Date: Mon, 25 Mar 2002 22:34:26 -0500
From: Cepes LA <cepes@mail.com>
Subject: The Interviewee Part 10

This is gay erotic fiction.  If you are offended by graphic descriptions of
homosexual acts, go somewhere else.

Neither this story nor any parts of it may be distributed electronically or
in any other manner without the express, written consent of the author.
All rights are reserved by the author who may be reached at cepes@mail.com.

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance of the characters to anyone
living or dead is pure coincidence and not intended.  They are all products
of the author's overactive imagination.

One thought: Several of the people who have written to me have commented on
the title and on the disappearance of Alex from the story.  I want to say
that the title doesn't refer just to him: all three main characters have
taken on the role of the interviewee at some point.  I personally see John
as the primary interviewee: answering questions from Alex, Chris, Charlie,
Jane the librarian, and himself, most importantly.  But, it took Alex's
interview and all that followed to get John into that introspective frame
of mind.



The Interviewee Part 10



I stood, motionless, in the swarming sea of bodies.  The noise of people
talking or finalizing purchases was muted.  The acrid smells of moldering
refuse laying in bins in alleyways I could not smell nor could I really
concentrate on the copious, beautiful produce I knew to be arrayed around
me on the farmers' stands.  The most I could do was keep the tears from
streaming down my face.  Luckily, I had not yet made any purchases; my arms
were free and dabbing at my eyes as though I had specks of dust
unpleasantly lodged there.

I knew my having stopped here was backing up the flow of the hundreds of
other perusing these stands.  Haltingly, my body began moving again.
Toward Third Street, which was an enormous pedestrian mall, where I might
be able to find someplace to sit, someplace where my tears would not turn
me into a spectacle visible to this crush of people.

Each step through the mass found my insides becoming increasingly numb; the
sounds and sights around me became increasingly indistinct.  When my legs
gave out, I found I had somehow positioned myself over a bench, which
prevented my mass from crashing onto the concrete.  My body, collapsed onto
the wooden slats, had gone completely numb.  My mind was processing
material as if the world had suddenly speed up, leaving me to process every
fourth or twelfth moment.

Everything seemed to grind to a halt; the people probably still moved, but
I couldn't intuit that fact.  Emptiness and blackness reigned.

Five minutes or perhaps thirty minutes later, my mind began to feel more in
sync with the world around it.  The noises began to come back in; the
sights became more distinct.  The smells returned.

I looked down the street, my back to the blocked-off road playing host to
the farmers and their wares.  I saw the mish mash of shops; the carts where
people hawk sunglasses or t-shirts; the people sitting on the benches, some
talking to themselves, some saying nothing, others preaching to all the
non-listeners scurrying past them.  I saw the street people for the first
time in a long time.  Of course, I looked at them every time I went to
Santa Monica or downtown Los Angeles, but this was the first time in a long
time I actually saw or understood what I was looking at.

I saw myself, or rather what I could easily become without a safety net.
My existence was so fragile: propped up by a reasonably well-paying job; a
boyfriend who seemed to love me; health and mental health protections; and
lots of other things I took for granted.  How quickly could I find myself
on this bench talking to annoyed, even frightened passersby?  In Boston,
D.C., Seattle, everywhere I could think of, I could see people who had had
a catastrophic series of accidents hit them.  Lose a job, have health
problems, find themselves addicted to drugs--all that could happen
quickly, six months or less.

No, for me, it could happen in less than six months.  If Chris ever left, I
don't know what I'd do.  He kept me sane; these mood swings and whatever
else had been in abeyance since Chris came in and became such a large part
of my life.  If he left, it could all crumble even faster.  The mood swings
would come back; work performance would nosedive; the pride would kick in
and offers of assistance would be refused; the mood swings would be back,
who knows maybe even ranting about conspiracy theories at 11.30 on a
Wednesday morning in Santa Monica.

Why?  Why was that true?  I really didn't have a safety net.  My fear of
being hurt--ingrained in me from a very early age--stopped me from
forming friendships easily.  Thinking back on it, everyone who I considered
a friend had pursued me.  I hadn't initiated any of the relationships; in
fact, I had put up the standard walls and barriers.  This handful of people
had persisted and battered them down.  I was a hard person to like.  That
fact was part of the reason I was sitting here realizing how close I was to
being outside society.  Only two or three little accidents in life
separated me from the people I saw in front of me.

