Free When You Don't See Me by Timothy James Beck

you at the “buseum.”
    Isn’t it good to know that your day at the buseum to show Emily the Picassos wasn’t wasted? I can’t believe she remembers. I think it’s because she wants to be an artist like Cousin Nick. Not that I’m implying that your work looks anything like the enclosed!
    Hope you’re doing well.
    Love,
Gwendy

4
Nervously
    â€œI don’t like men who dress as women,” the waitress said as she slammed our salads on the table in front of us.
    When she walked away, I noticed that Martin was looking down at himself with bewilderment. Although he’d once made his living as a female impersonator, tonight he was just Martin, dressed in black from his cashmere sweater to his faux combat boots.
    â€œDid I overlook a spot of stage makeup?” he asked, tilting his head to the right, then to the left so I could examine him. When I shook my head, he called after her, “I’m a dancer!” Then he shrugged and pushed his lettuce around with his fork.
    I didn’t know if the waitress had put him off his food or if my choice of cheap restaurants made him feel like he was slumming. I’d secretly hoped Martin would suggest a better place, giving me the opening I needed to tell him that I was now jobless and nearly broke. Even if Martin didn’t offer me a loan, he talked to Daniel several times a week. The news would eventually get to Uncle Blaine. Considering that our most recent contact had been my appeal to be kept out of Fake ID Jail, Blaine probably needed time to cool down before he and I actually talked.
    â€œAnd you dance so well,” I said to Martin. “Thanks for the ticket.”
    â€œThe show is crap,” Martin muttered. “I always swear I’ll never let another aspiring choreographer persuade me to dance in a fresh, steaming pile of it. Then I do.”
    I pretended I couldn’t talk because of a mouth full of tomato, but I agreed with him about the gloomy musical I’d just squirmed through. Asphalt and Battery was the story of Edward J. de Smedt, a Belgian immigrant who invented asphalt. Among the places it was first used was Battery Park, and according to the show’s Playbill, Edward’s ghost felt guilty about his role in the “proliferation of automobiles, urbanization, pollution, and global warming.” Most of Martin’s time onstage had involved a dance in which he unrolled bolts of black fabric until it covered the floor, the backdrops, and the props, before he finally smothered all the actors with it. The last had gotten the most enthusiastic applause of the night.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Martin asked, looking at my wrist.
    â€œThis bracelet? Do you think that’s what the waitress was talking about? It’s a man’s bracelet,” I said defensively.
    â€œIt’s gold. You’re not a gold person. Silver or platinum. I shouldn’t have to explain these things to you.”
    â€œIt isn’t mine. The clasp broke, and I had it fixed for my roommate.”
    â€œJulio?”
    â€œRoberto.”
    â€œWhat happened to Julio?”
    â€œThere was never a Julio. His name is Roberto.”
    â€œI remember when I was the new boy in town,” Martin said, staring into the distance as if watching a newsreel of the olden days. “I crashed anywhere I could and had a constantly changing cast of roommates. And jobs. I was always broke.”
    â€œMe, too,” I said, thinking that was as good a segue as any.
    He focused on my face and said, “Maybe you should let your roommates pay for their own jewelry repairs.”
    â€œIt wasn’t much,” I said, on the defensive again. “Besides, Roberto buys all the groceries, especially since I lost—”
    â€œMaybe Julio was one of my roommates,” Martin cut in, his eyes glazed over again. “He was allergic to MSG and swelled up like a puffer fish whenever we got Chinese takeout. Wait.