The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket by John Weir

Author:John Weir
Format: epub

Dreams About Clothes

All right, now you know, the schmuck ran away with a banker, a trader, a financier, bisexual, too, deposits anywhere, and likes it rough—he’s into stocks and bonds. Let me tell you, now you have to understand, I heard his message on the phone machine, his voice, even when he’s giving basic information, meet me here, lunch with me there, he sounds like a member of the National Conservative Political Action Committee recommending the removal of a liberal from elective office. It’s just what I’ve always feared: what Merrit wants in his heart of hearts is a European trip for two, a foreign affair, with a hot young straitlaced laconic massively ordinary financier with a big, big bank account and all the major credit cards at hand. Not that Merrit ever wanted money. But, I guess you go with what’s familiar.

So how do I avenge myself? I play with sweaters. Merrit’s sweaters. That’ll show him, right? I pile them on the bed for a little appraisal, you know, style, and period, and approximate worth, and sentimental value, of course. I mean, do you get it? He’s on the Grand Tour with a cross between Lance Loud and David Rockefeller, and I’m cataloging his sweaters. There’s a powder-blue lamb’s wool crewneck, Constantine and Knight (repairs to the shoulder), great sentimental worth. It was the first thing I gave him, and the first casualty of one of our earliest fights. I sewed it up where Merrit ripped it in the fracas, but it’s never been worn since. That’s just one. There are thousands, like he’s Imelda Marcos, only not with shoes but sweaters.

Some of them stop me completely. There’s the sweater from L. L. Bean, which he bought with me in Maine, to give to a friend who later died of AIDS. The friend never got the sweater, because Merrit decided it looked better on him. Well, it did look better on him. There’s the one he wore the weekend after we met, our first whole weekend together. We went to the beach, the end of October, to roll and play in the sand, with the dog. Everybody has these moments, right? and later it’s a sentimental journey. Merrit wore a cable-knit white wool sweater woven in Ireland, with a rollover V-neck collar, and he sat way back on the beach and watched me play with the dog. He was under a blanket. He was feeling old that day, and later we got home and he ran me a bath. This was in his apartment on Eleventh Street. I slipped into the bath—it had authentic brass Victorian era claw-and-ball feet—and he went into the other room and played Chopin waltzes on his piano. Ah, well. I thought that this relationship was going to be my work of art. I thought the two of us were going to learn to be him, magnificently, beautifully. Who knew he would turn out to be this road company Morris in Washington Square?

Ah, but I too can be cruel, for I have been taught by a master.

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