Fic - Hair - The Man in Washington Square
Fandom: Hair
Pairing(s): Berger/Claude, Berger/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4,700
Summary: It had been twenty five years and felt longer, but even with those years between them, once in a while Berger still saw Claude.
The Man in Washington Square
It had been twenty five years and felt longer, but even with those years between them, once in a while Berger still saw Claude. He saw him at Woodstock not long after Claude left. He still believed then that Claude might come back and he chased him through the field. He saw Claude a hundred times in that crowd, covered in mud, screaming at the moon. He saw him in the park a year later, collecting highway tolls in New Jersey six years after that. He saw him on the subway and in the supermarket and sitting across the aisle on a plane. Usually he just caught him out of the corner of his eye, that same smile, the way his eyes would crinkle with it. He would turn to say something and Claude would transform into someone else, someone who looked nothing like Claude except for that same crinkle to the eye, someone who had hair the same color or happened to be the same height.
It didn’t happen often. Most of the time Berger lived his life with his feet firmly in the present. He’d moved on and he didn’t think a lot about those years. He went months, sometimes years, and then something would bring it all back and he’d wonder how he’d gone so long without thinking about them. In twenty five years, Berger thought he saw Claude a total of maybe fifteen times. And somehow in those twenty five years, while Claude stayed young and beautiful and smiling, somehow Berger grew up and became something of a responsible member of society.
It had a lot to do with his ex-wife, Karen. She was the complete opposite of Sheila. He found her when he wasn’t looking and he didn’t know what he had until it was almost too late. Karen loved him, never tried to change anything about him, and as a result Berger found himself changing for her on his own. She got pregnant and she apologized when she told him, cried, convinced that he would leave her. Instead of running, Berger cleaned up, got a job, nothing great, construction, but it was good enough. He married her because she never expected him to and they rented a tiny apartment in Brooklyn where they could raise the baby.
They had some good years before it started to dissolve into cold shoulders and heated arguments and eventually they admitted to themselves that it wasn’t working. Not anymore. He still loved her a little. She gave him a son who he loved more than anything and they remained friends for Michael’s sake. He was sixteen now, a better kid than Berger ever was. Berger still lived in Brooklyn, but Karen had moved out of the city after the divorce, picked up and moved with Michael out to Franklin Square. They used to meet in between, trading their son. Sometimes, now that Michael was old enough, he took the train in on the weekends and Berger met him at the station, wrapped an arm around him, laughed when he kissed the side of Michael’s head in greeting and Michael got embarrassed, pushed him away and said, “Dad, come on.”
Berger wasn’t proud of a lot of things, but he was proud of Michael. He was proud of himself for being there for Michael, for the relationship that they had even after he and Karen had fallen apart. If Michael resented Berger for any of it, he didn’t show it, and Berger cherished every second of their time together. He was a good father. Sometimes he forgot that and when he was reminded it always surprised him that he could be good at something like this.
It had been two or three years since the last time. Berger’d been busy, with Michael and his job. He had a girlfriend, Libby, who was too young for him. She recently broke up with him over something stupid and Berger thought it was just as well. They’d never had much in common and Michael hated her. Berger could tell that she didn’t particularly like Michael either, and for a while he’d been able to ignore that, focus on the ways that they were good together, but even then he’d known it wouldn’t work out.
It had been two or three years and Berger was walking through Washington Square Park with Michael when he saw Claude sitting on a bench.
He stopped talking in the middle of a sentence, stopped everything to stare.
This time Claude wasn’t young. The man sitting on his bench was in his forties. He looked weather worn, life worn. His hair was shaggy, too long, and he could use a shave.
Most important of all, he didn’t disappear when Berger turned his head.
“Dad,” Michael prodded, pushed at Berger’s shoulder. “Dad, what - let’s go. Do you know that guy? Dad?”
Berger shook his head.
“Nah,” Berger said. “He just looks like someone I used to know.”
“Woof?” Michael asked, pulling the only name he ever remembered from the stories that Berger hardly ever told.
“No, someone else.”
Berger kept walking, a hand on his son’s back until Michael got sick of it and walked faster so that Berger’s hand fell back to his side. Berger turned back only once to look and the man was still there, still sitting there oblivious to the people around him, staring at some pigeons by the fountain. Berger turned and followed his son out of the park.
**
He came back the next week without Michael. He wasn’t surprised to find the guy there again, different bench, but there, sitting in the same general area of the park. Berger sat on a bench across the path, held a newspaper on his lap, tried not to stare.
He remembered when he was young, when all he wanted was to be that man. There were days when he would have honestly said that he wanted it more than anything. Berger looked at him now and saw Claude in that man’s face and while it thrilled Berger to think of Claude alive and well, it hurt him to imagine Claude ending up here. The man had a patch on his jacket proclaiming himself a Vietnam vet. Berger could tell they were around the same age.
Berger started to let himself get carried away with it, started to imagine a world where this could be Claude Bukowski after all these years. Somehow he’d made it back. Maybe there was amnesia involved, maybe he’d gotten lost. Maybe he’d looked for Berger, but New York was a big place and Berger didn’t always want to be found in the years after Claude left.
Berger thought of scenarios even while he looked hard at the man and noted the differences. A scar on the exposed area of his chest. From the war, Berger thought. A mole on his neck, another near his hairline. From the sun. From age, Berger tried to reason. Under the stubble on the man’s face, Berger could see that there was a dimple in his chin. Claude didn’t have a chin cleft. Maybe it wasn’t a dimple at all. Maybe it was another scar?
He was openly staring now, probably looked crazy, his expression glazed over, distant. He shook his head, pulled himself back into the present. The man had caught him, was staring back, frowning. He turned away again now that Berger seemed to have regained awareness of his surroundings.
