KEVVIN walked along the street in the crisp December air. He was in a very good mood that morning. There had been a message on his answering machine the night before when he came home from work. It had been the owner of Kevvin's favourite bookstore telling him that his order had arrived and that he could come and pick it up at any time. It was an early and expensive Christmas present to himself. He smiled when he thought that the old man at the store probably did not get many orders like his. He had requested all seven volumes of Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu in the original French. It was a deluxe hardcover edition.
He was not even miffed that the Times had not yet been delivered to the convenience store when he stopped by to pick it up. He knew it was not the fault of the clerk, but he did suggest that the man telephone his supplier to complain about the service. In any event, Kevvin's new books would provide him with more than enough material to browse through at his bistro later in the morning.
Kevvin reflected wryly that he was being very generous with himself this year. On top of the books, he had also finally bought a CD player a few weeks before. After a year of debating such a purchase in his mind, he had finally decided that they were not a fad. He had already bought several CDs. These were Deutsche Grammophon issues of Mahler, Beethoven and Bach. He doubted that the new technology would ever completely replace normal stereo systems, but it was his battered old record player that had finally decided him. It was 20 years old and had been a Christmas present from his parents. It still worked perfectly, but its sound quality was dismal. The CD player gave him the full stereo experience that his record player could not.
When he arrived at the bookstore, Kevvin unwrapped his package very carefully. The books were in an ivory cloth binding, but they at least had brown leather spines with gold lettering and accents. He was quite taken with the line portrait of Proust in gold filigree on the cover of each volume. The portrait of the author itself was enough to redeem the cloth binding. It captured the wistful air of suffering that the man had known and that had made his writing great.
After rewrapping his purchase, Kevvin went back up the street to the café. It was still early enough that he would have his choice of tables. He even considered taking a seat at the counter that ran along the window, but a table would give him more chance to spread out his books and enjoy them. Of course, a table in the middle of the coffee shop would also allow him to pause from time to time in his reading and examine the newest works on display. He had already been to their unveiling a few weeks before, but there were one or two pieces that he was quite taken with. He reminded himself of the Christmas presents he had already bought for himself; purchasing a painting was out of the question.
Just as he was nearing the café, Kevvin heard his name called from some distance away. He recognised the voice and stopped to locate the source. He could not see Mike anywhere. A figure darting past the moving cars on the street in front of him finally caught his attention. Mike bounced to a stop in front of him and stood there grinning.
Kevvin could not recall Mike ever being in such a good mood. He immediately saw the change in his appearance. His hair had not only been cut, but styled. He had obviously used some gel to get it to stick out at the front like that. His broad grin revealed his broken tooth, but it only seemed to add some character to his face. It really wasn't that noticeable at all. In place of his old denim jacket he wore a red down vest, and his t-shirt had been replaced by a very nice sweater with a high neck. If nothing else, he looked warm. He was still wearing jeans, but they were very clean and crisp looking above the gleaming white leather high tops on his feet. Mike looked exactly as if he had just stepped off a page in a catalogue.
He stood there in front of Kevvin, his hands casually resting in the pockets of his vest, still grinning and almost dancing around like an excited child. He spoke when Kevvin did not.
"Hi Kev." He stopped and actually giggled.
Kevvin did not smile back or return the greeting. He felt no desire to have anything more to do with Mike. He was happy to see that things seemed to be improving for him, and he was even a little curious to find out the explanation, but he was not going to get involved again. Mike continued to stand bobbing before him, smiling and inviting.
It was Mike's whole manner, not just his new clothes, that seemed to have changed. There was something almost boyish in his excitement. The sullen, stolid, wordless Mike was gone. Kevvin almost felt like he didn't know the man in front of him anymore. He finally managed to speak.
"Hi, Mike."
Before he could go on and explain that he had to leave, Mike started talking, almost chattering. He had never done that before.
"Things have really changed, Kev. Look at me. Things are looking up." He posed before the older man.
Kevvin could see that. He was equally certain that Mike himself had had little to do with the transformation. He could not imagine anything that Mike could have done to change so much in such a short time.
