************

He cries every night.

His sobbing echoes up to the balcony of my loft and intrudes on my quiet. I can't tell what he's saying, his muttered pleas are indecipherable because of the anguished pain. I try not to listen. It's none of my business. But I can't not hear it. I can't ignore it.

*************

It all started about two weeks ago when this ridiculous heat wave hit Pittsburgh. It wasn't even the second week of June and we were already hitting the 100 degree mark on a daily basis. Because of the weather there was a huge demand on the power grid to run all the air conditioners in the area and the electric company couldn't keep up. They'd instituted a plan of rolling blackouts in order to avoid the grid going down altogether. But that didn't matter much to the beleaguered residents when it was still in the high eighties with 85% humidity even after midnight. So, of course, everybody's windows were open, mine included.

I'd just returned from a long, steamy, hot night at Babylon. It was hot at the club too, but I guess I didn't notice it as much when I was happily getting my dick sucked. The oppressive heat seemed much worse once I was back at my loft though. I pulled open all the windows and headed out to stand on the balcony in the relatively cooler air while I smoked a last cigarette for the night.

That was the first night I noticed the crying.

Of course, I owned my loft. It was the only one on the top floor of the building. But not all of the units in the building were sold. I knew that the owner of the building still retained several of the smaller units and rented them out. The floor below mine consisted of one good sized apartment that took up the entire north side of the building and two dinky little studio apartments on the south side. I was pretty sure the big loft was privately owned but the studios were month-to-month rentals.

The crying seemed to be coming from the smaller of the studios. The inside one closest to the stairs. As far as I knew, that unit didn't have an outside wall and therefore no windows except for the big glass-windowed sliding door that led out to the balcony below mine. Which was, of course, wide open because of the heat.

Whoever he was, he sounded so hopeless.

That hopelessness offended me somehow. It reminded me of times in my own past. Familiar hopeless moments that I didn't want to remember. Feelings I didn't want to deal with.

It went on for a good twenty to thirty minutes. The volume rose and ebbed. Eventually the uncomfortable noises died out into even more pathetic whimpers and then finally faded away altogether.

I stood there and smoked four cigarettes and listened the whole time. I didn't have a choice not to listen. I went back inside when the power finally came back on about ten minutes after the crying stopped. I pulled the balcony door shut, turned up the AC and told myself to forget whatever I'd heard.

****************

The fourth night I heard the crying, I couldn't stand it anymore. Call it curiosity. Call it a sick need to poke my nose in where it wasn't wanted. Just don't call it concern, because that's not what it was. I just couldn't fucking keep away.

I crept down the fire escape. It zigged so close to the studio's balcony on that floor that it would have taken no effort at all to climb from the ladder onto the balcony itself. When I was level with the studio's patio I saw that a sheet of torn notebook paper had been taped to the edge of the door frame. The note scrawled on the paper said:

"It's too fucking hot to close the patio door. So, if you're planning on coming in to rob me, rape me or anything else, please do me the courtesy of just killing me on your way out. I really don't have anything in particular worth living for anyway and I'd rather not have to deal with the hassle I'd face in the aftermath of your crime spree. Thanks."

I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry after reading this little notice. It seemed so pathetic. It also said way too much about the man who'd written it. About his state of mind. Way more than I was ready to know. In the end I decided to feel angry about it, even though it really wasn't any of my business and I didn't want to analyze why it made me angry.

I climbed back up to my own balcony. Even though my loft was still stiflingly hot I pulled the door closed. I retreated to the bathroom and took a freezing cold shower, standing under the cold water long enough to drop my core body temp down sufficiently that I didn't need the AC to get to sleep.

**************

I'd never bothered to get to know any of my neighbors. Why would I? I didn't give a shit about them or their lives. Most of the time they didn't even register on my radar, even when I happened to pass one of them by on the stairwell or in the lobby.

But that week I found myself actually looking at them. Looking into the faces of the men who I passed going in and out of the building. Trying to find some clue in one of the faces that would tell me if this was the guy. The one who cried every night. The one who seemed so desolate. So inconsolable. The one whose depression had now somehow become my concern just because I couldn't get that fucking sobbing voice out of my mind.

So I scanned every single face carefully. But I couldn't see it. Everyone I came across looked perfectly normal. They'd nod hello to me. Some would smile politely. A few even managed a curt 'hello'. I couldn't see anyone who looked so crushed by the weight of the world that he would break down into tears on a nightly basis. What exactly did soul crushing depression look like?

