Work Text:
The meeting was coming to a close. Two of the Chinese investors were on their phones, and the young representative from Tokyo was drafting an email to his superior about the latest updates on the merge. It was international relations day at ATN, Cyd had said, and though she was supposed to lead the meeting with foreign offices, she’d wanted Tom to be there too. Not that he could speak any of the languages — actually, they all just spoke English — but he’d worked in Japan before, and maybe Cyd thought it meant something. Either that or she knew it was going to be a long, dreadful conversation, and wanted to drag Tom into it as a form of torture. That was more likely.
Seeing an opportunity, he picked up his phone, too. There were no new messages, but he hadn’t been expecting any. His inbox was full of emails he hadn’t had the time to look at, and didn’t feel like looking at still. If there was anything urgent, surely Greg would tell him. Then, he checked his calendar, and there he saw something unexpected.
He was hoping that after this meeting he’d be able to go home. Or maybe not home, but he could take Greg out to a fancy restaurant, or a bar, as he often did, or he could just go by himself and drink alone. It was Friday, after all, and Shiv was out on a trip to DC again. She hadn’t spent a whole day in their apartment since Italy.
Much to his surprise, though, Tom found out he had an appointment with HR in half an hour.
He sent Greg a message:
HR, Greg? Tell them to fuck off. I’m in a meeting
The answer came almost immediately:
I don’t think I can tell human resources to fuck off
I mean, I was on the phone with Erika right now. She’s intimidating. I think something serious happened
Sorry I forgot to tell you
Erika was the PR coordinator over at ATN. She usually sent one of her lackeys to talk to people when necessary, so if she’d felt compelled to personally call Greg, yeah, “something serious” definitely had happened.
When the meeting finally ended, Tom told Cyd and the investors he was in a hurry, excused himself out of the room, and ran to his office. It was already time for the HR appointment, but there was nobody there. He sat down on his chair, tapping his fingers on the surface of the table, while he saw the sun setting outside, and the sky turning black.
Erika knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer. Tom stood up when she came in.
“Mr. Wambsgans,” she smiled. “Please, sit down. This might take a while.”
After he’d offered her a glass of water, which she refused, she began again: “So, you know Jan Pritchard from human resources? She’s waiting outside. Once we’re done here, I’ll ask her to come in. But I think you might have a few questions.”
“That’s right.” Tom leaned back uncomfortably in his chair. “My assistant was quite vague about what HR wanted to discuss.”
“Yes. Well, you see, we have a situation in our hands at the moment, but it’s really just a matter of casual due diligence. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure, if we proceed with care. One of our newswomen, Nicole, she contacted HR last month accusing a male anchor of sexual harassment. I won’t get into details, but our team didn’t find any incriminating evidence, and we had reasons to believe Nicole’s allegations were false, so she was temporarily removed from her position. Now, we didn’t know she was engaged to Dan — Dan Schlesinger. Do you know Dan?”
Tom nodded. Everyone knew Dan, whether they watched ATN News or not.
“Yes, so Dan threatened to sue. He claims he heard that anchor saying inappropriate things to Nicole, so what we did is we brought Nicole back, but put her in a different position, so she didn’t have to interact with that man anymore. And we assured her that if anything happened, we would make a just, thorough investigation. But Dan didn’t back down. According to him, ATN hasn’t been diligent enough about this. So what we’re doing now, is assuring him that we have been. In fact, we want to be able to say that all accusations of workplace harassment have been dealt with, and that we work hard to build a respectful, wholesome working environment.”
Tom was confused. He had no idea, really, what Erika’s point was. What did he have to do with some petty disputes among news anchors? He didn’t even know this Nicole, and though a sexual harassment lawsuit would indeed be terrible publicity for ATN, he didn’t understand why HR couldn’t just deal with it themselves. Why did they have to involve the head of news?
“Well, I think we do have a wholesome working environment over here,” he said. “I don’t know about Dan and Nicole, but I hope they can sort it out with HR.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. But really, what we’re doing is we’re picking up on every complaint that was filed in HR in the past three months, and we’re properly sorting it out. I’m sure you understand why. We’re just really concerned about workplace safety, especially women’s safety in the workplace. So we’re doing a bunch of routine investigations. We usually wouldn’t bother someone in your position with these things, but in this case, we believe it to be of uttermost importance.”
He frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m not following. Was there a complaint filed against me?”
“I’m sure it will prove to be nothing, Mr. Wambsgans.” She checked her wristwatch. “I’m calling Jan in, okay? I have to go now, but if you have any questions, you can call me. This is just standard proceeding, it is nothing personal. A million complaints are filed every day, and it’s usually nothing. Have a good weekend, Mr. Wambsgans. Thank you for your time.”
This time, he didn’t stand up. Erika left on her own, and an older, slender woman came in holding a small clipboard. She sat down exactly where the other woman had been before, and sighed.
“Good evening, my name is Janice Pritchard, and I’m here because there were…” She looked at her notes. “... two complaints filed about you, Mr. Wambsgans, one in July, and the other in September this year. I’ll start this with a standard questionnaire—”
“Wait, I’m sorry,” Tom interrupted her. He couldn’t take in what he was hearing. “Who filed these complaints? Why wasn’t I informed?”
“They’re anonymous complaints, Mr. Wambsgans.” She kept staring at her clipboard, clearly tired. “Now, the questionnaire — Have you ever been prosecuted on charges of sexual harassment? ”
“What is this? No, of course not.”
“ On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the safety of your workplace environment? ”
“I don’t know.” He looked around. “Ten?”
“ Were you ever romantically involved with a coworker, or had a sexual relationship with a coworker in the past six months, that you did not report to human resources? ”
“Janice, excuse me. I’m sorry, I don’t understand these questions. These are serious allegations. It disturbs me deeply to think that someone here is accusing me of something like this.”
“Mr. Wambsgans, this is just standard proceedings. I thought Erika had explained it to you.”
“Yes, but can you be a little more specific?” He was starting to feel angry. “What was I accused of? Or you can’t tell me that either?”
She hesitated. “ Yes , I can tell you that. On the twenty-eighth of July, a person who chose to remain anonymous claims they were passing by your assistant, Mr. Gregory Hirsch’s, office, and they heard ‘loud, inappropriate noises’ coming from inside, and later they saw you leaving his office. On the tenth of September, a different anonymous informant complained about an interaction that you had with your assistant, which they also claim has occurred repeatedly, on numerous occasions.”
Tom waited for her to finish, but she didn’t say anything else. “What interaction?”
Janice cleared her throat, and quoted: “They say you have a habit of ‘ touching Mr. Gregory Hirsch’s lower back when you leave a room together.’ Which they claim is ‘inappropriate in a business setting .’”
“This is absurd. What— who filed this complaint? Is there a way to find out? I should file a complaint about this person for slander.” He laughed nervously. “I don’t go around touching my assistant’s lower back, Janice. Ask him . Is this a joke?”
“Mr. Wambsgans, please calm down. Do you think there’s someone in the workplace, a colleague, who might be spreading rumours about you and Mr. Hirsch?”
“You tell me, Janice. Do they seriously believe I’m having an affair with my male assistant? I’m married.” It was true, he was still married. But he felt a weird sensation in his chest, as though he’d been caught lying.
“No one said anything about an affair, Mr. Wambsgans. These are sexual harassment complaints.”
“Look, you can tell that this is bullshit. I’m sorry, but it is. It’s bullshit. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m sure you’re just doing your job, but let’s end this here, okay?” He stood up. “If you have any other questions, you can talk to… Well, you can talk to my assistant. Bye.”
As he escorted her out of his office, Janice tried asking him about Greg, how long he’d been working for Tom, if he’d gotten any bonuses last year, but he didn’t answer. He could barely pay attention to what she was saying.
At last, he was alone again. It was almost seven. Greg had probably already left, unless some clown from HR was down there questioning him too. Tom thought about dialing his assistant’s office, but gave up on it. He simply picked up his stuff and went straight home, without saying a word to anyone.
An affair with Greg!
Tom wasn’t a homophobe, not by a long shot. He had gay friends. He liked Elton John. Hell , he’d even watched an episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race once — but he liked women. He loved women, in fact, so much so that he’d married one. Naturally, that had to mean something. That had to mean he would never have an affair with his wife’s 32-year-old lanky, Canadian cousin, despite what HR might believe. But as much as he tried to brush it aside, after a few glasses of wine the idea wouldn’t leave Tom’s imagination.
