FICTION

Boy Toy

By William Pei Shih     VOLUME 58 No. 2

Vertical Divider

I

Isabelle Zhou does not shy away from the cameras. The paparazzi follow her like hawks. She has an eye for spectacle. Next morning, she will be in the papers.

She drinks champagne like no other woman—or person for that matter—who I have ever met. When she’s had a bit too much, she becomes a magnified version of herself, larger than life, the center of gravity in any room, or any red carpet. There are blurred nights when I’ll be the one to whisk Isabelle back to her town house on the Upper East Side, nights when I’ll carry her over the threshold of the crumbling marble foyer. Then up the creaky steps, over the clutter leading to the master bedroom. I’ll make a path by kicking aside the accumulation of dresses and shoes and handbags that she’s left in her wake—minimally used, in disarray. The half empty bottles of perfume she can’t bear to part with.

As I lay her on the four-poster bed, the dusty blue velvet curtains are still drawn, as she prefers it. I remove her pink pumps and can see that the heel tips have been replaced. Her feet are littered with blisters; there are Band-Aids on each pinky toe. I unzip the red Chanel gown, wrapped around her still slender body (she swears it’s because of pilates). I must be careful not to tear off the tag. I already know that she plans on returning the dress later that week to the shop on Madison Avenue; her last assistant had picked it up in SoHo. Isabelle is a woman who still thinks that going downtown is like traveling to another country.

Now, when Isabelle is nearly devoid of all her finer things, she is truly at her most vulnerable. I can see that all the acid peels and gold leaf facials and Swedish massages and Turkish baths have done little to keep this inevitability at bay. They say that time heals all wounds, but here before me is a continually wounded woman, so time still has some much needed work to do. She has fallen from grace, though it isn’t the end either. There are moments when her smile is like that of a dewy and anxious girl—her entirely made-up face, like a fresh coat of paint, expecting that at any moment, the world, too, will turn another corner. And admittedly, it is a kind of strength that I can’t help but feel for.



II

My name is Chen, and at twenty-four, some people consider me a handsome man. I have come to New York City from my hometown of Beijing in order to try my hand at a presumably more lucrative endeavor. I am an aspiring model. Because of my accent, I am soft-spoken, and because I am soft-spoken, people often assume that I have little need to say very much. All this, along with my careful manners and my concern for the elegant line of my appearance (both physical and in my interaction with other people), often gives off the impression that I am genteel and that I must be a man of the world. It isn’t true. Nor is it possible. But some of this misunderstanding has worked in my favor, especially in a country that prides itself on having no sense of hierarchy. I have already walked in several runway shows in Brooklyn; I have landed a handful of editorials in some smaller fashion magazines. I have begun to make my mark. Isabelle has said to me that in no time, I will be ready to spread my wings.

“Sooner, rather than later, Chen-Chen, you will no longer need me to sing your praises.”

I rarely ever get the chance to insist that this is not true—that even though, yes, I can feel myself venturing toward a path that is seemingly in the right direction, I can also see that there is still a long way left to go.

In the dining room, I come upon a life-size oil painting of Isabelle from some years back—when she was still married. She is posing in the library; she is sitting atop the gold chaise lounge, which she called her “fainting couch” before she had to sell it in order to pay off a plumbing bill for the leak in the roof. She is wearing a black cocktail dress. It hangs off her shoulders, ever so slightly. I do a quick comparison, an approximation in my mind’s eye: Isabelle’s hair is still jet-black; her face, still soft and even angelic. But the artist has taken some liberties. For example, her nose is not nearly as narrow; her neck, not so long and swanlike, not actually that pale nor smooth. She’s had fillers done, but no plastic surgery, allegedly.

Yet do not mistake me. What I mean to say is that some people are simply oblivious to the fact that it is actually the culmination of such imperfections that reveal what is truly remarkable, what is truly striking. One only need to take a few steps back.

Across from the portrait, and next to the rosewood cabinet with the unpolished silverware, is another life-size painting. It is that of her ex-husband, Norman Wentworth III, the very same grandson and sole inheritor of the oil tycoon fortune. Isabelle had been his fifth wife. After the divorce, he cut her off—despite the fact that they had been married nearly fifteen years. They have a daughter together, whom I have yet to meet. But I know that her name is Elizabeth and that she attends a college in Tennessee.

Isabelle has lived a life that very few people will ever know or imagine. Stays in palaces and castles, invitations to coronations, royal weddings. In this very dining room, she has entertained presidents and their wives. Prime ministers, European royalty. Saudi princes, five-star generals. She used to spend her summers in the Hamptons and the South of France, winters in St. Barths during high season (December–February). But those days are long gone now and such distinguished guests along with them. And only the ghosts of such a past linger in an already fading memory.

