first day of the rest of my life.
The chess players nearby are antsy—they want my table. But Cutie Pie is having a nice nap on top of the game table where I’m sitting. She’s basking in the sun shining onto her contented face. I wouldn’t dare move her. Who am I to disturb peaceful sleep? I can only envy it. I can only envy Mrs. Loy’s sleep, as well. She’s sitting on a bench a few yards away from our table, holding her cane, her chin lodged on her chest.
“You’re not a very good stalker.”
The voice comes from behind me. I turn around. Oh no.
I set the binoculars in my lap, on top of Mrs. Loy’s handbag, placed there for safekeeping during her nap. He hesitates for a moment—at least!—like he knows the better instinct would be to act as if we’d never noticed one another. If he had any decency whatsoever, he’d acknowledge we’d prefer not to acknowledge each other for one more agonizing second by just walking away.
But oh yes. He sits down on the empty bench opposite me.
Why does the universe hate me?
“What are you doing here?” I ask Bruce the Second. I line up the chess figures in opening rank-and-file positions. He could make himself useful, at least.
“I just had a class in that building over there.” He points in the direction of a school building on the Naomi side of the park. He places his hand on a pawn. “I can’t make an opening move unless you move him.” He points at the sleeping Chihuahua.
“Cutie Pie’s a girl.”
No respect for good sleep. He reaches over to the dog and lifts her into the air, his hand underneath her stomach. “Nothing to brag about here,” he says, “but if you examine more carefully, you’ll see she is in fact a he.”
I verify. Bruce the Second wasn’t kidding about Cutie Pie having nothing to brag about.
The dog has no loyalty, either. Cutie Pie nestles himself into Bruce the Second’s lap to resume his nap.
I move my rook. Since we’re already on the subject of fluctuating sexuality, I inform Bruce the Second, “You don’t look gay.” Chinos and a Lacoste shirt? Come on.
“How is gay supposed to look?”
“Not like you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“What music do you like?”
“Why do I have the feeling this is a gay quiz?”
“Because maybe it is.”
“Then I don’t know. I like lots of different types of music, but I’m not obsessive about it like Ely is. I like classical. I like the Beatles.” I guess this Bruce isn’t entirely awful, because he notices my disappointed expression and adds, “And I guess I like a few Madonna songs?”
“At least.” Please. Classical? The Beatles? Someone needs to reprogram this guy’s musical preferences to the rainbow channel.
“At least you, Bruce, could elevate yourself above looking like a stalker, if you tried,” he says as he captures my bishop. I’m really off my game.
“I’m trying, dude. I’m trying.”
I feel like he believes me. He should. I meant what I said, even if I can’t seem to accomplish trying’s goal—getting over Naomi. He asks, “If I tell you who she’s over there talking with, will that help?”
“No.” Pause. “Yes.”
“She’s sitting there with Robin from Schenectady and another guy—”
“Gabriel?”
“No, not Gabriel. Why would you think Gabriel?”
Ha-ha, is it possible I have information that has not yet infiltrated to Ely?
I say, “Gabriel likes Naomi. He gave her a mix he made her and they are always gazing at each other at the mailboxes, but then she hardly has like two words to say to him. Supposedly she made a mix for him in return, but it was all like Z100-type shit and he was horrified—”
“Horrified to realize she must have gotten all her musical cool and knowledge from Ely?”
“Exactly.”
“Actually, I think Ely knows about this Gabriel thing.” Damn. “But since Naomi refuses to speak to him”—Naomi and Ely’s freeze is totally okay with me, by the way—“I doubt Ely is planning to help Naomi through this one.”
I’m fairly sure I loathe and despise this guy, but the universe must acknowledge the universal truth: It’s easy talking with another Bruce. Almost comforting.
“How do you know all this about Naomi and Gabriel?” he asks me.
“Naomi’s mom told me.” Naomi’s not speaking to me anymore, either, but she hasn’t frozen me out like she has Ely. I’m allowed to e-mail and text-message with her, but I am not to speak with or acknowledge her when we’re in the building. Not communicating with me verbally is part of her Tough Love campaign, she informed me. To help me move on, like she has to from Ely. According to my sister, Kelly, Naomi’s doing us all a public service. Maybe she is. I don’t know. Maybe I need to sleep on it.