Berger folded his paper and leaned forward on the bench.
“Hey,” he said. “hey, guy.”
The guy just grunted, said, “What?”
“My name’s Berger,” he said. He went by George now half of the time, but he still thought of himself by his surname, still felt more like a Berger than a George. Berger stood from his bench, moved across the path to sit on the bench to the left of the man.
“Leave me alone,” the guy said.
It was to the point.
“Do you mind if I just sit here with you a while?” Berger asked. He could see now that he was closer that it was definitely a dimple, a cleft, not a scar. It didn’t matter.
“It’s a free country,” the guy returned. His voice sounded nothing like Claude’s as Berger remembered it.
“Thanks,” Berger said.
They sat there in silence for a while, listened to the passersby, to the birds in the trees. Berger watched a squirrel examine the newspaper he’d left on his old bench and then he said, “This was my dream, you know. When I was young. What we’re doing right now, I dreamed of this.”
The man turned to stare at him. He looked Berger up and down, probably trying to decide if it was worth starting a conversation. Eventually he sniffed and said, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Berger said. “I wanted to disappear into the city. Become a part of it, I guess.”
The guy shrugged, turned away.
“Do you feel that?” Berger pressed. “Sitting here, do you feel like you’re a part of it?”
“Are you on something?” the guy asked.
“No,” Berger said. It wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
**
The third time that Berger came to the park he brought sandwiches and coffee. He offered one of the sandwiches, a coffee, to the man on the bench. The man just looked at him, shrugged, and Berger set it down on the wood beside him. The sky was blue, full of perfect puffy clouds. The air was cool and the park was full of parents and children, students and people on their lunch breaks. Berger sat on the next bench over from his almost Claude, watched people go about their lives.
“What’s your name?” Berger asked. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, was only asking because he felt like he should.
“Charlie,” the man grunted. Berger closed his eyes and tried to transform the sound of one name into another.
“I’m Berger,” Berger said, leaned over and held out his hand.
Charlie didn’t take it, just eyed him and said, “I know. You told me the last time.”
“Oh,” Berger said, pulled his hand away. “Right.”
He unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite. The bread was a little soggy from the tomato, but he was hungry. It was good. Charlie watched him, didn’t touch the second sandwich that Berger had brought.
“Do you have kids?” Berger asked eventually.
“No,” Charlie said.
“I do,” Berger told him, not sure why he would bother to confide this. “A son. Michael. He’s turning seventeen soon. Thinking about college.” He paused, thought back to Sheila curled up on a couch studying for this exam or that final. He thought of Claude, dropped out before the end of his first semester. He knew why he was confiding. If this was Claude - it wasn’t, but if it was - there were things that he’d want Claude to know. He’d want Claude to know about Michael. “He’s a good kid. Smart. I didn’t even finish high school.”
“Hm,” Charlie grunted.
Charlie wasn’t looking at him and Berger stared at his profile. The chin was different, and the nose was pointier, but if Berger let himself unfocus a little, blurred the lines, it was Claude sitting beside him, alive and forty five. Berger’s heart beat faster at the thought and he leaned in, didn’t know what he meant to say until it was out of his mouth.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you want to get cleaned up or something? I’ve got a place. I can buy you dinner.”
He didn’t have a place. He wasn’t taking this guy back to Brooklyn. He wasn’t young anymore and he wasn’t crazy. Somewhere along the way he’d lost some of his nerve and this wasn’t Claude no matter how much he wished otherwise. He knew of a hotel though, one Karen’s mother liked to stay in when she came to town. Which meant it wasn’t that expensive. Berger was between jobs, but he was on a new job site in two weeks and he had some money saved up. He could do this. He wanted this.
“I’m not homeless,” Charlie said.
“What?” Berger asked, realized he hadn’t been paying attention for the answer.
“I’ve got a home,” Charlie repeated, offended. He looked just like Claude when Berger would purposely say something just to get him going.
“Oh,” Berger said. “I thought - you’re here a lot.”
“Do you have a home?” It was exactly the sort of smart ass response Claude would have come back with and Berger caught himself grinning at Charlie as though they were sharing some kind of private joke. Charlie just shook his head.
Berger thought about it for a moment, tried to convince himself that the best thing to do was let it drop. Instead he tried, “Do you want to come with me anyway?”
Charlie looked Berger up and down. Berger braced himself for rejection, tried to remind himself for the hundredth time that this wasn’t Claude, that this was some random guy he was trying to pick up from a bench in Washington Square Park. This guy had no reason to want -
“All right,” Charlie said.
**
They stood on opposite sides of the hotel room. Charlie stood by the bathroom, Berger by the door to the hall. Charlie took off his coat, the one with the veterans badge, and threw it over a chair.
They’d gone to a diner and Berger had hinted at what he was looking for, didn’t come right out and say it, didn’t want Charlie to make a scene in the restaurant. Instead he’d hinted about the room, watched Charlie eat, thought about Claude. Now that they were here he wasn’t sure, thought he should have said it in public, didn’t know if Charlie understood.
“I’m not letting you stick anything in me,” Charlie said. He understood.
Berger winced. Claude never said shit like that. That had been Berger’s department, and even then, he never would have said anything like that to Claude. He couldn’t have said this out loud then, but Berger knew it now. He would have done anything for Claude, with Claude. Anything.
“Okay,” Berger agreed. “Okay, that’s fine.” He thought about it for a minute, amended the fantasy that had been forming in his head since he’d blurted the offer on the park bench, then said. “You can fuck me if you want to.”
Charlie shrugged again. “All right,” he agreed.
They stood there and stared at each other and finally Berger unbuttoned his shirt. The guy just watched him, not moving, arms folded across his chest.
