Despite my mostly sleepless night, I was at the fitness club by seven in the morning, ready for chest and back day. The importance of discipline and routine had been beaten into my head from an early age, and even though I'd left the Navy nearly a year ago, I still relied on it to function.
My exercise routine—which had been crafted by my Navy SEAL brother—was unforgiving. As a former naval officer, I was used to staying in peak physical condition, but I'd never attempted to attain the level my older brother did.
Until now.
With each push-up, I tried to shove my impossible dream of starring on Broadway out of my brain. I wanted it to go away so I could enjoy my life. I made good money, I had friends, and things were going well.
It took years to work up the courage to come to New York, even though I had wanted to star on Broadway since I was a kid. But, like most things in my life, I just couldn't make it happen. I made one wrong decision after another. Even when a talent agent fell into my lap, I stupidly put my face between her legs instead of taking the opportunity for what it was.
Embarrassment sat in my gut, refusing to leave.
What was done was done. There was no rewinding time to fix your mistakes and make a different choice. I learned that lesson a long time ago. I had to move on from dreaming and start living.
The funny thing about dreams is that they aren't just ideas floating around in your head. They are living, breathing parts of your soul that refuse to be silenced.
Once I was done punishing myself at the gym, I stopped at the pharmacy to pick up Denny's prescriptions. Then I headed to a bodega to grab a copy of The New York Times and a coffee and breakfast sandwich before heading back home.
Denny was an elderly veteran who lived on the same floor as Lucas and me. He rarely left his apartment—except for appointments. Getting up nine floors without an elevator was tough, especially since he was battling cancer.
He was as salty as they came—a crusty old Marine who'd flown Choctaws during the Vietnam War. Even though he was a cranky fuck, for whatever reason, I really looked up to him. Bringing him breakfast and the paper had become part of my comfortable routine.
I banged on his door and called his name. "Denny! It's rotor head. I've got chow!"
Rotor head was the endearing nickname he'd given me. I wasn't sure he even knew my first name. I'd never heard him use it.
I waited for him to hobble to the door like he did every morning. I had a key for his apartment and could theoretically let myself in, but Denny didn't like being surprised.
When I didn't hear any noise, I banged on the door again. "Denny! Open up!"
No answer.
My heart started beating a too-fast rhythm. Denny was never late to open the door. He had a dedicated routine that rivaled my own. It was Saturday, so I knew he wasn't at an appointment. Something was wrong. I stuck the paper under my arm and fished out his keys, unlocking his door and spilling hot coffee on my arm in the process.
Hissing out a curse, I opened the door in a blind panic. His studio apartment was empty.
"Denny!" I called out.
The distinctive sound of someone praying to the porcelain gods filled the apartment, and my heart settled—even if my stomach didn't.
I knew the chemo made him sick from time to time, but this sounded bad.
"Denny, it's rotor head. Do you need anything?"
No answer.
I knocked softly on the door.
"I'm in the shitter, you putz! Go sit down and give me a goddamn minute."
His gravelly voice was even more hoarse than usual.
As I was backing away from the bathroom, Lucas raced inside Denny's apartment in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt. His sandy blond hair sticking up on one side. As I predicted, it was ten in the morning, and Lucas had been dead asleep.
He looked around, conducting the same check that I'd done. We shared Denny-sitting duties.
"He okay?" Lucas whispered, pointing to the closed bathroom door. "I heard you shouting and banging on the door."
I nodded, and relief swept over his face. I set Denny's bag of prescriptions down on his small table. The two of us waited in silence until our neighbor finally flushed the toilet.
Captain Dennis "Ducky" Golden came out of the bathroom like nothing happened. His white polo shirt was neatly buttoned, and his khaki pants ironed. His black shoes were as polished and shiny as his bald head. Every inch a Marine even though he was sick.
His sharp pale blue eyes cut between Lucas and me before landing on the bag of prescriptions.
"I told ya not to stop at the pharmacy today, rotor head. I don't need those anymore."
"You need to take the meds, Denny," I said with a sigh. This old man was incorrigible. "The doctor said—"
Denny took the copy of the New York Times I offered him without bothering to say thanks or even look me in the eye, which for him was business as usual.
The old Marine let out a wet cough. "Fuck what the doc said."
Denny settled himself into the creaky corduroy recliner beside the only window in his tiny studio, which currently held the first air conditioning unit ever made. It was rusted out and sounded like a jet engine.
"I'm sick of the goddamn pills and the chemo. I'm done with it all."
Lucas and I exchanged looks.
"Denny—" I started, but the old man simply put on his glasses and opened the paper.
"I said what I said. Now shut up about the pills."
I was still trying to breathe around the shrapnel his declaration left behind. He was giving up on treatment, meaning he'd given up on living.
Under the light of the morning sun filtering in from the window, his skin looked transparent—ghostly even—like he was already leaving me behind.
"Are you gonna give me that coffee, rotor head? If you need a hand warmer, use your balls."
I hid my discomfort behind a laugh and handed him the cup. "Do you want your sandwich?" I asked, trying to think of something else to talk about other than his announcement.
Denny shook his head, not looking up from his paper. "No, just put it in the ice box. I'll eat it later."
