Avery and the Grifter

I stood, mouth agape, in my living room. The television was gone. Had I been robbed? As I ran toward the media console, I noticed that its lower cabinet was slightly ajar and more than half of my music and video collection was missing.

I began to panic. How could I have been burglarized? This is a secure building in an excellent neighborhood. Simms, the doorman, had said anything when we spoke just five minutes ago.

Oh my goodness, I immediately thought. Could the thief still be in the apartment?

I crept toward the bedrooms. My heart was in my throat. I pictured the headline as it would run in the Sun-Times: LOCAL GAY MAN DUMPED THEN JUMPED. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Kicking open the master bedroom door (as I’d seen Benson and Stabler to so many times on Law & Order: SVU) I quickly scanned the quarters. No one there. I inched into the room and silently entered the adjoining bathroom. No one there either.

Suddenly, I heard a loud THUMP come from Jack’s office. Oh no, I thought to myself. I’m going to be murdered. Back in the bedroom hallway, I grabbed a broomstick—the only weapon I could think to grab—from the opened linen closet and made my way toward Jack’s office. The door was closed. I took a deep breath and then kicked it open, again SVU-style.

No one was in the room but the cats. The loud THUD was a book they’d knocked off of the windowsill. I sighed with relief. It wasn’t a break-in. No sooner had I calmed down did a knot form in the pit of my stomach.

Jack’s office was nearly empty. His computer? Gone. The pictures of us on one of our many vacations to New Orleans? Gone. Instinctively, I ran back to the master bedroom and violently opened the closet door. None of Jack’s clothes remained.  

Jack didn’t leave, I said to myself, He wouldn’t leave like this.

We’d both agreed to go through our belongings and separate them together. This was as much for my own closure as it was to insure that he didn’t take anything I wanted to keep. Apparently, he decided not to live up to our agreement, but rather chose to steal away into the night like a grifter.

I noticed an envelope taped to the back of the front door. Written on it, in Jack’s handwriting, were two words: I’m sorry.

Avery Comes Clean to His Colleagues

I’d been so nervous about telling my co-workers that Jack and I were finished, although I’m not sure why. I guess I was afraid of being judged. No one wants to look like a failure, particularly with colleagues. Losing the respect of your colleagues can feel like a death in the family. Think about it. The average person spends more waking hours at work than anywhere else. No one wants to be the outcast. No matter how we dress it up, the world is really just one big high school.

The women I work with, however, surprised me. They weren’t judgmental at all. In fact, they were more supportive than I could have ever imagined. They also felt obliged to let me in on their true feelings about Jack.

“I never thought that the two of you were a perfect match”

“I concur. He was a bit uppity for my tastes.”

“I heard that. Always looking down his nose—as if his doo-doo don’t stink!”

Thanks, ladies. Perhaps—next time—you’d care to share your thoughts before I move in, merge finances and purchase an apartment with an uppity doo-doo head? That’s alright. It’s the thought that counts.

I left my shift in a much better mood than when I’d arrived. Jack’s and my conversation, the horrible rainy weather and my fender bender were a distant memory. I even made my usual small talk with Simms the doorman, before boarding the lift to “heaven on 14”, wear a big glass of wine and a Unisom awaited me.

When the elevator reached my floor, I calmly walked toward our apartment. My apartment. Maybe Jack moving out wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I’d been single before. There really are worse things than being alone, such as… such as… I give you examples later.

I put the key in the lock and turned. The door slowly swung open. Everything was eerily quiet. I stepped into the entry way and slowly made my way into the living room. My jaw dropped. I could not believe what I was witnessing.

Avery Loves Psychobabble

I left Dr. Drexel Carrington’s office on cloud nine. My secret crush on him aside, the previous 45 minutes left me feel reinvigorated. Under the good doctor’s guidance, I was going to “breakthrough” this “mental crisis” and “reaffirm” my “self-worth”. I love psychobabble.

The sun shone brightly as I sauntered down Michigan Avenue. Everyone seemed to be smiling. Today was going to be a good day. First, I’d head home and take a luxurious bubble bath. Next, I’d treat myself to lunch at Pelago, followed by a drink at the Signature Lounge. Touristy, I know. But I can think of no better place to make a person feel as though he were on top of the world. The afternoon would conclude with a little retail therapy at Ralph. Mr. Lauren always makes me happy.

This renewed energy must have been written across my face. The moment I entered my building Simms, the daytime doorman, returned my smiled.

“You’re in excellent spirits, Avery. Didya win the lottery or something?”

“Nope.” I replied. “Jack’s moving out.”

I didn’t stop walking until I reached the elevator. I can only imagine the puzzled look on Simms’ ruggedly handsome, middle-aged face.

Once I’d reached the 14^th floor, I headed toward my front door intent on making lemonade out of lemons, sangria out of sour grapes, apple martinis out of rotten—well, you get the idea. There was a lot that still needed to be determined. When would Jack be moving out? What would we do about separating our finances? How were we going to get out of this real estate contract?

I shook those thoughts out of my head. Those thoughts were for later. This day of self-pampering would help me prepare for that discussion. This day would help me find that calm and collected space. Later, when Jack returned, I would be ready to broach these topics in a rational and civilized manner.

That was the plan. My smile, however, faded as I entered my apartment. Jack was back.

