Written by Eames
“I feel alarmed.”
Arthur squints in the darkness -โ which is ridiculous since he’s on the phone. He can’t see the person he’s talking to. And yet — it’s Eames. Nothing is too ridiculous when it comes to Eames.
“Alarmed,” Arthur repeats into his mobile phone.
“Yes.”
According to Arthur’s alarm clock it’s four-twelve in the morning. He rolls over and bats at his pillow. “Why are we alarmed?” he says into the cool pima pillowcase.
Eames makes a soft snort. “We are not alarmed. I am alarmed. And you -โ you should be asleep.”
“And yet you called anyway from โ-”
“Mumbai -โ but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Arthur yawns. “Did I?”
“When presents arrive that could only be from you, then yes, you know. And yes, I feel alarmed. Are you dying? Have you hit your head? Been kidnapped? Is it an incurable illness? Do you need a kidney?”
Arthur can just make out the Santa Monica lights peering around the edges of the heavy draperies in his bedroom. Plus, even in the middle of the night, Los Angeles never goes truly dark -โ too much smog.
“Eames, make sense.”
“I am making sense,” Eames says with something akin to exasperation. Although if it’s Eames it has the potential to be fond exasperation. Hopefully. “Do try to keep up with the conversation.”
“I was sleeping, there was no conversation.”
“Don’t be dense, there’s always a conversation going between us. It simply picks up where we left off last time.”
Arthur rubs the sleep from his eyes. “The last time I saw you–”
“Stockholm. IKEA. We were looking for a kitchen table.”
“No, I’m pretty sure we weren’t engaging in domestic activities the last time I saw you.”
“Domestic terrorism doesn’t count?”
“Don’t say that on the phone. Not even as a joke.”
Eames is quiet for a moment. “I am duly chastened.”
“Good. You’re chastened; I’m exhausted; I’m going back to sleep and you’re going away.” Arthur tries to find the disconnect button on his Blackberry in the darkness. LED screens are not friendly to the recently awakened.
“Arthur,” Eames voice is tinny, persistent.
Arthur sighs. “Yes?”
“The teabag. It’s โ- those are diamonds, aren’t they?”
“Your perceptiveness impresses me yet again.” Arthur can feel the smile curling the corners of his mouth โ- which is perfectly acceptable since Eames can’t see it.
“What’s โ- why?”
“Why what?”
“Why’d you buy me diamonds?”
“Because it’s our anniversary.”
“Our anniversary? What anniversary?” Eames demands. “We haven’t been together seventy-five years. We’re not even seventy-five if you combine the sum of our years on this earth.”
“I thought you weren’t good at math.”
“I’m perfectly capable of doing basic maths, thank you very much.”
“Then you shouldn’t tell scurrilous falsehoods to let people think otherwise.”
“People are idiotic. Fascinating but idiotic.”
Arthur can hear the faint whir of a helicopter overhead. Ah, Los Angeles. The soundtrack of a city. He burrows deeper under his blankets. “Are you calling me an idiot?”
“Don’t be provocative.”
Arthur has to laugh.
“Obviously I did not mean that, feel free to be as provocative as you like,” Eames says. “But this still doesn’t explain this diamond-encrusted tea bag. Or our anniversary.”
Eames seems quite caught on the anniversary part of the equation, which means Arthur has accomplished his goal. “Well, if you can’t figure that out, you’re on your own.”
“Arthโ”
“I’m going to sleep, Mr. Eames.” This time Arthur does hang up the phone. He puts the ringer on vibrate, sets the phone on the maple nightstand and goes to sleep with a smile on his face.
He is a romantic โ- in his own way.
Arthur’s cleaning his stove when his Blackberry chirps at him.
FedEx delivers anywhere in the world it turns out — even ?ร L?t in the middle of monsoon season.
Arthur rinses the rag he’s using under hot water and sprays 409 on the tile. He’s not concerned about the hygienic state of his counters as much as he’s worried about food particles getting on his books.
Arthur keeps his books everywhere: in the kitchen, under the sink in the bathroom, piled on each other in the hall closet.
There are stacks of books on his bedroom floor and causing the shelves in his dining room to sag dangerously. Large books, small books, paperbacks and hardbacks, books from secondhand stores and eBay and Amazon and those cardboard boxes that people leave on the curb in West Hollywood when they’re moving.
Seconds later a familiar ring tone rents the air. Cooler Than Me, indeed.
Arthur has to smirk to himself even as he hits the answer button on his phone. “Speak,” he says crisply into the microphone.
“Speak?” Eames’ tone is all aggrieved irritation as it broadcasts into the air. “I am not a Beagle; I do not ‘speak.'”
“You don’t speak? Then how are we having this conversation? Telepathy?”
