There's Something I Want You to Do

“A business conference,” Harry Albert said.

“What do you do?”

“Manufacturer’s rep. Medical devices.”

“Well, good. That’s a good business. The economy can never hurt you if you sell to sick people. The sick are always with us, I assure you, Harry Albert. Always will be. A full supply of the sick. Hoards of sick. More of them always, too, including the old, like, what do the kids call them, zombies.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“What’re you going to be doing in Vegas?”

“Oh. Me? I’m meeting my wife. She got there yesterday, a cheaper flight, one night on her own, and she’s been playing the slots. I had work I had to do, talk to a banker here in Minneapolis, therefore I’m leaving today. She’s been playing the slots, did I mention that? And tonight and tomorrow and the next day, we’re going to the shows. The shows in Las Vegas are the best in the world! The nightlife. It’s— Am I explaining? Even a child knows. Do you like nightlife?”

Harry Albert liked nightlife very much but suddenly felt that a certain tact might be necessary. “Yes,” he said.

“And the showgirls?”

“Showgirls? Meh,” Harry Albert said.

“Meh?”

“Yeah, meh. I like the costumes sometimes,” Harry Albert said.

“Costumes, yes, sequins and glitter, but they’re not the point. What’s with the ‘meh,’ if I may ask?”

“I can explain.”

“This explanation I would like to hear. Every year, my wife and I go to Vegas. We have fun. We gamble a little, we go to the shows. Performances, by the very best: Wayne Newton, Olivia Newton-John, Sammy Davis Jr. Have you seen him? What a voice! Versatility! Perhaps he has no appeal to English royalty like Prince Albert, but what’s the harm? Okay, so he’s been dead for a while, but my point is: greatness. Also, and I don’t think I mentioned this, the sun. The sun is a prizewinner. Have you ever seen rain in Las Vegas?”

“No. Never.”

“Exactly. They’re smart. They have the sun under contract.”

“And rain?”

“Rain they don’t employ.”

“Well, it’s a desert out there,” Harry Albert said.

“Yes, but nightlife blooms where no rain falls. You’ve heard that expression? What time is it at the blackjack table? Who cares? Shoot out the clocks! The showgirls, tanned and healthy, where do these girls come from? They pop up out of the cactus plants, could be. Do they have mothers? Are they desert creatures like armadillos? I don’t bother to ask. Even my wife enjoys the showgirls, as long as they’re dancing. I like to sit close, so you can see the sweat. Sweat drips down their long legs. I like that. Criticize me if you want to.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t like them? Prince Albert, I believe you said you were indifferent to showgirls.”

“Well, I’m gay.”

“So are the girls. Everyone smiles in Vegas. Everyone is happy and carefree, except for the losers of life savings. You have to know when to stop. Common sense. I don’t see the problem.”

“You don’t get it,” Harry Albert said. “I’m queer.”

The plane bounced, and 32-A sat back. “You’re a queer?”

“Yup.”

“You don’t look like it. What’s the point in that? Please explain.”

“Excuse me?”

“Why would anyone want such a thing? No showgirls for you? Just showboys? With nice hair? Tap dancers? Playing the gold piano?”

“Could be.”

The old man leaned back and puffed out his cheeks. “I’ve known people like you. And, let me say, I am open-minded. Every hedgehog has a law for itself, hedgehog law. For me, however, queer has no appeal. Your particular kingdom is closed to me. So, you get to Vegas, no showgirls, no pretty waitresses, what have you got?”

“Plenty,” Harry Albert said.

“Please don’t describe. A cute smile I suppose can be anywhere. But okay. Prince, listen to me. Like I said, open-minded is my motto. You got your book there, you’re reading about Schindler, but this is America now, different hedgehog laws. So, okay, what am I—? I’m saying, and this is very simple, so listen. These other people on the plane, screaming now, turbulence, they would say it too if they only stopped screaming. Which is: enjoy life. In your hedgehog royalty way.”

“Thank you,” Harry Albert said. “Trust me. I do enjoy it.”

“You’re kind of solid-looking. You don’t look delicate, if I may say. Or sensitive, even, which, I might as well tell you, I despise. Feelings? No, not for me.”

“I work out.”

“You work out what?”

“In the gym. Circuit training. Also, I box. I’m a fighter.” Harry Albert made a fist, and the old man nodded. “I have a good punch.”

“That’s right. You must. That’s right.” The old man had become quite vehement. “So there’s something I want you to do, Prince.” The old man reached into his pocket and drew out a business card. On it had been printed his name, the name of his business, Go-Clean, with its website, and an e-mail address. He handed it to Harry Albert. “First we shake hands. Not every day do I meet a member of the English royal family trained in pugilism.”

“But I’m not—”

The old man held up his hand. “Don’t deny. You’re thinking: this old man, he’s crazy, a Schindler Jew, suffering has made him insane, and I’m telling you, no, it didn’t. Maybe a joker.” He held out his hand, and Harry Albert shook it. “A joker is what it made me. A joker vacationer. An American going on vacation to Las Vegas, where my wife already is, that’s what I am. An American like you. So what you do is, you go to your business conference and then night falls, and you enjoy the nightlife in your hedgehog way with your hedgehog friends, and you write to me, you send me a note telling me you’re okay. Because now we are friends. You said you are honored to meet me.”

“Yes, I am.”

“And I am likewise honored to meet you, English royalty. Freed at last from the palace, like Roman Holiday. Even though you don’t look like Audrey Hepburn. Maybe more Oscar De La Hoya. Are you vain, like him?”

“Yes. But I’m not—”

“Like I said: don’t bother to deny.” The old man turned to gaze out the window. “We’ll be landing soon. Where are the free peanuts? The free beverage?” He turned back to Harry Albert, and all at once a smile broke out on his profoundly ugly face, a transfixing smile. “This is a very annoying flight. Except for you. Prince, you’re good company,” he said. “You keep a person interested. Send me a letter. Tell me what it’s like.”

—

Sitting in his hotel room, satiated with pleasure, the other young man still in bed, prettily sleeping, Harry Albert opened his laptop and began to write.

Dear David, he wrote, I promised that I would write to you and now I’m doing just that. I’ve had some lucky streaks in Las Vegas since I got here. The conference went well, I made some contacts, I met some people. He glanced at the bed before turning back to the computer screen and the keyboard. You could say I won.