Whiteboi goes to Harlem Pt. 12

He dragged himself out of bed. He dressed and made himself a coffee, knowing this initial caffeine jolt wouldn't be anywhere near strong enough to get him through the day. He caught the subway to Wall Street and picked up a croissant and a second coffee before riding the elevator to the 30th floor.

He gazed out at the southern reaches of East River while his computer fired up for the day.

He thought back to last night's conversation. He'd answered Leroy's desperate text in a vain hope that he could magically make things right, but as the line went dead, he knew he'd failed. He was worried about them both. He felt guilty that Leroy's friendship with Tyrone was in such a sorry state because he knew he was in largely responsible. He wanted them to reconcile, and he'd do anything to make things right between them, but he didn't want to butt into anything. He'd already done enough damage.

But someone else had also been on Mitch's mind lately.

He tried to focus on work, but halfway through the morning, he got dragged into yet another meeting about the fucking Franklin account. He stared out of the meeting room's window, adding nothing to proceedings apart from his own presence in the room. He fixed his distant stare on the anonymous buildings rising from Brooklyn Heights.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It wasn't a message, but a call. He could tell it was a call because there were a succession of vibrations, not just one. He didn't feel comfortable taking it because he was in a meeting, but at lunch, he headed downstairs to grab a coffee and a sandwich. He checked his phone, and a smile stretched across his face as he learned the missed call came from Brontë.

Mitch was overjoyed to see that Brontë had left a voicemail for him. That was rare these days -- most people hung up rather than leaving a message. He held his phone up to his ear to listen. "Hey, dude," Brontë had said, "I fuckin' hate leaving voicemails, so consider yourself special. I'm gonna be brief. I wanted to see if you were busy tonight. If you are, no probs, no harm, no foul, and no need to call me back. Otherwise..."

The voicemail ended, and Mitch felt like half a sentence was missing. He played the message again and heard the exact same thing.

He called Brontë, and the leave-a-message serve was returned. A rapidfire scream of words pounded into his ear canal: "Hey can't take your call leave a message." BEEP.

Mitch wished he'd mentally prepared something in advance, but he hadn't, and the time pressure was too great. "Uhh... err... umm... fuck... hey Brontë," he tentatively commenced, "nice to hear from you again... hey, so I'm just returning your call and no I'm not busy tonight, but well, actually, that's not strictly true, I was planning to talk to the President about his latest tax proposal, but I suppose I can shift that, what have you got in mind?"

As soon as he ended his voicemail, he wanted to die. Not by the regular method of the ground opening up and swallowing him whole that most people think of, because that'd take way too long. He wished he was standing under a tree in the middle of an electrical storm while holding a piece of metal over his head like he was a human lightning rod. Kill me now.

Half an hour later, Brontë listened to Mitch's voicemail with a smile on his face. He laughed at the awkward cuteness of Mitch's words. But by the time he called Mitch back, Mitch's lunch break was done and he was hunkered down over his desk again. Mitch felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again. He hoped it was Brontë and he reached down to accept the call, but just as he did, one of his colleagues called his desk phone to ask something about the fucking Franklin account. He was on the clock. He ignored the phone in his pocket in favour of the one on his desk.

Franklin-related queries answered, he left his desk and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. He placed an order at the coffee cart in the lobby and waved his card across the electronic reader for payment. It beeped in gratitude. As he waited for his hot brew to arrive, he returned Brontë's call.

Brontë recognised the number that popped up on his screen. "Hey, Mitch," he answered, "what's up?"

"Not bad, just at work." He collected his beverage from the coffee cart and thanked the barista. "Just grabbing a sneaky afternoon coffee."

On the other end of the line, Brontë smiled. "I know those sleepy post-lunch feels all too well. Where would the human race be without coffee?"

Mitch tried to think of a witty response to Brontë's question but couldn't. He remembered that in the first instance, Brontë had called him, but he still didn't know why.

Brontë noticed the awkward silence. "Hey," he continued, "anyway, I'm glad we finally connected. I have something I wanted to ask you." He remembered Mitch's earlier voicemail. "I just hope the President doesn't need to get involved."

Mitch groaned on the inside. He wished he hadn't tried to be funny.

