(Note: this story has been slightly re-edited to fix a few problems with time and place....More chapters will follow in time)
Phillip W was my boss, but only briefly. And then he was my boss again.
I was 23, fresh out of a degree in Architecture, and working an entry-level position at a major firm here in Los Angeles. It was truly thrilling to be immediately involved in big projects, even in a minor way: an entertainment complex, a public park, hush-hush sci fi sets at the studios. The firm had a dozen senior architects on two floors of a downtown skyscraper, along with a whole slew of us underlings. Officially, my title was Draftsman Level 2, which was, I hoped, a cut above Level 1.
I was living at the time in a Downtown loft with my artist girlfriend, Lori. It wasn't serious, and it was getting old. She was getting more and more demanding, but we did make love once a week, and we got drunk at hip bars. Even though our place was filled with her huge gloomy paintings of industrial wastelands, I thought life was pretty good.
Phillip W was one of three partners at the firm, and the most famous. Late fifties, I supposed, fit, over six feet, apparently natural black hair with graying temples, as handsome as Gregory Peck when he was in his fifties. He'd designed world-renowned concert halls and museums, along with actual rides at Disneyland.
For the first couple of months, he and I didn't have much interaction, even though he was theoretically my direct boss. Sometimes I'd venture a question at a staff meeting. Or he'd bring something by my desk to get corrected.
"How are you getting on, Jameson?" he'd ask with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Don't let yourself get lost in here. Make sure you get real work."
"It's going great, Mr. W, and I'm getting plenty of meaty work," I'd say enthusiastically, the way Level 2 Draftsmen are supposed to talk, especially around the great. Afterwards, I'd think: Meaty? Seriously? Did I really say that?
After perhaps eight months, I started getting invited to higher-level project meetings in his office, which was more like a design studio than an executive suite. Five or six of us would crowd around his big styrofoam structural models and his six computer monitors. Now and then he'd surprise everyone by asking my opinion, and after a few times hesitating, I'd actually give it:
"Well," I'd say. "It might just be a little too Seventies Isozaki, if you know what I mean."
When I spoke up like that, he'd raise his eyebrows in an amused way. I couldn't tell if this meant he was surprised at my intelligence, surprised at my ignorance, or surprised that I was willing to talk so boldly among my betters. Whichever it was, he never humiliated me in front of the others.
Then this amazing thing happened. He was facing a tight deadline, he needed the support of a dedicated draftsman for three solid days, and I pulled the assignment. From eight in the morning to eight at night it was mostly just him and me in his office, hunkered down over the computers. He'd do hand-drawn sketches and I'd turn around roughs on the computer, working like lightening. He put loud jazz on his stereo. He mixed us drinks. As we worked, we chatted. I told him I wasn't normally a big jazz fan, and he explained jazz to me. He told me about working at the Disney parks, where he had designed a couple famous places I had loved as a child. I told him about my poor little rich kid upbringing; how even working at a job was a kind of rebellion for me. I told him I was raised to only like classical music, and still couldn't shake it. He told me about his childhood on a horse farm in Wisconsin, where he learned to hate country music. The staff brought us sandwiches, coffee, designer vodka.
Those were, I think, the three best days of my life. Until, of course, later on.
At 8:30 pm on the third day, he finally hit send on the drawings to the client. He sat back. He smiled. He said, "Jameson this has been a blast. I'm really sorry that I have to transfer you to Carey's group up on the 27th floor, starting tomorrow."
"What?" I said, shaken out of my high. "You're transferring me out of your group?"
"Yep. Already done in fact. I sent the email a half hour ago. It's already official."
"Look...I...I thought it was working out well...These last three days you never complained...I had hoped I was doing good work for you, Sir."
"Great work," he said. "Not perfect, but great. Level 3 work from a level 2 draftsman, at least," he added, laughing. "Not quite level 4."
I was breathing hard now, trying to control myself. "So, um, what's the issue, then, Mr. W?"
"I have to protect myself, Jameson. I had to transfer you to another department before I asked you out. As I mentioned, it was official a half hour ago."
"Asked me out?"
"On a date. I'd like you to have dinner with me tomorrow night. I'm thinking Mangrove, one of my favorites. If tomorrow is no good, we can move it, but I think we should celebrate hitting that deadline."
I just stared at him, open mouthed. "A...date?"
"Yes, a date. I find you charming, fun, and very attractive. I'd like to explore that in another context, if you're game."
For a time I just stared. "I'm, uh, flattered of course, Mr. W. But I'm afraid I'm not gay. In fact, I live with my girlfriend."
"You already told me that. You also told me it wasn't at all serious, and you were thinking it would probably end soon. That was over the two vodka martinis we had last night, when we were putting the finishing touches on the atrium designs."
"Yeah, but, that's different than..."
"You might not be precisely gay, Jameson, but I'm absolutely certain you are bisexual, and I'm pretty sure you are attracted to me. I have a lifetime of experience in this realm, and I am rarely wrong."
No one had ever hinted to me that Phillip W was gay. The whole conversation was right out of the blue. And his confidence floored me. I might, at that moment, have given him a firm no. But somehow, I didn't. The last three days had been truly amazing and I had genuinely enjoyed his company. To just say, "Okay, I'm out of here to the 27th floor and we'll never meet again" just seemed impossible.
To my amazement, I heard myself say, "Look, um, can I think about this a little? It's kind of a shock, and I'm totally exhausted right now." I needed, at the very least, to buy time. I mean...The Phillip W!
"You can think about it until exactly noon tomorrow," he said, with a smile. "Then, for the sake of my safety, we will have to move forward or drop the subject forever." He looked at his watch, and noted the time in a small leather notebook. "But I really hope you'll say yes, Jameson. I think you're really a sweet, special boy, and I'd like to have the chance to wine and dine you to see where it leads." He looked me straight in the eye as he said this last part. He seemed to speak with total honesty. Even the "sweet boy" part.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Then he was packing up and locking up, and he shook my hand in a professional way. "Well done, in any case, on the drafting."
"Sure, thanks Mr. W. Really an honor working with you." I said this in my bright underling way. He looked at me and laughed, both of us knowing I was playacting. Then I stumbled down to the front entrance to head home.
Lori was out of town. If she hadn't been out of town, would any of the rest of it have happened? As it was, on my own, I paced up and down the loft. I looked at her ugly paintings. I thought about the beautiful drawings Mr. W and I had produced. I let myself think about his offer. In the morning, I almost called in sick. Then I didn't. When I showed up at 8 a.m., I found that all my stuff had already been moved to a cubicle on the 27th floor. At 11:45 a.m., I called down to Mr. W 's office.
"How are you this morning, Jameson?" he asked. "I hope you slept. I'm sure my offer was quite a shock."
"It was a shock, Mr. W."