Berger wondered what would happen if Berger tried to kiss him. Would he punch Berger in the face? Kick him and leave him hunched over on the floor of the room? Berger looked down at the hair on his own chest. A decent percentage of it was turning gray now. Twenty five years did that to a person.
Berger stared down at his chest and remembered how young they were. They didn’t know shit about the world, thought they knew it all.
Charlie was looking at him with eyes that looked like Claude’s. Berger thought Claude’s eyes might look just like that if Claude’s eyes had ever seen forty five.
“What the hell,” Berger said and closed the distance between them.
Charlie didn’t unfold his arms from his chest but he didn’t punch Berger either, let Berger kiss him.
“Come on,” Berger said. And then before he lost his nerve, he added, “Please.”
And Charlie got it, unwrapped his arms from himself and wrapped them around Berger instead. Charlie kissed Berger back and his mouth didn’t feel the same as Berger remembered, but it was close. It was close enough.
He thought he should let this Claude know. He thought he should tell him that this wasn’t something that Berger ever did anymore, pick up random men in the park, that he was special, that Berger loved him for fulfilling this gap. He didn’t say anything, just kissed this stranger, kissed him and closed his eyes, dreamed of falling back twenty five years, dreamed of kissing Claude instead.
He’d never really had a chance to say goodbye. He’d been too stubborn, too blind. He’d tried to hold on and he’d failed. Claude had left and Berger hadn’t been ready, he hadn’t taken the time to prepare himself.
Berger needed this. He needed this even if this wasn’t Claude, even if it was some random man from Washington Square. It had been twenty five years, Berger had moved on, but that didn’t mean that Berger didn’t want the chance to finally say goodbye.
His chin was rough against Berger’s cheek and Berger relished in the scratch of it, slipped his tongue between Claude’s lips and tasted the coffee from the diner, the hint of cigarettes. He remembered the hours he’d spent with Claude lying under the trees of Central Park, kisses like raindrops, like a summer shower that lasted all afternoon. Sometimes when they touched, Berger felt the earth stop spinning, felt like he could live in that moment forever. Berger had loved, he’d been happy, but he hadn’t had a kiss that could stop time in twenty five years.
“Who’s to say?” Claude whispered in his ear. “Who’s to say that if I’d stayed it could have lasted anyway? Maybe you’d still be here, in this room with this man, wishing it was me. Maybe I’d be somewhere else with someone wishing it was you. Maybe if I’d stayed you wouldn’t want to be here with me at all.”
Berger ignored it, didn’t want to think that they might not mean anything to each other now anyway, that Claude might have gone the way of Sheila, the way of everyone that Berger had lost touch with from those years. Not Claude.
Berger sucked at Claude’s mouth, swallowed one kiss only to be filled by another. He wanted them, needed them to keep coming until his stomach and his heart were full. He kissed Claude’s teeth and the scar on his chin.
“Jesus,” Charlie said. His lips broke their kiss and his voice broke the spell. “When is the last time you got laid, guy?”
Berger was pushed against him, his erection pressed to Charlie’s thigh, his hands in Charlie’s unkempt hair. He released Charlie now, pulled back, asked, “Do you want to stop?” sure that he’d changed his mind, that he’d decided that Berger wanted too much, that a meal ticket wasn’t worth this.
“No,” Charlie said, as though it was the stupidest question Berger’d asked since they’d met. He reached out and curled a hand behind Berger’s head, his fingers tugging a little at the short hairs at the back of Berger’s neck. “Don’t think we need to stop.”
He pulled Berger back in and Berger let his head drop so that his face came to rest against Charlie’s chest. He pressed his nose to Charlie’s t-shirt. The guy hadn’t been lying to him. There was no way he was homeless. He didn’t carry any money or identification, true. He was unshaven and his clothes were old and full of holes, but they smelled vaguely of detergent, only the hint of sweat from an afternoon in the sun.
Berger kneeled before him, pushed up the faded green shirt, kissed his stomach. He used to do this to Claude. Claude would be busy with something else, deep in a conversation with Jeanie or Hud, and Berger would crawl up to him, fingers walking up the length of Claude’s jeans to tug a little at the waist. Every time Claude would get nervous, try to push him away, but Berger would press on, mime the blow job until Claude’s face was red and he was apologizing to whoever Berger had interrupted.
It wasn’t long though before Claude’s hand found its way to tangle into Berger’s hair and eventually they’d settle that way, Berger’s arms wrapped around Claude’s waist, his mouth pressing kisses into Claude’s stomach. They’d stay that way until Claude’s legs began to ache from Berger’s leaning and then they’d tumble into the grass together, a twisted pretzel of limbs and mouths and love.
Berger wrapped his arms around Charlie’s waist, pressed a kiss to Charlie’s stomach and closed his eyes when he felt Charlie’s fingers comb through his hair. Just like Claude, Berger thought.
The scratch of Claude’s fingers against Berger’s scalp disappeared as Claude pulled his shirt over his head. He reached for Berger’s arms, unwrapped them from his waist, pulled Berger back to his feet and kissed him, mouth hot against Berger’s. His fingers traced the muscles of Berger’s biceps, wrapped around them, testing, caressing. They slid down to pause on Berger’s wrists, their hands folding together for just a moment before Claude’s slipped away, moved on to the next step, the button to Berger’s jeans.
They moved quickly after that, clothes torn away, hands everywhere.
“I need a condom,” Charlie said and Berger fumbled for his jacket, pulled one from his wallet, from behind Michael’s class picture, and pushed it into Charlie’s hand.
Finally they were ready, prepared, Berger safely back in his fantasy and Claude kneeling between his legs, leaning over him and pushing in, slow, slow. It had been so fucking long and Berger sucked in a breath through his teeth, slowly out his nose, stretched and relaxed and remembered that this was Claude. He’d done this with Claude so many times and now here they were again.
