I called Paul but to no avail. At the Getty, he kept himself too ensconced in his work for me to bother him. My days were long and my breaks forever in-between, but when I could, I would sit and watch him dig, rake, pluck, and pinch the manicured grounds. His eyes never once veered in my direction, which made me sure he was conscious of presence.

It was Friday morning and my phone rang, but when I picked it up, I heard only silence. Harvey, I thought. Why he was still calling me after not receiving a single return call is beyond me. I was working the night shift that night so I went back to bed. An hour later the phone started ringing again. “Hello.” Click. Perhaps it was Betsy hoping Fran would answer the phone. Too irritated to sleep, I took a shower. The phone rang as I squeezed the liquid soap into my hand and was still ringing when I got out of the shower.

“Hello.”

“Greg, is that you my boy?” My father’s voice quivered.

“Yeah dad.” I lowered my head, fearing what he called to say.

“Things okay?”

“Yeah, fine. And you?”

“Just fine, fine.”

I listened to his inconsistent breath as we both tried to think of something to say. I wondered what he wanted.

“I miss you son.”

Suddenly the crevices around my eyes were wet. “Dad, I’d like to see you.”

“I’ll call you soon.” And he hung up.

I lay in my bean bag, hoping to find comfort that would match the feeling if my father were to hug me. I fell asleep and dreamed of my mother. She made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured me a glass of milk. She watched me eat and insisted I finish my milk.

Bernard stared but said nothing as I passed his glassed-in office. How could someone just hate you like that? He must want to do me and is frustrated because he’ll never get the chance.

I changed into my kitchen whites in the bathroom and when I came out, Bernard stood waiting for me. Maybe he was hoping I’d come out of the bathroom with my shirt off. I smiled knowingly at him.

“What’s the grin for?” I shrugged.

“I got you making sandwiches tonight, you’re moving up in the world.”

I held my tongue knowing Fran would kill me if I got fired for mouthing off. “Looks that way.”

He walked away, disappointed by my non-indulgent response as I went to make sandwiches.

Still melancholy about my father’s phone call and Paul’s abstinence of me, I mechanically split the rolls, spread the mayo, laid the meat and cheese, and sliced the sandwich. After which, Mitch, a poor LA teenager, wrapped them and put them in individual white boxes along with an apple, two chocolate chip cookies, and plastic silverware protected in plastic with a napkin.

Finally, I took my break. “Mitch, I’m gonna go for a quick walk around the grounds, get some air.” He nodded and I wondered if he thought I was high.

I sat in the center of the circular garden thinking about how Paul is so damn cute and I wondered if he were right about the Mexican boy fantasy thing. What’s wrong with a fantasy? It doesn’t mean you can’t make it reality but his rejection of me, as always, only made me more obsessed.

Then I saw him walking down the bricked path with no particular expression. “Follow me,” he quipped.

And I did. He took me to the north building and pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. It was midnight by now and the place was quiet. He opened the door and escorted me in. Neither of us spoke, but when we got to the clock room he told me to unzip his pants.

I did unquestionably and neither of us spoke anymore, but the ticking of the ornate clocks provided a kind of music that accentuated our sexuality. I stared at the ornate clocks then soon had to shut my eyes. This is a man!