An Ordinary Man

Chapter 3: Call Me Professor Higgins

Chapter 3: Call Me Professor Higgins

I pulled out my camera. My crew would need to see the latest addition to my stable before I finished my vacation. My skills were strictly amateur, but perhaps I could recreate a faint hint of what I’d seen in that old house. J.T. strutted to the window as I explained what I wanted.

“I don’t want a damn show,” I muttered, shoving one of the chairs into the afternoon sunlight. “Just sit down and look out the window.”

Then I pointed the camera and waited him out, though it taxed my patience. Damn kid kept trying out what he thought of as artistic poses. Finally, he heaved a sigh and threw himself back into the chair. I snapped half a dozen shots of his pouting face, then reached out to unbutton his shirt.

“Stop posing or I won’t even bother with photos.”

J.T. rolled his eyes, but then pointed them in the direction I ordered. I got a few shots from the side as he watched the palm fronds outside the window dance in the breeze. I snuck in a couple of what I thought of as artistic shots of the shadows of those leaves across his hard young chest. My cameraman would likely have the same opinion of those that I’d had of J.T.’s efforts.

“On your feet,” I ordered. “Let’s get a few without the clothes.”

The boy was only too happy to comply. I scowled at him as he tossed the jeans onto the carpet, and he got the idea and folded them and the shirt fairly neatly in the chair instead. Then came another argument, as he wanted to show me his repertoire of “dirty” poses. A couple of those I might have to utilize in some future movie—not that I’d let the kid know that, of course. I got shots from every angle I could think of, and some close-ups of his pretty package, then I shooed the kid into the shower. “Use my stuff for now. Once we get to L.A., you can decide what sort of scents you prefer.”

I paused to think, then removed my cologne from the bathroom. The boy probably thought you were supposed to douse yourself in the stuff. That done, I sent my right-hand cameraman a long email, along with the photo files. Maybe I left out a few pertinent facts…like the way the damned kid had wormed his way into my good graces, or the amount of money I’d already spent on J.T. I told John we’d have a new minor character in the next film, and we’d see if he agreed with my plans for the boy’s future.

J.T. took his sweet time in the shower, and steam wafted into the room when he opened the door again. Of course, he strode out stark naked, toweling his long hair. “I really like that shampoo. I have to use a ton of mine to get a good lather.”

“Yours is probably the fifty-nine cent special at K-mart. You get what you pay for.” I grabbed a wrist and tugged the kid over to the bed. He gave me a smile that tugged at the root of my c**k, and leaned against me. I took one good sniff of clean young man and shoved him back upright. “You’re dripping on my suit.” Not that I wasn’t planning to change out of the sweat-stained outfit, but I wanted to make my point.

J.T.’s lower lip jutted out. His eyebrows lowered. I plugged in the hair dryer, handed it to him, and toweled the rest of him dry the same way I’d towel off a wet horse. His scowl deepened as I ignored his c****d hips and spread legs.

“You need to shave,” I said, running a hand along his jawline. He didn’t have a lot in the way of a beard, but I wasn’t much of a fan of that “five-o’clock shadow” look. “A gentleman never appears in public looking like he hasn’t shaved in two days.”

I let him use my electric rather than risking a nick with my good straight razor. There’d be time to teach the lad the finer points of toiletry once I got him back home. Once that was accomplished, I instructed him in the proper application of after-shave and cologne. I’d been right: I stopped him just before he poured out a handful of Acqua de Parma to anoint himself with.

I ran a speculative eye over the end result, and found it presentable. “I don’t have time to teach you the art of conversation, so for now, just keep your mouth shut, and pay attention to how everyone else acts and speaks. If you have any questions, wait until we’re alone to ask them.”

I jumped into the shower myself at this point, after firmly commanding the kid to stay in the bedroom and get dressed. Heavens, he was likely to think I expected him to join me in the water—new outfit and all. I must have set a new personal time record for bathing and shaving.

I had to admit that the kid dressed up well. He’d chosen a pale yellow shirt with a brown suit and vest, and pulled his hair into a simple ponytail. I showed him how to tuck his handkerchief into the pocket, and how to actually tie the tie. I pulled on my own suit and strode to the door. I was halfway down the hall before I realized J.T. wasn’t beside me.

I glanced back into the room. The kid stood by the bed, those eyes wider than I’d seen them yet. He started to shove his hands into his pants pockets, stopped, crossed his arms, and finally dropped them to his side. “I’d better stay up here,” he muttered. “I ain’t got no idea how to act. I guess I’ll just embarrass you.”

I strode back inside and grabbed one hand. “A Bettencourt star doesn’t hide in his hotel room because he’s nervous. Watch what everyone else does, listen instead of talking, and pretend you’re my nephew instead of a rent boy.”

He gave me a tremulous smile and followed me to the door. I had to let go of his hand at that point. Not only because I didn’t want to confirm whatever rumors were already circling the building, but because I really wanted to tug the boy back into the room and remove his new outfit, very slowly. God, the cameras were going to love this kid.

I locked the door and caught up to J.T. at the head of the stairs. He glanced over the balcony, then clutched the wrought iron railing so hard his knuckles were white. I saw his Adam’s apple bob.

“C’mon, kid. You’re going to spend the rest of your life walking into crowded rooms full of strangers. Best get used to it now.”