This time the tears started and I couldn't hold them back.  Everything I
had ever known, all the secrecy, all the defenses, all the neatness I had
constructed could now be the very things that brought me down.  I had
fought building up the network of friends that everyone else had.  I had
only my Chris--and who even knew what he was up to.

Upon awakening this morning, my arm had snaked to the other side of the bed
for a fleshly fillip.  All my fingers found were cool cloth sheets and an
unoccupied pillow.  I turned my body and saw the bed was really only half
full.  I turned back and looked at the clock: 6.15.  Where was Chris?
After getting up and searching the apartment, I knew he wasn't here.  The
clothes strewn on the floor from last night told me I hadn't imagined him
last night, as did the recently wetted bathroom floor.

His being gone, and my being deprived of answers to all the questions
churning around in my mind, caused my mood to drop a few more notches.  I
was definitely outside of the perfect zone--mild but not severe
depression--I had found myself in yesterday.  The fragile balance of
being at 4 Celsius, the point at which water is densest, yet not completely
motionless, was next-to-impossible to maintain; a perfect moment so often
is.  As the water moved toward the freezing point, it becomes imperfect,
expanding slightly and then turning completely immobile.  The perfect
temperature, so evanescent, was gone from my mental state; my body had
lurched into a depression several notches lower than it was before.

Work that morning had been impossible.  My mind was elsewhere; the glassy
perfection of my concentrating on only the tasks before me had been
shattered.  All of the horrors of the last few days revisited me: mentally,
at best, or in person.

Charlie had been the first of my visitors.  His face was tense, a
not-attractive state for his mug.  I couldn't tell how he felt by looking
at his face.  I didn't particularly care to listen to him speak, either.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"  I wasn't cutting him any slack.

"For yesterday.  For what I said.  I'm sorry."

"Hmm."  I was definitely in a foul mood.

"John, I mean it.  I never should have said those things.  I mean I knew
about your friend and all.  I should have kept my feelings under wraps."
His face took on an even more ashen color.  If it had been me, my face
would be flaring red by now with embarrassment.  Our bodies each handle the
outward display of emotions differently, I suppose.

"Not true.  You should have told me.  But, you didn't need to hit on me.
Right?"

"I'm sorry."

"I heard you the first time.  I'm still thinking about forgiving you.  Ask
me again tomorrow."  I gave him an insincere demi-smile.

He read the look, against the tone and intent of the words I had spoken, as
forgiveness.  The tension lessened and the unattractive volcanic color to
his face went away.  I was still genuinely angry with Charlie: how he had
kept hinting around, being coy, trying to get me to fall for his little
song and dance.  I decided I was being almost irrationally hard on him; I
would not disabuse him of his received forgiveness, even if it had not been
given.

He decided to be chatty.  Once I finally tuned into the topic of the
one-sided conversation, I wished I hadn't cracked a partial smile in
Charlie's direction.

"...my old friend Mark in Pharma over at McKinsey."

"Hmm?"

"He was let go.  Reduction-in-force.  Requiescat in pace is more like it,
though.  He's pretty down right now."

"McKinsey's doing layoffs?"  That was troubling news; they had really
resisted letting anyone go.

"Yeah and BCG.  And, if the rumor mill is right, so are we."

"Really?  When?"  My first impulse was to try and remember how much the
door to the head of staffing's office had been closed in the last week.
Preparations like that take time and secrecy.

"No one's sure.  It's still just rumor."  The old saw about a grain of
truth in every rumor hit me.

"Right."  My second thought was to seeing Julie standing in the head of
staffing's office.  Talking about me?  If she were trying to get me laid
off, wouldn't she have had the common sense to shut the door before
starting her rant?  Knowing her, probably not.  Not comforting.

Charlie had decided I was interested in the rumor mill and starting feeding
me its grist, some well worn, some almost new.  Who was having affairs with
whom; who got slighted with less-than-plum assignments.  Not what I cared
about; I was oozing disinterest.  He was, apparently, incapable of reading
body language.  So smart but so interpersonally inept; he was a bad case,
but so many of the people in this office had similar blind spots.  How
could I ever have thought kindly of Charlie; he was a bore; but, I guess,
on a relative scale, he wasn't far off the median.