"How about an interview, Kev?" Mike asked. It almost looked like he winked when he said it, as if he were making a joke.
Kevvin was torn. His curiosity was getting the better of him. At least Mike's appearance was not quite such an embarrassment. He answered as casually as he could.
"Why not? I was just going in here."
Entering the café, Kevvin led them to a free table in the middle of the room. They had just sat down when a waiter arrived with menus. Kevvin was happy with such prompt service because it offered a reason not to say anything to Mike yet. He really was not sure what he should say or ask. Kevvin ordered a danish and a cup of coffee. Mike ordered the club sandwich again, along with a large Coke and pecan pie-he called it sugar pie-for dessert.
After Kevvin had adjusted his camel hair coat to his satisfaction on the back of the chair, he slid his parcel to one side. He had simply set it in the middle of the table before sitting down, and the waiter's arrival had stopped him from moving it. As he did, the wrapping paper came loose and one side of the package fell open on the table. Mike cocked his head and read the words on the spine.
"I know that guy."
Kevvin almost quipped that the man had been dead for almost sixty years, but he knew what Mike meant.
"We read some of his stuff in school. In French Lit in grade 11."
Kevvin was surprised.
"You studied French Literature in school?"
"I had to. It was a French school. We read lots of stuff. I read Le Petit Prince. I didn't like it, the way the guy has to keep dying." He paused and frowned.
"We read Candide too. That one was funny. I never finished it. That's when I left. That guy was gay, you know."
Kevvin gave a small superior smile.
"I highly doubt that Voltaire was gay, Mike. He was rather famously..."
"Not him, Proust. Everyone knows that. Our teacher told us. She said that that was what inspired him. He had..." Mike stopped to think. "She said he had ennui." The use of the French term surprised Kevvin a bit, even though it was perfectly natural for Mike to use such a term.
"Anyway, I am quite certain that he was not gay either. When Proust was a young man, he challenged someone to a duel simply for having intimated that he was involved in such a thing."
"So have you read any of it yet?" Mike asked, ignoring Kevvin's assertion.
"Not in French, but I have read parts of it in Moncrieff's translation. I look forward to reading it in the original."
In fact, Kevvin had read the fourth volume only, and had reread it several times over the years. He had first discovered it by accident near the end of his first year at university. A passing comment by one of his professors in a lecture on the influence of modern French literature had caused him to stop at the college library to look up the word 'inversion.' It had obviously had to mean something more than Kevvin had thought. After finding out what he wanted to know, he had gone up into the stacks to find the novel.
Despite the fact that Kevvin did not think of himself as a flower and that he most definitely did not consider his life to be sterile and dependent, he still thought that those words of Proust's were the most brilliant metaphor he had ever read.
Mike reached across the table and gingerly pulled the top volume from the pile in the package. Kevvin immediately looked at Mike's hands to make sure that they were clean. Mike opened the book and flipped through to the first page of text. He started to read.
Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure. Parfois, à peine ma bougie éteinte, mes yeux se fermaient si vite que je n'avais pas le temps de me dire: «Je m'endors.» Et, une demi-heure après, la pensée qu'il était temps de chercher le sommeil m'éveillait...
After a long silence, Mike spoke quietly.
"It almost sounds like poetry, doesn't it?"
Kevvin had not noticed anything particularly poetical about the words, but realised that the fault may have lain in their delivery. Mike had stumbled once or twice in his reading.
"I am sure that only goes without saying. Proust was an enormously talented writer."
After another moment's reflection, Mike closed the book and returned it to the package. When he spoke again, his words were hesitant and very soft. What he felt was very simple, but he found it very hard to express what he wanted to say.
"I know what he means there. Sometimes I feel like that. Like I don't know I'm asleep. I feel like I'm doing everything I always do, but I'm asleep. It's really scary sometimes. You don't know if you're awake or asleep. It's like you could even die and not know it. You'd still think you were alive. It wouldn't be over, you'd just keep going on. I guess it's like ghosts and vampires and stuff. They're dead, but they don't know it. It scares me."