J.T. swallowed hard once more, then nodded firmly. He lifted his chin, c****d an eyebrow in my direction, and strode downstairs.

Most of the people milling about the room were dressed far more casually than we were, but I wanted to take the kid out for a real dinner afterwards. I kept an eye on him as I got myself a brandy. He kept his mouth shut, smiling when anyone glanced his way, and hovering near my elbow. I caught his gaze darting around the room, watching the other guests. A couple of times, he turned toward me, mouth opening, then shook his head and closed it again. He’d be peppering me with questions as soon as we were alone.

The bartender poured J.T. a soda, of course. The kid sipped nervously as we circled the room. I made it a point to greet every guest and make some sort of small talk, educating the kid on the art of schmoozing. Most of the folks in the room knew that I owned a studio in California, but not what sort. When asked a direct question, I usually answered truthfully, “I doubt you’ve seen any of my films.”

After half an hour or so, I took J.T. by the elbow and steered him toward the front door. He brightened when I mentioned dinner, and I realized that it was entirely possible the lad hadn’t eaten any lunch. I’d probably have to educate him on healthy nutrition as well. His idea of a nutritious meal was likely the McDonald’s dollar menu. While we waited for our taxi to arrive, I briefed him on proper dinner etiquette.

“This is business casual, so you won’t have to contend with a formal meal, but it’s not going to be a burger and fries, either. Try to pretend you eat at fine restaurants all the time. And for God’s sake, be neat. I do not want a cleaning bill for that suit yet.”

His eyes widened once more, but he nodded and climbed into the back seat of the cab. We climbed out at Circa 1886 on Wentworth Street, and the kid’s eyes looked like saucers. He stuck so close to my side that I had to fend him off with my elbow as we maneuvered through the front door. Once we were seated, he opened the menu, swallowed hard, and leaned toward me.

“I don’t even know what half this stuff is,” he whispered. “How do I know what I want to eat?”

I smiled. “Simple. You’re going to want whatever the chef prepares. We’re having the special tasting menu.”

He found that on the page, and sucked in a breath. “I’d have to work half the night to make that much.”

“Try to pretend this is normal, kid. These prices are nothing compared to Los Angeles.”

J.T. glanced at me more than once during the meal, watching which fork I chose, trying to figure out how to handle the salad. I had to smile. It was such a pleasure dealing with a kid who was not only smart, but attentive. I could only hope California wouldn’t spoil him completely.

As we ate, he did indeed pepper me with questions. “What did the old man and his wife mean when they said Bach and Mozart were epitomes?” “Why did the bartender laugh when that woman told him she wanted a wine that went with fudge?” “Why did the dweeb in the plaid shorts want to see Jackson’s Pollock?” Even “Who’s Madame Butterfly?”

I did my best to answer everything without laughing at the kid. It wasn’t entirely his fault that he was so dismally uneducated, after all. There’s not much incentive to educate yourself when you’re living hand to mouth—or c**k to mouth, as the case may be.

The tasting menu paired each course with a different wine, though the waiter brought J.T. the ubiquitous glass of sweetened tea. I’d tried the stuff my first day and nearly gagged at the sugar content. You actually had to request regular tea when you ordered. “I don’t expect you to learn about wines yet,” I told the kid, “but pay attention and you might learn something for later.”

J.T. got through the meal without making a spectacle of himself, and without spilling anything on the new suit, for which I was grateful. He even thanked me once the waiter had deposited the check. “I don’t think I ever ate anything that good in my life. It’s gonna be hard to go back to Burger King.”

I shuddered. “Why, in God’s name, would you even want to?”

After our meal, we strolled along Broad Street, and I tried to learn something about his home city.

“You are remarkably ignorant of your own history,” I said after the third “I dunno” from the boy.

“Didn’t know I’d have a damn quiz. Why do you even care about all these old buildings anyway?”

I added a tutor to the mental inventory I was amassing for the boy’s training. Perhaps night school. At least that way, he wouldn’t be tempted to spend his first few paychecks on frivolities the way most stars did. I pulled out my guidebook and proceeded to educate my companion on his own hometown. At least he did seem to have a vague idea what the Civil War was, though he was hazy on who fought on which side and thought it was “about a hundred years ago.”

We took a leisurely stroll and soon stood on the Battery staring out over the water.

“There’s some kind of fort out there,” he informed me. “Lots of the tourists take a boat tour.”

“Maybe we can plan that for tomorrow afternoon.”

He shrugged. “Can’t be that big a deal. It’s only a couple of hours out and back.”

I consulted my guidebook. Yes, Fort Sumter would make an excellent afternoon’s adventure. A little cultural history would be good for the kid, and I’d scope out the ruins with an eye toward my forte. Toned bodies against weathered brick would sell. Then, I led the way back to the historic district.

“I don’t see what’s so special about another old cemetery,” J.T. complained as we wound our way along the pathway behind St. Michael’s church. This late, we were the only people in the little fenced in area. I turned to chastise my companion, but at that moment, a shaft of moonlight found the boy. Golden sunlight was all well and good, but in the darkness, lit only by that pale spotlight, he might have been a woodland sprite.

Heat blossomed in my groin. I started to think of ice water, then glanced around again. Totally alone in what might have been a moonlit garden for all the flowering shrubs the church had planted. The ancient headstones might have been abstract sculpture.

“Come here and I’ll show you,” I growled, reaching for one wiry arm.