The Hardest Thing

and down on their luck—who are glad for company.
    In recent months, the Downtown has been “discovered” by preppies looking for a bit of old-school New York atmosphere; it got written up in a magazine, and for a few weeks the bar was crowded with smart young professionals taking a walk on the wild side. And that’s what I wanted tonight: some high-toned civilian with money in his wallet and a taste for rough trade. What could be rougher than an unemployed ex-marine?
    I got a beer and made it last, seating myself on a barstool where I was as conspicuous as possible. I might as well have hung out a red light.

    Hurry up, dammit, I thought, I’m still sober and don’t want to start thinking. I don’t want to remember how I got here—step by inevitable step as if someone was pushing me. I don’t want to remember the death and the grief and the fallout, the quiet discussions with superior officers sitting at long, polished tables, all of us wearing our medals, all of us talking in circles until they asked and I told and suddenly I was on a plane home with discharge papers in my pocket.
    I don’t want to remember Will.
    And hallelujah, just as I was staring through those wet rings on the bar and seeing Will’s face, just as I could feel myself falling into the pit…
    “Anyone sitting here?”
    Grey suit, dark red tie loosened at the neck, white shirt, collar undone, maybe 27, 28.
    “Go ahead.”
    He got out his wallet—a fancy monogrammed item—and signaled to the barman. “Could I get a beer?”—and then, as if it were a spontaneous afterthought, “Anything for you, man?”
    “Sure.” I turned to face him, legs apart. “Scotch.”
    The barman’s eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch as he caught my eye, and that was it. He was generous with his measures when guys like this were paying.
    I took a long swig. The whiskey burned my throat.
    “Thirsty?” said the guy, sipping his beer from the bottle. I guess he was more used to fancy wine from crystal glasses, but he wanted to fit in.
    “It’s hot,” I said, putting the scotch down before I gulped the lot. I didn’t want to frighten him; he had money, and he was just what I wanted: a smooth, handsome
yuppie with a gym membership and a condo, drives a BMW up to the coast most weekends, maybe his designer boyfriend’s out of town tonight so here he is at the Downtown with an itch that needs scratching…
    “Sure is.” He ran a finger around his collar. “That’s why I needed a beer.”
    Oh, sure, and you just happened to come into the Downtown Dick Dive to get it. “You work around here?”
    “No.” He nodded southward. “Financial District.”
    “Thought so.”
    “What do you mean?”
    I took his lapel between thumb and forefinger. “You kind of stand out in a place like this.” I was still wearing my doorman’s duds. “Why don’t you take the jacket off?”
    He did as he was told. His shirt was spotless and tailored to his slim torso. I could imagine what was underneath—one of those perfect, scientifically-designed bodies that you get with an expensive personal trainer. Ten years younger than me at least, and he had it all: money, a career, a future…
    I had something he wanted though. It may have been dark in the Downtown Diner, and I may have been wearing black polyester slacks, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the prize.
    “So what do…” He had to clear his throat, and took a sip of beer. “What do you do?”
    “Nothing.”
    “You mean…”
    “I’m unemployed.” I looked at my watch. “As of about an hour ago.”

    “Too bad.”
    “Yeah. Too bad.” I drank more whiskey; there was maybe quarter of an inch left in the glass. He ordered another without asking me. Smart boy. He stuck to his one beer. Even smarter.
    The scotch was getting a nice little buzz going. Everything from the neck up was numb, everything from the neck down was tingling, and that was the way I wanted it.
    “And what did you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Security guard.”
    “Mmm-hmm…” He sipped his beer and frowned; perhaps that didn’t fit his fantasy.
    “And before that, I served in the marines for twelve years.”
    “For real?”
    “Wanna see my medals?”
    “I’ll take your word for it.”
    I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
    “Perhaps I could take you for dinner.”
    “I’m not hungry.” He looked unhappy. “Unless your ass is on the menu.” He looked happy.
    “Could be.” His lips were around that