Kevvin could not speak. He was truly impressed by what Mike had said, except for the nonsense about ghosts and vampires, of course. The rest of it, though, had been truly profound. Kevvin wondered how directly Mike saw those words applying to his life, but he was too afraid to ask for such intimate information. He marvelled that this boy, who hadn't finished high school, could have such deep thoughts, and more importantly, put them into words.
"That was really beautiful Mike," Kevvin said sincerely. "You have the soul of a poet. 'He had the poet's eyes, sing to him sleeping...'" he quoted and smiled.
"What?"
"Sweet grace of low replies; why are we weeping?" Kevvin continued, despite Mike's lack of understanding.
"What do you mean?"
"It's just another poem," Kevvin explained. He felt quite cheerful now.
Mike clearly did not recognise the lines that Kevvin was reciting, but he understood their tone and he understood that Kevvin was flirting with him. It was stupid, he thought, to flirt like that, reading poetry. Guys shouldn't do it, even if they were gay.
Mike's visible discomfort was very funny. Kevvin was back in control now.
"Well, Mike. Anyway..." Kevvin broke the silence and changed the subject. "Look at you. You're a new man now. I bet I can even guess the reason."
Before Kevvin could continue, the waiter returned with their orders. Mike picked up a piece of his sandwich as soon as it was placed before him. After he pulled the toothpick out, a third of it disappeared into his mouth. After a few moments to arrange his coffee cup and the plate holding his danish, Kevvin picked up the thread of the conversation.
"From the change in you, I guess that fatherhood must agree with you."
Mike looked up at him in surprise. His reply was muffled by the food in his mouth.
"Don't ask me. You better go find a father."
Kevvin raised his eyebrows. He was confused now. Mike swallowed and explained himself.
"The little bastard's black. He's not mine. Told you."
In that short explanation, Kevvin heard an echo of the Mike he had always known.
"Well, at least you won't be liable for child support now. I guess that's something."
Mike's face darkened and he snorted.
"Yeah. Well, I already gave that fucking whore four hundred bucks. At least I don't have to give her another fucking penny or ever look at her again."
Kevvin glumly realised that the old Mike was still there with him, just under the new clothes.
"Mike, aren't you the least bit concerned about the baby's welfare?"
"Why the fuck should I be? Let the kid's father worry about him."
"What about your girlfriend? After all, you were together for a while at least. She must have meant something to you."
"Look, I already told you once. She wasn't my girlfriend. All we ever did was hang out and party. She wasn't the only one."
"What do you mean?"
Mike seemed to sigh. He stopped with the next piece of his sandwich halfway to his mouth. He tried to explain.
"I mean, she's not the only girl I ever partied with or slept with. And you think I'm the only guy she ever fucked? C'mon."
Kevvin thought about it for a moment, but realised it was useless. All he could think to say to Mike was, "But why, Mike? Is that all there is to your life?"
Mike swallowed again. He was almost halfway through his sandwich.
"What else is there? What are you going to do?"
Kevvin rallied.
"Mike, there is a lot more to life than partying and sex. People have jobs, responsibilities. They work for something."
"I worked."
"And for what?"
"Money." Mike remembered an earlier exchange, and quickly added, "For food. And to party."
Kevvin bridled at the narrowness of Mike's view of life and at the implication that his own life was no different, but Mike didn't give him a chance to speak.
"Look, Kev, the only reason anybody works is to have something to eat and a place to sleep. And you have to work a lot to get those things. When you're not working or eating or sleeping, you want to have fun. What can you do for fun when you don't have any more money? You fuck. It's free."
"There's more to my life than that, Mike."
"It's all the same. You work in some office. I worked on the streets. You eat whatever you want. I ate what I could get. You write books. I party." Mike paused and narrowed his eyes. "And everybody fucks, even if they don't admit it." He paused again. "So what have you got that I haven't got?"
Kevvin could not answer. He knew a lot of things he could say, but he acknowledged that there was an element of truth in Mike's analysis. It still bothered him though. He knew that he and Mike were different, but it galled him even to consider that it was only in incidental details. He did not want to argue about it anymore. He took a bite of his danish and a sip of coffee. He sat back in his chair and sighed.
