Free Truth in Advertising by John Kenney Page B

wasn’t that man, that I would never be that man?
    Amy’s parents, Linda and Syd. Divorced, but friendly. He’s a hedge-fund guy, she’s a landscape architect for rich people. Amy’s sisters, Cassie, short for Cassidy (God only knows why), and Celia. Cassie’s a producer at Warner Brothers in L.A., and Celia is in “transition,” bouncing from job to job, trying to be a singer in a band, a model, an actress, and most recently (after seeing the Sean Penn/Nicole Kidman film The Interpreter ) an interpreter. She flirts and feels the need to exude sexuality. She also drinks too much.
    Despite the fact that it all seemed unreal to me, that it was as if I was watching myself in this tableau, there was something quite real and lovely happening. Amy’s family and friends, happy people who knew one another, shared each other’s birthdays and bar mitzvahs and first communions, soccer leagues and dance recitals. Big hugs, real smiles. I watched it all, not part of it. Watched Amy, the center of attention, radiant in a clingy black dress and boots. Me, next to her, a seemingly normal man, a decent job, no body art or criminal record. One after another I was introduced to Phil and Alice, “our old neighbors,” Glen and Miriam, “whose daughter Tammy was my best friend growing up,” Lindsay from the Heights Casino squash league, “who was bulimic and slept with everyone.” Presents piled up in a corner, large, beautifully wrapped decanters and flatware, blenders and All-Clad pans. And one gravy boat.
    Then the toasts started. Amy’s father first, lauding his ex-wife, who was standing across the room holding back tears as he talked about what a great mother she was, how Amy possessed her goodness, her relentless love of life and people. Then Amy’s mother, telling stories of Amy as a girl, willful, confident, kind. How she was an early sharer, how she helped others. Cassie next, talking about what a greatbig sister Amy was, Celia at her side smiling, three too many gin-and-tonics. They meant it. Every word. A round of applause to Amy.
    And then the pregnant silence when it was over as people looked around, waiting for my family to say a few things, share a few insights, tell the story of my life. I could feel myself turning red, smiling like a fool. I was about to say something that would have no doubt only added to my embarrassment when someone started talking.
    â€œI have to apologize for being late,” Ian said, Jack Kennedy–charming. He was in the back of the living room where we’d gathered, near the front door. I hadn’t seen him come in. I don’t know how long he’d been there, but long enough to take in what was happening. He was shrugging his overcoat off, his boyfriend, Scott, taking it from him. They looked over at me, handsome, smiling faces, lifeguards swimming to a drowning man.
    Ian said, “I was putting the final touches on my talk. But I was under the impression this was a roast, not a toast.”
    Smiles and laughs all around as people craned to see him. Others near the doorway made space and he took a few steps toward the center of the room.
    â€œSo, hi. My name is Ian Hicks, and I am . . .” He pulled a face, looked over at me. “What am I to you, Fin?”
    Scott jumped in. “You better not say boyfriend.”
    Everyone laughed.
    Ian said, “We won’t go there. No. Finbar Dolan is my copywriter partner at work. But mostly Fin is the brother I never had. I don’t mean to treat this as a therapy session, but when you grow up gay in Montana, you pray that there are people and places that are . . . different. Better. Accepting. That’s what brought me to New York. And when I first met Fin, when I got partnered up with him, I thought, ‘Oh, Christ. A fag-hater.’” A couple of uncomfortable, polite coughs from the crowd. “I’m sorry, but I judged him on