"So, anyway," said Brontë, "The reason I called is I've got two tickets to an art exhibition tonight. It's an opening night for a friend of mine. It's her first show, and I want to support her." Brontë was surprised at how he felt right now. Even though his words came out bold and confident, he felt nervous, like he was asking someone out on a date. "I know you're into modern art, so I thought maybe you might be interested in coming with me. If you don't like her art, you can always dull the pain with free champagne, and maybe we can catch a bite to eat after."

Mitch could hardly breathe. He recognised this for what it was. He was being asked out on a date. "Yes," he whispered. "That sounds great. I'm not busy. I'd love to go."

"You sure?" asked Brontë. "You don't need me to tell you anything more about my friend the artist?"

Mitch switched his handset from one ear to the other. "No, I'm good." He didn't care. He'd gladly stare at blank pieces of A4 paper as long as it was with Brontë.

"Meet you on the corner of Rivington and Ludlow at 6?" asked Brontë.

"Yes," Mitch replied. "I'll be there."

"Cool," said Brontë as the call ended. Mitch finished his coffee, headed back upstairs and announced he needed to leave the office at 4.30 today. Family emergency. It was just enough time for him to catch the subway home, change into street clothes, and head back down to the Lower East Side.

*

Mitch made it back to the designated street corner five minutes ahead of schedule. He tried to look cool, but he felt breathless and anxious. It was a warm, vibrant afternoon -- people were out on the sidewalk, and at this time of the day, there was a lot of traffic. He wore a Run DMC t-shirt, a dark grey pair of loose, baggy pants, and a pair of black high-top Converse sneakers. Hidden from view were a pair of long, knee-high stripy socks that alternated yellow and pink. His headphones were looped around his neck.

The Lower East Side felt almost foreign to him. He didn't know much about punk, but he knew this was its epicentre. It took root and grew here, just as rap did in Harlem and the Bronx, though ironically, he had no idea he was currently standing at Beastie Boys Square. He rarely came to this part of town, but the effects of gentrification were clear -- there'd be no second coming of underground creativity here.

He pulled his headphones over his ears. He found a playlist on Spotify for New York '70s punk. He pressed play, and the Ramones assaulted his ears. He bobbed his head up and down in time.

Brontë approached from behind and tapped Mitch on the shoulder. Mitch swivelled around and pulled his headphones back down to his neck in a single movement, looking up at Brontë with a wide-eyed expression. Music continued to spill out of Mitch's earpieces, and even over the noise of traffic, Brontë could tell what Mitch had been listening to.

"You're into vintage punk, Mitch?" Brontë asked. "I never would've guessed."

Mitch shuffled his feet. "No... not really... I'm kind of educating myself, I guess. I don't come to this part of the city very often. Actually, I can't remember the last time I was here like fucking ever. Obviously my train to work goes underneath this area, and I know the sidewalk is only a few metres above the tunnel, but I never get out here."

Brontë could tell Mitch was wound-up like a magnet's coil, just like he was when they met at Maggie's Place. He let him talk it out.

"Anyway," Mitch continued, his voice floating above the traffic, "while I was waiting for you, I was thinking about how punk started here and I was wondering what it'd be like to be alive in the city during the '70s when it seems like even though everyone was destitute and eating garbage and shooting up and the city was broke and there were fires and riots and crime everywhere there was still this deep well of artistry and creativity but I don't know how that happens in that kind of environment or where it springs from and I was wondering whether I'd have liked to live through that time or not." He looked up at Brontë. He smiled cautiously out of one side of his mouth. "Probably not. I think I'd be scared."

"You're not creative or artistic?" asked Brontë.

Mitch hedged his bets. "Well, I don't really know. I guess I'd like to think I could be, but I'd struggle living in such a dog-eat-dog world." He shrugged. "I guess I'm too soft."

He wanted to drag Brontë into an alley and remind him how creative and artistic his mouth was.

"You look so fucking cute wearing your headphones," said Brontë.

Mitch nearly swooned. He bit his lower lip and his eyes went wide. Brontë noticed, and his cock twitched.

"Gotta say," Brontë continued, "your wardrobe is pretty casual and hip for someone who works in the Financial District. You wear that t-shirt to work?"

"I went home to change," Mitch admitted.

Brontë nodded, looking Mitch up and down, appreciating the effort he went to. "You look good."

"Thank you," he squeaked. All he could see was Brontë's beautiful eyes and his wide smile. "You look good too."

