The Sweetest Days

I blame Jason Reitman.

After five years, I had just about managed to get my friends to consider the possibility that frequent business travel does not necessarily equate to a series of one-night stands offering a smorgasbord of sexual delights. Any way I looked at it, it was a little humiliating to have to keep on affirming that I'm essentially a boring person no matter what continent I land on, and that I'm no more irresistible or adventurous in Sao Paulo or Prague than I am in Manhattan. But finally, finally, the questions on the studs I (don't) meet and what I (don't) do with them had started to peter out.

And then 'Up in the Air' came out.

"So you don't ever crash parties, like they did in the film?"

Ah, jeez.

"It never even occurred to me to try."

"How about now?"

I turn my head and squint at Connor, trying to figure out if he's serious or not. He's lying on his back on his towel, eyes closed, dark blond eyelashes fanning across slightly sunburned cheeks, his chin angled up a little so as to stretch out his throat in his never-ending quest of an even tan.

"You're kidding me, right?"

He rolls onto his side and lifts himself on one elbow, so as to look down at me.

"Why?"

I shake my head and close my eyes against the glare of the sun, too sleepy to do anything but lie here and bake. Anyway, how do I even start to explain to Connor? That it's rude to crash a party. That even if I got past that, I wouldn't be able to fake belonging if somebody questioned my presence. That trying to mingle with people I don't know – make that tipsy people I don't know – holds less appeal for me than root canal.

"I think it would be fun," Connor insists when I don't answer.

He would. Connor is like a child who's never been told that there are things that he cannot have or rules that he must abide by. It's not that he's never been handed lemons, but, nine times out of ten, Connor likes to think he's managed to make lemonade. And if he can't mold circumstances to his liking, he simply ignores them.

"Well, I don't," I mumble. Though I probably would, if Connor were there with me.

I roll over and bury my face into the crook of my elbow, signaling an end to the conversation.

"I'm going for a swim," Connor says, and he drops his cap on my head. I feel him shoving his wallet under my towel and I shift a little, so that it doesn't dig into my ribs. "See you in a little bit."

What seems like a second later, a cool, damp palm splays itself on my shoulder, startling me, and I realize I must have dozed off.

"Nate. You're getting burnt. You'd better put your T-shirt on."

Dazedly, I push myself up onto my elbows and find myself looking straight at Connor's lycra-covered crotch as he squats on the sand in front of me. Still caught in a dream I already only half-remember, I almost reach out to slide my palm up his thigh. Reality catches up with me before I make a fool of myself, and I shift my gaze up to his face. His eyes are a clear, deceptively innocent-looking gray, and a small scar arches one of his blond eyebrows, so he always looks a little skeptical, as if he's aware of something the rest of us overlook. He likes to say that the scar makes him look more intelligent that he really is, but he's damned smart. He advises companies on IT security and if I believe the enthusiastic client references on his website, they don't mind the extortionate fees he charges one little bit.

"Good swim?"

He smiles and pats me on the shoulder, then stands up. I watch the rivulets of seawater run down his long legs, clearing trails through the sand dusting his ankles and feet.

He sits on his towel, lifts his cap off my head and pulls it on, the bill backwards, shading his nape. He barely looks a day older than he did back when we were All-Ivy baseball players, twenty years ago. There's some silver in the blond hair now, and the lines around his eyes and bracketing his generous mouth are slightly deeper, but he seems to have escaped most other visible effects of aging, his body still tight, his skin smooth and supple.

Would that I could say the same for myself. I peaked in my mid-twenties, and it's been a long, slow slide ever since. I'm convinced that there's more scalp visible through my hair every time I look in the mirror and comb-overs don't seem quite so ridiculous anymore, although I hope and pray that I'm a good decade away from that stage. And there's only one type of six-pack in my home, icy cold and generally imported from the Czech Republic.

"How long did you say you're in town for?" Connor asks me.

I sit up and fumble in my bag for my T-shirt.

"Three weeks or so, with just a couple of short trips out to the West Coast."

"And then it's off to Europe?"

I nod, surprised that he remembers my schedule. The last couple of months, Connor seems to have developed a memory for this type of thing.

"So you won't be here for your 40th birthday," Connor remarks idly, stretching his legs and crossing them at the ankles, and leaning back on his elbows.