He remembered a college party. It was 1999 and some kids from Cornell were throwing a Y2K end-of-the-world celebration. His girlfriend at the time, Marie, a fellow business student, had invited him, and he had been drinking with her near the pool when she left to go to the bathroom, and a man approached him.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” He sounded a bit drunk.
“Not at all.”
The “man” was actually not much older than Tom. He was shirtless and wearing some kind of neon flower necklace. Tom couldn’t tell if he’d seen him before.
“You’re just here by yourself, then?” he asked.
“Yeah. I mean—” Tom didn’t know why, but he felt timid all of a sudden. “I’m not alone.”
“I figured. But, uh. Hey, I like your hair, man. It’s nice.”
Tom’s hair was nothing more than a normal, short cut. It was the same haircut he’d had since he was a schoolboy. He’d never really thought about it.
“Thanks. Your hair is nice too.” He looked at the boy’s hair for the first time — blonde curls falling gently onto his cheeks, a middlepart. “Nice” was one way to describe it.
The boy smiled. “Yeah, okay. So, if you’re not doing anything, do you wanna…?” He leaned forward in his seat.
“What?”
“There’s a spot at the back of the house. Some of my friends went there already and they said it’s fine.”
Tom struggled to understand his meaning, as though the boy had been talking to him in a secret, impenetrable code. Then, at once, it hit him.
“Oh—” Tom blushed. “I don’t… I don’t smoke weed.”
“Weed?” he laughed, and put a hand on Tom’s right knee. “Dude, we don’t have to smoke anything.”
“What… What are you asking me then?”
“I saw you staring at me earlier, when we were inside. It’s okay, I don’t mind. I think you’re cute, too. And I won’t tell your girlfriend.”
Oh , so this really wasn’t about weed, after all. Tom was speechless. His mind went a mile a minute trying to figure out what to say, what to do, why that guy had thought he was… Had he actually stared at him? Maybe he’d stared at the neon necklace. Yes, Tom recalled seeing someone wearing one of those inside, and finding it mesmerizing. But this was about the flowers, and the bright greens and pinks, not about whoever was wearing them. Though now he thought he also remembered the blonde curls.
“I’m straight,” Tom blurted out. “Heterosexual. Sorry, I have to go.”
He stood up in a hurry, and ran into Marie on the other side of the pool. She was holding back her laughter unsuccessfully.
“Oh my God, was Jeff flirting with you?” she said.
“Jeff? Who’s Jeff? Did you hear anything?”
“The blonde guy. He’s a friend of Sarah’s.” She giggled. “He’s gay .”
“How do you know that he’s gay? He wasn’t flirting with me. He wasn’t flirting with anyone.”
“Everyone knows that he’s gay, Tom. Come on.”
“You can’t just know someone’s gay. That’s stereotyping.”
“Okay, then. You wanna go to the back of the house with him to find out?”
Tom fell silent. He felt a hush of sadness, and some strange sensation at the bottom of his stomach, that left him wanting to hold Marie, and kiss her, and fondle her hair. He wanted her to reassure him of something, but he didn’t know what it was.
For some reason, that incident had stayed in his memory, and so had Jeff’s face. Tom believed if he ever were to see him again, even after all those years, he would recognize him in an instant.
It was not the first time someone had assumed Tom was gay. There had been, of course, that occasion with his cousins, when he was little and they found all of his mom’s lost Vanity Fairs under his bed. There had also been his twelfth birthday, when his dad confiscated a Reba McEntire vinyl from the livingroom because Tom had been playing it too frequently. But no one had ever said the word, gay . (His dad merely said it was a bit queer for a boy his age to be so into Reba McEntire). For some years during his adolescence, it had become almost an obsession for him, that word. Or rather, avoiding it had become the obsession.
A line had to be drawn somewhere. This was the men’s universe, this was the women’s. Swearing, playing violent games, not being afraid of staining your clothes with mud — these attributes belonged to the men’s universe. The excessive care his parents had taught him to have with his school uniform, his improper timidity and taste for refinement — these were to be left behind, just as a boy abandons knee high socks once he reaches a certain age. Or so it seemed to his thirteen-year-old self.