“You think you’re funny don’t you?” Eames says. He sounds sulky. Sullen. Perfect.
“I have my moments,” Arthur says as he piles the new Andrea Levy novel, a Dale Carnegie, a Honorรฉ de Balzac and a battered copy of Darwin’s On the Origin of the Species into what’s supposed to be the bread basket.
Arthur doesn’t eat a lot of bread. He’d much rather have a muffin or a croissant.
There’s a moment of silence. “It’s teal,” Eames says eventually.
“It is teal?” Arthur mocks. “Don’t you think you should see a doctor about that?”
“Yes, you are terribly amusing, but try to be serious for a moment.”
“I’m always serious.”
“You most certainly are not. You’re one of the most inappropriate people I’ve ever come across.”
“One time I asked you for lube — one time — and that’s all I ever hear about anymore.”
“You asked me in front of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“I was trying to extract a chalice from a hole the size of a Ribena box. I needed help.”
“Archbishop.”
“We were dreaming.”
“Somewhere in the world my mother was appalled and didn’t even know why.”
Arthur makes a derisive noise. “Since when do you have such delicate sensibilities?”
“I think my subconscious is irreparably harmed.”
“Clearly the shirt is my penance.”
Eames clears his throat. “It has a pattern.”
“Well, it did when I picked it out.”
“It’s silk.”
“I bought it in Hong Kong. Were you expecting polyester?”
“Arthur.”
“Does it fit?”
“You know it does.”
“I could be wrong.”
“You’re never wrong.”
Arthur laughs as he takes several juice glasses from the sideboard and puts them away. “If you keep telling lies like that your nose is going to precede you into different time zones.”
“Fine, you are often wrong, but always charming and contrite. Except for those occasions when you’re a sanctimonious, prescient arse.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Arthur says.
“I hardly think that that–”
“โif you include remarks about my Moleskine, my condescension, my lack of imagination, the funereal state of my wardrobe, the stick up my ass, and that one time you informed me I was so boring I could put the dead to sleep.”
“Your good memory is not conducive to our relationship.”
Arthur wrings out the rag in the sink and folds it over the faucet to dry. “You love my good memory,” he says.
“Don’t cloud the issue with facts,” Eames complains.
The answering machine is winking at Arthur when he gets back from his morning run along the Promenade, down to Venice, and back up Ocean Avenue. He cracks open his Odwalla and hits the flashing red button.
I’m in Tuvalu. Why am I even bothering to tell you this? Do you have a GPS tracker on me? I’ve discarded three phones. Is it embedded under my skin? This is not Casino Royale, Arthur โ- and certainly not if you’re Vesper.
*beep*
It fits. Perfectly. When did you measure my head?
*beep*
Does this mean you’re concerned that I might die from skin cancer? Because if we’re at the point where we’re talking about health concerns I think we need to address your caffeine habit and that predilection you have for children’s fruit sweets. You thought I didn’t know about that — but I do.
Arthur’s so busy laughing that he nearly falls into the wall while trying to strip off his wet socks and damp t-shirt.
The phone rings again, and Arthur hits the speakerphone on the handset. “Enjoying yourself?”
“I don’t wear hats.”
“But you should,” Arthur says.
“And this is your contribution to my sartorial expansion.”
“I thought between the hat and the shirt we’d reach a nice compromise. Something you like and something I like.”
“I had no idea we were at the stage of our relationship where compromise was something we actively engaged in.”
There’s a pause.
A long pause.
“You’re right,” Eames says eventually. “We’re far past that part.”
Arthur scratches his jaw before he sets his hands on either side of the phone and leans into it. “Far past it,” he agrees.
“I’m not that far away -โ geographically speaking.”
“I’m pretty sure Tuvalu is further away than say, the Valley.” Arthur’s going for nonchalance. He thinks he carries it off pretty well โ- if you ignore the slight wobble in his voice.
“Planes are fantastic things.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Eames says.
“Are we talking figuratively or literally?”
“Whichever one you want it to be.”
Arthur rasps out a laugh as he pushes sweaty hair off of his forehead. “After all this time?”
“Remember what I said about clouding the issue with facts?” Eames says lightly.
“Of course -โ it’s why you like my brain.”
“Quite.”
“So, Tuvalu.”
“It’s lovely here this time of year.”
“You’re in the South Pacific. It’s lovely there the entire year.”
“Have you thought about taking a holiday?”
“Being at home is a holiday, Eames.”
“Says the man who’s probably doing nothing beyond cleaning and organizing.”
“And reading. Don’t forget the reading.”
“Is this the part where I use an unnecessary term of endearment and ask you to reconsider what you consider a holiday?”
“Could be.”
“You need company.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
“Are you volunteering?”
