There was no trace of Indiana in the Julius that most people knew. Not in his candid, blasé demeanor, or his sophisticated wardrobe, or his expert knowledge of the Manhattan grid and the confounding subway system beneath it, or how— like most inhabitants of the city— he had no shortage of disdain towards other transplants: the yokels from states like Wyoming or Ohio who cluelessly gave away their origins with broad smiles, and the droves of shuffling tourists, gawking at skyscrapers while taking up entire sidewalks in Midtown (Julius viewed tourists as one of the city’s four plagues, the other three being: rats, roaches, and festering curbside garbage). By all accounts, he was an authentic New Yorker; at the very least, he could easily be mistaken for one. But if there was ever a time when his identity might be questioned, it was on the few occasions— two or three times a year— when Frank Rowe came to town.
Big and broad-shouldered, Frank coached football at Terre Haute’s North Vigo High School. The only television he watched was Sunday night NFL and the news; the only movies he'd seen all the way through were Frozen and Frozen 2, on the account of having two little girls at home, ages five and seven. With his loud voice, his deep-chested laugh, his navy windbreaker and baseball cap, he seemed like someone Julius should have no possible connection to— and yet the fact of the matter was that this man, this salt-of-the-earth Midwesterner, was his father. Here was living proof of a past that Julius would much rather deny, one that he did deny whenever Frank wasn’t around. But he couldn’t deny Frank. His father had been a constant presence all his life, solid and dependable and loving, the opposite of his flighty mother in every way; and in spite of local expectations, Frank had always doted on his boy— who, it became abundantly clear early on, would never be the "football playing” type— just as much as his two daughters. Now he came to visit as often as his schedule and his family life would allow, undertaking the grueling two-day drive to see Julius in New York. Whenever he did, the incongruities between them were fit for a comedy: the sight of Frank, sitting in the armchair in Julius’s clean and sparse Williamsburg studio, poring over his son’s reviews, his thick thighs in their chinos like extra pieces of furniture protruding into the room; or father and son at the East Village diner that had been their traditional lunch spot since Julius’s days at NYU, Frank with his baseball cap on the table beside him, looking for all the world— Julius knew it, he’d even shut down a few snickering brunch conversations about it— like his son’s suburban john, a married sugar daddy getting a bit of boy on the side. If it occurred to Frank that people might interpret the scene in this way, then it didn’t bother him; he was affectionate with his son, slinging an arm over his shoulders and tousling his hair, his pride in Julius’s accomplishments seemingly endless, his delight that his son was a New Yorker evident for all to see— although for himself, make no mistake, Terre Haute was home and just fine.
This time, Julius had pushed back Frank’s visit for as long as he could. He’d bought himself a few months after the move to Crown Heights and the break-up with Drew— claiming heartbreak, a backed-up work schedule, an endless slew of writing assignments— but now, on this hot Wednesday in mid-July, what was inevitable had finally come to pass. The next three days would be spent with his father, who had earnestly ironed his Polo shirt and khakis in preparation for the matinee of Hadestown they would be seeing (thanks to Julius’s old TKTS hook-up, who was lousy in bed but always reliable for last-minute tickets; they were decent seats, too). Now they were walking back down Broadway, through the glittering hubbub of Times Square. The summer tourists, in loose sundresses and wide shorts flapping like flags, ambled beneath the neon canopy of billboards, while bike couriers wove in and out, skimming the curbs, and locals— still so many of them, even on a workday after lunch— chattered, waved, pushed, argued, like hammy extras on a film set. They’d stopped by a souvenir shop so that Frank could pick up gifts for Luanne and the girls. Julius waited outside, debating whether his father’s indecision over snow globes gave him enough time to smoke a cigarette, when a taxi blared its horn— scolding someone for crossing against the light— and he looked up, just in time to see a face he knew on the other side of the street. A familiar curly head, waiting for the WALK sign along with the next wave of people.
Of course Mateo, with his rotation of innumerable, ever-changing jobs, would find a reason to be in Times Square right now.
Julius turned away, found his own reflection in the dusty store window. It stared back at him with blank panic. He considered his options. He could call in a bomb threat— the See Something, Say Something hotline was visible right over the subway entrance. Okay, too drastic. He could go over to one of the pedestrian-harassing mascots, the Elmo with the matted red fur, and promise fifty dollars in exchange for a commotion that would clear out the whole street. Or he could simply start walking: pick a direction and cleave through the swarm, leaving Frank to step outside the gift shop in a few minutes, blinking against the bright sun and wondering where his son had gone. But it was too late. The collision course was set, the precipitating events already in motion; without turning, Julius winced as Frank boomed his name, and he knew he couldn’t pretend to be unrelated to this man, no more than he could pretend not to see Mateo's bike skidding to a halt a few feet away. Frank had an I ♡ NY shopping bag hanging from one elbow, looking as dainty as a purse on his huge forearm. “Look, Jules!” And Julius did look, his expression grim. His father was holding up a snow globe for appraisal. Like most things he bought for his daughters, it was Frozen-themed. “You know, the guy said he only had one of these left, they sell so fast? Lucky find, right? Don’t think Maddie’s got one like this.” The back of his neck prickling— sweat or shame, it was hard to tell— Julius managed an expression of lukewarm interest, lifting both brows. “Yeah, that’s... that’s a good one.” Then, because it couldn’t be delayed any longer, he turned to acknowledge Mateo’s nearness on the sidewalk with a cool, sideways gaze. “Hi Mat. Are we in your way or something?” Frank looked between the two of them; confused for a moment, eyes bouncing back and forth, then suddenly, his face alight with expectation. “This a friend of yours?” “No,” Julius said quickly. “We’re not friends.” It was only after this response that he realized— this might necessitate elaborating on what they were.
@aguilarmateo