"Why do people let all this happen?" he said, not even looking at Mike.
Mike looked up at him from his french fries. He had no idea what Kevvin meant. The older man explained himself to Mike in a dejected tone.
"Sorry, Mike. I was just thinking out loud. I just meant, what's wrong with our society? Yes, there may be something in what you said, but I still have a more comfortable life than you do. I have a safer life than you do. What happened? What's wrong with people that they let that kind of thing happen?"
Mike looked at Kevvin for a long time. All of the questions Kevvin had ever asked him had been simple, but Kevvin had always been mad when he gave a simple answer. This time, only a simple answer would do.
"We're all selfish."
"Mike, that doesn't help. I already know that."
"Then why did you ask me? It's the wrong question anyway."
Kevvin looked up. He wasn't sure if he was annoyed.
"What's the right question?"
Mike shrugged and picked up the last piece of his sandwich and took a bite.
"I don't know. You didn't tell me what was wrong. Why you're asking questions like that for, I mean." He chewed on as Kevvin thought.
"All right, Mike. Here's the problem. We live in a rich country. Most people can get by. Some people have enough money that they don't have to worry. Some people are so rich, they don't have to work. There are still a lot of people who don't have enough of anything. You say it's because people are selfish..."
"Yeah. You are. I am. Everybody is. Why shouldn't we be?"
Kevvin let himself get sidetracked.
"I can understand why you need to be 'selfish,' Mike, just to be able to survive. But how can you honestly think I'm selfish?"
"Fine. Give me the keys to your apartment. You go sleep in a shelter or an alley from now on."
Kevvin bit his tongue. Mike had scored again. He tried to remember what he had been saying.
"In any case, Mike, what I want to know is what we can do so all those problems-there are even more things wrong in our world-can be fixed. What will work to make things better for everybody?"
"That sounds like the right question to me," Mike answered.
"Don't you have an answer?"
"No." Mike swallowed the last of his sandwich.
Kevvin felt a distinct sense of anti-climax. They continued in silence for some time. He thought about what Mike had said. Strangely enough, he realised, he hadn't been offended by Mike's overly simplistic comments and didn't think anything the boy had said was presumptuous. Maybe Mike was right, at least to some degree. You had to ask the right questions first, before you could do anything about a problem; but Kevvin still knew that any solution had to work for everybody concerned. If they were all selfish, just as Mike had said, what would work for everybody? What could make it worthwhile for everyone?
He somehow thought that the answer had to be as simple as the question, and he was aggravated that it wasn't. He didn't have any inkling how to answer it. There was no one thing that would motivate every single person in the country. There were so many issues to consider that Mike hadn't even thought of or that he probably could not even understand.
What really rankled Kevvin, however, was that despite the simplicity of the question, he knew deep down that the answer could not be equally simple. All the people who could outline their own personal plan to save the world in one sentence didn't know what they were talking about. They didn't understand the question. He sat there staring bleakly down at the table.
It was finally Mike who grew uncomfortable with the silence. He picked up his glass and sucked on the straw. He decided he needed to get this whole thing back on track. He hadn't even told Kevvin the reason he had wanted to talk yet.
"So Kev, don't you want to hear my good news?"
Kevvin really did not think anything Mike could say would count as good news to him, and he was sure it would not cheer him up, but what he said was, "Of course. What is it?"
"I'm not crashing at Joe's place anymore," Mike announced, beaming.
"What happened?" Kevvin asked with concern. Joe had always struck him as a point of stability in Mike's life. It didn't seem safe for Mike to lose that.
"It's okay. Nothing bad happened. We didn't have a fight or anything."
"So why did you move out then?"
Mike settled back in his seat and prepared to tell his story. His expression betrayed a unnerving pride in his accomplishment.
"I told you Joe's a party boy, right? Well, anyway, a couple of times, he asked me if I wanted to party with him."
"But you're not gay."
Mike frowned.
