Mark came back. “Look, Mikey—we’re getting out of here. You really should check out Uproar again. Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.”
“Yeah.” Mikey nodded. “Maybe I’ll do that. You guys have fun.”
“See ya.” Mark turned to go. The other man smiled and waved at Mikey, meekly for his size, and then they were both moving away, toward the front door.
He thought about an old poem he’d had to study in senior English. He couldn’t remember the author or the title, just that it had something to do with a room where people come and go,talking of Michelangelo.
TalkingwithMichelangelo, he thought.Me. Here. Alone. Tonight.
He sank back against the windowed wall. The current number wasAll that Jazz.He found his place in the lyrics on the nearest video monitor and sang.
All That Jazzchanged toTonight. Tonightchanged toSomething Wonderful. Something Wonderfulchanged toWhatever Lola Wants...thenBeauty and the Beast, I Am What I Am, Don’t Rain on My Parade,and on and on.
Mikey sang them all, never leaving his spot by the windowed wall, transformed and transcended from a poor schmuck who couldn’t land a date to the likes of Lola, Tony, and Fanny.Whether arm in arm with other men, boisterously cheering on rollicking numbers likeOklahoma!,orunited with the collective choral hope ofThe Impossible Dream,or shedding the confines of his ownprivateSkid Row...Mikey, like several men at B.J.’s on Tuesday nights, sang for escape.
Bonding in song with others was a means of emotional contact for him—maybe not the kind he longed for ultimately, but passable in the absence of true companionship. Similar to sex versus love—everyone wants both, but the former still feels good when the latter’s not around.
Mikey was reflecting on this very notion when he noticed a man standing near. He looked out-of-place, confused as if he wandered off black and white 17th Street through the door to Technicolor Oz. He was bearish and cute, in a nerdy way—thick body, wire-rimmed glasses, unkempt hair—wearing a white button-down oxford and tight jeans with athletic shoes.
He made eye-contact, smiling bashfully.
Mikey moved in for the kill.
“Hey there, handsome,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”
The man pushed his glasses up. “Is that a postal uniform?”
“Why yes, it is. Are you expecting a delivery?”
“No.” He chuckled. “And you need to work on yours. That line is terrible.”
“Made you laugh, though.”
“Are all the bars in DC like this?”
“No. B.J.’s is one of a kind.”
“I’m not singing. I can’t sing.”
“You don’t have to... and I promise I won’t. In town on business?”
“Yeah. I’m from Philly.”
“Me, Baltimore. I just deliver mail in DC.”
“Hence the uniform.”
“Yeah. Sorry about the bad line. I was just trying to break the ice. I’m Mikey.”
“Hi, Mikey. I’m Ned... and I’ll have a beer.”
Chapter 12
“That ought to do it,” said Shane. He was standing behind the bar at David’s where he and George had just installed the espresso machine. “Let’s try it out.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, Shane.”
“Don’t—not until we taste it, anyway.”
