A Room with a View (of the Brooklyn Navy Yard) - 2. ii. Franz Léhar’s lost operetta – “The Student Schlump”

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ii.

Franz Léhar’s lost operetta

– “The Student Schlump”

The day after the scene above, bright and early – which is noon for Ted – master of swag and student of dumpiness meet to begin whipping the writer into shape. At least one worthy of scorn from Social doyens.

Fair Tribeca, gentle audience, is where we move our tale for the moment, and see the series of scenes unfold before your eyes, for our first stop requires us to visit the optometrist.

Banished are Patrick’s battered and unsightly spectacles, replaced with the burning comfort of new contacts. Puff test complete, which thoroughly parched the young man’s baby browns, Patrick’s not only fitted with a clear pair to wear out of the shop, but outfitted with a fashion array running the gamut of trendy hues. After today, he’ll be able to appear in public in intriguing looks ranging from ring-light white, to bar-of-soap green, sports-drink blue, nachos yellow, grape-jelly purple, and the designer collection even rounds itself off with bruised-eye red and pink-eye pink, for those occasion where one simply must seem hungover.

Bedecked with a new set of peepers, their next step focuses on two other bodily aspects. Yes, picture them now at the Turkish-owned A Nail in Time Beauty Centre. The manicure occurs concurrent with Patrick’s feet soaking in a tub with callus nibbling fish. The esthetician has about all she can stand with the author’s money-makers – his fingers – constantly being jerked from her ministrations. “I’m ticklish,” is all Patrick can get out, due to the fish on tootsie induced laughter.

Ted, who’s an old hand when it comes to this sort of thing, sits and watches the young Brooklynite. His reservations are mounting that the kid will ever be Socials-ready.

Cuticles pinched and nails shellacked, our intrepid pair launch themselves into a flurry of clothes shopping, and oh my, gentles all, doesn’t Patrick have a lot to learn!

Boutiques get raided up and down the length of Tribeca’s hippest cobbles, with the writer absorbing knowledge left and right. But Professor Rector’s patient and walks the wordsmith through the sets of costumes outfits he will need.

Slowly, they accumulate streetwear for the nerdy newbie – AKA, cruising attire. This gets followed by the all-important gym wear – also, cruising attire – swimwear – well, you get the idea – biz cas for Patrick’s public readings. And shoes, shoes, shoes! Dress sneakers in suede for formal occasions; pumps in velour for taco shops; high heel construction boots for everyday wear; and Birkenstocks for his Lesbian moments and farmers’ markets.

After his new eyes and foot apparel, Patrick finds he needs serious lessons on how to walk again. He’s an infant to this new hep existence as a Queer mover and shaker. Naturally, now that he’s dressed for it, Ted wastes no time in starting to train his student in the fine art of sidewalk flirting. There’s much to get a grip on, but the catwalks of Warren Street, right in the shadow of One World Trade Center, make for the perfect classroom in the how-to’s of eye-contact, turning away – turning back – and obtaining that perfect hookup of an afternoon.

Unfortunately for the younger man, his first attempt results in a spill. The heel of his cheetah-patterned safari sand boots gets snagged on the curb while Patrick’s attempting a turn-back. Fortunately, Ted’s strong arms are there to catch the boy, who, via force of habit, pushes up on the bridge of his disappeared glasses.

From here, it’s straight to the gym, and what a spectacle. Torrents of perspiration are stopped from rolling into Patrick’s already stinging eyes by a ludicrously wide Gucci sweatband. Matching examples ride his wrists and ankles, the lower pair atop a pair of sports pantyhose performance tights, which are slick as snot, black as night, and snug as if vacuum-packed on the young man’s legs.

All in all, Patrick Forsa feels too silly for words, but notices with some hope how good Ted looks in this environment. For indeed, the six-foot-two guy’s quite fetching in his Prada low cut, nip-slip tanktop, pearls glistening with sweat. Ted’s entire body appears muscular, but yet one not ‘gone to flab,’ so to speak, and given over to the pot of pure ‘gym body.’ The muscles Rector displays are ones he’s earned; earned through honest labor as an adolescent in the open air, and not ones designed by a trainer through a four-wall workout routine.

