I’ve known Jake and his now-husband Carl for about 2 years. Our level of intimacy ranks slightly above acquaintance. Jake works in the London office of my former law firm, and Carl works with Jane, a friend of mine from law school. They’re perfectly friendly Americans, possessed of the nerdy sensibility and just-out-of-step social graces that make for successful career attorneys.
Jane’s housewarming last night is the first time I’ve seen them in about 8 months. We pass exaggerated statements of happiness to see each other between us like a joint, and Jake returns to recounting the previous night’s events to Jane and the Russian woman standing with her.
“So that was our big adventure in Soho. God, that’s the first time we’ve been out there in a while. We’ve just outgrown it, you know? Last night was definitely proof. And forget about it… we never go to” his right hand moves pointedly in my direction “Vauxhall.”
“Why did you gesture at me when you said ‘Vauxhall’?”
“Well… I mean…”
“Yes?” He stammers. I tell an outright lie, because it helps my argument. “Truth be told, I haven’t been out in Vauxhall in over a month.”
“Well… the muscles, the beard. You’ve very Vauxhall.”
I make no attempt to veil my annoyance with the suggestion.
“Jake, I’ve been in London for 10 weeks. I have had a beard for 5 years. The muscles for longer. Vauxhall has nothing to do with it.”
This kind of aesthetic pigeonholing pisses me off for a number of reasons, not least of all because he’s partially right; one thing I love about London is the seemingly limitless number of men that resemble myself, often found in the bars and clubs in Vauxhall. It’s the type of man I’m attracted to. Gay men are narcissists; we usually want to fuck ourselves. I am no exception.
“Well I know you like the clubs down there. In fact someone told me you moved to Vauxhall. So that’s why I-“
“Someone was wrong. I moved South, but not to Vauxhall.”
I’m not ready to let Jake off the hook. Nor am I prepared to accept the label and completely disappear into the persona my more-successful contemporaries have been attributing to me since law school. My idea of a memorable night out may be vastly different and involve fewer shirts and a great deal more narcotics, but I fail to see how that gives them license to ignore the fact that I went to the same law school or passed the same bar exam or, in this case, worked for the same law firm. I grew tired years ago of attempting to separate the chaff of envy from the kernel of truth in their comments and now prefer to back them into a defensive corner. For sport.
“Well I didn’t mean…”
Jake is unable to spar with me and I’m losing interest. Jane and the Russian woman are visibly uncomfortable. Carl interrupts and attempts to change the subject. I excuse myself to get a glass of wine.
______________________________________________________
This afternoon I’m stationed in my ground level crow’s nest on Old Compton Street. Bradley is meeting me in an hour, and I’m passing the time writing. Despite all advice to the contrary, I find that I write better in public. The more distractions, the more focused I become. To amplify the sensory overload, I’ve plugged my headphones into my computer. Katie White of the Ting Tings is shouting in my ears, resenting the world for not knowing her name. She’s lamenting Them calling her “Jane” when I become aware that someone is standing over me. I look up and meet the expectant faces of a gay couple in their early forties. The less attractive of the two is saying something.
I remove my headphones. “Excuse me?”
“You’re so cool. Look at you. Sitting at Café Nero, working on your Mac. You’re very cool.”
I have absolutely no idea if this man and his boyfriend are mocking me. For a split second I wonder if I’m being paid a strangely sincere compliment.
“Thank…you?”
Then he mutters “So cool.” again and their disdain for my existence is brought into sharp focus. They turn and walk away. I imagine self-satisfied smirks on their faces. I would have never noticed them had they not approached me. But they did. Completely unprovoked. To what end? I can’t imagine what slight I perpetrated to warrant this random act of nastiness. But there it was. Ringing in my ears and walking toward Wardour Street.
For the second time in 24 hours I find myself reduced to a single word based on choices I’ve made that have nothing to do with the resulting label. I want to follow the pair as they mince away and tell them that I have a Mac because I think they’re great computers. That I’m working in front of Café Nero because I like to be around people. I want to bring up this blog and click on my post from last week and give them a dramatic reading. I want to ask: Is it my clothes? I think jeans and a hoodie are comfortable. The tight t-shirt? I don’t go to the gym for my health. I worked hard for this body and I’m allowed to show it off a little. The sunglasses and scarf are due to the fact that it’s both sunny and cold as London is wont to be in September. If the whole is greater than the sum of those parts, then, well, excuse my personal alchemy.
I’ve lost track of whether I’m aspiring to a particular stereotype or the rest of society is rising to meet me. Maybe I’ve just been misplaced these last 30 years, and Vauxhall and Café Nero have just been waiting for me to come home for the first time. I'm too old to put too much effort into affecting a persona. Thankfully the rest of the world seems perfectly willing to choose one for me.
I save what I was working on and start a new project. Let the nerdy lawyers and bitter, ageing queens of the world label me as they will. Neither was right, but neither was completely wrong. I’m a lot of things. Stupid is not one of them; Self Aware is. I’ll own both of those titles, at least in part. I can wear either pretty well. I can’t say the same for the people making the accusations.
So, Jake and Stranger and Boyfriend on Old Compton Street: You’re right. I am a hot piece of Vauxhall ass. And I’m effortlessly fucking cool.
Jealous?
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