Urinetown

      Six months after moving to New York City, I decided that life wasn’t fucked up enough, so I began dating an alcoholic.  I worked as a temp at a prestigious yet insanely dull midtown law firm.  I lived in an extended stay hotel in Morningside Heights and was awakened each night to the sounds of my next-door neighbor, an Asian transvestite, entertaining her gentlemen callers.  I had met a few acquaintances but spent large chunks of time by myself.  At the time, I was not accustomed to being alone much.  In Alabama I was always surrounded with friends and never did much of anything on my own.  Upon moving, I found that there are worse things than being alone, but occasionally alone wears thin.  And it was wearing thin.  The loneliness was palpable.  I didn’t set out to meet an alcoholic, but he was just too tall and dark and, yes, handsome.  His name was Frank.  And he was very flattering and complimentary.  Two things I love in a man.

            We met in a West Village bar called The Dugout whose clientele generally skewed older and hairier than most.  Frank walked up to me, and he did not fit into this norm.  He was tall with a shaved head, sharp features and brown eyes that were startling in their intensity.  He had a lean muscular frame, and he drank Canadian Club.  Instead of extending his hand first, he did what most gay men do upon meeting other gay men.  He checked out my ass.  I was smitten.  After about an hour of conversation, we left the bar for a little restaurant on Bleecker Street. He ordered the roasted chicken and another Canadian Club and took a deep breath.

            “I’m a recovering alcoholic,” he said.

            “Oh,” I replied and pointed to his newly arrived cocktail.  “Medicinal purposes?”

            “No,” he deadpanned, not really getting my “humor”.  “I went to rehab and dabbled in AA.  I followed the twelve steps but now just do my own thing.  I don’t get drunk anymore but occasionally like a few cocktails.  I know my limits.”

            I never really knew that AA is for “dabbling”, but I didn’t want to judge someone else’s decision.  I figured that as long as he wasn’t hurting animals or small children, then he’s datable.  Christ, my shrink was going to have a field day with this one.

            The relationship started smoothly.  For once, I was all for taking it slow.  Coming from a dysfunctional family with little emotional communication skills, I am now a dysfunctional adult with little emotional communication skills.  So slow is good.  I’ve learned through therapy that I tend to seek out men with some sort of problem that I can try to fix.  Sort of like a home improvement project for the emotionally retarded.  It gives me a sense of purpose and feeling of control.  I knew that this was the case with Frank from AA, so I entered with both eyes open and proceeded slowly with caution. 

Our dates were fun though.  He was a great conversationalist, and we had many things in common.  We both loved the theatre and movies and art.  We had the same taste in literature and politics.  And he looked fine in a pair of leather pants. He took me to see “The Glass Menagerie” on Broadway with Jessica Lange, and I didn’t even flinch when he put his arm around me halfway through the second act.  Coming from Alabama, I have a hard time with even the slightest display of affection from members of the same sex.  In New York, it’s sweet.  In Alabama, it can segue to getting your throat cut.

About three weeks after we met, he invited me to a piano bar where a friend of his sang.  He showed up, visibly intoxicated.  He drank two Canadian Clubs for every one beer of mine.  He carried himself remarkably well considering he was drinking his weight in whiskey.  We decided to call it a night early and headed back to my place.  By this time, I was living in a friend’s vacant studio in Murray Hill where there were no unwanted sounds from an obviously hard-working Asian transvestite. 

After three unsuccessful attempts at sex, he passed out and I fell asleep.  At about four in the morning, I heard him get up and stumble across the room.  Apparently, he was sleepwalking and thought he was in the bathroom.  I opened my eyes and focused just as he began to urinate in the corner.  I ran across the room and looked down in horror.  He was relieving himself on my favorite pair of shoes.  My denim sandals from Kenneth Cole with wooden soles.  They were being used as a urinal.  I lost it.

            “You idiot,” I shouted.  “What in the hell are you doing?  You can piss on anything in this apartment, but don’t piss on my shoes!”

            That was a mistake.  He turned toward me.  Seconds before he woke up and realized what he was doing, he peed on my legs.  He stood there, his dick hanging out, in utter humiliation.  I stood there with his urine dripping down my legs and thought of the irony.  Most gay men would consider that foreplay.  I did not.

            “I don’t think this is going to work.  You really need to go,” I told him after he emerged from the real bathroom.

            I’ve never favored normalcy.  But Jesus, will normalcy ever favor me?  As I mopped up urine at four in the morning, I wondered if there were any normal men or if I would ever be attracted to one.  But I knew in my heart what Frank from AA was.  He was a filler.  Just like on the Academy Awards, when an actor steps onstage to accept his Oscar, a filler takes the empty seat until the real thing gets back.  So that’s what I was doing.  I was waiting on my own Academy Award winner and biding time with guys who were merely keeping his seat warm. Even disregarding the alcohol intake and the urinary misfire, I knew that Frank wasn’t my type.  But loneliness and flattery make a potent cocktail. 

Frank from AA called me one more time, but we both knew it was done.  People think New York City is a huge place.  It is a huge place unless you’re talking about running into guys that you dated but wished you hadn’t.  I’ve run into him in bars, on the street, even in my doctor’s waiting room.  Is anywhere sacred?  I saw him just last summer at a Gay Pride event for people into leather.  It’s also open to people like me and my friends who love to go and gawk.  I was not pleased to see Frank walking around with a drink in his hand but pleased despite myself to see him wearing nothing but a pair of leather chaps.  He still looked damn good.  He gave me a nervous wink.  I gave him a forced grin, and we moved on. 

He’s still an alcoholic, and I’m still emotionally retarded.  I sometimes miss him, but nobody pees on my shoes.