Free Turning Idolater by Edward C. Patterson

— an older high-rise, but complete
with doorman and an ornately appointed lobby. Philip was impressed
that the place had a name — Papillon Arms and there was a
distinct lack of urine smell in the hallways. In fact, he detected
roses, which brought to mind the Turkish Delight dessert that had
just ended his meal.
    The elevator door opened. Thomas, key in hand, waved
the direction. There were only three doors, and Thomas’ was to the
left. Philip brushed his hand over a huge flower arrangement
perched on a cherrywood side table reflected in a garish, gold
framed mirror. He caught a glimpse of himself and Mr. Dye. They
were not bookends, but rather misfit puzzle pieces — he in
Sprakie’s gold shirt and Thomas in blue poplin. This was unlike the
earlier visions he had of his own radiance tubside. He seemed
diminished now. He felt diminished now, but he wasn’t hungry, and
he did want to know more about this author, who would
undoubtedly strip away the backpack and dive into the covers of
more than the Book.
    “Are you coming?” Thomas asked.
    Philip touched the arrangement again — a big
breasted peony. “Aren’t we forward?” he said.
    “Cheeky monkey,” Thomas said, winking.
    So it was into the breach without a doubt of the
outcome. Philip had not taken into account the depths below the
bowsprit.
    Lights on. Philip was amazed. He had expected
something larger than Sprakie’s cramped boudoir PLUS, and indeed
something more spacious than his parent’s place in Brooklyn, which
leaned against the MacDonald Avenue El and rattled with every train
pass; however, Thomas Dye’s apartment (he referred to it as the
flat — how British), took his breath away. As Philip had not
learned the social responses that would suppress his exhilaration
(he might in time), he raised his hands and spun around the
foyer.
    “This place must have cost you a fortune,” he
spluttered.
    “Well, I have had it for years and was lucky to
acquire it when I did. I guess it would fetch a fancy price in
today’s market, but actually it reflects the profit of one of my
earlier books.”
    The parlor was warmly appointed, a reliquary of
furniture, none that matched, and each standing sentry and
testament to an adventure in antique hunting. Philip’s enthusiasm
was transmuted to a strut, like a visitor at a museum resisting the
temptation to reach out and maul the merchandise. Thomas sighed, a
great heave that carried the weight of satisfaction.
    “You can touch,” he said. “I have accumulated too
much furniture for my own good. I have a storage unit uptown with
the overspill.”
    “I guess when you’ve lived so long,” Philip said,
and then decided to bend this awkward response into something less
pernicious. “I mean, when you’ve had time to collect beautiful
things, it’s hard to just turn your back and . . .”
    Thomas grasped Philip’s shoulders. “It is fine,
Philip. I have the shopping gene. Whether I am forty-eight or
one-hundred and eight, I cannot resist a Chippendale.”
    “You collect men too?”
    “Funny,” Thomas said, then, probably realizing that
Philip wasn’t making a pun, touched a table near the Ottoman.
“Chippendale. See.” He referenced the legs and feet.
    “Oh.” Philip laughed, and then perused the walls —
the paintings and the library shelves. This led him to the broad
expanse of window and the balcony. “Can you see the river from
here?”
    “Too far away,” Thomas said. He slid the glass door
open, inviting Philip aloft. “If you stretch you can get a glimpse
of Central Park.”
    Philip careened over the side. He did see the
park in the distance, but the prominence of traffic lights and
taxis cabs were more redolent of the city. “Cool,” he said.
    Thomas latched onto the backpack. “How about staying
for a while?”
    Philip wiggled out of the straps, and then waited
for the expected squeeze around his waist, which came. “Won’t the
neighbors call the cops?”
    “Let them. My