As Claude pulled out and then slid slowly back in, Berger’s hiss melted to a groan. Claude pressed his open mouth to Berger’s and captured the groans with his tongue.
Jesus, he’d never found anything else like this. It had never been the same as this, not with Sheila or Karen or Libby. He’d loved them all so much but he’d never been able to match what he remembered having with Claude. Not with anyone else.
Berger’s orgasm came too quickly, shook through him as he called out and spilled over his hand, his stomach. He bucked beneath Claude, held on, afraid that Claude might slip away. His heart thudded in his chest, beating the rhythm of Claude’s name. Claude. Claudio. The love of his fucking life.
Claude didn’t leave him. He kept moving, watched as Berger shuddered with each thrust. Berger reached for him and Claude leaned back in, kissed him as he pushed into Berger again. Again. Berger could hear himself talking into their kiss, words sliding in around their tongues. It was all ridiculous, the words, but Claude understood, kissed Berger though the professions, the love story. It wasn’t long before Claude was pounding against him, frantic for release.
Claude cried out in Charlie’s voice as he came, curling in until his hair brushed against Berger’s neck. Berger’s legs ached and his body strummed and he wrapped his arm around Claude, held him close even as Claude slid out, pulled away. Berger whispered his goodbyes into the air between them.
When Berger opened his eyes again he was alone in the bed. Charlie was shuffling around beside him, collecting his clothes from where they’d fallen on the floor. He’d created piles beside Berger on the sheets. Charlie’s clothes in one pile, Berger’s in the other.
He moved to add Berger’s t-shirt to the pile and Berger reached out to catch it as it fell.
They stared at each other for a moment and then Charlie leaned over to pull his belt from beneath the bed. When he stood he said, “My name isn’t Claude.”
“I know,” Berger said.
“It’s Charlie,” Charlie reminded him.
“Right,” Berger said. He could feel the burn of the words on his face. “Right, I know. I’m sorry.”
Charlie watched as Berger pulled away, sat up and shifted until he was perched naked on the edge of the bed. He sifted through the pile of clothes that Charlie had made for him, found his underwear toward the bottom.
“It’s okay,” Charlie said. He began pulling his shirts back over his head.
“Charlie,” Berger said when they were both dressed, right as Charlie was about to reach for the door.
“Yeah?”
“Do you mind if I still come to see you?” Berger asked. “In the park. We don’t have to - we don’t have to do this again. I’d just like to come sit with you, if that’s all right.”
“It’s a free country,” Charlie shrugged as he disappeared down the hall.
Berger stood in the room, turned to make sure he had all of his things. He checked the contents of his wallet, ran his fingers over the torn edge of Michael’s photo. He leafed through the bills, felt like an asshole for even checking. He had everything. He took one last look around and then he left.
**
It was a week and a half before Berger found himself back in Washington Square Park with a cup of coffee in each hand. He had his reasons for taking so long. He’d spent time with Michael, he had errands, it had been a good week for television. Except for Michael, they were all sorry excuses. After a week and a half of them Berger gave in, sought him out.
Charlie was easy enough to find. He was on the same bench he’d been at when Berger first saw him and when he looked up as Berger approached, Berger felt his breath catch in his throat.
He sat down beside Charlie. Neither of them spoke, but when Berger handed Charlie one of the cups of coffee, Charlie took it from him, brought the cup to his lips. Berger could feel his heart pounding in his head as their fingers brushed. The start of the headache, he reasoned, and he gulped at his own coffee, hoped the caffeine might help.
He needed to let this go. Charlie wasn’t what Berger was looking for. He was just some vagabond. He was a stranger who only tolerated Berger’s presence here. He was a stranger who had kissed back when Berger asked.
He wasn’t sure how long they sat there in silence. It might have been twenty minutes. It was probably closer to forty. Charlie finished his coffee and flicked the edge of the plastic top between his fingers.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Charlie said eventually. Berger jumped at the sound of his voice, had become used to the quiet between them.
“Wasn’t sure you’d want to,” Berger said.
Charlie didn’t respond. He’d been studying Berger and when Berger turned to return the glance, Charlie shrugged. It was his standard response to most things, Berger had learned.
“I wanted to thank you,” Berger admitted. The words felt thick and hard, but he needed to say them.
“Don’t,” Charlie said, shook his head.
“Thank you,” Berger repeated. He sat up straight on the bench, had always felt that somehow good posture made the words mean more.
Charlie sighed then, nodded, accepted. Berger relaxed and took a sip of his coffee, watched a kid splash water from the fountain into his brother’s face. He’d done this very thing with Claude, lured him too close, once went so far as to push him in, then kissed water from Claude’s wet cheeks.
“We all lost a lot of friends,” Charlie said after another long moment. “In Vietnam.”
Berger didn’t expect the turn in the conversation, didn’t know what to say.
“It was a long time ago now,” Berger said and then wished he could bite back on the words. He hadn’t been there. He didn’t know how it was.
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it,” Charlie said. He wasn’t angry.
“I’m sorry,” Berger said.
“I’m sorry too,” Charlie returned. “I’m sorry about Claude.”
Berger looked up, turned to study Charlie’s face. Charlie’s mouth twitched as Berger studied him, the dark eyes set just a little too close, the heavy eyebrows, the dimple in his chin. Berger felt the urge to thank him again, felt the urge to kiss him here and now. He didn’t do it. Twenty years ago he would have kissed him here.
“Yeah,” Berger said instead. He turned back to the fountain but the kids were gone, had rushed off to play somewhere else, and Berger was left with nothing to concentrate on but Charlie’s words, nothing but the hint of understanding, of friendship, in Charlie’s eyes. “Yeah, me too.”
