To Build a Home

10 | Charlie

I didn't always know him as Charlie. First, he was Headphones. Every few weeks he'd walk into the gallery, wearing more layers than was appropriate for the weather, and walk the perimeter with massive red noise-canceling headphones suctioned to the sides of his head as if he were undergoing surgery by a team of aliens. He never took them off or spoke to anyone, simply viewing the art and enjoying the music or podcast or whatever required such listening equipment. When he was finished, he'd walk outside and stop to look in both directions. He never knew which way he wanted to go. I'd watch him every time from my desk at the back wall, wondering about this strange routine, and sharing theories with whatever artist friend was visiting.

Maybe he's anemic. Maybe he's on the spectrum. Maybe he's on his lunch break. Maybe he's not even listening to anything and he's just avoiding social interaction. Maybe he's playing a prank and someone is telling him what to do over the headphones. Maybe he likes listening to the sound of crashing waves as he roams around the art district, unscheduled, unmapped, uninterrupted.

Then I knew him as Brice's Boyfriend. There were a few occasions when we were at the same event or party, like the annual Painting for Pride fundraiser for gay aspiring artists, but we were never introduced. Brice and I, a friend from art school, always tried to maintain a distance at public affairs as we often disagreed on what was considered art, which would inevitably inspire long-winded debates that bored almost everyone.

Brice's Boyfriend was a revolving door of men, substituting faces and jobs and quirks with one title. To be Brice's Boyfriend meant you wouldn't be around very long. You were up and coming. You were talented and good looking and smart. You were also new, either to the city or the scene, so you didn't know about Brice. Regardless of the details, Brice's Boyfriend was usually plucked from the edges of obscurity and ushered into society by someone who had once been in those shoes and had never wanted to take them off. That is to say, Brice lived through his boyfriends and then cast them off when their novelty was exhausted like a wind-up toy. So it was surprising, in a revolving door of newcomers, to notice a Brice's Boyfriend who looked familiar. I just couldn't place him right away.

Charlie became Charlie one winter evening at The Paris Theater, about two years before my brother's death. Three Brice's Boyfriends later. Where Midtown meets the Upper East Side, a block away from the southernmost point of Central Park, was Manhattan's last surviving single-screen cinema. You could sit in the balcony like it was 1930 and watch foreign or independent films with an usher and a tub of popcorn.

It was my tradition on the first really cold day of the year to see whatever was playing at the Paris and then walk around the park, my last long walk before the New York winter sent everyone inside until Christmas. I was by myself that evening, after a long day of inventory at the gallery. I was too tired to scroll through my phone to find a friend and it was too late to chat someone up on a dating app long enough to ask them to join me. I almost didn't go at the prospect of a crowded train. But I'm glad I did.

An experimental film was playing and I managed to get the last seat available in the front row of the balcony––the best section of the house. When I found the seat, right as the theater was going dark, there was a coat and pair of headphones on it. "Excuse me," I said to the man next to me. "I think that's my seat." He apologized and put them on his lap. I did not recognize him.

About twenty minutes into the film––it was hard to tell because, man, was it experimental––the person next to me started giggling. It was soft, at first, and occasional. But as the film progressed, it became more difficult for him to contain his laughter and for me to ignore it. I wasn't particularly interested in the movie, in fact, I was dozing off a little bit. But there was some serious stuff happening on the screen––-a disgraced surgeon was operating on people from his living room––and this guy was laughing.