“I wasn’t planning on sending Daniel Craig in my stead.”
“I like Daniel Craig.”
“Perpetuating jealousy is not the way forward.”
Arthur ponders this. “But it could be a good detour,” he decides.
“Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout would not take the garbage out,” Eames says by way of greeting.
Arthur pauses in alphabetizing his DVDs -โ okay, realphabetizing his DVDs. “Did her parents ground her and send her to her cupboard underneath the stairs?” he asks the phone he’s cradling between his right ear and shoulder.
“This is Shel Silverstein, not J.K. Rowling.”
Arthur pauses to snort while sorting Dave Chappelle, Fight Club, Planet Earth and Apocalypse Now into their respective piles. “Shel Silverstein?”
“Yes, strangely enough a tome called Where the Sidewalk Ends was waiting in my seat on my connecting flight to Honolulu.”
“Do flight attendants always give you books when you fly? Is this their way of avoiding your attempts at conversation?”
“No, I got the impression that this was someone else’s way of keeping me occupied.”
“You should thank that person.”
“You’re right -โ thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
“It’s from you.”
“Is it? I don’t remember sending any children’s books to Hawaii.”
“Plausible deniability. Do I want to know how you did this?”
“Probably not.”
Eames makes a noncommittal noise. “You know kids today just aren’t as tough as they used to be.”
“They don’t have to be -โ they live in bubbles of indulgence and Play Station.” Arthur carries on with his sorting: Jules and Jim, 8 Women, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Red Cliff. “They’re all winners. They don’t play, they don’t think, they’re given everything -โ it’s all bullshit.”
“Were you a tough kid?” Eames asks.
Arthur laughs wryly. “Fuck no. I was a ninety-eight-pound weakling until I was fourteen and hit puberty. And then I was a hundred-and-thirty-pound weakling -โ but I discovered Jujitsu.”
“And the tormented became the tormentor?”
“No, the tormented just learned how to run faster.”
“Shall I find all those mean bullies and teach them a lesson?” Eames asks. His tone is aiming for light and it’s almost there, but there’s something slightly off. A hint of something that might be anger. It’s appreciated in its own way, but Arthur doesn’t need Eames to fight his battles; he can do that all on his own. Most of the time.
“All the guys I went to school with are now bald, overweight, couldn’t get it up even with Viagra and lead miserable lives with wives who hate them. I think karma taught them a lesson just fine.”
“I had no idea you were so spiritual.”
“I’m not โ- I’m thirty years old. I’m not a child; what goes around comes around — you just have to give it time.”
“This is very true. So where does that leave poor Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout?”
“Probably in the same boat as little Peggy Ann McKay.”
“What happened to her?”
“Read the book and find out.”
Arthur likes frayed t-shirts.
He likes ratty jeans and comfortable hoodies and Ella Fitzgerald, The Strokes, John Legend and Chet Baker.
He likes fixing the holes in his socks with yellow thread regardless of the color of the sock, and blue popsicles.
He loves the palm trees in his backyard and the fact that Santa Monica is always ten degrees cooler than the rest of Los Angeles.
On the rare days when he manages to get most of these things at the same time he’s incredibly pleased. Especially when it’s a Tuesday morning and he doesn’t have to worry about the sounds his neighbors make interrupting his serenity.
Right now Arthur is sitting on a lounger underneath the grove of palm trees in his backyard. The sun is struggling to cut through the fog from the water and the smog from the city. Currently it’s only mildly successful.
“Take the A Train” is cascading through the open kitchen window as Arthur alternates between his third blue popsicle of the morning and sewing up the holes in a mismatched pile of socks.
One of the great joys of being an adult is doing what you want when you want and not having to justify it to anyone.
“So this is what you get up to when I’m not around to supervise?”
Arthur’s popsicle drips on one of his heather gray socks. He pulls the sugary treat out of his mouth and looks down at the stain wryly before looking up at Eames.
“You ruined my sock,” he says by way of greeting.
Eames is standing by the side of Arthur’s house with a leather valise and a canvas bag at his feet that says Keep Calm and Carry On. “I flew for two days to see you,” Eames counters. “More importantly, your mouth is stained blue โ- I hardly think the shock to my system is comparable to a stained sock.”
Arthur licks his lips. “I think that’s highly debatable,” he says, taking in the unlaced combat boots, the fitted navy jeans, the shirt and cardigans and โ- is that a waistcoat?
“Debate away,” Eames says, sauntering across the lawn, his boots crunching various palm leaves underfoot. “And while you do, please tell me how I’ve never seen you with stubble before? This is a grave oversight on your part and I feel horribly cheated.”
Arthur finishes the last of his popsicle with a lascivious slurp. Eames comes to a stop at the foot of his lounger as Arthur licks his fingers. “The depths of your cruelty knows no bounds,” Eames says.