Pairing(s): Berger/Claude, Berger/OMC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4,700
Summary: It had been twenty five years and felt longer, but even with those years between them, once in a while Berger still saw Claude.
The Man in Washington Square
It had been twenty five years and felt longer, but even with those years between them, once in a while Berger still saw Claude. He saw him at Woodstock not long after Claude left. He still believed then that Claude might come back and he chased him through the field. He saw Claude a hundred times in that crowd, covered in mud, screaming at the moon. He saw him in the park a year later, collecting highway tolls in New Jersey six years after that. He saw him on the subway and in the supermarket and sitting across the aisle on a plane. Usually he just caught him out of the corner of his eye, that same smile, the way his eyes would crinkle with it. He would turn to say something and Claude would transform into someone else, someone who looked nothing like Claude except for that same crinkle to the eye, someone who had hair the same color or happened to be the same height.
It didn’t happen often. Most of the time Berger lived his life with his feet firmly in the present. He’d moved on and he didn’t think a lot about those years. He went months, sometimes years, and then something would bring it all back and he’d wonder how he’d gone so long without thinking about them. In twenty five years, Berger thought he saw Claude a total of maybe fifteen times. And somehow in those twenty five years, while Claude stayed young and beautiful and smiling, somehow Berger grew up and became something of a responsible member of society.
It had a lot to do with his ex-wife, Karen. She was the complete opposite of Sheila. He found her when he wasn’t looking and he didn’t know what he had until it was almost too late. Karen loved him, never tried to change anything about him, and as a result Berger found himself changing for her on his own. She got pregnant and she apologized when she told him, cried, convinced that he would leave her. Instead of running, Berger cleaned up, got a job, nothing great, construction, but it was good enough. He married her because she never expected him to and they rented a tiny apartment in Brooklyn where they could raise the baby.
They had some good years before it started to dissolve into cold shoulders and heated arguments and eventually they admitted to themselves that it wasn’t working. Not anymore. He still loved her a little. She gave him a son who he loved more than anything and they remained friends for Michael’s sake. He was sixteen now, a better kid than Berger ever was. Berger still lived in Brooklyn, but Karen had moved out of the city after the divorce, picked up and moved with Michael out to Franklin Square. They used to meet in between, trading their son. Sometimes, now that Michael was old enough, he took the train in on the weekends and Berger met him at the station, wrapped an arm around him, laughed when he kissed the side of Michael’s head in greeting and Michael got embarrassed, pushed him away and said, “Dad, come on.”
Berger wasn’t proud of a lot of things, but he was proud of Michael. He was proud of himself for being there for Michael, for the relationship that they had even after he and Karen had fallen apart. If Michael resented Berger for any of it, he didn’t show it, and Berger cherished every second of their time together. He was a good father. Sometimes he forgot that and when he was reminded it always surprised him that he could be good at something like this.
It had been two or three years since the last time. Berger’d been busy, with Michael and his job. He had a girlfriend, Libby, who was too young for him. She recently broke up with him over something stupid and Berger thought it was just as well. They’d never had much in common and Michael hated her. Berger could tell that she didn’t particularly like Michael either, and for a while he’d been able to ignore that, focus on the ways that they were good together, but even then he’d known it wouldn’t work out.
It had been two or three years and Berger was walking through Washington Square Park with Michael when he saw Claude sitting on a bench.
He stopped talking in the middle of a sentence, stopped everything to stare.
This time Claude wasn’t young. The man sitting on his bench was in his forties. He looked weather worn, life worn. His hair was shaggy, too long, and he could use a shave.
Most important of all, he didn’t disappear when Berger turned his head.
“Dad,” Michael prodded, pushed at Berger’s shoulder. “Dad, what - let’s go. Do you know that guy? Dad?”
Berger shook his head.
“Nah,” Berger said. “He just looks like someone I used to know.”
“Woof?” Michael asked, pulling the only name he ever remembered from the stories that Berger hardly ever told.
“No, someone else.”
Berger kept walking, a hand on his son’s back until Michael got sick of it and walked faster so that Berger’s hand fell back to his side. Berger turned back only once to look and the man was still there, still sitting there oblivious to the people around him, staring at some pigeons by the fountain. Berger turned and followed his son out of the park.
**
He came back the next week without Michael. He wasn’t surprised to find the guy there again, different bench, but there, sitting in the same general area of the park. Berger sat on a bench across the path, held a newspaper on his lap, tried not to stare.
He remembered when he was young, when all he wanted was to be that man. There were days when he would have honestly said that he wanted it more than anything. Berger looked at him now and saw Claude in that man’s face and while it thrilled Berger to think of Claude alive and well, it hurt him to imagine Claude ending up here. The man had a patch on his jacket proclaiming himself a Vietnam vet. Berger could tell they were around the same age.
Berger started to let himself get carried away with it, started to imagine a world where this could be Claude Bukowski after all these years. Somehow he’d made it back. Maybe there was amnesia involved, maybe he’d gotten lost. Maybe he’d looked for Berger, but New York was a big place and Berger didn’t always want to be found in the years after Claude left.
Berger thought of scenarios even while he looked hard at the man and noted the differences. A scar on the exposed area of his chest. From the war, Berger thought. A mole on his neck, another near his hairline. From the sun. From age, Berger tried to reason. Under the stubble on the man’s face, Berger could see that there was a dimple in his chin. Claude didn’t have a chin cleft. Maybe it wasn’t a dimple at all. Maybe it was another scar?
He was openly staring now, probably looked crazy, his expression glazed over, distant. He shook his head, pulled himself back into the present. The man had caught him, was staring back, frowning. He turned away again now that Berger seemed to have regained awareness of his surroundings.
Berger folded his paper and leaned forward on the bench.