When Patrick glances at his own five-foot-ten frame in the mirror for comparison, he sees legs that are full from his playing soccer most of his life, but a chest and arms that could do with a bit of beefing up.

What the young author does not notice is how beautiful and glowing his darker skin tone and clearer complexion are in contrast to his mentor. Rector’s face still shows some leftover freckles and acne pitting from his youth.

°   °   °   °   °

And so, with that, noble listeners, let us catch our eponymous heroes midafternoon, re-caffeinating in one of Tribeca’s voguest watering holes, the Not Enough Beans Coffee and Nosh Shop on Vesey Street. Spacious, angular and gleaming, the thin crowd of customers indulge in comestibles and cruising, done from behind the safety of their portable device screens.

Forsa and Rector sit at a table in the corner, the young writer’s shopping bags gathered on the floor around them. Gone are the novelist’s easy glances, replaced by wide-eyed stares into the distance – interrupted by rapid blinks and winks – as Patrick gets used to his contacts.

Meanwhile, Ted works the room, by force of habit, but does not note any possible conquests of note. So instead, he pulls up his chair, sips his ‘coffee,’ granting full attention to his student.

Patrick slowly raises his arms to stretch them, then he twists his torso, saying, “I’m already stiff from that workout we had.”

“Get used to it,” Ted replies. “It’s you and me, bright and early every afternoon at Grunts ‘Я’ Us gym, at least until your book launch.”

Patrick giggles, taking his first sip of sugary white coffee. “Grunts ‘Я’ Us, what a funny name.” His mouth sours from the taste of it.

“It’s the hottest Gay gym in the city. Lots of celebs go there. But don’t confuse the place with the ‘appliance’ shop down the street for lady couples – Hardware ‘ᗺ’ We.”

Both laugh and drink more of their beverages.

Ted asks, “How’s your Chicxulub Mocha Cha-Cha Lata?”

“Good, but the cashew milk – yuck.”

“Yeah, I’ve never gone in for anything but good old, plain 2% cow juice myself.”

“Me too. You mean at school?”

“Yup.”

“I was the same: never a fan of the chalky chocolate, or syrupy sweet strawberry that kept repeating all afternoon.”

Ted smiles. Their first common ground has been found.

After a needless push up on his vanished specs, Patrick picks off the corner of his Carob-Carrot-Collegian Bar – Vegan, naturally – and begins to nibble. Just then, a particularly handsome man enters the shop, drawing Ted’s interest right away.

But, the teacher sighs, remembering what he’s getting paid to do. “See him?”

Forsa turns on his seat most unattractively, crumbs tumbling from his mouth, eyes dilating into the distance. “Yeah – I think.”

“He’s here to jump on a hookup app and blow an afternoon of fun.”

Patrick restores his attention to Rector. “How do you know?”

“Easy. Once you’ve seen enough of them, you can spot them as quick as a Manhattan parking spot.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to spot anything with these damn contacts.”

“Don’t worry. Like everything new, they’ll feel awkward for a while, but then they’ll become second nature.”

“I hope so. I made such a fool of myself earlier, stumbling over the curb when I tried your version of outdoor hooking up.”

Ted laughs. “Yeah, sitting while cruising is safer.”

“And to think my dad’s nickname for me is Puma, because he claims I used to be such a stealthy kid, always sneaking up on the adults without a sound.”

“Puma, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s Portuguese for cougar. My family’s Brazilian, though I was born and raised in Brooklyn.”

“You speak it?”

“Brooklyn? Ahhh, ya mudder wears army shoes!”

Laughing, Ted clarifies, “Portuguese.”

“Sure. It’s my first language, and in fact my real name is Patricio Força. That’s spelled with the funny C with a tiny question mark under it. But, F-O-R-S-A is the same sound, so it’s all good.”

Patrick was beginning to warm to his Carob-Carrot-Collegian Bar; he hadn’t eaten all day, due to nerves and such.

“But you wrote your book in English.”

“Oh, sure. English is a great erotic language. Can say almost anything.”

“Your parents know you write trash?”