"Yeah, well," I remark philosophically. In the face of his recollection, the fact that I missed his own 40th birthday three months ago makes me feel guilty; I'd meant to call him or send him an e-mail, but I forgot on the day itself, and when I remembered again over a week later, it seemed too late. "I think the big ones are best ignored."

"And that's your excuse, and you're sticking with it, right?" he smirks, and I nod, trying not to squirm. "Well, you'd better not spend your birthday ordering room service. At least go down to the hotel bar. Maybe you'll meet a George Clooney look-alike."

That damn movie again. I lie back down and close my eyes, the sun painting the insides of my eyelids red, and sigh. George Clooney doesn't really do it for me. If I had to describe my ideal, he'd be blond, about my 6'1" height but buff, with gray eyes and a sunny smile; like Connor, but not like him at all, because Connor doesn't do long-term relationships and over the years has steadfastly ignored any attempts on my side to change that.

"Nate."

"What?"

"Promise me you won't stay in your hotel room all night."

"Alright, already. I'll go out. I'll go out. I promise."

*******************

I didn't expect a birthday e-mail or call from Connor. I didn't. And if I'm feeling out of sorts, it's because, other than a brief, if heartfelt, note from my brother and sister-in-law, nobody else seems to have remembered me either. Not a single phone call or e-mail, and no chance of a surprise birthday party, either, not when I'm in Frankfurt and my as-of-today-ex-friends are all in New York. Don't people realize that what they should be ignoring is how old I'm turning, not the birthday itself?

This hasn't been one of my happier trips. As a forensic accountant with Matheson, Farber & Mayer, most of my work involves advising clients on fraud prevention or performing due diligence in cases of portfolio investments, but every now and then I get assigned to investigate suspected wrongdoing in one of our own subsidiaries. Even though I'd hoped otherwise, this time it quickly became evident that the suspicions were well-founded, and that Kurt Schaefer, my old mentor and an icon in our firm, has been systematically siphoning funds out of clients' accounts for at least two years and probably longer. It's not exactly the kind of situation that makes me feel like partying.

Besides, there's really no good reason I can think of to keep my promise to Connor. He's probably forgotten all about our conversation last month and in the remote chance that he asks me about it, I can always lie. Yes, I went out, yes, I met someone tall, dark and handsome and we did the dirty into the wee hours of the morning. Across the ocean, how will he ever know?

My cell phone rings at 11:00 p.m. and Connor's name flashes on the screen. It's 5:00 p.m. in New York.

"Hey, Connor," I say, trying to sound less happy than I suddenly feel, but for several seconds there's no response. "Connor?"

"Why am I not surprised?" he finally asks in a long-suffering voice.

"Not surprised about what?"

"That I can hear CNN in the background. You're in your room, aren't you?"

"I'm in the hotel bar," I say defensively. "They've got CNN on."

"Yeah, right."

"It's a business hotel," I explain. "And CNN is the only channel in English."

Lying is not my strong suit. It's not that I'm morally opposed to the occasional prevarication, but I tend to over-elaborate, even though my professional experience should have taught me that keeping lies simple is always easier and more believable.

"Lemme speak to the bartender."

"What? No! Are you kidding me?" I blurt out. Damn him.

"Nate. Nate, Nate, Nate. I am disappointed in you."

I consider hanging up on him. After all, this is all his fault. Maybe if he didn't always turn me down – well, technically I've only raised the possibility twice after a brief affair between us petered out amicably fifteen years ago, and there might have been a third time but I'm pretty hazy on that one because I'd been beaned by a line drive and he was baby-sitting me through a possible concussion – I wouldn't have turned into a workaholic. Maybe I wouldn't have accepted an assignment involving so much travel. Maybe right now I'd be in New York, finishing work, looking forward to a romantic dinner with Connor.

Maybe I shouldn't have raided the mini-bar on an empty stomach.

"Connor, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How long have we known each other?"

He laughs.

"Some would say too long. Why?"

"Why do you keep pretending I'm somebody I'm not?"