Was I just missing it? I'd always thought myself a good judge of people but maybe I'd been deluding myself all these years. Was I so oblivious that I couldn't see this thing? You'd think it would be obvious. Why couldn't I see it in any of my neighbors' faces?

Then it dawned on me that maybe this guy was as good at hiding things as I was myself. Maybe his mask was even better than mine. Maybe he put on a happy, normal, unconcerned face every morning and pretended that nothing bothered him. Just like I did.

That pissed me off even more.

**************

Over time I managed to decipher some of the words interspersed with the sobbing.

"I'm nothing. I'm nobody. What's the point? Why do I even bother?"

This mantra is repeated regularly. It's so defeatist. I hate hearing it. I hate the words. I hate the sentiment underlying it. But I understand it too well.

*************

It's been twenty seven days since we've had any precipitation and almost two weeks of over 95 degrees every day. We even topped 100 degrees three times. This is insane. Everyone's feeling off because of the heat. No one's sleeping well. I'm feeling edgy and angry and can't seem to concentrate at work.

If possible, that night, the crying seems even more desolate.

"I just can't do it! I can't fucking DO it anymore. Why bother? Why do I fucking bother? I wish it would stop. How do I make it stop? I just want out. FUCK! Where's the fucking off switch? I NEED a fucking off switch in my brain! Just make it stop. Please. Just for a little while . . ."

I just want it to stop too. I don't want to hear this. It hurts me to hear his pain. It's too close to the truth. To my truth.

I look at the bottle of beam sitting on the balcony floor near my feet. It's still three-quarters full. Alcohol has always worked as MY off switch. You just have to ignore the consequences that come along the next morning. But, for that night, it's good. It helps to dull the pain of the moment. Fuck the do-gooders who say that it won't solve anything in the long run. He's not asking for that. He just needs to get through the now. The long run is so far out of his control it's laughable. I totally get that.

He wants an off switch and I just happen to have one available.

I go inside the loft and dig around in the kitchen drawer where I keep random junk until I find the ball of twine Emmett left here that time his stove died and he begged me to use my kitchen to prepare for some party. Apparently twine is a required ingredient for stuffed pork tenderloin. Who knew? Who cares? But I'm glad for the twine.

I tie the end of the twine around the neck of the beam bottle. I head back out to the balcony. The nightly sobbing has died down a bit. If I do nothing it'll probably fade away like it always does without my intervention. But what the fuck? Maybe the Beam will help speed things along?

I drop the bottle over the edge of the balcony and slowly wind the ball of twine out till the bottle is dangling just above his balcony railing. Then I start to swing the bottle back and forth. After a few seconds the radius of the swing is sufficient that the bottle bumps against his screen door. The rattling noise of the screen against the door frame must alert him because there's an abrupt end to the muffled sobs.

There's a tug on the line of twine. A minute later the weight on the twine ball disappears. I reel it back up.

The note I tied into the twine comes back with an addition. I'd written a terse, "alcohol = off switch". His response says only, "thank you".

I hope it helps.

*************

The empty bottle sitting in front of the loft door the next evening has a piece of paper sticking out of the neck.

"Next time, better send a bottle of aspirin too. Hangovers suck!"

That note makes me smile. It sounds not quite so desperately sad. Maybe my version of an off switch helped.

I quickly head in, change out of my business clothes into something more casual and then head back out. I'm meeting the boys at the Diner. As usual. Then we’re going to Woody’s. As usual. And we’ll probably end up at the club. As usual. And, as usual, I'll probably wind up bored out of my mind before the night’s half through. I'm not sure when the usual started to feel so forced and unfulfilling. I can't think of anything better to do though, so I guess it’ll be more of the usual. As usual.

When I arrive at the Diner, the boys are in our usual booth. I slide in next to Ted with my usual sarcastic greeting. I'm already bored and I just got here. Even the conversation that starts back up after I'm seated sounds the same as usual - just Emmett and Michael gushing over the latest hottie they're drooling over.

Which is when something finally happens that's unusual.

“Oh! He's just to die for, isn't he? He's so adorable. I wanna just eat him up. Where DID your mother find this one, Michael?” Emmett comments, displaying his signature flame.

“No idea. He's probably just another one of her strays. You know how she is about adopting every sad sack case she comes across,” Michael doesn't sound like he’s quite as enamored by whoever it is.

