“I just hung up on Gregory,” I told Jeanne. “He started right in, telling me that Rita had phoned him to report my call to her over the weekend. He hadn’t responded to my phone call three weeks ago, so I called her. I wanted to know if he was okay,” I explained. “Then I received his letter. Pure venom, not against me in particular. Against everyone.”
Jeanne and I had known Gregory and his late wife Liz, since we built our home in northern Vermont, about 25 years before. Over the years, we saw one another with infrequent regularity. Oxymoron there, but that’s how it was. We had family money in common—in Liz’s case, her father’s. She was an heiress—big money—based on bubble gum. I called her double bubble behind her back, never to her face as both she and Gregory were serious, especially about her money. When Liz died, I told Jeanne I didn’t want to associate with Gregory any longer.
“Liz was our friend—or your friend, actually. We spent time with them as couples because of Liz, not because of Gregory,” I told Jeanne.
“I still think we owe it to Gregory to maintain contact,” but Jeanne went along with my decision, and Gregory disappeared from our lives.
Disappeared, but reappeared eight years later.
Jeanne and I were not yet divorced and still living together. She had gone to California to visit her friend Suzanne. While she was there, I phoned Gregory to invite him to dinner. I felt remorse for what I had done eight years before. I wanted to apologize, but also to bring Gregory up to date on my situation.
“Gregory, there’s something I want to say to you. Can we meet for dinner?” I asked.
“Sure; I’d like that. But, can I bring Tim?” Gregory replied. Tim? Who was Tim? I asked myself.
“Sure, bring Tim along,” I said. “Come here for drinks and then we’ll go to my inn.”
That Saturday, Gregory arrived at my home with Tim. Without being told directly, I got the drift of who Tim was—or more specifically, what role Tim played in Gregory’s life.
“I needed him,” Gregory confided when we met for a walk later that month. “Tim was young, had a job, was good-looking, and a good fuck—then. Now, well, that’s another matter. A few months after we met, he gave me an ultimatum: either he moves in with me or he goes his merry way.” Gregory stopped to sit on a nearby bench. “At the beginning, well, the honeymoon and all that shit,” he continued. “I was trapped. Yes, me, Gregory, trapped. I couldn’t get away. I needed him. Look at me—a fuckin’ wreck. I can’t walk twenty minutes without resting. What kind of life is this?” He looked down at the ground between his legs.
I felt sorry for him. Not that I particularly liked Gregory when he had been married to Liz—but that was neither here nor there. Right at that moment Gregory was pathetic, a somewhat broken man.
We met again, later that month, Gregory joining me for a walk. It was confession time—true confessions. Gregory told me about his meeting Tim and their subsequent living arrangement.
“You don’t know Tim,” he started to explain to me. “He appears charming, handsome, intelligent, in fact everything a gay guy would want in a partner.” I silently agreed. “But he’s also stubborn, unwilling to compromise, set in his ways, a pothead, has no interest in travel, and buys all his clothes from catalogs like L.L. Bean.” Gregory was so emotionally charged with his description that his breathing became labored.
“You’re a snob, my friend,” I told him.
“You’re damn right I am. I wasn’t married to Liz all those years without something of her family rubbing off on me.”
“Gregory, before you married Liz you couldn’t even afford L.L. Bean,” I smiled, and we continued walking.
“It’s either his way or he pouts, the fucker. If I want lamb for dinner, he’ll only eat chicken. So, we make chicken. If I choose to watch porn, he’ll go upstairs and watch Hello, Dolly. If I want him to fuck me, he’ll tell me he has a headache.” I had to laugh, inwardly. It sounded like Gregory and Tim had turned into an old married couple. “I have to remind him who pays the bills—me.” To this I thought, Thank you, Liz. “One of these days I’ll have had it and throw the bastard out,” Gregory fumed. “I want to go to places chic,” he told me, “where I can wear Prada and Armani and eat caviar and lobster and drink Dom Perignon. Don’t take me to ruins or slums; I don’t want to see broken pottery or poverty.”
“Not only are you prejudiced, but you’re a pretentious snob, Gregory,” I told him. “Where would you be if Liz hadn’t left you money?”
“I earned every fuckin’ dime,” Gregory told me. I knew that Gregory had been a hooker in his youth, well before meeting Liz. His mentality hadn’t changed, I thought.