Avery Meets Dr. Carrington

The sun pierced through my floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. The Following the dramatic The previous evening’s confrontation between Jack and I had been so dramatic, I’d neglected to draw the blinds. I looked at the clock. 10:30AM. My appointment with Dr. Drexel Carrington was scheduled for 11:30.

I didn’t feel like getting dressed. I couldn’t be bothered to brush my teeth. And I had absolutely no interest in spilling my cuts to an old guy in an armchair. All I wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and not wake up for at least three months. I psyched myself up for the journey. I’d quickly get ready, hop on over, tell the old man my woes and be back in bed with a carton of Häagen-Dazs and a bar of Toblerone before the opening credits of “The Bold and the Beautiful” had completed rolling.

Jack had not returned home after storming out. As I brushed my teeth, showered and dressed for my outing, I wondered if he ever would. Although I’d resigned myself to the fact that our relationship really was over, I couldn’t help but wonder how we’d go about dissolving our partnership.

Most of our possessions, like artwork, clothing and electronics, were considered jointly owned. The laptop that I write these very words with, for example, was purchased by Jack as a birthday present for me. Should I now return it? Likewise, should I repossess the watches and jewelry I’d gifted him over the years? And what about belongings that one of us brought into the relationship that the other couldn’t bear to part with? (The majority of our vast Disney DVD collection belonged to Jack, but I’d kill him before I’d let him leave with “Beauty and the Beast!”).

It took me no time to get to the good doctor’s office. Actually, the good doctor’s office was an apartment. Dr. Drexel Carrington runs his practice out of the library of his Gold Coast condominium. The doorman announced my arrival and pointed me toward the mahogany paneled elevator.

You can do this, I said to myself. Just forty-five minutes, and you’ll be back in the comfort of your 500 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, where you can feel sorry for yourself all afternoon.

Once I’d reached the fifth floor, I made my way to apartment 502. I lightly tapped on the door.

“Just a moment,” came the voice from the inside.

Funny. He didn’t sound like an old fuddy-duddy. After a moment, the door swung open and I came face to face with the man I would come to know my darkest innermost thoughts and secrets.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Avery. I’m Dr. Carrington. Please come in.”

I couldn’t speak. Dr. Carrington was drop dead gorgeous. Good think I decided on brushing my teeth.

Avery and the Promise Box

My gift to Jack had to come from the soul. Jasper and I knew exactly what to purchase. After visiting numerous little shops around the Upper East Side, we came across a modestly elegant sterling silver box. We then pressed on to Jasper’s stationer where I purchased 19 individual notecards, each precisely sized to fit perfectly into the box.

Avery Meets His Neighbors

How could my doctor be so stupid? His missing license number was the only thing standing between mental piece of mind and me. I sighed, resigning to the fact that I would have to wait another day to get my Xanax prescription refilled. After purchasing a large bottle of Advil— a consolation prize of sorts—, I made the disappointing journey home.

Avery Goes to Lanford

“Hello?” I timidly said into my cell phone. Although I was hopeful that Jack would be on the other end of the line, I was also afraid to speak with him. What can you possibly say to someone who has told you that they’re no longer in love with you? Unfortunately, or luckily, I wouldn’t find out just yet.

You see, I have the unfortunate luck of having a telephone number that is extremely similar to that of a certain Rush Street restaurant. I’ve been politely redirecting callers to the correct number for nearly seven years. When this evening’s caller asked if I had a four top available for 9:30, I aloofly told her that we were closed for renovations. I was not in the mood helpful or polite.

Avery Gets Dumped

A few things about me: My name’s Avery. I’m a gay man living in Chicago, and, until this morning, my life was fantastic. I’m a night nurse at one of the city’s top hospitals, live in a fabulous Streeterville high-rise and share that home with two adorable kitties and my partner. Scratch that. Shared. This morning my partner of six years—we’ll call him Jack (as in Jackass)— announced that he was no longer in love with me. Let me set the stage.

7:00AM: I had just arrived from work in a great mood. A spunky four year-old patient, who no one thought would make it through the night, had pulled through like the trooper he is. After describing the previous night’s event to our doorman (Simms is the most awesome doorman in Chicago! Most every morning we have a brief chat over coffee.), I headed up to the 14^th floor.

Jack, already dressed for the commute to his Schaumburg office, sat at the table in our eat-in-kitchen. He looked like Folgers advertisement: This gorgeous man sipping a steaming hot cup of java, in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that frames the calm endless blue of Lake Michigan.

We’ve been renting this condominium unit for more than two years. The owner has accepted our offer to purchase the place. The deposit check was delivered last Friday.

“What’s wrong?” I asked Jack. He had an awful look on his face that I’d only seen once before. The same pained expression he wore when he told me that my lola (grandmother for you non-Filipinos) had passed. I silently complied when he asked me to sit. For the rest of my life, I will never forget his words:

“I’ve done a lot of thinking, and I realize I don’t love you anymore. I’m moving out.”

I went numb. He downed the last of his coffee, grabbed his keys and briefcase off the counter and exited the kitchen. I sat in still silence until I heard the front door close behind him. In that moment, I experienced all 7 stages of grief. One after another they hit— shock, denial, guilt, boom, boom, boom—as if they were numbers on that stupid spinning wheel on “The Price is Right.”

My wheel, however, landed on “Anger.” God forgive me for what I did next.