Brontë comically dusted himself off as if he'd just jumped out of a dumpster. "Well, I do my best," he beamed. "Anyway, we've got an art exhibition to attend. You ready?"

Mitch nodded. "Yeah."

Brontë led Mitch a block east before they turned left. The gallery was in a building on Essex, halfway between Rivington and Stanton. The exhibition had been advertised locally, but the gallery itself was small. At this early stage of the evening, the crowd was thin, and it would probably stay that way.

"Drink?" asked Brontë.

"Sure," replied Mitch. Anything to settle the nerves.

A man in a black shirt, black tie, black pants and black shoes was in control of the alcohol. Brontë sauntered over and retrieved two plastic cups of champagne. He handed one to Mitch. "Cheers."

Brontë took a tiny, delicate sip. Mitch necked the whole glass. "Sorry," he said, burping back some of the bubbles. "I was a little thirsty."

Brontë smiled. "Another?"

Mitch nodded sheepishly. "Is that OK?"

"It's free," Brontë replied, "so yeah, of course it is."

After Mitch had topped himself up again, Brontë introduced him to the artist. She spoke with a heavily clipped German accent, and everything about her demeanour looked stern and officious. Her smile was cold. She shook Mitch's hand with a firm, crushing grip before inviting him to examine and appreciate her artistic output. The artist turned on her heels and began to walk away.

Brontë said his goodbyes and they began to check out the art. "Did you hear what she said?" whispered Mitch. "We're meant to 'examine and appreciate her artistic output'. Was I supposed to bring a magnifying glass and a calculator? Is she expecting me to buy something?"

Brontë laughed. "Dude, I asked you if you wanted any more info when we were talking on the phone before."

They wandered through the small gallery, looking at clinical, efficient representations of two-dimensional geometric objects.

"These look like diagrams from my high school math textbook," Mitch whispered. He kept his voice down so as not to be overheard.

Brontë pointed at a drawing of a triangle. "What do you see here, Mitch?"

"A triangle."

"Well, yeah, but... what else do you see apart from the triangle?"

"The paper it's drawn on. Oh, and the border around it. So I see a triangle, *and* a rectangle."

Brontë was momentarily stunned. Hardly anyone would've noticed the border. "What else is there?"

"A price tag. Five hundred bucks for a drawing of a triangle. I'm in the wrong line of work."

Brontë laughed.

Mitch looked closer. "Well, the triangle looks like it was drawn with the thin edge of a sharpie, guided with a ruler," he whispered. "I can't see any smudges or imperfections in the very straight lines, and each of the three sides are drawn with the same thickness and intensity, so as far as triangles go, this is a good one. I can't tell whether a protractor was used to estimate the angles the artist wanted. I can't see any pencil marks on the paper. It looks like an isosceles triangle, and if I had to guess, the angles at the base would be about 40 degrees. But I'm fucked if I can understand why this is art. I could've done this myself. It'd take me five minutes to get a piece of paper, a sharpie and a ruler, and do the exact same thing."

Brontë stroked his chin. "But if you copied the work of another artist," he teased, "would that truly be art?"

Mitch's voice began to rise. He pointed at the triangle. "But why is this art in the first place? How is this original? Like, it's a fucking triangle! Didn't Euclid invent the triangle like fucking thousands of years ago? If we had a Ouija board, I guarantee Euclid would be losing his fucking shit right now."

"Maybe it's art," Brontë said, "because the artist says it is, and because it's in a gallery."

A million pointless counter-arguments zapped through Mitch's mind. His shoulders slumped. "Fuck, I need another drink."

Brontë grinned. He was having a good time. "Get me one while you're there."

Mitch trudged off in the direction of champagne.

The man in black poured two fresh plastic cups of bubbly. "So, you don't like the triangle, huh?" he asked.

Was the champagne guy from the CIA? Mitch was mortified. "How did you hear what we were talking about?"

"Dude, chill, I didn't hear a word. But I couldn't help noticing that you were quite animated by the artwork, while the guy you were talking with seemed calm. I guess that's what good art can do. It energises and polarises."

Checkmate, Mitch.

He and Bronte spent the next hour circulating around the small gallery. Mitch studied the triangles, squares, rhombuses and parallelograms with a vaguely nauseous feeling in his stomach like he was about to fail a math test. He whipped out his phone and googled the value of pi just in case someone asked him what it was. Brontë seemed less concerned. It felt to Mitch like Brontë knew every second person in the room, and he watched and listened as Brontë networked.