“Unless it’s to my benefit, don’t ask me,” he told me. “I won’t go where there isn’t sun, nor to places that don’t polish my shoes every night.” I began to understand and sympathize with Tim. How could Tim bear living with such an insufferable, bombastic snot? Now I was seeing Gregory for who he truly was and probably had been during his marriage to Liz. I tolerated him out of guilt and because he was amusing—in a weird sort of way.
Then Tim got sick—lung cancer. Both he and Gregory had been big smokers—two pack-a-day smokers. Tim was young, by Gregory’s standards—at least fifteen years younger.
“I don’t know what to do,” Gregory continued.
“First off,” I said, “you must see that Tim sees the best doctors and receives the right treatment.”
“No, I don’t mean about that,” Gregory said.
“Then, what do you mean?” I asked.
“I’m ready to throw him out; I’ve had it. I’m not getting what I want, so why keep him? He’s not even a decent fuck!” Gregory was serious. I could tell that my friend was prepared to kick Tim out of the house and let him fend for himself, in spite of his condition.
“As I see it, you can’t do that—not now,” I cautioned. “You have choices, yes, but here is the scenario as I see it.” I advised Gregory not to act on his feelings about Tim while Tim underwent treatment—which would be chemotherapy followed by radiation. If Tim didn’t survive, the situation would resolve itself—there would be no need for Gregory to act on his desire to tell Tim to leave. Should Tim survive, however, Tim must then be told as soon as possible, based on his recovery.
“My instincts are to cut to the chase and get rid of the bastard,” Gregory said after I finished. “Why wait? I’ll only get more aggravated seeing the fucker every day.” Agitated by the thought of the possibility of having Tim around, Gregory sat down to catch his breath. “He could linger for years, and then what? I’m getting old; I have to look out for myself,” he concluded.
“If Tim’s cancer goes into remission, you can then decide to have him leave. Just give his treatment a chance.”
“Fuck that; why can’t I just live my life without these encumbrances?” Gregory retorted. Then, after reflection, he looked up at me, “You take him!” Gregory was serious.
“Listen, Gregory,” I said—ignoring his last comment—”you can’t abandon Tim, not after eight years and his now being sick. It isn’t right or moral.”
“Fuck that,” Gregory shouted. “I’ve paid for the bastard all these years, and I’ve set him up pretty well, too, so I’m entitled.”
I prevailed. I knew Gregory would back off. He was weak, all bluff, which described his true character—he didn’t have backbone. Gregory would give all appearances of resolution, but wouldn’t act—at heart, a coward.
Tim died two months later.
“I’m not a hypocrite,” Gregory told me. “I won’t wear black; it doesn’t suit me. For the memorial service I think I’ll wear Armani; I’ll be very chic. His family are all country bumpkins; they won’t appreciate it but I’ll wear it anyway. Now that Tim’s dead I can do whatever the fuck I please.” I looked at my friend, thinking: Self-gratified and self-absorbed; a real asshole.
“At least now you won’t have to make a choice,” I told him. “The decision has been made for you.”
“Oh, nothing would have prevented me from kicking the fucker out. I only didn’t because it wasn’t convenient then; I still needed him.” I looked at him, quizzically. “Don’t look so surprised,” Gregory continued. ”
“I can tell you now what I left out before, but while Tim was having chemo, I was told that I, too, had lung cancer.” With this last bit of information, I blanched. It wasn’t what I expected to hear. “You see, I needed Tim to take me to the doctors. I never told him the results of my tests—not for the reasons you might think, Aaron; I’m not that kind. No, Tim might have gained strength from the news and perhaps recovered—heaven forbid.”
“What exactly did the doctors tell you?” I asked, trying to mask my disbelief at Gregory’s compassionless attitude.
“They told me I had cancer in my left lung but, unlike Tim’s, mine was operable. They’ve scheduled the operation in two weeks.” He then lit another cigarette and poured himself a scotch.
“I never deny myself,” he added looking up, seeing the disbelief in my face, “so why start now? My motto is ‘If I’m not for myself, who will be?’” I wondered if Gregory knew the origin of the cynical remark he had just paraphrased, and if he knew the entire quotation: ‘If I’m not for myself, who will be? If I’m only for myself, who am I?’ Probably not, I concluded.
Gregory’s operation was generally considered to be successful. Around this time—unknown to me—a local social figure—the wife of a successful businessman and mother of two pre-teenage children—had attached herself to Gregory.