“Why the sour grapes, Michael?” Ted asks before I get a chance. “Don't tell me . . . He turned you down already? Well, at least I’m not the only one.”

“No. I didn't bother hitting on him. He's not my type. I'm not into chicken,” Michael insists, although based on the level of whining I hear, I think Ted's probably right about why our friend has taken an instant dislike to this mystery guy.

“Hush, you guys. Here he comes,” Emmett orders. “Quick, everybody drink your waters or something so he has to come fill them up. Hurry.”

Ted and Emmett quickly gulp their waters. Michael ignores them, actually pushing his own completely full glass to the side. I just lean back and chuckle at this new ridiculousness.

“Can I refill those waters for you,” a soft voice asks a minute later, causing me to look up at the speaker.

“Thank you, Sweetie. That would be just lovely. It's been so hot lately - just need to keep hydrated, you know.” Emmett’s shameless flirting clues me in instantly that this must be the hottie who was the topic of their conversation.

The kid standing next to our table holding a pitcher of water looks vaguely familiar, but I don't know where I've seen him before. I have to agree with Michael that this one’s definitely chicken - he looks pretty young even for Emmett - but then again there's something about the boy that makes me think he's older than he looks. Maybe it's the eyes. Those deep blue eyes that I catch very briefly before he looks away are older than the trim little twinkie body they come with.

The rest of the package, though . . . The slightly built frame, the perky ass, the white-blond hair cut in a short prep-school style, the full, popsicle-pink lips . . . That part is all twinkie. Yummy on the outside and chock full of creamy goodness on the inside.

So, yeah, I can see why the boys are drooling over the new busboy. I myself don't drool over any man. They drool over me. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the lad. He's definitely fuckable. And I can just imagine what those full, plump lips could do if given the opportunity. So I give the kid my usual sexy smile . . . To which I get only a flickering glance and a lukewarm, distracted grimace as he backs away and scurries off to clean up the next table.

That was weird.

“. . . Brian. Brian, are you listening?” Mikey interrupts my contemplation of the mystery twinkie who just somehow blew off my best Kinney come on.

And then things fall back into place and, without the distraction of the hot new twinkie busboy, we all continue with more of the usual.

************

I get home relatively early. For some reason the usual just didn’t cut it tonight. Halfway though a mediocre blow job I found my attention drifting. It was all just so routine feeling. I couldn’t even concentrate enough to keep my dick hard. I needed something different. I needed . . . something.

Mikey will probably give me hell tomorrow but I just couldn’t handle the club a minute longer. I zipped up my pants, walked out of the backroom and straight out the front door. I didn’t even bother telling anyone I was leaving. I’m sure the backroom boys will find someone else to suck. It’s their loss, not mine.

By the time I make it back to the loft, I feel even more hot and sticky and sweaty. The electricity is out again so there’s no hope of getting any air conditioning going and therefore no way I’ll get to sleep. I pull off my shirt, grab a drink and head out to the balcony, hoping against hope that there will be a breeze.

There isn’t. It’s stiflingly hot and still. And quiet.

I find myself listening for the sounds of crying I expect to hear coming from the apartment below but there’s nothing. Why am I disappointed that I don’t hear anything? You’d think I’d be glad not to have to listen to that sniveling. Whatever. I sit and try not to listen while I’m being sweaty and hot.

After about twenty minutes, there’s finally noise coming from the other apartment. I hear the sliding glass door grinding on its metal track. I hear the screen door sliding open and closed. There’s a thump then a quiet rustling. Then it’s mostly quiet again.

So there’s no crying. That’s different. But it’s quiet enough outside tonight that I do hear the occasional heavy sigh. Maybe even a little sniffling. I smell cigarette smoke drifting up from below. It’s not my brand. It’s one of those super cheap brands that smell like dried cow dung. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what they put in them either. I look over at my own box of cigarettes sitting on the small glass-topped patio table. There’s only four or five left in there. What the hell.

I lean forward, grab the ball of twine that’s still sitting on the table from the other night and tie it to the almost empty box of smokes. Then, without even getting up off my chair, I chuck the little package over the edge of the balcony, holding onto the end of the twine with my other hand. I feel the recoil as the projectile reaches its apogee and then it swings backward out of my line of sight. I wait. It’s kinda like fishing. After a couple swings, I feel a tug on the line. There’s an audible “Huh?” from down below and then the piece of string goes slack. I reel my ball of twine back in.

The scent of my brand of tobacco wafts up to me a minute later.