She has told me several times, “These are the kinds of folks who make it their business to know you when they need to know you. After that, it’s ‘I’ll have my secretary call yours,’ and ‘We’ll do lunch.’ I don’t have to tell you that we never actually do lunch.”

Yet even I can see that it is a life that one cannot so easily relinquish. There are times when I am on my way to meet Isabelle, times when I take a taxi from up the block because I think that at that very moment, she might glimpse out her window and be pleasantly surprised to see that I am the kind of man who takes taxis around the city instead of the subway. She might therefore think that I have more up my sleeve, and I believe that this might be good for her to think, since I always seem to be playing with half a deck. I own two suits. I do not have a driver’s license, though I’ve been known to take over for the driver on the weekends. She does not know that I live in Queens or that I have a roommate named Gregor from Georgia (the country), who also has aspirations in the fashion industry, though at 5'7'', his dreams will likely reach far greater heights than his ambitions.

Other things that I have purposefully kept from Isabelle include the fact that I have not spoken to my mother in years. My mother wanted me to take over the family’s fish cake shop in a mall on Wangfujing Street, in Beijing. I had other ideas.



III

In the mirror of the nautical themed bathroom, I can’t help but catch a glance at my face. My looks are at the noon of their existence, not a shadow yet to be seen—a chiseled jawline that would be the envy of any vainglorious man, dark fine hair slicked back. Soft full lips, striking amber eyes. Though I am not sure how much longer I can sustain this symmetry and proportion without some help. Knowing Isabelle is like seeing through a window into one’s own future. She is a constant reminder that everything that is difficult and wonderful, including our time together, shall pass.

I think of how at its prime, this bathroom could have been featured in Town & Country. But some of the hanging mermaid sculptures have become disfigured; they are missing eyes and noses and fingers. Their bodies rest against the mosaic tiles of turquoise, deep blue, and foam green like the sea—though when I look more closely, several of the tiles are chipped. Dark spots stand out in the soft and warm lighting (from the one of three bulbs that still light up). The sand-colored mat on the floor is in tatters.

And yet I will always remember that long before I became the man that I am today, I worked in the back of coat rooms, as a bellboy at hotels, and as a waiter at the most exclusive of restaurants. I have attended to countless rich white men who feel that it is an injustice to tip any more than they have to, who fear that any single act of generosity will only lead to an expectation of more from those less fortunate. I have even waited on Norman Wentworth III himself and know from experience that he is one of those men. I suppose it all adds up—it is how the rich remain rich. Sometimes I really do think that in their heart of hearts, such people feel that it is their God-given right to control how every penny is made and spent—like a moral obligation that’s been inconveniently bestowed upon them. The one percent of the one percent, which they confuse for a higher power and purpose.

Isabelle will tell people that she and I met at a fashion show. That she had been sitting in the front row—no less—and afterward we were introduced by the designer himself. Voilà.

In actuality, I met Isabelle when I waited on her during dinner at a French restaurant downtown. By the time I’d cleared the escargot, we were hitting it off. It was better that I didn’t know then that she is the kind of woman who believes that it is a sign of class to cultivate a rapport with the help in order to magnify the distinction.

“You’re so friendly,” she said to me as I collected her plates. “I’m impressed. To be honest, I’m fascinated. Tell me more. Tell me about Beijing. Tell me about the Forbidden City.”

I did.

“Fascinating,” she then said. “Keep that up and I’ll have to take you to Paris Fashion Week with me.”

My interest was piqued. “Is that for real?”

“I always say, ‘Never say ‘never say never.’’” I thought it was an odd saying. Perhaps it was lost in translation. Then she said, “I wouldn’t mind being photographed with some eye candy on my arm every now and again. Say, when do you get off?”

Before the evening was over, she was inviting me to accompany her to a soiree at the Waldorf Astoria that very weekend.

•     •     •


TO READ MORE FROM THIS STORY, PICK UP A COPY OF VOL 58 No. 2




WILLIAM PEI SHIH’s stories have been published or are forthcoming in The Best American Short Stories (2020 and 2025), The Georgia Review, Ursa Short Fiction, Virginia Quarterly Review, McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern, Joyland Magazine, The Southern Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Boston Review, Los Angeles Review, Crazyhorse (now swamp pink), F(r)iction, Catapult, The Asian American Literary Review, The Des Moines Register, The Masters Review, Reed Magazine, Carve, Hyphen, and elsewhere. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he was a recipient of the Dean’s Graduate Fellowship. He is the fiction editor at Guernica Magazine. He currently lives in New York City and teaches at New York University. For more information, please visit williampeishih.com.


VOLUME 58 No. 2