He joined his school’s rugby team. By the time he was seventeen, he was a top student, team captain, and dating not a cheerleader, but a girl who played volley for the school. Still, he felt unusually proud in his accomplishments, like he’d managed to do every thing right — an impeccable performance.
Things were a bit different in New York. It was still important to put up appearances, to make the correct choices, but he found that most of it had become second nature to him already. And the people around him also seemed to care less, or to care in a different manner.
Later in life, he reencountered a friend of his from school, Michael Burbach. Michael had changed so much Tom could barely recognize him — he was balding fast, and had grown from a slender kid into a heavy man. Back in the day, he’d been an easy target for bullies, due to his physical frailty, and a stutter he couldn’t control. But he’d lost his stutter now. He had also made it big in finance, and to celebrate his moving to a penthouse in the Upper East Side, he invited Tom to a party at his new place.
The apartment was impressive. It was also lavish, yes; but it still managed to display a clear notion of great, modern taste. What Tom liked best about it was that the place didn’t look like it had been decorated by some high-end interiors designer. It looked as if Michael himself had carefully selected each piece of furniture. As if it were a place to be lived in, not simply displayed.
But as it turned out, an interiors designer had worked on the penthouse. It was Michael’s partner, David, who was also living with him there.
The discovery came as a surprise to Tom, but it didn’t shock him like it would have shocked his younger self. However, he couldn’t feel indifferent to it either — only because he felt somehow reassured by it. The difference between his life and Michael’s became neutral ground; it didn’t have to implicate him. They were beyond each other to a point of vindicating similarity.
After that night, Tom started thinking what it would be like sleeping with a man.
It was his own little scientific experiment. He began noticing the men around him much like he did the women, considering whether they were pretty, or average, or handsome. The muscles were nice, he figured. But not too much muscle — he liked the way fabric draped tightly on the shoulders of men as they ran through the park in the morning. It felt safe to admire them from afar, as long as he felt there was a gap between him and those men who weren’t like him, whose desires weren’t like his. His was a purely passive admiration, or rather, a recognition.
Shortly after, his relationship with Shiv began, and the rest was history. He laid the shortlived, imaginary experiment to rest. And still, he assured himself: he liked women. He loved women, in fact, so much so that he’d married one…
And now, lying in his bed alone, he missed the comforting presence of his wife, despite what he had done to her. He missed waking her up in the morning, her ginger hair falling gently over the pillow, and how she would sometimes complain — are you sure it’s really seven, Tom?
But somehow, he didn’t regret a single thing.
“An affair with Greg!” he mumbled to himself, distractedly, one last time, before turning off the lights and falling asleep.
He sat across from Greg on the top floor of some new building in Soho. The restaurant was ugly, really, as though the owners were actively trying to challenge the customers’ perceptions on what places it should be acceptable to eat in. But it was extremely exclusive. Tom had had to make a reservation weeks before, and he hoped Greg would appreciate it.
“Man, I love this place.” Greg smiled. He clarified: “The decor. It’s so quirky.”
Of course he would love a place like that, what with its pseudo-industrial design, and the primary colors. “No it isn’t, Greg. But the food’s great. It’s obscene how good the lamb is here, you should try it.”
“Yeah, I might. I might try it.”
Tom ordered them two glasses of red wine. This wasn’t a celebration yet, Tom explained to Greg, but he’d had a conversation with Logan that day which indicated that things were looking promising for the two of them. Soon, they should be transferring from ATN to… surely, something much better. Tom still had only a vague notion of what Logan’s plans for him were, but he trusted that with time everything would be sorted out, and that there would be a place for him.
And Greg, of course.
When it came time to order, Greg chose the lamb. Wanting to try something new, Tom went for a seared octopus with some kind of fig salad.
“You never really told me though—” Greg said, while chewing a hors-d’oeuvre . “You never told me what Erika wanted that day.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That thing with HR last week. It seemed important.”
Tom hadn’t forgotten to mention it to his assistant. Rather, he’d been avoiding doing that on purpose. But the moment Greg asked him, his secrecy began to seem quite silly all of a sudden. So he said it, matter-of-factly:
“Well, Greg, if you’re really that curious about what goes on in my private, personal meetings… HR thinks we’re having an affair.”