We sit and smoke together in silence until the electricity comes back on. Then I head inside, take a cold shower, turn the A/C up and go to bed.

***********

I’m running late the next morning so I skip breakfast. Halfway through my morning I get the call I expected from Michael, bitching me out for ditching him last night and also for not showing up for breakfast with the gang. I swear, sometimes it feels like we’re fucking married the way he’s always keeping tabs on me. I tell him to fuck off. He laughs. We agree to meet for lunch instead.

The Diner is packed when I get there a little after one. Everything looks the same as it always does. Mikey’s already waiting in our booth. Emmett’s there too. I know these guys have jobs so why aren’t they ever at them? I slide in next to Mikey, arriving in the middle of yet another discussion about whatever hot guy Emmett’s after today. Like I said . . . the usual. I’m not sure why I even bother to listen to them anymore since they never say anything new or unpredictable.

“His name is ‘Justin’. I asked Deb this morning at breakfast. She didn’t know much about him, just that he’s eighteen and new to the area,” Emmett details.

“Who are we gossiping about today, Honeycutt,” I ask, figuring I might as well since there’s nothing else to do while I wait for my usual sandwich.

“The new hottie busboy. You know, that gorgeous, bitable little blond. And don’t call me ‘Honeycutt’,” the forever flaming queen explains.

“Put your eyes back in your head, Emmy Lou. He’s a bottom. And you’re an even bigger bottom. You two would be totally incompatible,” I tease him, just to see how big a rise I can get.

What can I say? I’m bored.

“I’ll have you know I’m quite versatile, when I want to be,” says the nelliest of all nelly-bottoms. “Besides, I think you’re wrong about our baby blond boy. Have you seen the size of that package he’s packing. He’s got top potential if I ever saw it.”

“Shhhh. He’s heading this way,” Michael hushes his friend as the package packing busboy heads over our way with a coffee pot in each hand.

“Anybody need a refill?” he asks politely with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Those fucking eyes again. He looks at me briefly when he’s done topping up my cup and it’s like he’s looking straight into my brain. It’s fucking disconcerting. Why do his eyes look like they’re about fifty years older than the rest of him? And how the fuck can I see that when we only look at each other for about fifteen seconds? It totally throws me off my game. Before I realize it, he’s gone again and so is my chance to make a suggestion that would allow me to either confirm or debunk Emmett’s assumptions about the kid’s admittedly plentiful-looking package.

If I find myself drinking more water and coffee than normal for the rest of my lunch, it’s just that I’m really thirsty. It has nothing to do with the fact that it forces the busboy to come back to our table several times to refill the cups and glasses. Really. Nothing at all.

*************

I just can not be bothered to work up enough enthusiasm to go out that night. Mikey’s already called me three times to try and change my mind. That just pisses me off and makes me even more determined to stay in. On the way home I stop off at one of the few remaining video stores in the city - one that specializes in old black and white movies that you still can’t find online - pick up a copy of The Wild One and then some sweet and sour pork at my favorite Thai place. I also stop at the liquor store since I gave away the rest of my Beam the other night.

As I’m heading into the building I happen to spy a familiar looking towhead over by the mailboxes in the back corner of the lobby. What do you know? It’s the package-packing busboy. Small fucking world, right? He’s sorting through a small stack of mail as he passes me heading towards the door and doesn’t even look up. I even hold the door open for him but don’t get so much as a thank you. Whatever.

Marlon Brando and I have a lovely evening together. He’s up on my big screen getting drunk and I’m sitting on my couch getting drunk. It’s sorta our thing. Then, right before we get to the best part of the movie, the fucking electricity goes out. AGAIN. Fucking electric company. Of course the A/C goes off as well, so I take my glass of beam - on the rocks because of the heat, you know - out on the balcony with me and try to think cool thoughts.

It’s not peaceful and quiet out here tonight though. I can hear what sounds like a heated conversation coming from my downstairs neighbor’s apartment. Or at least one half of a heated conversation. I listen, of course. It’s not like I can avoid hearing. He’s not exactly being quiet or anything. It’s not like I’m curious or anything. I just can’t help it.

“Mom . . . No, Mom . . . I can’t . . . What about Dad? . . . No, I won’t come home as long as Dad’s being that way. How can you side with him? . . . How exactly should I have taken it, Mom? What else could he have meant when he told me to ‘get the fuck out until I came to my senses’ . . . What does he expect me to do? Flip a switch and suddenly become straight? That’s not going to happen. If he thinks that’s the case, he’s living in a fantasy world . . . Mom . . . No. I’m fine. Keep your fucking money, Mom . . . Don’t bother. What does it matter anyway? You’ve already written me off . . . I guess . . . Yeah . . . Bye!”