Nope, I definitely shouldn't have had the little bottle of Havana Club. Or the little bottle of Absolut Citron before it, or the Tanqueray before that. I think there was also a little bottle of Jim Bean in there somewhere, and definitely a normal-sized can of Carlsberg. I never could handle mixing my drinks.

"What are you talking about?"

Damned if I know. All I know is, I suddenly feel like I'm suffocating, crushed by a sense of anger and frustration, some of it directed at Connor, but most of it at myself. I've always been a realist. What the hell am I doing, waiting for Connor, comparing every guy I meet to him, and finding them all wanting? He never asked for it, and since when is he such a big fucking prize anyway? At least most guys don't try to reform me; maybe it's just that they don't know me well enough or care enough to try, but they let me be.

"Ah, forget it," I say tiredly. In vino veritas, especially when the vino has been spiked with a sizeable dose of self-pity, is hardly the time to begin a lengthy and meaningful exploration of one's life and relationships.

"Okay."

I hear relief in his voice. He was calling to rib me; getting a dose my alcohol-fuelled mid-life angst was clearly more than he expected.

"So are you going to wish me a Happy Birthday?" I ask deliberately.

"Happy Birthday, Nate." He pauses, then continues, sounding a little uncertain. "I'll call you when you get back, yeah? We'll get the rest of the gang together, celebrate then."

"That sounds good," I tell him, and unfortunately I mean it, even though every rational bone in my body tells me that starting out my 40th year looking forward to hanging out with Connor rather than finding that special someone while I'm still in some sort of shape to do so, isn't good. It's not good, at all.

*******************

I know I've seen the guy sitting across from me in the Lufthansa business lounge at Frankfurt Airport before, I just can't think where. Not only does he seem familiar, but his mannerisms do as well: the way he cranks his head to the right and then left as if to relax tense neck and shoulder muscles, or how he tugs on his right earlobe when he's concentrating. Where the hell do I know him from?

For the fourth time he glances up to catch me staring at him, and his dark eyebrows lower in a scowl over his old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. He looks more puzzled than annoyed, though, so maybe I look familiar, as well. Or maybe he just can't figure out why some guy would be studying him so intently. Which would make him straight, because he's good-looking, if in an austere, bookish sort of way; any gay guy would preen or, at the very least, understand the interest. He squares his shoulders, cranks his head again, and turns his attention back to his laptop.

Hiding behind my Economist, I continue to observe him, right at the verge of recognition, but not quite. He looks up when they call the flight to JFK and starts packing his laptop. Maybe we were on the same flight coming over, it happens sometimes with Monday to Friday business trips, though that doesn't feel quite right, either.

I lose sight of him on the walk to the gate, but I see him again on the plane. As luck would have it, I'm sitting right next to him, on the aisle seat. He does one of those polite but fake tight-lipped smiles at me. He seems surprised when I extend my hand and introduce myself. Truth be told, I'm a little surprised myself.

"Hi. Nate Hutchins."

His grip is strong, his palm warm and dry against mine. He pumps my hand once, then drops it.

"Paul."

In a dark grey suit with a very discreet blue pinstripe, white shirt and wingtips, he looks like an ordinary businessman, although a better-looking one than many I've come across; the sad truth is that more itinerant businessmen look like George Wendt than George Clooney. He certainly doesn't appear to be a rap artist or a Brazilian soccer player, who, as far as I know, are the only people that go by first names only. Or is Paul his surname? Either way, he's obviously not interested in getting better acquainted.

Ordinarily I would respect that. Heck, ordinarily I wouldn't have introduced myself in the first place.

"I'm sorry, I'm not very good with names," I plow on, and oh, what an understatement that is, "but I'm pretty sure we've met before."

"No, I don't believe so," he responds firmly.

He busies himself with taking his suit jacket off. His shirt is wrinkled, and as he leans across my seat to hand the jacket to one of the cabin crew, I can smell him – Hugo Boss cologne, which I recognize because Connor wears it, too, and why the hell am I thinking of Connor right now, and fabric softener, and hair gel and something sweet, like Juicy Fruit gum – and I can see the smooth skin of his nape, tan, but with a slightly paler strip near his hairline, as if he's had a haircut since his last vacation. He's wearing his watch on his right wrist, along with a small black bracelet that looks like one of those macramé things my mom used to work on in the 70s, with a single blue bead. The bracelet almost stirs another memory, though the more I try to grab hold of it it, the further away it skitters. I'm sure I know him, but for the life of me I can't figure out from where. He looks about ten years younger than me, so it can't be school or college. Maybe some neighbor's kid brother when I was growing up?