“I find that hard to believe,” Bruce says.
“Naomi’s mom counts on me for Ambien. Believe it.”
“That’s illegal.”
“So are the five hundred drug deals being transacted in this park while we play chess.”
“Do you think the tourists having their wallets pick-pocketed while they watch the juggler will notice sooner, or later?”
“Later.”
“I agree,” Bruce the Second agrees. Then: “I’m worried,” he says.
“About me?”
“No, you’ll be fine. You need to dump the binoculars and make a friend within your own age range, maybe realize you’re a nice and good-looking kid whom probably several girls you already know at school would really like to get to know better if you’d stop comparing them to Naomi . . . but otherwise, you’re all right.”
“Thanks.” I think. Since he seems to want to know me better, I add, “As one great man wrote, ‘I am nothing special; of this I am sure. I am just a common man with common thoughts. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten. But I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul, and to me, that has always been enough.’ ”
“Aristotle?”
“Nicholas Sparks.”
“Which one?”
“The Notebook.”
“I cried at the end of A Walk to Remember. ”
“Book or movie?”
“Movie.”
“The book was better.”
We’re given our own walk to remember as a white-boy Rastafarian approaches our table. “Yeah?” the Rasta goes. His hands make a movement for his front pants pocket, but we both know this is not a pervert walkabout.
“NO!” both Bruces go.
Whitey-boy Rasta moves on to the next table, and Bruce the Second says, “That’s what I’m worried about. The guy sitting on the bench with Robin and Naomi on the other side of the park happens to be the resident dealer to most of the NYU dorms.”
“How do you know?”
“My freshman roommate got kicked out of the dorm for possession of marijuana he bought from that guy sitting over there with Robin and Naomi.”
“No way!” I consider the situation, then impart my conclusion: “Nah, I wouldn’t worry. I could see Naomi possibly being into more drug experimentation, but that Robin girl from Schenectady, she’s way too boring and straightlaced to let Naomi do that.”
“Unless Robin is desperate to break out of her straight-laced version of herself?”
“Kind of like you have?”
I don’t mean the comment as an insult, and he doesn’t take it as one. He laughs. “Kind of,” he allows. “Only I’d like to think I held the desperate part in check.” His next chess move allows him to add, “Check.”
I don’t know why, but I’m relieved I didn’t offend him. Still, we’re all suffering because of The Situation. I need to know if it’s worth it. “Do you love him?” I ask Bruce the Second.
His hands cover his queen while deciding where to move her, and how to answer. “I might,” he says.
I have to know. “What’s that like?”
I mean the love part, not the sex part—I really don’t want to hear about that. And instinctually he seems to understand this. He answers with a happy glow, not a horny glow, looking right at me, as only one Bruce can do to another. “It’s amazing.” He looks down, blushing a little, and pats the dog. When his eyes move back up to meet mine, he adds, “It’s also scary. Really scary.”
And instinctually I know he means the love part over the gay part. Rock covers paper.
The kind of glow on Bruce’s face is one I’ve never felt for Naomi. With Naomi, it was not amazing. Or scary. I guess it wasn’t love. It was a mission. Scissors cut paper.
One more thing. Bruce the Second says, “It’s amazing, and scary, and Ely and I would be enjoying it much more if it weren’t for Naomi.”
“Eh.” I shrug. “She’ll get over it.” Like I will. I think I can believe.
“I hope so. But it doesn’t feel good to see her hurting so badly. Ely and I did everything we possibly could to right the wrong with her, but she wouldn’t have it. There’s nothing more I can do here. I think I’m going to just work on getting Ely’s moms to like me, for the time being. They might be an easier hurdle to cross than Naomi.”
Mount Everest might be an easier hurdle to cross than Naomi.
One more thing I have to know. “Have the moms invited you to Sunday brunch?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re in.”
He smiles and hands Cutie Pie over to me. Then he makes his move. “Checkmate. And I have econ class in fifteen minutes on this side of the park.” He stands up.
“You’re a decent Bruce, Bruce,” I tell Bruce.
He smiles again. I should buy him a designer shirt from one of Mom’s salesclerk friends at Bendel for his birthday or something, to help gay up his wardrobe.
“Thanks, Bruce,” he says. “Likewise.”