I set the sandwich inside the refrigerator, staring at the bag of pills that helped his body fight off the disease and manage pain. How could he give up? He had so much life in him.
"What are you boys getting up to today?" Denny asked, side-eying Lucas, who was still in boxers. "Don't tell me you're working Times Square for tips now."
Lucas humored Denny with a laugh. I could tell he was just as caught off guard as I was. "No, I'm taking rotor head to an audition at a talent agency."
Of course, Lucas couldn't let it go.
Denny folded his paper in half and gave me a stern look. "You got a callback, and you didn't tell me?"
His disappointment hurt more than I expected. I stuttered a few incoherent words before saying, "It wasn't a callback. Lucas thought I should go up there and audition because I met the agent at a bar the other night."
The Times now forgotten, Denny folded it up and set it on his lap. "There's a story I'm missing, and you two are gonna tell it to me."
We took the next fifteen minutes explaining all about my pool rescue of Maren, the subsequent social media blow-up, and then our dance at The Double O.
"I don't think I should go. After the dance, when I asked Maren out for drinks, she gave me this look." I tried to mimic her disgusted face for them. "She thinks I'm trash."
Denny took a minute to absorb the story.
"Just a second, rotor head," he said in the same tone that indicated I was about to get a lecture. "You're telling me you saved a pretty girl from drowning in a pool, and the very next day, she comes up to watch you swing your cock around?"
I glanced over at Lucas to find him choking on a laugh.
I nodded. "That sounds about right."
Denny rubbed his shiny bald head and rolled his eyes. "You kids these days," he said with exasperation. I couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed. "If you don't get it in a text message, you don't get it at all."
"She's not interested. Believe me," I offered before Denny could build up enough steam to start on one of his long-winded lectures.
"A woman doesn't get front row seats to that cock club if she's not interested."
Lucas crossed his arms across his chest and nodded. "That's what I said, Denny."
Denny shot him one of his stern glances. "Congratulations, kid. You want a medal?"
"Yes," Lucas said, grinning. "Yes, I do."
While my two friends were joking around, I was thinking about Maren. Why had she gotten front row seats if she didn't want to see me? I decided she must have been disappointed with my performance or grossed out by it. She had been reluctant to come on stage.
"Listen, rotor head." Denny's gravelly voice pulled me from my thoughts. "She's interested, but you gotta meet dames halfway. That's how it goes. You need to prove that you're worthy of their attention."
Taking advice on how to please Manhattan women from a twice-divorced old man seemed almost comical, but I humored him.
"And how do I do that?"
"You need to show her you're interesting."
I stared blankly back at the old Marine.
"It's just like being in the service, kid. If you wanted a promotion or the chance to pilot the big mission, you had to put in the work and stand out."
He wasn't wrong. While I'd never had the same passion for flying helos that I had for acting, I still loved the job—doing whatever I could to be noticed.
"Believe me Denny," Lucas joked, "old rotor head over here was putting in the work. The crowd was screaming."
I glared over at Lucas in a very Denny-ish way, and he let out another laugh.
"Are you done?" Denny asked him, looking every inch a Marine despite his age.
Lucas dipped his chin. "Yes, sir."
Denny turned back to me, and I realized I was standing at attention like I was back in the Navy listening to a crusty old Master Chief lecture.
"You also gotta prove you aren't a risky bet." Denny took a sip of black coffee. "No one wants to take a chance on a hot shot. You understand what I'm sayin'?"
I mulled Denny's words over. He might be right, but there was a line between her world of professional Broadway actors and me—a stripper. I understood that much from her look.
"Maren doesn't think I'm interesting," I explained. "She thinks I'm... disgusting."
Denny took his folded up copy of the New York Times and smacked me on the leg with it.
"What the hell was that for?"
"The only thing you showed her was your dick!"
I rubbed my forehead with my hand, wishing I could disappear from the room. Why the hell were we talking about this?
"The dancers aren't allowed to take out their dicks Denny," Lucas said, as if this fact made any difference to the old man.
"He's right," I added, hoping maybe the joke would derail the conversation away from the audition.
Denny made a show of rolling his eyes. "Damnit, rotorhead, didn't you hear a word I said? Should I text it to you?" He picked up his ancient cellphone and waved it in the air to emphasize his point. "Be interesting. Show her you are Broadway material. Be the actor that surprises her in a good way, and not with some slick cock moves."
I stared back at Denny. An odd mix of emotions tumbling around inside me. He didn't want me to give up my dream, yet he was willing to give up on life. He was just as big of a hypocrite as anyone.
"I'm not Broadway material. None of the agents I submitted applications to thought so, and none of the casting directors did either. I tried for six months. It's over. I've got a job I'm happy with, and that's all that matters. I sure as shit don't need you two telling me what to do!"
I stormed out of Denny's apartment and down nine floors. I needed a long run to clear my head before the show tonight. I had to bring my A game.
What did you think of Denny? He's a live wire, huh? 🤣
I feel so bad for West. If you remember him from
Sailing West, then you know he has a tendency to brood. We'll see if he comes around.
Now, let's see what our girl Maren is up to.
xx
AJ