Personal Banking - 6. Chapter 6

Jose picked up right away. “Hey, Richie.”

“Hi, Jose. Listen, could I take you to lunch?”

“You can take me to lunch any time.”

“How about Scarf? The one on Broadway. Whatever day you’re free.”

“I’m free today.”

“Great. Say, one o’clock?”

“One o’clock is fine.”

“OK. I’ll meet you there.”

It was time to ditch Phase One -- jealousy -- and concentrate on the Long Plan to capture Mr. Phillips’ heart. I just hoped Jose wouldn’t take it badly.

The sun was high when I arrived at Scarf. The street was eerily quiet. A tumbleweed and a few discarded parking tickets rolled by in the breeze. Leaving my trusty mule Ambrose munching an arugula salad with cactus-dijon dressing over by the livery stable, I limped up to Mr. Phillips and pleaded with him not to have this showdown with Jose.

“Please, Marshall Phillips, don’t do it. Jose is the best gunslinger in the West. Ah’m skeert whut will happen. What if you get kilt? Then all Ah’ll have is that ole mule, an’ he don’t kiss so good no more.”

“Don’t worry, Rick. We’ve gotten out of tougher scrapes than this.” He affectionately tied me to a lamppost and stepped to the middle of the dusty street.

“Mornin’, Marshall.” Jose was dressed in black from head to toe. Head to ankle, actually, since he was wearing the pink ballet slippers which had recently become fashionable among gunslingers. Other than that, all black. He turned his head and spat. Then he turned his head the other way and coughed.

They faced off, ten yards apart. “This bank ain’t big enough for the two of us, Jose.”

“Jes’ what I was thinkin’. Say yer prayers, Marshall.”

Marshall Phillips mumbled a quick “Now I lay me down to sleep” while Jose intoned a rapid-fire Ave Maria.

“On the count of three!” Marshall Phillips called. “One ... Two ...”

Jose’s shot ricocheted off an iron triangle dinner bell, a frying pan, and a cash register and hit Marshall Phillips in the back. The Marshall pitched forward and rolled over in a pool of stage blood.

Jose started to run. “Git him, Ambrose!” I cried. My mule landed a double kick that flattened Jose. Then he disarmed him and tried on his ballet slippers.

“It’s bad, Rick,” the Marshall whispered with effort. “I’m sorry. If I don’t make it, I want you to get married again.”

“No! No! I cain’t marry agin. Leastways not till somebody unties me from this lamppost,” I replied tearfully.

“Hey, Richie. Lost in thought?”

“Jose! Sorry, I didn’t see you come in. Let’s order.”

Eventually, sandwiches in hand, we found a table. “Thanks for meeting me, Jose.”

“Always a pleasure to hear from you, Richie.”

“This isn’t much compared to the places you’ve been taking me.”

He shook his head. “The place isn’t the important thing. It’s the company.”

“You’ve been very generous, and you’ve been very considerate, and--”

“And what? Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

“Jose, I don’t want to pursue a sexual relationship with you.”

He sat back. “Oh, this is the ‘Can’t we just be friends?’ speech.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is this part of the scoutmaster’s financial program? Did he ask you to do this?”

“No. In fact, the only thing he’s ever said is that it’s none of his business.”

He nodded. “Very crafty. ‘It’s none of my business,’ with that wounded look in his eye.”

“This is my decision. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“All right, Richie, I know when I’m licked. And when I’m not. So the jealousy thing wasn’t working out?”

“It was a stupid idea. You’re handsome, you’re sexy, you’re really attractive, but I’ve got a brain full of him and this isn’t fair to you.”

“Fair? Yeah, well, a lot of things happen that aren’t fair. He’s the one who breaks the rules, and still he seems to get everything he wants.” He ate a bite of his sandwich and forced a smile. “Maybe it will work out, in a few years. If you want to wait for him that long. You still meeting with him every week?”

“Yes, every Friday afternoon.”

“How long do these little counseling sessions last?”

“Depends. Sometimes fifteen minutes, sometimes almost an hour.”

“Strictly business?”

“We talk about how I handle money, and that brings up a lot of my habits and my personal history. But we stick to the subject except when I wander off topic.”

“Well, I can’t compete with the lure of someone who tells you how to run your life.”

“It’s not like that. He’s helping me.”

“Helping -- the sunny side of control. It can be very seductive. And the whole time he’s a perfect gentleman.”

“I thought I was the one trying to seduce him.”

“That’s the idea. His moves don’t even look like moves. But I’m sure he hasn’t tried anything like that with you. Working side by side, just brushing by you occasionally, a little paternal hand on the shoulder, and then the minute you think he’s interested, it’s hands off: ‘Oh, no, no, I couldn’t do that. I’m too ethical.’ I’ve seen him do it lots of times. He can play a young guy’s mind like Hendrix could play guitar.”

I hated that Jose could so easily make me doubt Mr. Phillips, even for a moment. Consider the source, I reminded myself.

Jose’s mood seemed to shift. “But I’m just being bitter. I hate to lose you, Richie. I like you, and I want you. But there it is: I can’t have you. So is there anything we could still do together?”

“I was thinking of going for a bike ride on the Greenway trail this Saturday. Would you like to ride together?”

He smiled. “Sure. That sounds like fun.”

************

I told Stewart about breaking it off with Jose.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he mused. “You break up with him and he spends most of the conversation talking about Mr. Phillips. I’m starting to wonder if he isn’t just as obsessed with the guy as you are.”