"Not like that. Not going out and just getting some guy to pay to get you stoned. Joe, he's got these friends. Once in a while he parties with them. And he makes some money doing it."
"By prostituting himself."
"No," Mike scoffed. "Not that kind of thing. Yeah, I know he sleeps with anyone who'll buy him a couple a drinks and get him high, but he does other things too. They're this bunch of old queens he knows. They like to have fun too, just like everybody else, but they don't feel like going out anymore to find it. They want the fun to come to them. So they need somebody young and fun to hang around with. That's what Joe does with these guys. Joe's job is to be the life of the party. Flirt with the guys, laugh at their jokes, that kind of thing."
"And sleep with them."
"If he wants, after. But he gets paid just for going to the party. He's like a special guest. He gets more doing that than I could most nights. More if he goes home with one of the guys after, I guess."
"So what does all that have to do with you?"
"Like I said, Joe was after me to go with him. He said it was fifty bucks easy, just for going. There'd be food, booze, drugs..."
"I can't believe that people that age would be into drugs."
"Some are. Maybe only grass or pills, but some do it. Anyways, sometimes they just want to watch you do a line of coke. I guess they get off on it. I don't know why. But all you have to do is sit around with them and party. Maybe the guys start trying to put their arm around you or touch you, but it's not like they're going to do anything there in front of their friends or anything."
"And you finally said yes when Joe asked you to go?"
"Yeah. I didn't the first couple of times. I just didn't want to, but I figured, what the hell, right? Party for free somewhere nice with this bunch of old fags. It wasn't turning tricks all night. Just had to let some guy feel me up once in a while, maybe."
"And sleep with him."
"Only one time, but that was after. And it was at his place, and not in some fucking alley, and I spent the night, and he gave me breakfast in the morning. So what if he paid me for that? But I swear, I made more money that weekend than I ever did, counting the money I got to fuck the guy."
Kevvin had been right. None of this was good news. It had not cheered him up at all.
"But Kev, that's not the best part," Mike went on, oblivious to Kevvin's reaction.
Kevvin looked up. He wondered how many shoes were left to drop.
"I'm living with one of those guys now. He asked me for a date after a party. A real friggin' date, I mean, not sex. Asked me to meet him."
"And you did."
"I figured it couldn't hurt. I thought he just wanted to score, so what? Maybe he just didn't want his friends to know."
"So what happened?"
"Well, I went. It was the next day. I met him where he said and he took me to this restaurant. Way better than this shit-hole. He made me a deal. I didn't have to turn tricks anymore. I could stay with him. He's got this really nice place. A whole house, I mean. It's his. And a cool car. He says I can drive it when I get my licence. And he's a good cook too. Tons of fancy shit. He likes to have parties. Not that kind though. I mean, he likes to have friends come over just to eat. And to show me off, I guess."
Mike had finished his story. He was very pleased with himself and had a wide smile on his face. Kevvin did not smile back.
Kevvin felt no inclination to be happy for Mike. He understood why Mike was happy, and he did not begrudge him his happiness, but he could not join him in it. If he felt anything at that moment at all, it was sorrow, and that troubled him in a way that pity could not have done.
"Well, Mike. I don't know what to say. Is this new... relationship... um, permanent?"
Mike shrugged his shoulders. He had seen that Kevvin had not been happy for him. He tried not let it bother him.
"I don't know. It beats sleeping at Joe's. It's sure as hell better than a shelter or the street. As long as it lasts through the winter, I'm happy. That's all I care about."
"I understand."
"And it beats freezing my ass off in alleys turning tricks all winter."
Kevvin flinched.
"It's fucking hard getting a guy off when you're both freezing..."
"That's enough, Mike."
Mike looked at Kevvin with mild surprise. Although he understood that Kevvin didn't share his happiness, he was still a little hurt.
Kevvin had to stop to think of something else to say.
"So, what do you do with your time then?"
"I do shit around the house for him. I know how to wash clothes. I do the dishes. At least, I can put them in the dishwasher. I watch TV. He rents a lot of movies. Most of them are stupid. We just sit there and eat popcorn."