He chuckles. “More or less, but Marta, my mom, tells everyone I’m writing romances. Easier that way.”

“Until your first work gets published.”

“True.” Patrick’s fingers go up to the bridge of his invisible glasses again. “Did Marshall Kingston tell you what kind of—”

“He just said it’s hot and gonna be a smash. But he didn’t let me see any of it.”

“Oh. In that case, I’ll read you an excerpt.”

The author ensues reciting from his device in a tone steady and clear:

Todd bent forward, pressing down on Phillip’s legs with his shoulder fronts, kissing Phillip the very moment his cock entered him.

Grunting in that glorious – that transcendental – pain of ultimate pleasure, Phillip flooded Todd’s mouth with a stifled roar.

Yes, this was what he wanted, and he wanted Todd to give it to him; really give it to him.

Ted looks around nervously as Patrick fearlessly reads his brilliant, unabashed smut.

Todd sank fully in, holding there, thrilling to feel the almost wild spasming of his partner’s passage gripping and releasing his dick. His heartrate increased; blood flushed his upper chest and neck; his cock flared mightily inside his man, anointing the passage generously with his honey-sweet seminal fluid.

Yes, Todd was going to enjoy this.

At the conclusion, Patrick sets his phone down, triumphant, where Ted’s all shades of blushing – and tight in his slim-fit ultra breathable green army jogger slacks.

“I marvel,” says the actor, “how someone like you came to write such a thing as that.”

Still feeding off his strengths, Patrick replies, “There’s a lesson here”—his hand gestures over to Ted—“about not judging a book by its cover.”

The comment on the actor’s bravado and emotional untouchability is not lost on Ted.

Forsa sees the impact of his words, and feels a bit of the real Ted being shown. Handsome, average face, the guy’s dishwater hair is tied back after the gym, revealing square-cut spinel studs in his ears.

Likewise, Ted notices Patrick’s hair. The young Brazilian American, recently come from the shower at the gym, hasn’t slicked down his hair as he usually does. Therefore, the actor can see it has an appealing, natural sweep to it. “Your hair, it’s wavy.”

“I know. I never liked it.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me stand out at home. The rest of my family has straight hair.”

Ted retorts matter-of-factly, “Well, it’s about time you felt comfortable standing out. From what I’ve just heard, Marshall Kingston is right to have faith in you.”

“He has faith in me?”

“Yup. Says you’re a natural genius at this adult lit stuff.”

“He does?” Fingers going back to spectacles – this time they get halted halfway.

“Yes, Puma, he declares you a Dick-Rousing Da Vinci.”

Patrick likes that; likes hearing Ted use his dad’s nickname for him. He shows this with an unguarded grin. “You’re saying I’m a Concupiscent Constable?”

“First off”—Ted leans back, enjoying himself—“I don’t know who either of those two are, but let’s just say you’re the world’s Horny Hemingway.”

“Um – a Kinky Kandinsky?”

“Yeah. A Randy Rihanna.”

“Whoa! Pulling out the big guns.’

Ted laughs. “Hell, yeah. Why not? You’re gonna be one hell of a Viagra Van Gogh; a Bootylicious Beyoncé; a Juicy Jimi Hendrix; a—”

“Mercy! I give in. I bow to your superior skill, oh, Sexy Steinbeck of the epithets.”

“Damn right, I am. And stop worrying about your hair. Leave it alone. No more goop, cuz you’re probably the only one in your fam who thinks natural is ‘different’.”

“Could be, but you don’t know my dad.”

“What’d ya mean?”

“He’ll rib me, no matter what.” Patrick indicates the shopping bags littering the floor around their table. “I can’t wait to get home with all this . . . stuff. He’ll start cracking inappropriate jokes.”

Ted can tell by the young author’s demeanor that whatever type of relationship he has with his dad, it’s a good one. “What’s he like? You out at home?”

“Oh, hell, yeah. Can’t even remember a time the rents didn’t know I’d grow up to marry another boy.”

“Cool.”

“My dad, in some of his rare, serious moments, tells me how glad he is things have changed; become easier for ‘the Gays.’ Marta likes hearing it too, that marriage and starting a family – grandkids for her – are on the table now, as they should have always been.”

