Patronage
By: Joe Shetina
Tags: Class, Gay, Short Fiction, The Red Sweater, Short Story

Ian had gotten his master’s in museum studies because he thought it was more stable than the career he really wanted. He had worked his way through enough underpaid positions at museums around the city that he called himself a serial internist. The joke, if one could call it that, had a 34% chance of getting a laugh. Less than half of those laughs were genuine.

Ian had always wanted to be a graphic artist. Paints, portraits, installations, objet d’arts. He had long harbored this dream and had stuffed it away in his mind because he thought he ought to be practical. Hence his bachelor’s in anthropology and his master’s in museum studies.

Part of his current underpaid position involved “outreach.” It wasn’t in this capacity that he found himself at a penthouse party of one of the museum’s most generous donors — a software kingpin who had made his money in the early dot-com boom. It was mere luck. His boss had an extra ticket as she couldn’t make it herself. He gladly accepted it.

His real aim was to attract some money of his own. He had recently been drawn to a photography project and he needed some funding for exhibition costs. He even had intentions to pay his models if there were enough leftover.

It was the kind of party he had seen in movies. The kind of party where servers whizzed by with trays of champagne. As Ian indulged, a server offered advice: “If you want anyone here to write you a check, fix your tie.”

Ian looked down to see his striped tie, already a misstep, had clung to the right side of his jacket. He fixed it. The server winked at him and whizzed off. “Thanks again,” Ian called. The server didn’t here, but smart-looking guests nearby did. He had been there no more than ten minutes and they already knew he didn’t belong.

The skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. From this height, it looked ostentatious, downright garish. He had no power in this room, or very little, and yet he felt suddenly complicit. He sipped the champagne, lest the small burning shame in his stomach should blossom into full-blown nausea.

“Jesus Christ, I wanna die.”

The breathy, exasperated declaration came from a young man, maybe twenty-two, who had planted himself against the wall beside Ian. He wore a purple jacket and white ruffled shirt with a lavender bowtie.

“I hate parties like this,” he said, “I hate everyone at parties like this.”

It seemed a bizarre statement considering the way he was dressed. He hated these people, yet he wanted to be seen by them.

“Who are you?” he asked, “You don’t belong here.”

“I don’t?”

“No,” he said, folding his arms, “You look like you should be serving the drinks.”

“And who the fuck are you?” Ian said as gracefully as he could manage with champagne in his hand and a smile on his face.

“See that? You don’t belong here,” he said, “You’re interesting.” Ian couldn’t decide if he stressed the word for emphasis or sarcasm. “I’m Casper.”

The name was more than appropriate. His hair was white as porcelain. So was his skin, for that matter.

“My name’s Ian. What’s wrong with the suit? It looks like any other suit.”

“That’s why you don’t belong here. Look around.”

“What are you, a bouncer? You don’t belong here either, do you?”

“No, but I blend. And I was invited.”

“So was I.”

“A pity invite, I’m sure. Don’t worry.

Ian made to go.

“Wait, don’t go.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ian said, “Was that your way of making polite conversation?”

“Yeah,” Casper said, “I’m not very polite. And I don’t belong here either, really.”

“So why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Casper asked. When it became clear that it wasn’t obvious, he explained: “I’m arm candy.”

“Oh!” Ian said, humoring him, “Arm candy.”

“Rich men. I can’t get enough of them. And I suppose I could take care of myself, but I’d rather be taken care of.”

“That’s kinda pathetic.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re an artist, right? Have some imagination, for God’s sake.”

“How’d you know I’m an artist?”

Casper blew an exaggerated breath of exasperation to let him know how stupid a question it was.

“What are you here for? Money for some startup? Some little pipe dream? Some installation in a dinky little museum in Pilsen?”

“It’s a photo series, actually. I’m a photographer, but my funds are kind of limited right now.”

“What kind of photo series?”

“It’s a nude series. The male form.”

“Ah,” Casper said, his dark eyebrows pulled up under the sharp tendrils of his white hair, “Well, if you ever need a model…”

“Well…I’m… not sure you’re the type I’m looking for.”

“And let me guess,” Casper said, “Everyone in this photo series is beautiful and ripped and very masculine.”

“It’s about the exemplary male form. So… I guess, in a way, yes.”

Casper’s eyes narrowed: “Right. Exemplary male form.” His eyes shot wide open and he doubled over. Ian backed away to avoid the stream of projectile vomit he was sure was coming. Instead, Casper grabbed his leg and began to jerk to his side. “Oh. Oh shit. Now you’ve done it!”

“What?

“My foot,” Casper complained, “It’s caught on all this ground you’re breaking!”

Ian licked his lips to keep from cursing him. “Okay.”

“I’m sure you can pull together some funds here,” Casper said as he stood upright again.

“I haven’t had much luck yet.”

“You’ve gotta make yourself available.”

“I… I don’t think I can…”

“You don’t just feel out of place here, you hate it. I can tell. Or you resent it. One of the two. Still, you’re just radiating it.”