“All Rita wants is my dick,” Gregory told me as an introduction to his latest caper when I visited him during his recovery. “She looks like a Connecticut soccer mom and sucks dick like a two-buck whore.” I looked at him, in total incredulity. “Don’t look so shocked, Aaron. I was married, remember?”
“But, what about Rita’s husband? Does he know?” I asked.
“Na, I don’t think so. Rita’s very discrete. I told you. All she wants is dick—mine. Anyway, I suspect her husband’s sucking dick somewhere else. As long as Rita’s occupied—and I mean to keep the little slut happy, for now—he’s not going to cause trouble.”
I wondered how long this “affaire” would last. I hadn’t met Rita. I didn’t know her character, except for Gregory’s description which I assumed was entirely one-sided.
How could anyone be in his life if they were to see him like I have over the years, I thought? He’s a self-absorbed, totally egotistical, self-centered, selfish human being. I didn’t even know why I stayed and listened to his diatribes.
“Rita not only gives a mean blow-job. She likes to be fucked too, sometimes a few times a day,” Gregory related. “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe it. She’ll call in the morning before I’ve had my coffee and say, ‘Pop a Viagra; I’ll be right over.’”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“Hell, I pop a fuckin’ Viagra and twenty minutes later I’m banging her like a bull. She’s a real cunt. Likes it up the ass, down the throat. You name it, my pecker’s been there.”
One day, Rita came over during one of my visits. She was a looker, just like Gregory described her. Very trim, attractive, well-groomed, articulate, animated, and intelligent. After meeting her, I was more intrigued than ever over their affaire. If they enjoyed each other’s company, who was I to question the arrangement?
“What would happen if Rita decides she wants to marry you?” I asked Gregory after the meeting.
“Marry? Who’s talking about marriage?” Gregory answered—shocked, but also amused. “Why would I agree to that? Rita’s okay for sucking dick and a good fuck—but marriage? No; absolutely not. She’s got kids, and I don’t want those little fuckers under my feet. Anyway, I like to suck dick myself. One thing I learned from my marriage with Liz.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Don’t make a deal with the devil. When I married Liz,” Gregory continued, “I agreed not to fool around. She knew I was gay. Hell, I’d been a hooker before I met her, and she had a girlfriend despite having had four husbands before me. But she thought that would all change. With her daddy’s cash, she thought she could forbid me to look for dick. She did. Before sucking dick, I had to think of all those hundred-dollar bills, the trips to London and Paris, the Armani suits, the caviar and champagne—and I decided to live like a monk. Well, never again. Anyway, I now have the cash, so Rita can’t demand nothing. If I want to suck dick, I’ll suck dick. Marriage? Fuck, no.” Gregory finished his whiskey and poured himself another. “Fuck no,” he muttered into his glass.
To add to his nervous condition, inherited during his fight with Liz’s son over his inheritance, and to the lung cancer, Gregory discovered he had a blood disorder, a pre-leukemia from the chemotherapy, requiring monthly blood transfusions. While he had given up smoking because of the lung cancer, he now devoted more of his predisposition for self-gratification to excessive drinking.
Added to her sex detail, Rita became a part-time chauffeur, which satisfied both of them.
“When we return from the hospital after a transfusion,” Gregory told me, “I pull out my dick and she sucks like it’s her mother’s tit. She even likes to swallow. Shit, Rita’s such a cunt.” Gregory went on, not caring whether I was listening or not. By the time I would arrive for a visit, Gregory had already had at least two scotches—and it was usually not yet noon.
Gregory was fast becoming a drunk. Spending time with Gregory was no pleasure, I decided. My guilt aside, I couldn’t take the abuse my friend lavished on those around him—especially Rita. I contacted him less and less, and then Gregory eliminated his answering service so I couldn’t tell if Gregory knew I had called.
“I check my missed calls every few days,” he told me. “I don’t give a shit who calls; why should I? They usually just want something, so why should I bother?”
I discussed Gregory with Jeanne. We both now kept in touch with him. We compared impressions, sharing observations and conclusions. I didn’t tell Jeanne everything I knew, only what I thought she would want to know. I dressed up Gregory’s language, especially his comments about Rita. Jeanne would not have appreciated Gregory calling Rita a whore, a cunt, or a cocksucker. Such language would put her off. I told her that I had called him, having not heard from him in at least six months, but that Gregory hadn’t returned my call. I thought one of them should write him.
“I heard from Gregory,” Jeanne announced, which surprised me. “You must have written to him about my diagnosis. We’re going to meet one day next week. At least I suggested that I drive over for lunch,” she added.
