THE MEN'S PLANET IV:

Tim

"What kind of music do you like?" the handsome but shabbily-dressed new sublet tenant asked me in the lobby.

"Reggae. Rock and roll. Classical. Why?"

"Do you like jazz played on a string bass?"

"No. Why? Are you giving away your old tapes or something?"

"I'm playing a gig tonight at a club in Soho. I'm a jazz musician. Do you want to come?"

"Well, uh, sure. I haven't really done anything all weekend." He WAS cute. "How much does it cost to get in?"

"I'll put your name on the list."

All day long I wondered is this, like, a date?

The only thing I knew about the new sublet tenant was that he was subletting from Ron, a club-footed, red-faced, chain-smoking, misanthropic pseudo-writer who was mean to my neighbor Patti and played choral music at midnight in bouts of manic elation. This did not reflect well on Tim. But I hadn't gotten laid since last June, during an ill-fated reunion with the Mature Friend (see Men's Planet I). It had been three years since our last lovemaking session, and, on my part, it was mainly a sympathy fuck. The Mature Friend had confided his distress over the fact that, now that his hair was white, women on the street no longer made eye contact with him.

"I feel invisible," he said piteously.

"Don't worry, I'll re-invigorate you," I promised.

The ingrate unbuttoned my blouse, unhooked my bra, and laughed.

"Your tits are the same size, but lower," he announced.

That evening, buoyed by images of sturdy young manhood, I sped-walked to the Soho club. It was a filthy little dive.

"Five dollars," said the woman at the door.

"I'm on the list," I countered.

"There is no list," she replied.

Tim greeted me.

"I got here late so it will be a while. Why don't you sit with my friends?"

I was led over to two women. Margo was Scandinavian. She had erect posture and a clenched face, was obviously a tyrannical personality. Sort of like Helga, She-Wolf of the SS.

"I smell something sweet. Are they burning incense?" she said bitchily.

"It must be my perfume."

I met her gaze until she turned away.

Aduki was a goody-goody Japanese, who sat immobile and silent, with her hands folded on her lap.

"It's chilly in here," I said.

Margo got up, located the window, and slammed it shut.

Tim played jazz viola. The same old standards I'd heard 100 times. But he was talented. He had incredible rhythm. And I loved the way he worked that bow. I imagined his hands all over my body.

He was up there for two hours, cracking jokes, relating mildly witty anecdotes. When it was finally over, he came to our table.

"Why did you ask me if I like string bass when you play viola?" I asked him.

"Did I say that?"

"I felt honored to be here," said Aduki.

Afterwards, Aduki, Tim and I went to eat at an East Village luncheonette. Tim had brought along special tablets he takes to avert intestinal spasms.

"I haven't been hungry in three years," he confided. "It all started with this raw chicken I ate in Japan."

"Where are you from?" I asked him.

"Texas."

"Waco?"

"No. Why did you say that? Everybody keeps talking about Waco. Is something going on there?"

"Don't you read the papers?"

"Not in five years."

I was ready to invite him up to my apartment, but Aduki was fiercely possessive.

"Are you taking a cab home?" I asked her, hopefully.

"Yes, but I'm not leaving yet." She accompanied us to our building.

"Tim,.I need to use your bathroom," Aduki said.

"You can use mine," I cheerfully volunteered.

"No!" Her eyes flashed.

I said goodnight.

The next day I consulted my gay buddy Freddy, who has an answer for everything.

"If it was like a date, but he's fucking this Japanese chick, why did he invite her?" I inquired.

"He's probably not fucking her, but she was probably so out of it, she didn't realize what was going on. You know how Japanese people are. They're in their own world."

"So what's my next move?"

"Just wait, honey," Freddy counseled. "Just wait."

A week later, I encountered Tim in my lobby. There were a dozen holes in his baggy cotton pants. He looked like a little lost puppy.

"Tim, no offense, but may I make an observation?" I asked.

"Sure."

"You look like you need for your mommy to come to New York from Waco and buy you some clothes and make you dinner."

"Would you make me some dinner?" he pleaded, instantly infantile. "Would you? It could be like a potluck-type thing. We could share expenses."

I don't like little boys--to fuck-- but then, I cannot resist a culinary challenge. So, mindful of his intestinal spasm problem, I prepared a soothing repast of coq au vin with wild mushrooms, mashed potatoes, and a spinach salad with a honey-grapefruit dressing. I put on sexy black lingerie, lit candles, slipped Mary Chapin-Carpenter on the tapedeck.

Tim arrived with a bottle of $2.99 Spanish wine that was half-empty.

"I brought this to the studio last night," he said, "but there's probably enough to get us pretty blitzed."

I resisted the urge to call him a cheap scumbag, reassured that getting blitzed was usually the preliminary to getting laid.

"I love this kind of food," Tim exclaimed. "My old girlfriend, Tracy, used to cook turkeys all the time."

"Turkeys? For two people? How long did they last?"

"A couple of days."

'Liar!' I thought. 'A fucking turkey would last two people three weeks. He's just upping the ante, the manipulative little shit. Now, if I want to get laid, I'll have to start cooking him turkeys.'

"Tracy was a WASP who was really into responsible journalism," Tim continued. "She had all these rich friends who gave fancy dinner parties."

Somehow, I couldn't envision Tim attending with his torn pants. What kind of a guilt thing was this Tracy babe working out?

I turned the conversation back to myself.

"Why did you invite me to your gig?" I asked, blatantly fishing for a compliment, such as, "Because you're so pretty, sexy, interesting..."

"Because you walked through the door," Tim replied. He yawned, announced that he had to be in the recording studio in the morning, and left.

It was another lonely night with my mechanical friend, Mr. Goodvibes.

Two days later, there was a message taped to my door.

"I lost your phone number. Call me, Tim."

I decided I would call him and ask to borrow $10, for an "emergency" and then keep it. I had spent $20 on food for this "potluck", and he had brought a recycled bottle of wine. If I recouped half my losses, I could just chalk up the whole experience to yet another example of ignoring my instincts. And the truth that the friends of assholes are invariably assholes, too.

Amazingly, he brought the ten bucks over immediately.

Then I got the message on my answering machine. 11:00 on a Wednesday night.

"Hello Hariette, Tim here, you know, in 5G. Listen, I bought this piece of really cheap fish and I put in the freezer. I just took it out to cook it and it smells really disgusting, really spoiled and putrid and rotten, and I was wondering if I could bring it up to you and you could smell it and tell me if I should cook it."

I called him back.

"Tim, let me get this straight. You want me to smell something vile and disgusting? Is this supposed to be an enjoyable experience for me?"

"Is that bad?"

"Tim, do me a favor. Lose my phone number again."

Maybe I should move uptown. I heard that on the Upper East Side men bring flowers and perfume...