"Do you miss your friends?"
"I see them around sometimes. I go out. So, like, I still see them."
Kevvin decided he needed to try to make Mike see the reality of what he was describing. He understood why it represented a vast improvement in his circumstances to Mike, but it could not be anything more than temporary. In the end, Mike would end up alone again and back where he started.
"What do your friends think about this?"
"They're cool."
"What about other people?"
Mike could not understand the question. There were only two clearly defined groups of people in his life, his friends and everyone else. In between there was a vague grouping of a few others, like the people who worked at the drop-in centre or Kevvin himself. Mike cared what his friends thought, at least to some degree. No one else's opinion mattered to him.
"What do you mean?"
Kevvin tried to explain.
"Mike, you're not gay, right? So how does it make you feel when people see you with this man? Don't you ever go out together?"
"Oh, sure. Lots of times, to restaurants and shopping and shit."
"What about what people think when they see you with him?"
"I guess they think he's my father," Mike laughed. "Or my grandfather."
"That's not what they think. You know that."
Mike refused to say anything to this. Kevvin was blunt.
"I don't know what you call it, Mike, but they probably think it's exactly what it looks like: some old man with a young lover."
"Fuck 'em then. I don't care," Mike shrugged and pulled his pie toward him.
"Anyways, why should I care? I don't know them. What does it matter, what anybody else thinks? As long as I'm careful, I got it made."
"What exactly does being careful mean?"
Mike frowned.
"I can't party."
"So, in other words, besides not turning tricks, you can't do drugs anymore. Is that right?"
"Yeah. But I do. I mean, I still party. Not turn tricks."
"How do you manage that?"
"I just don't do it in the house. I party with my friends."
"Does he know?"
"I guess," Mike answered with deliberate vagueness. This was not turning out to be as much fun as he had thought it would be when he had first seen Kevvin from across the street.
"Either he knows or he doesn't know, Mike. Which is it?"
"Fuck! He knows, all right? So long as I don't do it in the house, he's cool."
"It takes money to party. Where do you get it?"
"I told you, I'm not turning tricks, okay? Why the fuck can't you believe that?"
Mike leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Kevvin thought he looked like a pouting child.
"So where do you get the money to party?"
Mike glowered at Kevvin. He suspected Mike was about to stand up and storm off. He would not be surprised if he did. He took some comfort that if Mike did leave, at least this time it would be because Kevvin was intentionally pushing him.
"He gives me money. He calls it an allowance. He says I need pocket money. He gives me everything I want. Money, clothes, food, everything. He even bought me a fucking guitar! Now all I got to do is learn to play it."
"Well," Kevvin said airily, "I guess you do have it made, Mike. It sounds like you've got yourself a really sweet deal. You get all that for nothing. You don't have to turn tricks anymore. Good for you."
Mike glared back at him. Kevvin waited again for him to get up, but he didn't. Mike still had one more thing that he wanted to show Kevvin. He wasn't going to let Kevvin needle him into doing something stupid and ruining it. He cocked his head to show he understood that Kevvin was trying to trap him again, but he wasn't going to fall for it.
"Still playing word games, eh?"
Kevvin smiled, as if to acknowledge that Mike had caught him.
"So what do you do to get all these things, Mike, if you're not turning tricks?"
"I'm not turning fucking tricks! I sleep with him, okay? Happy? I'm a hustler. I don't got a problem with that. Why the fuck do you?"
Kevvin allowed himself a small smile, but not because he had provoked Mike to exasperation. Mike had once said that he liked giving simple answers to simple questions. Kevvin was ready to ask one more question. If Mike could give him a simple, direct answer, then he might be forced to admit that nothing had really changed in his life.
"What does this man get from you then? What's he paying for?"
Mike sat up in his chair and placed both his hands on the table. Kevvin was certain that he was getting up. Instead, Mike looked directly into Kevvin's eyes. It was the same hard and cold stare he had used the first night he had met Kevvin, when he had found out the trick was trying to shit him. He spoke slowly and carefully, emphasising each word.
