The Sunday Stories

Liam and Me Pt. I

I wrote a version of this story a few years ago, about true events that happened nearly fifteen years ago now. That’s the genius of writing: stories are malleable. You return to them, lift a corner, see what still holds and what quietly shifted in the re-write years later.

I like this one to set the mood for the holidays because, on the surface, it’s about a boy, a holiday party, and a sprig of mistletoe. But it’s really about something else entirely—power dynamics between men and women, the subtle negotiations we’re trained not to notice, the power we give away or take back, and the old fairy tale most people still believe only ends one way: with a man, a woman, and “happily ever after.”

I’ve learned that happily ever after has many endings. Some arrive in love, others in loss. And many—maybe most—end in a place you never expected to find yourself at all.

I’ve always wanted to change the name of the main character of this story. People project so much onto movie stars—fantasies, flaws, whole narratives that have absolutely nothing to do with them. Liam could be anyone; he’s not meant to represent a man so much as the elusive idea of masculinity itself. A word that, lately, has collected more negative connotations than it deserves.

Admittedly, I’ve contributed to the discourse myself—sitting on podcasts, offering opinions on why we shouldn’t wring our hands over the epidemic of lonely young men. My advice was blunt: grow up, go to therapy, read something other than Reddit, cultivate basic social skills. And please, stop asking women to solve it. We’re exhausted.

But in this story, I mean the archetype—the classic, old-fashioned manly-man—rather than the modern, self-questioning, selfie-in-a-bathroom mirror version of manhood. Think of him as a gentleman from a vintage postcard—lean back, pour yourself some eggnog and settle in.

Searching For Liam: Part I

I’m not telling you to search for Liam Neeson, in fact I’d prefer you don’t because I’m searching for him. I met him one night in 2011, and my knees buckled. A proverbial swoon. Every girl should meet a man who makes her swoon. Not because he was a big movie star, I’d seen enough of those. But because I got a glimpse of something I’d hadn’t seen in a while – a real man. The kind who doesn’t let you forget you’re a woman. Who starts a fight with a stranger who spills your drink. You know what I’m talking about.

The kind of man who opens a cab door for a woman then, instead of making her slide over, shuts the door, goes around to the traffic side, and gets in. A man who instinctively rises from his seat when a woman approaches the table, who steps in when he sees a woman being manhandled. That’s what happened to me. I wasn’t exactly manhandled as much as slightly pushed out of the way, which makes it even more swoony that he stepped in.

It started over eggnog on a Saturday night in December. I went to my friend’s Christmas party, (I’ll call him AC wink). I was sitting on a counter in his kitchen watching the spirits come and go – the booze, yes, I was right by the makeshift bar – but also since it was his annual party, the room faithfully teems with the spirits and ghosts of his Christmas parties past.

AC’s annual party had become a benchmark party for the holiday season. It started out small and as the years passed and AC got bigger so did his party. But you could count on the original core group of gay men and the stylish women who trailed them to line up each year perched on top of his royal blue couch. Perfect hair. Poised. The effortless ease they showed navigating a crowded room of party-goers. I hung in the kitchen or the small office off the living room, preferring small spaces and corners to the main stage.

There were two other things you could count on at AC’s party: the brownies would get you stoned and the random interesting guest star would make an appearance. If Madonna was in town she’d come with her own posse of gay men, sit in the corner, and complain about the music. John Mayer came the year he was reclaiming his masculinity as a lumber-sexual. One year I brought Susan Sarandon who spent some time talking to a woman who looked similar to Monica Lewinsky. This woman was a big fan and Susan was very gracious. We only learned at the end of the night that it was Monica.

AC loved everything about popular culture. His apartment is a pop culture archive. He has photos of him and Erica Kane. A Roy Lichtenstein hangs over the fireplace. An Andy Warhol of Diane Von Furstenberg hangs in the powder room. He even had his talk show set built to look like his apartment. And in a Norma Desmondian twist, that I am sure is not lost on AC, he got big but his apartment, like the talk show set, stayed small.

On this night, I arrive early and sit in the open kitchen. I’d learned over the years that the kitchen was the one place you could both be at the party and a little removed from the party. I perched on the windowsill, the perfect spot to view guests coming and going, and near the fancy brownies. I don’t know it yet, but within the hour I will meet the random interesting guest star who makes my knees weak. I know, it’s a corny expression. Takes my breath away, makes the room spin. But in this case my knees did buckle. It was an actual physiological thing.

I noticed his arrival by the way the sea of people parted as he walked into the room. Like Moses parting of the Red Sea. He came with a friend, a guy named Frank. I knew his name because I’d met him and his wife a few years earlier at Bungalow 8. We talked until closing time about nothing important and the three of us bonded. Frank was the kind of guy you didn’t forget. He had soap opera good looks and an easy smile. If you needed a drink one would appear, if you were looking for say your purse in a crowded nightclub booth he would find it. Frank was a fixer. He knew the bouncers at all the cool clubs, and apparently Frank knew Liam, too.

Frank also had a good memory.

“Hey, Carole, great to see you,” Frank said and hugged me like an old friend. That was Frank’s style - he never met a stranger.