“Hey,” he said. “hey, guy.”
The guy just grunted, said, “What?”
“My name’s Berger,” he said. He went by George now half of the time, but he still thought of himself by his surname, still felt more like a Berger than a George. Berger stood from his bench, moved across the path to sit on the bench to the left of the man.
“Leave me alone,” the guy said.
It was to the point.
“Do you mind if I just sit here with you a while?” Berger asked. He could see now that he was closer that it was definitely a dimple, a cleft, not a scar. It didn’t matter.
“It’s a free country,” the guy returned. His voice sounded nothing like Claude’s as Berger remembered it.
“Thanks,” Berger said.
They sat there in silence for a while, listened to the passersby, to the birds in the trees. Berger watched a squirrel examine the newspaper he’d left on his old bench and then he said, “This was my dream, you know. When I was young. What we’re doing right now, I dreamed of this.”
The man turned to stare at him. He looked Berger up and down, probably trying to decide if it was worth starting a conversation. Eventually he sniffed and said, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Berger said. “I wanted to disappear into the city. Become a part of it, I guess.”
The guy shrugged, turned away.
“Do you feel that?” Berger pressed. “Sitting here, do you feel like you’re a part of it?”
“Are you on something?” the guy asked.
“No,” Berger said. It wasn’t the answer he was looking for.
**
The third time that Berger came to the park he brought sandwiches and coffee. He offered one of the sandwiches, a coffee, to the man on the bench. The man just looked at him, shrugged, and Berger set it down on the wood beside him. The sky was blue, full of perfect puffy clouds. The air was cool and the park was full of parents and children, students and people on their lunch breaks. Berger sat on the next bench over from his almost Claude, watched people go about their lives.
“What’s your name?” Berger asked. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, was only asking because he felt like he should.
“Charlie,” the man grunted. Berger closed his eyes and tried to transform the sound of one name into another.
“I’m Berger,” Berger said, leaned over and held out his hand.
Charlie didn’t take it, just eyed him and said, “I know. You told me the last time.”
“Oh,” Berger said, pulled his hand away. “Right.”
He unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite. The bread was a little soggy from the tomato, but he was hungry. It was good. Charlie watched him, didn’t touch the second sandwich that Berger had brought.
“Do you have kids?” Berger asked eventually.
“No,” Charlie said.
“I do,” Berger told him, not sure why he would bother to confide this. “A son. Michael. He’s turning seventeen soon. Thinking about college.” He paused, thought back to Sheila curled up on a couch studying for this exam or that final. He thought of Claude, dropped out before the end of his first semester. He knew why he was confiding. If this was Claude - it wasn’t, but if it was - there were things that he’d want Claude to know. He’d want Claude to know about Michael. “He’s a good kid. Smart. I didn’t even finish high school.”
“Hm,” Charlie grunted.
Charlie wasn’t looking at him and Berger stared at his profile. The chin was different, and the nose was pointier, but if Berger let himself unfocus a little, blurred the lines, it was Claude sitting beside him, alive and forty five. Berger’s heart beat faster at the thought and he leaned in, didn’t know what he meant to say until it was out of his mouth.
“Listen,” he said. “Do you want to get cleaned up or something? I’ve got a place. I can buy you dinner.”
He didn’t have a place. He wasn’t taking this guy back to Brooklyn. He wasn’t young anymore and he wasn’t crazy. Somewhere along the way he’d lost some of his nerve and this wasn’t Claude no matter how much he wished otherwise. He knew of a hotel though, one Karen’s mother liked to stay in when she came to town. Which meant it wasn’t that expensive. Berger was between jobs, but he was on a new job site in two weeks and he had some money saved up. He could do this. He wanted this.
“I’m not homeless,” Charlie said.
“What?” Berger asked, realized he hadn’t been paying attention for the answer.
“I’ve got a home,” Charlie repeated, offended. He looked just like Claude when Berger would purposely say something just to get him going.
“Oh,” Berger said. “I thought - you’re here a lot.”
“Do you have a home?” It was exactly the sort of smart ass response Claude would have come back with and Berger caught himself grinning at Charlie as though they were sharing some kind of private joke. Charlie just shook his head.
Berger thought about it for a moment, tried to convince himself that the best thing to do was let it drop. Instead he tried, “Do you want to come with me anyway?”
Charlie looked Berger up and down. Berger braced himself for rejection, tried to remind himself for the hundredth time that this wasn’t Claude, that this was some random guy he was trying to pick up from a bench in Washington Square Park. This guy had no reason to want -
“All right,” Charlie said.
**
They stood on opposite sides of the hotel room. Charlie stood by the bathroom, Berger by the door to the hall. Charlie took off his coat, the one with the veterans badge, and threw it over a chair.
They’d gone to a diner and Berger had hinted at what he was looking for, didn’t come right out and say it, didn’t want Charlie to make a scene in the restaurant. Instead he’d hinted about the room, watched Charlie eat, thought about Claude. Now that they were here he wasn’t sure, thought he should have said it in public, didn’t know if Charlie understood.
“I’m not letting you stick anything in me,” Charlie said. He understood.
Berger winced. Claude never said shit like that. That had been Berger’s department, and even then, he never would have said anything like that to Claude. He couldn’t have said this out loud then, but Berger knew it now. He would have done anything for Claude, with Claude. Anything.
“Okay,” Berger agreed. “Okay, that’s fine.” He thought about it for a minute, amended the fantasy that had been forming in his head since he’d blurted the offer on the park bench, then said. “You can fuck me if you want to.”
Charlie shrugged again. “All right,” he agreed.
They stood there and stared at each other and finally Berger unbuttoned his shirt. The guy just watched him, not moving, arms folded across his chest.