“It’s why you like me.”
“It must be.”
“You look nice,” Arthur says thoughtfully.
“I thought it was the least I could do โ- not offend your sartorial sensibilities.”
“I like your clothes -โ they just wouldn’t work on anybody else.”
Ella’s singing along with Louis Armstrong. Po-tay-to. Po-tah-to. Eames nudges the chair with his knee and Arthur moves the socks back into the laundry basket.
Eames drops down beside him, and Arthur rests both of his legs on Eames’ lap. Eames rubs his shins. “This all seems rather anticlimatic, you know.”
“I wouldn’t want to be too easy,” Arthur says soothingly. “I can go blow up the nearest American Apparel or a Starbucks if it’ll make you feel better. Perhaps fuck a couple of people I don’t care about or sell you to the unhappiest client I can find and then insist I didn’t mean it.”
Eames frowns. Arthur reaches over and brushes away the lines marring his forehead. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what? Look pensive and thoughtful?”
“Is that what you’re aiming for?”
“It’s better than looking constipated.”
Arthur barks out a laugh. “Yes, yes it is.”
Eames grins at him. “You know for someone so buttoned up and precise, you’re all over the place. It’s terribly endearing. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to your innumerable charms and your blue lips.”
“This from the man who makes a living charming people.”
“Yes, I’m supposedly the Whore of Babylon, Bernie Madoff and Houdini all at the same time.”
“That must get rather tiring.”
“Well, according to your gossip you’re a tragic figure on par with Oedipus and Montgomery Clift. And you’re a serial monogamist. Or a dirty slut. Or a virgin. Depends on the day of the week.”
“I heard that about myself, too.” Arthur’s fingers are stroking along the back of the hand Eames is resting on Arthur’s right knee.
“Clearly what we need is a holiday from all of these great expectations and pejorative rumors,” Eames says solemnly.
“It works for me.”
They sit there for several moments, listening to Ella, feeling the breeze coming in from off of the Pacific, doing nothing at all but being. Together.
Eames picks up Arthur’s hand and turns it over. He traces the lines on Arthur’s palm with the tips of his fingers. It tickles a little; Arthur’s fingers twitch. He watches Eames touch him.
He looks up to find Eames watching him watch Eames.
“Did I ever say Happy Anniversary?” Eames asks.
“We have an anniversary?” Arthur mocks softly.
“The anniversary of the first job we ever did together.”
“You remembered.”
“It’s also the anniversary of the first time you shot me.”
“Very romantic,” Arthur agrees.
“The eighth anniversary is supposed to be bronze and pottery, but the bronze vase I wanted to nick for you went missing before I got to steal it from the Getty. I hate it when that happens.”
“You know the Getty’s been having authentications problems,” Arthur says sagely. “It might’ve been a knock-off.”
“You mean the gift I’d stolen could’ve been a fake? Does nobody stand by their ill-gotten gains anymore? Shameful.”
“Isn’t it.”
“This does, however, only leave me with one present for you.”
“Which is?”
“Me.”
Arthur wrinkles his nose in distaste, and Eames’ face shutters a bit. And then Arthur smiles and tugs Eames forward. He leans in and kisses the right corner of Eames’ mouth. His lower lip. The left corner.
Eames looses a soft noise and his thumb rubs the week-old stubble at Arthur’s jaw.
“So what are we doing on this holiday of ours?” he asks, voice low.
“Nothing,” Arthur says, leaning back against the chaise and tugging Eames with him. “Absolutely nothing at all.”
Eames shifts around, finally coming to a rest with his back pressed against Arthur’s chest. Both of his hands are clasping Arthur’s hand against his sternum.
Arthur can feel every inhalation. Every exhalation.
“So can I use that diamond-encrusted teabag you got me?” Eames says. “It’s PG Tips.”
“That’s a fourteen-thousand-dollar teabag. If you use it, I’m kicking you out.”
“Not very practical, is it?”
“Since when are you practical?”
Eames laces their fingers together. “We must work on your relationship with tact.”
“Tact and I get along just fine.”
“Not when it comes to me.”
“Tact is reserved for people who need it. You require a heavier touch โ like an anvil.”
“Very droll,” Eames says; Arthur squeezes his hand. “No complaints about the timing?” he asks.
“Why? Are we late?”
Eames chuckles. “No thoughts that we’ve taken too long to get here? No whingeing about waiting on me or me waiting on you?”
“You get there when you get there.” Arthur kisses the top of Eames’ head. “I think the important thing is that this is happening at all.”
“There’s no such thing as the right time,” Eames says.
Arthur agrees. “There’s just right now.”
-end-
Bonus: Sesame Street spoofs the Old Spice Guy