“Wow. Also cool about them knowing this stuff.”

“Yeah. See, my folks are Brazilian. That means family first. That means being real laidback about most things, even about us not having much money to spare, but João, my dad – John to most people outside the family – he likes to joke that I ‘turned out’ Gay because my room overlooks the front gate of the old Brooklyn Navy Yard.”

“Really?”

“Sure, he says I spend too much time looking out of my window, imagining all the sailor hookups that used to go on out there, day and night.”

Ted laughs. “Your dad sounds funny.”

“Oh, and it didn’t help none that I got accepted to Packer Collegiate for high school.”

Ted thinks about it for a moment. “Ahh, fudge jokes galore, huh?”

“All four years!”

“But, that’s like an Ivy League high, ain’t it? Yet, you didn’t get to go to college?”

Ted, unintentionally, strikes a nerve.

Patrick inhales and glances down. “Yes, it is. And no, I didn’t.”

“Did a . . . relationship keep you close to home?”

“No. I’m single. Never even brought a boyfriend home with me. Don’t know how Marta and João will react— I just hope they leave the guy alone with the jokes, at least for the first dinner.” Patrick suddenly laughs.

“What?” Ted inquires.

“Oh, I can see it now. I bring a querido home – a boy I’m sweet on – and the whole clan will be there. We’ll clear out the Tri-State Area, with all my aunties just ‘dropping by’ at the same time. Their arms will be loaded with food too. Poor boyfriend won’t know what Brazilian freight train hit him.”

“Sounds wonderful to me.”

Patrick’s smile dims. “Not close with your family, huh?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“You’re not from New York.”

“No. Piedmont, Iowa.”

“Oh, boy.”

“You said it. My folks are the opposite of ‘accepting’. Or, as I think you said, easygoing. My father’s an actuary for an insurance company, so we never wanted for money when I was growing up. But they’re involved with this loony Church of the Glowing Cross – I know, sounds very KKK’ey.”

Patrick chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee after saying, “I was gonna say—”

“So, they’re not tolerant in any sense of the word. When I was sixteen, a neighbor and fellow church member, outed me and my boyfriend. Poor Mony – Monroe Newberry is his name – he got the worst of it; got shipped off to ‘straight camp.’ I never saw him again.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

After a silent moment, Patrick asks, “So, what was . . . Mony like?”

“Awesome. Six-foot, even at sixteen; African American; the star setter on Piedmont’s volleyball team – set to go to the Olympics, before . . . well, before what his folks did to him. Did, just because he loved me.”

Ted inhales through his nostrils, clenched-lips, as if clearing his head. “Anyway, my rents laid low, but I found out they had plans for me too. So, on the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I was outta there. First on a bus to Chicago, and then to New York. There’s no ‘family’ to look back on. No ‘home’ either. All I know is, I better never set foot in Iowa again. The crazies could still be after me.”

“Yeah, best to stay right here.”

Ted flashes his full, sexy eyebrows in agreement. “Yup. Everything’s here. Absolutely everything I need’s in New York.”

Ted’s words cause an odd reaction in Patrick, one centered in a deep, and shall we say, personal chakra point near the base of his spine. But, he ignores it – the best he can.

“So”—he manages to eke out—“no boyfriend, now?”

Grinning, Ted replies, “Currently free as a bird, and I expect to stay that way too.”

Patrick parts his lips, suddenly remembering something. “Free as a bird,” he repeats. “That reminds me of this thing I used to do as a kid.”

“What’s that?”

“In the backseat of the car, especially at night, my sister Marcia and I used to—”

“Lay your heads on top of the seat and look up through the back window?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Cuz I used to do the exact same thing.”

“It’s like flying, isn’t it? All the streetlights, all the apartment windows, all these moving, little points of magical life and light – like stars.”

“Especially magical at Christmas.”

“Precisely. You know exactly what I mean.”

Ted nods. He’s found another piece of common ground they share, but this time, a far more personal one; a far more intriguing one as well, because it involves the appreciation of beauty wed to nostalgia.