Berger wondered what would happen if Berger tried to kiss him. Would he punch Berger in the face? Kick him and leave him hunched over on the floor of the room? Berger looked down at the hair on his own chest. A decent percentage of it was turning gray now. Twenty five years did that to a person.
Berger stared down at his chest and remembered how young they were. They didn’t know shit about the world, thought they knew it all.
Charlie was looking at him with eyes that looked like Claude’s. Berger thought Claude’s eyes might look just like that if Claude’s eyes had ever seen forty five.
“What the hell,” Berger said and closed the distance between them.
Charlie didn’t unfold his arms from his chest but he didn’t punch Berger either, let Berger kiss him.
“Come on,” Berger said. And then before he lost his nerve, he added, “Please.”
And Charlie got it, unwrapped his arms from himself and wrapped them around Berger instead. Charlie kissed Berger back and his mouth didn’t feel the same as Berger remembered, but it was close. It was close enough.
He thought he should let this Claude know. He thought he should tell him that this wasn’t something that Berger ever did anymore, pick up random men in the park, that he was special, that Berger loved him for fulfilling this gap. He didn’t say anything, just kissed this stranger, kissed him and closed his eyes, dreamed of falling back twenty five years, dreamed of kissing Claude instead.
He’d never really had a chance to say goodbye. He’d been too stubborn, too blind. He’d tried to hold on and he’d failed. Claude had left and Berger hadn’t been ready, he hadn’t taken the time to prepare himself.
Berger needed this. He needed this even if this wasn’t Claude, even if it was some random man from Washington Square. It had been twenty five years, Berger had moved on, but that didn’t mean that Berger didn’t want the chance to finally say goodbye.
His chin was rough against Berger’s cheek and Berger relished in the scratch of it, slipped his tongue between Claude’s lips and tasted the coffee from the diner, the hint of cigarettes. He remembered the hours he’d spent with Claude lying under the trees of Central Park, kisses like raindrops, like a summer shower that lasted all afternoon. Sometimes when they touched, Berger felt the earth stop spinning, felt like he could live in that moment forever. Berger had loved, he’d been happy, but he hadn’t had a kiss that could stop time in twenty five years.
“Who’s to say?” Claude whispered in his ear. “Who’s to say that if I’d stayed it could have lasted anyway? Maybe you’d still be here, in this room with this man, wishing it was me. Maybe I’d be somewhere else with someone wishing it was you. Maybe if I’d stayed you wouldn’t want to be here with me at all.”
Berger ignored it, didn’t want to think that they might not mean anything to each other now anyway, that Claude might have gone the way of Sheila, the way of everyone that Berger had lost touch with from those years. Not Claude.
Berger sucked at Claude’s mouth, swallowed one kiss only to be filled by another. He wanted them, needed them to keep coming until his stomach and his heart were full. He kissed Claude’s teeth and the scar on his chin.
“Jesus,” Charlie said. His lips broke their kiss and his voice broke the spell. “When is the last time you got laid, guy?”
Berger was pushed against him, his erection pressed to Charlie’s thigh, his hands in Charlie’s unkempt hair. He released Charlie now, pulled back, asked, “Do you want to stop?” sure that he’d changed his mind, that he’d decided that Berger wanted too much, that a meal ticket wasn’t worth this.
“No,” Charlie said, as though it was the stupidest question Berger’d asked since they’d met. He reached out and curled a hand behind Berger’s head, his fingers tugging a little at the short hairs at the back of Berger’s neck. “Don’t think we need to stop.”
He pulled Berger back in and Berger let his head drop so that his face came to rest against Charlie’s chest. He pressed his nose to Charlie’s t-shirt. The guy hadn’t been lying to him. There was no way he was homeless. He didn’t carry any money or identification, true. He was unshaven and his clothes were old and full of holes, but they smelled vaguely of detergent, only the hint of sweat from an afternoon in the sun.
Berger kneeled before him, pushed up the faded green shirt, kissed his stomach. He used to do this to Claude. Claude would be busy with something else, deep in a conversation with Jeanie or Hud, and Berger would crawl up to him, fingers walking up the length of Claude’s jeans to tug a little at the waist. Every time Claude would get nervous, try to push him away, but Berger would press on, mime the blow job until Claude’s face was red and he was apologizing to whoever Berger had interrupted.
It wasn’t long though before Claude’s hand found its way to tangle into Berger’s hair and eventually they’d settle that way, Berger’s arms wrapped around Claude’s waist, his mouth pressing kisses into Claude’s stomach. They’d stay that way until Claude’s legs began to ache from Berger’s leaning and then they’d tumble into the grass together, a twisted pretzel of limbs and mouths and love.
Berger wrapped his arms around Charlie’s waist, pressed a kiss to Charlie’s stomach and closed his eyes when he felt Charlie’s fingers comb through his hair. Just like Claude, Berger thought.
The scratch of Claude’s fingers against Berger’s scalp disappeared as Claude pulled his shirt over his head. He reached for Berger’s arms, unwrapped them from his waist, pulled Berger back to his feet and kissed him, mouth hot against Berger’s. His fingers traced the muscles of Berger’s biceps, wrapped around them, testing, caressing. They slid down to pause on Berger’s wrists, their hands folding together for just a moment before Claude’s slipped away, moved on to the next step, the button to Berger’s jeans.
They moved quickly after that, clothes torn away, hands everywhere.
“I need a condom,” Charlie said and Berger fumbled for his jacket, pulled one from his wallet, from behind Michael’s class picture, and pushed it into Charlie’s hand.
Finally they were ready, prepared, Berger safely back in his fantasy and Claude kneeling between his legs, leaning over him and pushing in, slow, slow. It had been so fucking long and Berger sucked in a breath through his teeth, slowly out his nose, stretched and relaxed and remembered that this was Claude. He’d done this with Claude so many times and now here they were again.
