They both put down their drinks as the show began. For the next forty-five minutes or so, the living room of their shared one-bedroom in the Rogers Park neighborhood of Chicago was quiet.
When the show ended and the pitcher of cosmos was empty, Lacy looked over at Jasper. “It’s such a sad story, really.”
“What? You feel sorry for Cunanan?”
“I feel sorry for everybody. But yeah, maybe a little bit. He was batshit crazy. He wanted the things we all want—love, security, a home. He just didn’t know how to go about getting them.”
Jasper shrugged. “I guess. Though I think Versace’s sister, Donatella, would beg to differ.”
“Yeah, she probably sees him as a murderous wannabe, a hanger-on, a ruiner of lives.”
“Which he was. All of those things.”
Lacy sighed and stood. She was a little shaky and had to grab the arm of the couch for support. “I should probably start getting ready.”
It was their custom, after a little TV on Tuesdays, to head out to a couple of the gay bars a bit farther south in the Andersonville neighborhood. Lacy was Jasper’s trusty wingwoman, and sometimes he felt sorry for her. She never complained about always being at Jasper’s side, helping him vet and judge the young men on offer at the bars on a Tuesday night with nary a chance for her to meet someone, unless she wanted to go the lesbian route, which she’d tried once or twice without, according to her, much success or satisfaction. “I like dick as much as you do,” she’d confided to Jasper.
“Is that even possible?” Jasper had responded, laughing.
WHEN THETV was turned off, the magazines arranged on the coffee table, the dishes stacked in the sink, and the apartment looking okay in case a visitor should come back later, Jasper and Lacy stood in the small entryway of their vintage one-bedroom apartment, appraising each other’s looks in the mirror in the front closet door.
Jasper wished Lacy would stop with the goth-chick crap. For one, she was past thirty by a couple of years. Take away the black dye job, the thick eyeliner, the violet lipstick, the black taffeta, leather, and lace of her ensemble, and you’d have a soccer mom, one with mousy brown hair, wide hips, and a flat chest. The description, Jasper knew, wasn’t kind, but it was on target. And it wasn’t that he advocated she go for the soccer-mom look. Not at all. He knew she could cut her long hair, let it go back to its natural brown, amp it up with some golden highlights, and she’d look great. Throw on some skinny jeans, low boots, and a blousy top. With the right makeup and jewelry, she’d probably look a good decade younger.
The goth business was so over. It had been over since Jasper was a kid.
“You put so little effort into it,” Lacy said, her gaze affixed to Jasper’s green eyes in the mirror. She applied her purple lipstick and blotted it with a Kleenex.
“What do you mean?” Jasper knew, but he wanted to hear. He could always use a little extra confidence before setting out into the jungle of gay bars in Chicago, where there was always someone a little better waiting around a corner.
“Look at you. You take a shower, throw on a pair of Levi’s and a white T-shirt, a pair of Cons, and you’re good to go. You look like you just got off work from aGQfashion shoot.”
Jasper laughed. “Oh come on, sister. You’re too kind.”
“I am not and you know it.”
Jasper looked at himself in the mirror—the wavy dark hair, the pale green eyes, the slight but strong build. He wondered how many more years past his current age of twenty-five he’d be able to enjoy such effortless handsomeness. He wasn’t being vain—he knew nothing lasted forever. If he could pull a Dorian Gray, he would, right this very moment, freezing this look in place. “Ah.” He waved Lacy’s praise away. “You and I both know nothing lasts forever.”
Lacy opened the front door, hoisting her bag up to her shoulder. “Which is why you should make the most of it.” She giggled and raised her eyebrows.
“What do you mean?”
“Old Andrew Cunanan had the right idea, He just had poor, if you’ll pardon the pun, execution.”
“Oh, you’re terrible, Muriel,” Jasper said, echoing Toni Collette in a favorite movie of theirs,Muriel’s Wedding.
“Seriously, though, you should see if you can’t find yourself a nice sugar daddy. Someone who will get you out of this shithole—”
“—and into the palace I deserve?”
“Exactly. Why not? Do it right and you can have all your dreams come true and never have to lift a finger. You’re good-looking enough, Jazz, and you know it.”
He didn’t know if hedidknow it, but the idea had occurred to him watching the Cunanan movie. If Andrew hadn’t been such a fucked-up loon, maybe he’d be doing fine today, sipping a glass of expensive wine while watching the sun set from some fabulous mansion in the tropics or on the Riviera coast.
Jasper shook his head. He was a shopgirl, refolding clothes at the Nordstrom Rack store downtown. What would he even talk about with some rich dude? At least Cunanan had a line of bull, a persona to draw on. Jasper grew up poor in southern Illinois, with a welder father who ignored him and a tragic history trailing him.
He wasn’t good enough for some rich guy. Hewasgood enough, however, for a hot young guy. And that’s precisely what he intended to find tonight.
“Let’s go,” he said to Lacy, taking her arm and leading her out the door.
