Eye Contact by Michael Craft Page A

kid’s a knockout. “Something before your guests arrive?”
    Manning and Neil eye each other with a look that asks, Should we? Neil tells the waiter, “We’ll both have vodka on the rocks—the Japanese brand—with a twist of orange, just the peel.”
    Manning nods his agreement and watches the waiter strut away to fill their order. The knotty muscles of Justin’s calves bulge from the top of his boots.
    Music is playing now, and it sounds great—a familiar, nameless cocktail tune—but there’s some sort of commotion in the kitchen. “I’d better keep an eye on things,” says Neil, following Justin.
    Manning stands alone in the center of the room, telling himself that all is ready, that he looks just fine—when the buzzer yelps, shattering his fragile confidence. He looks about, wondering who’ll answer the door, then realizes that the task has fallen to him. He assumes that all the staff has arrived, that whoever has buzzed must be the first guest. Manning swallows, crosses to the door, and swings it open.
    “Happy new home, gorgeous!” says Daryl, flinging his arms around Manning for a full-body hug. A herd of other copy kids and Journal interns piles in behind him—the party has begun.
    Justin nudges through the crowd with his little silver tray balanced overhead on the prongs of his fingertips. “Your cocktail, Mr. Manning.”
    “Thank you.” Manning takes the drink—needing it—having managed to disentangle himself from Daryl, who now stares at the waiter with wide, unbelieving eyes, like a lucky cat who has stumbled upon a fat, fated mouse.
    Justin asks the guests, “What can I get you?”
    “Honey,” says Daryl, brushing up next to him, “you’ve got it all backwards. What can I do for you ?” In the same breath, he has his arm around Justin’s shoulder and walks him away from the group to explore the loft.
    Manning takes a gulp of the vodka. “Come on in, gang.” With a shrug, he tells them, “There’s plenty more where that came from,” knowing, as the words leave his lips, how insipid they sound. He’s certain he’s blown it—doomed the whole evening by his lack of social finesse.
    But his young guests aren’t fazed. Indeed, they laugh at his comment as if hearing it newly coined. They gape and coo at the artful transformation of the loft, wishing him happiness amid interjections of “Congrats” and “Way cool.” Their enthusiasm, he can tell, is genuine, and he wants to share it with Neil, whose creativity has shaped these surroundings. As if summoned by Manning’s thoughts, Neil appears.
    Manning asks him, “You know everyone, don’t you? We were just singing your praises.”
    The arrivals number about a dozen, college-age or so, both men and women. Neil has met most of them at previous gatherings or in the city room of the Journal, where he sometimes meets Manning for a lunch date.
    While newsroom attire is generally conservative, the trend toward the casual has been evinced even there, especially by these journalists in training. A copyboy can wear jeans to the office without thinking twice, but he knows instinctively that tank tops are beyond the limit. Tonight is different, though—it’s a party. And while it’s hosted by the paper’s star reporter, there’s a general consensus that he and Neil are “totally rad,” so these guests have dressed as they please.
    It’s been a hot week in the city, and the younger crowd has responded by baring some flesh. Some of the girls wear tube tops with skirts that remind Manning of his youth in the liberated sixties. Some of the guys wear shorts and sandals. One of them wears a vest—like Manning’s—but without a T-shirt underneath, displaying shifting glimpses of his tanned torso. He also shows a tattoo, and he’s not the only one.
    This is a trend that Manning has noticed, bewildered. No longer the blue-collar insignia that were once limited to anchors, eagles, or hearts with ribbons bearing Mother or the name of