As Claude pulled out and then slid slowly back in, Berger’s hiss melted to a groan. Claude pressed his open mouth to Berger’s and captured the groans with his tongue.
Jesus, he’d never found anything else like this. It had never been the same as this, not with Sheila or Karen or Libby. He’d loved them all so much but he’d never been able to match what he remembered having with Claude. Not with anyone else.
Berger’s orgasm came too quickly, shook through him as he called out and spilled over his hand, his stomach. He bucked beneath Claude, held on, afraid that Claude might slip away. His heart thudded in his chest, beating the rhythm of Claude’s name. Claude. Claudio. The love of his fucking life.
Claude didn’t leave him. He kept moving, watched as Berger shuddered with each thrust. Berger reached for him and Claude leaned back in, kissed him as he pushed into Berger again. Again. Berger could hear himself talking into their kiss, words sliding in around their tongues. It was all ridiculous, the words, but Claude understood, kissed Berger though the professions, the love story. It wasn’t long before Claude was pounding against him, frantic for release.
Claude cried out in Charlie’s voice as he came, curling in until his hair brushed against Berger’s neck. Berger’s legs ached and his body strummed and he wrapped his arm around Claude, held him close even as Claude slid out, pulled away. Berger whispered his goodbyes into the air between them.
When Berger opened his eyes again he was alone in the bed. Charlie was shuffling around beside him, collecting his clothes from where they’d fallen on the floor. He’d created piles beside Berger on the sheets. Charlie’s clothes in one pile, Berger’s in the other.
He moved to add Berger’s t-shirt to the pile and Berger reached out to catch it as it fell.
They stared at each other for a moment and then Charlie leaned over to pull his belt from beneath the bed. When he stood he said, “My name isn’t Claude.”
“I know,” Berger said.
“It’s Charlie,” Charlie reminded him.
“Right,” Berger said. He could feel the burn of the words on his face. “Right, I know. I’m sorry.”
Charlie watched as Berger pulled away, sat up and shifted until he was perched naked on the edge of the bed. He sifted through the pile of clothes that Charlie had made for him, found his underwear toward the bottom.
“It’s okay,” Charlie said. He began pulling his shirts back over his head.
“Charlie,” Berger said when they were both dressed, right as Charlie was about to reach for the door.
“Yeah?”
“Do you mind if I still come to see you?” Berger asked. “In the park. We don’t have to - we don’t have to do this again. I’d just like to come sit with you, if that’s all right.”
“It’s a free country,” Charlie shrugged as he disappeared down the hall.
Berger stood in the room, turned to make sure he had all of his things. He checked the contents of his wallet, ran his fingers over the torn edge of Michael’s photo. He leafed through the bills, felt like an asshole for even checking. He had everything. He took one last look around and then he left.
**
It was a week and a half before Berger found himself back in Washington Square Park with a cup of coffee in each hand. He had his reasons for taking so long. He’d spent time with Michael, he had errands, it had been a good week for television. Except for Michael, they were all sorry excuses. After a week and a half of them Berger gave in, sought him out.
Charlie was easy enough to find. He was on the same bench he’d been at when Berger first saw him and when he looked up as Berger approached, Berger felt his breath catch in his throat.
He sat down beside Charlie. Neither of them spoke, but when Berger handed Charlie one of the cups of coffee, Charlie took it from him, brought the cup to his lips. Berger could feel his heart pounding in his head as their fingers brushed. The start of the headache, he reasoned, and he gulped at his own coffee, hoped the caffeine might help.
He needed to let this go. Charlie wasn’t what Berger was looking for. He was just some vagabond. He was a stranger who only tolerated Berger’s presence here. He was a stranger who had kissed back when Berger asked.
He wasn’t sure how long they sat there in silence. It might have been twenty minutes. It was probably closer to forty. Charlie finished his coffee and flicked the edge of the plastic top between his fingers.
“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Charlie said eventually. Berger jumped at the sound of his voice, had become used to the quiet between them.
“Wasn’t sure you’d want to,” Berger said.
Charlie didn’t respond. He’d been studying Berger and when Berger turned to return the glance, Charlie shrugged. It was his standard response to most things, Berger had learned.
“I wanted to thank you,” Berger admitted. The words felt thick and hard, but he needed to say them.
“Don’t,” Charlie said, shook his head.
“Thank you,” Berger repeated. He sat up straight on the bench, had always felt that somehow good posture made the words mean more.
Charlie sighed then, nodded, accepted. Berger relaxed and took a sip of his coffee, watched a kid splash water from the fountain into his brother’s face. He’d done this very thing with Claude, lured him too close, once went so far as to push him in, then kissed water from Claude’s wet cheeks.
“We all lost a lot of friends,” Charlie said after another long moment. “In Vietnam.”
Berger didn’t expect the turn in the conversation, didn’t know what to say.
“It was a long time ago now,” Berger said and then wished he could bite back on the words. He hadn’t been there. He didn’t know how it was.
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it,” Charlie said. He wasn’t angry.
“I’m sorry,” Berger said.
“I’m sorry too,” Charlie returned. “I’m sorry about Claude.”
Berger looked up, turned to study Charlie’s face. Charlie’s mouth twitched as Berger studied him, the dark eyes set just a little too close, the heavy eyebrows, the dimple in his chin. Berger felt the urge to thank him again, felt the urge to kiss him here and now. He didn’t do it. Twenty years ago he would have kissed him here.
“Yeah,” Berger said instead. He turned back to the fountain but the kids were gone, had rushed off to play somewhere else, and Berger was left with nothing to concentrate on but Charlie’s words, nothing but the hint of understanding, of friendship, in Charlie’s eyes. “Yeah, me too.”