After a few more minutes of me not clucking or nodding at the appropriate
places, Charlie finally saw the mountain of evidence and decided it was
time to move on, perhaps back to productive, revenue generating work.  His
skin was potentially on the line as well.

For many minutes after he left, I sat listlessly trying to plow through
research material for a proposal I was helping out with.  It was completely
uninteresting; I bit the bullet and started writing my sections.  Drivel,
but I liberally sprinkled the facts and other learnings into the document.
It would look like I had put effort into this; perception was all that
mattered in this case.

After I finished what I had to do, poorly and without my usual ability to
concentrate, I sent it off for review.  I rose up, thinking I might take a
break and get some coffee, a small reward for a job poorly done.  As I
walked to the elevator, I saw the door to the head of staffing's office
closed, then cracked, then wide open.  A perfectly coifed Julie walked out;
she saw me and flashed me a wide smile.  Given her surroundings, it looked
sinister, even malicious.

I tossed out my plans for coffee.  I needed to leave the office.  Thoughts
were beginning to swirl: what Charlie said (and what he'd done the day
before), where Julie had been, where Chris hadn't been.  Eating a hole in
my mind, the self-doubt and loathing welling up in me would not be slain by
mere coffee.  A break, a long one, was required.  Wednesday, as Chris had
taught me, meant the farmer's market in Santa Monica.  It was just barely
10.20.  Time was not a problem.  And so I found myself there, thoughts and
demons attendant, after the twenty minute drive almost in tears and rapidly
loosing touch with reality.  Upon waking, I could see all these steps now,
how one lead to another, how the snowball formed and where it went from
there.

I fished around in my pocket.  I discovered I had brought my cell today.  I
dialed in a rarely used number and heard the voice mail pick up.

"Hi Marcia.  This is John in Consumer Products.  I've come down with a
touch of something.  I'm taking the rest of the day off.  If this doesn't
get better, I'll see the doctor tomorrow.  Thanks."  Marcia was a pushover.
As my direct staffing liaison, she rarely asked tough professional
questions.  She herself liked to take a few sick days on beautiful summer
afternoons.  But, she would always nag me to see the doctor.  Go figure.



My new home, the sofa, served my purposes well.  Sleep, mental oblivion,
active worrying, waiting, television watching.  All this went down easier
on a comfortable sofa.  I needed to talk to Chris; I needed to get out of
this downward spiral.

I heard the key in the lock; the clock said 11.45.  I had been waiting,
even stewing, for twelve hours since I came home from the farmer's market
empty handed and virtually lethargic.

The lights were blazing when Chris walked in the door.  He was filthy.  He
was wearing a dirty shirt and his pants were disgusting.  The dress code at
his office was relaxed, compared to Wall Street, but this getup wouldn't
fit in at all.

"Where have you been?"  Not whiny, not annoyed, just concerned.  I had
spent more than 3 hours thinking about what tone to use.

"Working."  Flat, tired.

"Where?"

"At a restaurant in Malibu."

"I don't understand."  I was more confused than any words could have
expressed; this revelation added to the bulk of all my insular,
conspiratorial thinking earlier in the day made for a Cubist painting in my
mind gone far awry.

"Let me change and shower.  I stink."  I could tell that from where I was
laying.

"Just come back and talk to me.  No more putting me off."  I started to
sound whiny.  Damn.

"Hmm."  He walked off, shedding clothing as he went.  The tiredness in his
voice and on his face explained his lack of neatness last night, leaving
clothing everywhere; Chris was even more fastidious than I was.  At least
he had carried me from the sofa to the bed and stripped my clothes from my
body before depositing me.

Ten, twelve minutes later, Chris returned.  Clean, healthy looking once
more.  In fact, beautiful in his robe.

"Jay, I didn't want to say anything until I was sure."

"Sure?  What are you doing?"  The fear, uncertainty, doubt he raised with
his prologue ricocheted off my mind to hit high intensity instantaneously.

"Sure about what I wanted to do.  Jay, I want to cook."  Not the words I
expected to hear.