“We’re still going bike riding on Saturday.”

“You and Jose?”

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll run into Mr. Phillips. He rides a lot.”

“I didn’t know you rode at all.”

“I don’t. So I meant to ask you -- hey, Stewart, can I borrow your bike?”

He sighed. “You are really taking advantage of my insatiable need for gossip. Yes, you may borrow my bike, if you promise not to wreck it, or have sex on it, or whatever it is you perverts do.”

“Thanks.”

************

I looked online to find a recipe for treacle brittle. A few people were trying to re-create it. With another little stretch to my budget I bought the ingredients and a candy thermometer and attempted a batch. Making candy requires its own set of skills, most of which I didn’t have, but after a lot of profanity I managed to make a batch that tasted OK to me.

Mrs. Porter was getting ready to leave again when I arrive for Friday’s session. I gave her the results of my little candy-making effort.

“Richard, you made this? I’m impressed.” She tried a bite. “It’s not bad. It’s not the way I remember it, but it’s not bad. Where did you get the recipe? I might be able to tweak it.”

I showed her the website.

“This is good. It’s a starting point, anyway. And what were you hoping for in exchange this time?”

“Nothing. I just thought you might like it.”

“Now I am impressed.”

In our meeting, Mr. Phillips taught me the basics of how the game of go works. A whole game can take hours, so we didn’t get very far. But I learned enough to understand what he had been talking about.

“You pick this up fast, Richard.”

“You explain it really well, Mr. Phillips.”

“I’ve been noticing that you are very smart, Richard. Occasional stupid comments notwithstanding. On your application I noticed that you finished high school, but never went to college. Did you consider it?”

“My father died during my junior year. There was no money and there was so much that needed to be taken care of, my mother needed my help, everything was a mess. I applied to college and I even got in, but I missed the deadline to apply for financial aid. So I didn’t go.”

“ Are you planning to wait tables all your life?”

“I just sort of fell into it. I needed the money.”

“I know it would be difficult, but maybe we could look at how it might work financially for you to go back to school. It might be possible. If you wanted to.”

“Sure. I mean, yes, sir, I’d like to look at the possibility. It’s been such a low priority for so long that I haven’t really considered it.” But I’d do just about anything for you. Picture the lead article about me:

PERVERSE GAY SEX QUARTERLY

IN THIS ISSUE --

New Frontiers in BDSM: ‘My Master Forced Me To Enroll In Law School!’

“When you were ten, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

“For a while, I wanted to be a doctor. I had a little benign tumor removed, and I was very impressed with the doctor, how he could actually change things for the better. I wished I could do that.”

“Medical school is a long haul, but it’s possible.”

“But you know that old Nichols and May routine about a son telling his mother he wants to become a nurse? To them it was a joke, but I’ve thought I might actually like that. Or medical technician or something.”

“We could look at what it would take to do all those things.”

“Sometimes I wish I had tried for something, instead of just getting by. I envy you, having a real career.”

He smiled and looked away. “Sometimes I think I could use a good mid-life crisis. Chuck it all.” He looked at me again. “But enough about me.”

“I wanted to mention -- I’m going bike riding with Jose tomorrow. The Greenway. Maybe we’ll see you there?”

He stiffened. “Yes, maybe.”

“I broke things off with him. We’re just going as friends.”

“Did you? Well, maybe I will see you. But I get out there early.”

We ended with another handshake, lingering over it only a little.

************

Jose had a professional-level racing bike and perfect cycling gear: jersey, shorts, shoes, helmet. I did have a helmet but otherwise I was in street clothes. I’ll say this for him: he made no disparaging comments, nothing to make me feel that I was making a poor showing. Even when I rode awkwardly, taking quite a while to get used to Stewart’s gear shifts, he coasted slowly next to me and enjoyed the surroundings.

I spotted Mr. Phillips riding toward us. Soon he met us and stopped. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Hello, Mr. Phillips,” I said.

“Nate,” Jose nodded.

Mr. Phillips in racing gear was a sight to make my heart beat faster. His jersey and shorts didn’t hide much. His build was a little stocky but very solid. Like a Greek god. Funny thing about the Greek statues of the gods: they don’t have narrow waists, especially not the ones shown in their maturity: Zeus, Poseidon, Hades. They look more like a straight column of muscle. One of my peculiarities is that I never understood the appeal of a small waist. I guess I didn’t get that particular gay gene.

“Beautiful day to ride,” Mr. Phillips said.

“All warmed up?” Jose asked him.

“Yeah, I’ve been out here a while.”

“Care for a little race?”

“It’s a little crowded for that.”

“Think of it as an obstacle course. First one to the park without knocking anybody over gets to buy everyone coffee.”

“All right. Fine.”

They raced off, leaving me struggling to keep them in sight.

************

The next Friday I showed up at the bank as usual. Mr. Phillips was sitting in the outer office, rubbing his face with his hands, sitting next to a man dressed in an expensive suit who was holding a yellow notepad and talking quietly to him.

Mrs. Porter looked up at me. “Mr. Andrews. I’m so sorry. I should have called you. I don’t think Mr. Phillips can keep his appointment with you today. Something’s come up. It just happened. We’re kind of -- scrambling.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Jose Molina has filed a complaint against Mr. Phillips with the ethics committee.”