"You're not from Brooklyn, are you?"

"No," he bites out, clearly annoyed at my repeated attempts to identify him, and he leans back in his seat. He rests his laptop on his knees, tapping on the case nervously, and I can tell he's dying to turn it on and block me out, but we've already been told to switch off all electronic devices, so he's at my mercy. I decide to let it go for a while. We forensic accountants are a patient bunch, and I have about eight hours ahead of me to figure things out.

Once we've reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant comes over to check on us. I'm still nursing a hangover from my mini-bar binge last night, so I order a Virgin Mary. Paul asks for sparkling water. He's already turned his laptop on.

"And you've ordered a vegetarian meal, correct, Mr. Pappas?" the attendant simpers, and finally I have him.

Most sportscasters and tennis fans referred to him as 'the other Greek'. He started climbing the rankings a couple of years after Sampras, but other than their common heritage, and the fact that they both liked rushing the net, they couldn't have had more different styles. Paul Pappas was a leftie, with an erratic serve that got him into trouble, but a lethal double-handed backhand that had as much speed and precision as his forehand. And, unlike the mostly cool Sampras, Pappas was emotional; he didn't yell or bitch like John McEnroe, but he trashed his fair share of tennis rackets on court, and when he missed his second serve or committed one of his many unforced errors, you could see his lips moving, presumably swearing a blue streak, though never out loud.

I saw him play live once, in 2005 or 2006, in the outer courts at Forest Hills. He lost that day, didn't win a single game, even though he was getting most of his serves in. He was oddly calm throughout, didn't throw a single racket or temper tantrum. Now that I think about it, I can't remember that he played much longer after that; he certainly never again reached the level of success that would have earned him any notice in the press.

Trying not to be too obvious, I steal another look at him. He's still sitting upright, fully absorbed in whatever's on the screen of his laptop; it's got one of those privacy filters, so I can't tell what has him so enthralled. From this angle his profile looks like that of an ancient Greek statue, his forehead and strong nose almost a straight line, his lips not particularly full but a little pouty. His dark brown hair is too short to show any hint of curl now, but I remember how it used to cling in damp ringlets to his face and neck back when he was playing.

"I was there when you played that Russian in Forest Hills. In 2006."

He tenses, then exhales with a sigh.

"He was Czech and it was in 2005," he corrects me, still resolutely facing forward. "I didn't play the US Open in 2006. Rotator cuff injury."

"Is that why you retired?"

He laughs without humor.

"No. I retired because I wasn't good enough to make a living from the game or to get a sponsorship."

It seems like an overly harsh self-assessment, but by all accounts, the world of professional sports is brutal.

"So, what do you do now?"

"I work for the family business," he says shortly and then shoves his table to the side and stands up. "Excuse me."

I crank the footrest down, so that he can get around me. When he returns, he barely looks at me, and even though I feel a vague need to apologize for intruding on his privacy, I'm also a little irritated by his attitude, so I'm happy to ignore him, as well.

"We import gourmet foods from Europe," he says during meal service, a couple of hours later. "My grandfather started with olive oil and honey from Greece, but we've expanded since then. We mostly work with small farm cooperatives, vineyards, that sort of thing."

It's so out of the blue, that I actually look around to see who he's talking to. He catches me at it and smiles for the first time, a small dent, not quite a dimple, forming in his right cheek.

"I'm sorry I was rude. I don't expect people to remember me."

"And you don't like it."

He shrugs.

"No, not really. It's not very flattering, being remembered as the other Greek, is it?"

"You were a good player in your own right," I tell him, but he just shakes his head.

"I got lucky for a while. If it hadn't been for Sampras and people watching to see if I'd pan out the same, nobody would have even known my name."

He rearranges the food in his plate, firmly patting down the rice, then running his fork through it, creating grooves, almost like he's designing a small zen garden. He starts working on the peas next, creating a little hill on one side.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a forensic accountant."

"Is that like the Tom Hanks character in that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio?"