"My-big-fucking-dick."
Kevvin was appalled. He admitted to himself again that he could not win with Mike. Why did he keep trying? There was nothing he could do and it was useless to try. This proved it. He had to leave. He lifted his hand and signalled the waiter. When the man came over, Kevvin asked for the bill. His only victory would lie in him ending this interview rather than Mike. When Mike saw what Kevvin was doing, he hurriedly pushed the rest of his pie into his mouth and washed it down with what was left of his drink. He had just swallowed when the waiter returned and placed the bill on the table in front of Kevvin in a small leather folder.
Kevvin reached for the bill, but before he could even touch it, Mike leaned across the table and slapped his hand down on top of it. Kevvin was so startled that he jumped back. He looked up in real annoyance, only to see Mike looking back at him. His grey eyes were twinkling and he had a strange triumphant smile on his face. If his eyes had not shown his true feelings, the smile by itself would have looked malevolent. It bothered Kevvin.
Mike pulled the bill toward himself slowly, still watching Kevvin, as if to ensure that the man saw what he was doing. Only after he had picked up the folder and pulled the bill out did he break eye contact to look at the amount written on it. He placed the bill face down on the table. Kevvin thought that that was a nice touch.
"Don't worry, Kev. It's my treat." Mike was still smiling, but he didn't move to get any money out.
Kevvin wondered what Mike was waiting for. Was the boy expecting him to do something, or was he just prolonging his moment of triumph? He thought it would be simplest just to thank Mike for the meal, but he was still annoyed with him for startling him like that. He also felt a certain coldness growing toward Mike. Maybe he shouldn't have felt that way. Maybe he should just let Mike have a little victory, but he couldn't think of any reason why he should. He owed nothing to Mike, nor did Mike deserve it.
Kevvin reached across the table and put his fingers on the bill. Mike would not let go.
"My treat," Mike repeated. "Keep your money."
"We had a arrangement, Mike. It was your idea. You give me an interview, I pay. A deal's a deal."
Their eyes were locked over the table. Mike tugged the bill sharply closer to himself, still smiling. Kevvin could do nothing but take his hand away. Without taking his fingers from the piece of paper, Mike leaned forward and reached for his back pocket. Kevvin made the desultory observation that Mike must be left-handed, judging from the side he was reaching for.
Mike straightened up with an expensive wallet in his hand. It was large and almost garish, not the simple, staid, serviceable thing almost all men kept in their pockets. Kevvin was nearly overcome when he realised that it was probably the nicest thing that Mike had ever owned.
Still holding the bill in his hand, Mike tipped his wallet forward and pulled it open so Kevvin could see the cash inside. It was not an impressive amount; it was what most men would probably carry around.
What Kevvin saw in Mike's wallet was what was not there. Aside from the thin stack of brightly coloured money, there was nothing else. No face looked up from behind the small sheet of plastic covering the little display pocket on one side. There were no credit cards, bank cards, driver's licence or health insurance card tucked into the little slits down the other side. No stray bits of paper with scribbled phone numbers, no dry cleaner's tickets, no bus pass poked out from the pockets. There were none of the anonymous pieces of paper that connect a man to something beyond himself, to family, friends or society. There was nothing in the wallet to show that Mike had a life. All that was in it was money.
Mike pulled out a twenty, an unnecessarily large amount for what their lunch had cost. Still smiling, he sat there waiting.
"Thank-you, Mike."
Mike smiled at the acknowledgement. He slowly stood up. He was smiling his normal smile again. He was pleased with himself. Kevvin could only feel pity for him. He knew why this was so important for Mike, but that did not make it any less pathetic.
"I like talking to you, Kev. It's kind of fun. See you around." Mike turned and walked to the cash register and paid before leaving the café without looking back. He should have paid at the table and waited for the waiter to bring his change.
Kevvin sat there looking at the door for a moment after Mike had left. "See you around," Mike had said. 'Not if I see you first' was supposed to be the comeback to that, Kevvin remembered. At least, that is what they had said in his boyhood.