A sudden insecurity floods Patrick. He plops elbows on the table, crying out, “Oh, who am I fooling? I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“This!” He picks up the corners of his new Nicholas Raefski shirt. “Me being what I’m not – trying to trick the public into thinking I’m some sort of Queer playboy.”

Ted sits back on his chair; folds his arms. “Don’t worry, kid. With me as your guide, you’ll be able to play a cocky SOB in no time. Trust me.”

Patrick chuckles internally. ‘Cocky SOB – very Midwestern indeed.’

The sly grin Patrick lets slip at this point reminds Professor Rector of something on his syllabus. “Patricio, pull your chair around here, and bring your phone. I’m gonna show you something.”

Forsa does as bid, and soon he’s looking at a gaudy app opened on Ted’s screen.

“You’ll need a hookup profile if you’re gonna play the part of a playa.”

Then, as student watches, the teacher scrolls through several such apps on his phone, explaining, “The hottest one at the moment is called Blindr. Guys meet up online, and if you’re into one of them, you push this button.”

“What’s it do?”

“It sends him a ‘Smash’ – lets him know you’re down for a hookup.”

“Oh. I see.” Then Patrick really does see. “Whoa! You’ve got like fifty Smashes right now.”

“Yeah,” Ted musses wistfully, “been a slow start to the day.” He perks up. “So, you will definitely need a Blindr profile, but be careful. There’s a kissin-cousin app only for BDSM community folks – Bindr.”

“Oh, okay.”

Ted closes the one and opens a much different looking account. Here, red curlicues swag around hearts and arrows. “This one”—he holds the screen up, and Patrick can clearly see Ted’s name at the top—“is called Earnest Eros. Less hookup, more I wanna walk down the aisle. So you may want to set up a Earn Er listing later on; when you’re in the market for a . . . real . . . boyfriend.”

Suddenly both young men realize how close they’ve gotten to one another – to look at the screen – so Patrick smirks. Backing off a little, he says, “Got it.”

“We’ll take some profile pix after we get you a haircut, and maybe once you’ve buffed up a tad in the gym.”

“Sure. Oh, yay.”

Patrick’s tone dips into the serious as he continues.

“Speaking of interesting profiles, Mr. Kingston referred to you once in a strange way.”

“He did?”

“He said, ‘Let The Erector, Yo! take care of you.’ That’s you, right?”

Ted shrugs, knowing he’s already been found out. “So, you Boogled it, didn’t you?”

Grinning ear to ear, Patrick replies, “So I Boogled it, like any good, researching author should, and I found your Fanaticsonly page.”

“So you paid to join up and follow me?”

“No, but I may—”

“Lots of hot content on there, little Cougar. Having fun with hot guys and recording vids at the same time – and getting paid for it – don’t knock it. Supplies me better with bread than my acting work, or my events-bartending side side-hustle.”

“Pays better, like how much better?”

Ted rubs his chin – most attractively in Patrick’s eyes. “Ohh, better than an apprentice plumber.”

The young writer’s astounded. “That much! Shiiiit . . . . ”

“Yeah, but look at you – the Lewd Leonard Cohen of the publishing world – you must be pulling a hefty draw from Random, Reed and Sales.”

Patrick sputters. “Not yet; book’s not out.”

“But how much are they paying you, right now?”

“Oh”—Patrick thinks about a ‘better than’ comparison—“I’m probably getting a little more than the apprentice barista here.”

“Well, that’ll change. It has to.”

“Hehe. Glad you think so too, Erector, Yo!”

“That’s Thee Erector, Yo! to you.”

“Oh, pardon me.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Good laughter follows.

Ted lays his open palms on the table as if pushing himself up. “Okay, time to get you, Puma, to the tattoo shop.”

“What! Who said I want any ink?”

Smirking, the devilishly handsome Rector tells him, “No one, but those ears aren’t gonna pierce themselves!”

The young men rise.

“Oh, great,” says Patrick, “what will João have to say when I walk in the house wearing earrings?”

“I don’t know, but you’re gonna find out.”

“Just don’t make me buy a string of pearls,” Patrick says, gathering his bags.

Ted’s amazed, but chuckles. “How did you know what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

_