Greg stopped eating.
“What?”
“Erika told me ATN is trying to take HR complaints more seriously now, and part of that is sorting out the old complaints, so. Some anonymous eyewitness accused us of having an affair,” Tom continued.
“Ha-ha. You’re joking right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
Greg paused to process what he’d heard. “What… Who… Who made this complaint?”
“There were actually two of them, Greg. But they’re anonymous.” Tom took a sip of the wine.
“But what did they say? Did they appear to be, uh, kinda specific?”
“Yeah. Some nonsense about inappropriate noises and me touching your lower back. Just mudslinging.”
“I guess you do do that a lot.”
“What?”
“Touching my lower back and stuff? I thought you knew.”
Now it was Tom who had to pause.
“Are you accusing me of sexual harassment, Greg?”
“No, Tom! I’m not saying it’s sexual harassment, I’m just saying… I can understand why someone might perhaps get the wrong impression.”
“I’m a married man, why would I have an affair with you?” Tom was angry. He regretted opening up about his conversation with HR. All he’d wanted was for Greg to laugh at the whole thing, but now it was already turning into one of their stupid arguments.
“Uh, people have affairs all the time? Plus, that’s literally what it means, in the dictionary — you need to be married to have an affair.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, Greg, my wife is a woman . And you’re not.”
He frowned at the non sequitur . “So?”
“Do enlighten me, then, on how any person in their right mind would think you and I were fucking.”
They were interrupted by a waiter bringing their food. The plates were steaming hot, aside from Tom’s salad, so he let his assistant have a taste of it. Greg took a forkful of arugula and a fig that was dripping with honey, and after swallowing, he said:
“You… give me a lot of gifts.”
“So?” Tom tried the salad too.
“Uh, mistresses also get gifts.”
“Jesus Christ, Greg. Still hung up on the affair thing?”
“ You asked, man.” He stole another fig. “I think… I’m probably wearing more things that you gave me right now, than things I bought myself? Yeah, the blazer, the shirt, the shoes. The watch.”
“That’s on you, buddy. I didn’t make you wear them. And stop stealing my salad.”
“Well, you… you also told me you wanted to ‘ castrate’ me and ‘marry’ me? Nero and Sportacus? What the hell was that?”
“Nero and Sporus , Greg.”
Greg was clearly amused by Tom’s annoyance. He said, trying hard to remain serious: “Those guys were having an affair.”
“They weren’t having an affair, it was ancient Rome. People were killing each other in the middle of the street every day. It was either fuck or be fucked.”
“Okay, dude. I’m just saying…” He finally tried the lamb.
Tom paused to eat some of his own dish, too. He had a disquieting sensation during this moment of silence. Almost as if his mind was struggling against itself. Then, he realized what had been bothering him: his assistant was a pretty man. There, under the soft lights of that hideous restaurant, Tom could return once more to his old experiment, and admit: Greg was more than pretty. He was handsome.
“Would you have an affair with me, Greg?” he asked, on impulse. “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Huh—” He tucked his hair behind his ear. “Yeah, it makes sense, right? I’d like to hypothetically have an affair with you. Sure.”
“Great. Yeah. So would I. You’d make a good mistress.”
“And you’d make a good… uh, husband?”
“Husband, Greg? You wanna marry me already?”
“Why not? Let’s do the whole thing. And also a divorce.”
“We wouldn’t get divorced. I’d eat your head like a praying-mantis.”
“HR wouldn’t like that.”
“Greg, fuck human resources.”
“Yeah,” Greg smiled, stealing a piece of Tom’s octopus. “Fuck human resources.”
And so they whiled away the evening, talking, eating, drinking one glass of wine after the other. The conversation soon shifted to other topics. It was like they’d never even talked about Erika, and HR, and their supposed affair. It was like Tom had never opened the lid of the Pandora’s box he’d been sitting on since Logan’s eightieth birthday. Life was normal. Things were looking good for him. His wedding ring still gleamed when the lights shifted, and the promises he’d made to himself and to others remained unbroken. Tom didn’t feel like a crash was imminent.
He didn’t even feel it had already occurred.