Eventually, Brontë suggested it was time for dinner. "You wanna go soon, Mitch?"

"Yeah, sure. Just need to go to the bathroom first." Mitch raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You stay here. I'm just going for a piss. No funny business."

Brontë threw his head back in laughter. Fuck, this dude was disarming in every sense. He took the opportunity to have a quiet conversation with the artist before they left.

They stepped out onto the street. "Hungry?" asked Brontë.

"Yeah," came Mitch's impatient reply. "You know any good places 'round here? Like I said before we encountered the Bermuda triangle, I'm not familiar with this part of town."

Brontë laughed. "You fucking hated that triangle, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't say I hated it, but I didn't understand the point of it as art."

"That's valid," Brontë replied, nodding. "Let's find a place to eat, and we can talk some more."

They walked a few blocks before finding a friendly, well-lit pizza place. They ordered a pepperoni and a margherita, along with a couple of draft beers.

Brontë lifted a thick slice of pepperoni. He took a hearty bite, looping the stringy mozzarella around his tongue before pulling the string dead with his fingers. Mitch pointed out that the pizza slice wasn't a triangle, because the base of the slice was rounded and not flat, and Brontë laughed in response at Mitch's curiously weird math/art joke. They talked, relaxed, and started to get to know each other a little more deeply. Mitch was still wearing his headphones around his neck. He'd deliberately left them on all night. He'd worked out by now how much Brontë was into them.

They talked a little more about the exhibition, but they also talked about each other's lives.

The pizzas were huge. They'd barely made a dent in them before they tapped out. A takeout box was required.

Mitch leaned forward, grabbing Brontë's oily, pizza-encrusted hand, pulling his fingers towards him. "I need to ask you something. It's important."

Brontë looked at Mitch. That sexy nose ring, those headphones, and that sweet fucking mouth. He wanted him so bad. "Go 'head," he replied.

"Was this a date, Brontë?"

"Well, we went to a show, if you can call a collection of geometric diagrams a 'show', and we had dinner together, so yeah, I guess this is a date. Why do you ask?"

"Because I need you to know something about me."

Brontë waited.

Mitch tenderly weaved his fingers into Brontë's before looking him dead in the eye. "I'm not like most boys," he whispered. "I fuck on the first date."

Brontë signalled for the waitress. "Check, please."

The uber ride to Brontë's Harlem apartment was expensively long, but awkwardly silent. The takeout box full of uneaten pizza sat in Mitch's lap. Brontë's hand reached across the backseat to touch Mitch's, just for a brief moment. It felt like sparks flew.

Upon reaching Brontë's building, they each thanked the driver politely before exiting the vehicle, and they closed their doors firmly but gently after wishing the driver a pleasant evening. Five stars.

Mitch glanced around. He knew they were in Harlem, but he didn't recognise where they were. Leroy and Tyrone lived on 122nd street, and he guessed Brontë's building was a few blocks further south, closer to the park, but he couldn't see a street sign. The streets were bustling, and while Mitch would've loved to explore them, it'd have to happen some other time. Right now, all he wanted to explore was Brontë's beautiful black penis.

"Would you like to come in?" asked Brontë. He swiped his access card and held the front door open for his date. There was no doorman for his building.

Mitch stepped inside. Brontë pressed the elevator button. They stood side by side in silence, waiting.

Ding. The doors opened. They stepped onto the elevator, and Brontë pressed the button for the 12th floor.

No words were spoken.

Brontë showed Mitch out onto the 12th floor corridor. He opened the door to his apartment and invited his date inside.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Could I have some water, please?" asked Mitch. "Also, where's your bathroom?"

Brontë issued directions, and Mitch disappeared for a few moments. He returned, and guzzled the water Brontë offered him. "Sorry. Mouth was dry," he apologised nervously.

Mitch evaluated Brontë. He was artistically and musically literate, awesome to talk to, sexy as fuck, had a big dick (not quite as big as Leroy's or Tyrone's massive BBCs, but still way big enough to get the job done), and his cum was delicious.

Brontë tried to do the same, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that made this whiteboi drive him wild. Right now, he wanted him badly.

"Mouth isn't dry anymore," teased Mitch. "I know where your bathroom is now, but I don't know where your bedroom is." He bit his bottom lip. "Can you please show me?"