"I took a week unpaid.  I had my Dad pull some strings.  I've been the
grunt in a restaurant in Malibu; we've been there.  The place with the
daiquiris and the ocean view."

"What a dive."  Chris laughed.

"Yeah.  But I wanted some place to test me.  Did I really want to do this?
I needed to know."

"Are you leaving your job?"  It was the first question that popped into my
head--and straight out my mouth.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you about that.  I'd like to cook; I'd like to
do the culinary training thing.  I want you to want me to."  He looked at
me expectantly, nervously.

"Chris, you are so good.  At cooking.  And I want you to be happy.  But,
could you have told me some of this before?  I woke up this morning and
freaked.  Where had you gone; I didn't know.  I've been a basket case all
day.  And my job is tenuous; my mentor is fiddling around; there are rumors
of job cuts."  I started crying.  The tears weren't stopping.

Chris sat down next to me and held me.  I cried harder.  After I finished
with this emotional release, he kissed the tears from my face.

"I love you."  He squeezed me again.

"You know I love you."  A few quiet moments set in; we both regrouped.

"I want to leave my job.  You know I haven't been happy; it's not what I
want to do.  It took me a long time to realize that what I wanted to do was
my favorite hobby, but professionally."  He stroked my hair.  At the time,
I didn't even think to crack a joke about my being his favorite hobby, but
later that evening the idea came to me.

"But I want us to be okay.  My Dad, well, I know your parents couldn't help
us out.  So, I asked my Dad.  He decided to give me some of my inheritance
early.  So I wouldn't bump him off, he said."  My tired looking Chris
seemed re-energized when he started laughing.

"I need to get some experience; work in restaurants for six or nine months.
I'm going to do that.  Dad'll help me find someplace better to learn in.
Then I want to apply to culinary school; there is a good one in New York,
upstate.  They have classes that start every two months or so."  He looked
at me again.

"I want you to come with me.  Quit this shit.  Me my kept man for a year or
two.  Do something wacky.  Let's just get out of this shit.  Together,
though, we've got to do it together."  I started crying again.  This time
the tears were of happiness.



We had a long talk that night and the next morning before work.  I heard
all the stories, all the reasoning, all the reasons Chris didn't want to
tell me until he was sure.  I fell even more strongly in love with him.
The black vapors wrapping themselves around me seemed to recede, as well.
There was much to iron out, but I knew what Chris wanted.  I knew I wanted
to be a part of it, watching him get the practical training that would turn
him into a chef.  The two years would be interesting; Cornell was nearby,
maybe I could take some classes, start a degree, do something there.  Or
become a haus frau and start a garden.  Who knew.

At work, I was a different person from the John of the day before.  I
started my day at Jane's desk.  She was our magnificent librarian and had
been secreting the materials I would need to review in order to understand
the engagement I'd be starting next week.  She gave me a broad smile and
chit chat.  I told her about Chris' preliminary plans, at least as far as
becoming a chef.  I didn't want her to think I would be leaving soon.
Rumors like that fly quickly here; I didn't want to muddy the waters for my
career here, at least not yet.

Jane finally decided it was time for me to do some work.  She reached into
one of her shelf units and pulled out an unbelievably thick stack of papers
and motioned them to me.

"There's a list on top of resources on the intranet.  I didn't want to kill
all the trees to print everything out."

She smiled.  I loved her, but sometimes her efficiency could short all my
fuses.

It would be a painful day--nowhere near what yesterday had brought,
thankfully--but it could be rewarding.  My attitude was looking up; even
plowing through material could be exciting.  Come to think of it, even the
prospect of being in Cincinnati the following week didn't faze me as much.
And that was saying something.



To be continued.



Author's Note: I would thank everyone for their generous comments about my
story.  I appreciate hearing your comments on this story or anything else.
You can send me a message at cepes@mail.com.  I enjoy responding to all the
messages I receive.

One last thing: Though I will be continuing to post on Nifty, I have been
invited by Nick Archer to post The Interviewee on his site, Archerland.
It's a great spot for lovers of interesting fiction--including work by
Papyrophile, John Francis, jfinn, Keith Mystery, Katherine, Alex Nelson,
and, of course, Nick himself.  I'm honored that they've asked me to join
them; please check it out.  I'm sure you won't be disappointed.
http://archerland.net