“How’d he sound?” I asked.
“Like you were saying, he hates the world. His conversation was peppered with nasty remarks about everything and everybody.”
A day later I received a letter:
“Dear Aaron,” Gregory wrote. “It’s so amazing. I tell people I don’t want to be on the phone. Communication only—not conversation—yet they persist. It rings,” the letter continued, “and I hit the ceiling. I don’t check caller ID; every morning I erase it. I’ll make callbacks only on items that are to my benefit. Why, I’m 72, sick as a dog, have difficulty breathing, my neck hurts, and what I get is, ‘Is it snowing up your way?’ Fuck that. Gregory.”
This letter was followed a few days later by a note:
“Aaron,” no longer a salutation, “always better to get a letter. Now I want you to throw away the adolescent gear from A & F and get back into lisle cotton shirts and handmade shoes.” I was surprised he didn’t suggest Armani, caviar, and champagne. “What else? Stop underrating me and other civilized friends and overrating the scum you’ve been hanging out with—whores, strippers, and crack addicts. For Christ’s sake, do buy some porn and get back to the art of life. Gregory.”
After reading Gregory’s note, I prepared to write a response whose purpose was to obliterate the bastard. Who did he think he was? The arbitrator of taste and culture? An ex-hooker from the slums, uneducated except in the so-called luxuries of life paid for by his late wife. He’d taken on all the trappings without owning any of it.
Instead of writing Gregory, and as I hadn’t heard from him, I called Rita—just to ask if Gregory was well. I left a message. Rita didn’t return my call, which I had expected. That was the origin of Gregory’s call late one night, a few days after writing his last note.
“Aaron,” Gregory began, “I want you to stay out of my personal life. My affaires are no concern of yours. Don’t call Rita and make her your friend. I don’t want you bothering her daily asking about me.” Gregory, taking a breath, gave me the opportunity to interrupt his monologue.
“I haven’t spoken to Rita since your operation, over a year ago,” I began. “I called her as I hadn’t heard from you in over six months.” I was about to say more, to tell Gregory that he needn’t worry about my interfering and bothering Rita, but why? At this stage in our friendship, what difference would it make?
“So, I hung up on him,” I told Jeanne. “Had the conversation continued, I would have told him off. I would have said things I might have regretted later, and would it have changed anything? Gregory’s who he is—a foul-mouthed, self-centered, pretentious, conceited ass.”
Later that week, Jeanne drove over to Gregory’s for lunch. She told me she didn’t really want to go, that any meeting at this time seemed senseless, but would go, out of an obligation to their long-standing friendship. I had written Gregory off. Our friend had over-stepped the boundary between friendship and presumption.
“I had quite a lunch,” Jeanne reported on her return from meeting Gregory. “He’s consumed with his needs, his opinions, his… everything. I hardly had the opportunity to respond most of the time. It was exhausting. I couldn’t wait to leave.”
“I can imagine it wasn’t much fun,” I said to her. “You’ve done the right thing; now let’s get on with our lives.”
“You’ll be interested to know that he had a few choice words to say about you,” she continued.
“What did he say?”
“Oh, something like you’re now hanging out with the dregs of society, and that you didn’t have time for old worthwhile friends like himself. Stuff like that.”
I fumed. Who the fuck did Gregory think he was? Gregory had married Liz for her money and without it he’d be in the gutter right now instead of living in a beautiful New England farmhouse surrounded by 18th-century Americana, being serviced by a 40-something Connecticut soccer mom. And he had the audacity to call anyone scum? He was the epitome of the word; Gregory defined what it stood for.
“Sorry, Jeanne,” I said. “I must answer Gregory. I’ve been patient, understanding, and even tolerant—up to now—but he’s gone too far. I won’t let him get away with his vitriolic garbage. I’ve had it with the little scumbag.”
“Gregory,” my letter began. “You’ve asked me to stay out of your personal life. I ask you for the same consideration. I don’t quite understand all the reasons for you to have become a misanthrope, but that is something you will have to live with. In the future, I will refrain from contacting you—either directly or indirectly—thereby avoiding being contaminated by your abusive thoughts. Your present state of mind saddens me, for you will wallow in your own misery, alone. Aaron.”
Now that I had written Gregory, I sat back and fell into thought. But then a feeling of freedom, of a burden having been lifted from my entire being, permeated the room, and I felt elation at the prospect of change, of endings, and of beginnings.