“I go into all these places where people just have money and have always had it, and they act like they don’t. Like they can forget it. Because they don’t have to think about it.”

“Xavier!” Casper called out. Had he even been listening?

Xavier, a man of about 55 who had a broad frame underneath his tux and squared-off head that looked like it had been fashioned by Lego. He was rich. Ian could tell.

“What are you doing?” Ian muttered.

“Making you available,” Casper said as Xavier joined them, “Xavier, this is my new friend, Ian. He’s a photographer. Isn’t he cute?”

Ian felt himself flush, but the rich man seemed endeared by it.

“Very. Hi Ian.”

Not liking one bit where he figured this was going, Ian interrupted: “I think I should — ”

Casper jumped in: “I think Archie would love him, don’t you?”

“Oh, are you kidding? Archie would leave thumbprints all over that beautiful hide if it were a little younger. Maybe a shave would help.”

“Stubble doesn’t become you,” Casper offered.

“Who’s Archie?” Ian asked.

“All you need to know about Archie is that he’s very rich and very eager to please,” Casper said.

“I’ll go get him,” Xavier offered, “Maybe we could have a party of our own, the four of us.”

“I’d love that,” Casper said, “Ian?”

“I… Sure.”

He hesitated, but Casper’s urging look made him reconsider.

“He loves parties,” Casper assured the rich man.

“As long as I can get a drink,” said Ian.

“Don’t drink so much, son,” said Xavier, “It’ll make you sag in all the wrong places.”

The older man left them.

“Are you his arm candy?”

“No, but the one I’m here with tonight hasn’t said more than two words to me since we got here, so fuck him.”

A string quartet played in the corner of the room and some of the couples had begun to dance. Hors d’oeuvres were being set out on a buffet table and the smart-looking group seemed to decide by silent vote who among them should move toward it first. They had to be civilized about it — and it wouldn’t be civilized to rush the food as soon as it’s set out. The formality of it all made Ian feel like he was doing espionage in plain sight. He whispered his fears to Casper as if he feared detection:

“I don’t think I should do this…”

“Archie has been known to fund entire careers off of parties like the one we’re about to have. You’ll love him. He’s actually quite nice,” Casper said, “Nicer than a lot of them.”

“You know from experience?”

“You catch on fast,” Casper said. The sarcasm was clear. “That’s how I met Xavier. It’s all kind of incestuous.”

Ian couldn’t hide his discomfort. Or was it revulsion?

“You’ve got this look on your face like I’m disgusting and I don’t like it. You may not be too proud to beg but I won’t beg for anything. I’ll earn what I can get while I can get it.”

“Okay,” Ian said, “Really, it’s not my business.”

“We’re not gonna be able to do this forever, Ian, darling. Such an easy way to make money. And it’s not exactly prostitution, not that there’s anything wrong with that, there isn’t, but this way they at least respect us a little bit. You’ll see. If you’re at all good at this.”

“I feel like I’m being recruited,” Ian said with a sneer.

“I’m a born teacher. It’s a gift.” Then, with a softness Ian didn’t expect. “I’m just giving you an option. One that doesn’t involve eating your poor little heart out.”

“Archie, this is… Remind me of your name, handsome.”

Xavier had sidled up with Archie. They were about the same age, although Archie was somewhat thinner and more fit. His eyes smoldered through gold thin-framed glasses and his salt and pepper hair had a touch of curl to it.

“Ian.”

“Ian,” Archie said, “How are you?”

“I’m… getting used to things.”

“Good,” Archie said, “I’m very glad to hear that.”

Xavier cleared his throat conspicuously and spoke: “I say we ditch this crowd and have a little private party back at my place.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” said Casper. He took Xavier’s arm and the two led the way. “Be gentle with him Archie. He’s green.”

Casper casted a mischievous smile over his shoulder to Ian. Archie caught the look and it made him chuckle.

“I don’t know what Casper says about me, but I’m a very nice guy.”

“No, I think I got that.”

Archie held out his arm. Ian took it, feeling rather light in his shoes as they crossed the length of the penthouse together. No one seemed to mind their pairing, or their leaving.

“Come on. It’s gonna be very low-key. A few drinks, maybe a little grass, and then, if the mood strikes us both, some very casual sex.”

“Then you take care of me, right?” Ian asked sardonically, although he also hoped the answer might be “yes.”

“Is that what you’d like?”

“I think I’m…” Ian began, but wasn’t brave enough to be voice the rest of the thought until they were leaving the penthouse and heading toward the elevator. “I think I might be a little too old to be taken care of.”

“No,” the man said, “Nobody’s too old to be taken care of.”

As they crossed to join Casper and Xavier in the elevator, Ian looked out a nearby window to the view of the skyline that had before made him so uneasy, so full of guilt and shame, and decided to be honest with himself. It was never the complicity that bothered him. It was that he wasn’t complicit enough.