“Fucking Bitch!” The words were yelled rather loudly.

Based on what little I heard of the prior conversation I would have to concur. You’d think that coming out these days would be less of a bitch. Guess not.

The yelling from down below gradually subsides into mumbling. The mumbling eventually becomes more and more morose. The morose mumbling turns into the expected sobs. And I’m stuck here listening again. I can’t seem to make myself get up and move away.

“What’s the point? What’s the fucking point?’ The voice asks of no one.

I can’t answer because I don’t know that there is a point. I, myself, haven’t seen the point in a long, long time either. Which probably has something to do with the fact that the usual is boring me to the point that I can’t even enjoy a blow job these days. Of course, I can’t tell him that. He sounds depressed enough.

“Fuck it! Fuck it all! Argghhhhh!”

Anger is better than sadness, I guess. But then, what do I know? The next sound, though, is a crash - something metallic and glass? And that’s not good at all. The following silence is a bit too eerie. I find that I’m leaning over the edge of the balcony, not knowing when I even got up out of the patio chair. There’s nothing more. I don’t like that nothingness.

I’m dressed only in a pair of boxer briefs but that doesn’t stop me. I clamber over the railing of my balcony onto the fire escape and pad down the one flight of stairs. I don’t want to intrude, but that crash and then the silence . . . I don’t see anyone on the lower balcony. I debate the ethics of what I should do next for all of thirty-eight seconds. Fuck it. I can’t not know. I climb onto the empty patio and edge my way over to the big glass door.

The electricity is still off so it’s dark inside, but there’s enough ambient light to see a flash of blond hair. He’s lying on the painfully thin mattress of a rickety old futon. There’s practically nothing else in the small studio apartment. A desk in the corner with a laptop computer on it. An uncomfortable-looking footstool in front of the desk. Two old barstools at the small kitchen counter that divides off the miniscule kitchenette area. Some old milk crates used as end tables and a coffee table in front of the futon. The whole thing isn’t much bigger than my bathroom upstairs. That’s it. Not much of an apartment for not much of a life.

The man’s back is to me. He too is wearing only briefs. I watch long enough to see that his shoulders are shaking, which tells me that he’s still alive at least. The crash must have come from whatever I see lying in a heap against the wall next to the desk - it might have once been a phone. Now it’s a pile of broken plastic, metal and glass.

I watch him for several minutes in silence. It’s obvious that he’s crying again. The voiceless sobbing is more painful to me than the loud lamenting. It reminds me of times in my own life that I don’t want to think about.

I retreat back to my own apartment, pull the door closed in spite of the heat and take my new bottle of beam to bed with me.

************

Why am I disappointed the next morning when I get to the Diner and don’t see our favorite prominently packaged busboy? It’s not like there aren’t hordes of other guys out there who are dying for me to fuck them. Cause there are. And the busboy hasn’t so much as given me the time of day.

Get a grip, Kinney.

Nevertheless, breakfast seems even duller than ever. Michael and Emmett’s conversation seems duller than ever. Theodore seems duller than ever - which is really remarkable actually, since he’s the dullest person I know. Fuck, even Debbie seems dull today and that’s practically impossible seeing as we’re talking Mother Novotny, the owner of a panoply of NSFW t-shirts.

The only thing not dull about the morning was when Honeycutt asked Deb about the lack of busboy and she answered that he was being moved up to the glorious position of waiter so that he could cover the understaffed lunch and dinner shifts today.

I let Mikey talk me into coming back tonight for dinner before we head out for yet another night of drinking and dancing.

************

Why Mikey is so surprised when he walks into the Diner that night and sees me already seated in our standard booth is beyond me. What? I'm not allowed to be a little early sometimes? So shoot me already!

For once I don't really mind that I had to wait for the rest of them. I’m actually enjoying the floor show tonight at the Diner, which consists of watching guy after guy being shot down by our Busboy. It's really quite amusing. He looks like this sweet innocent twink on the outside but the kid has the sharpest wit I've ever seen. A tongue lashing from this kid could actually draw honest to goodness blood. You gotta respect a guy with skills like that. I decide to stay safe and only admire him from a distance for the time being.

The rest of the crew assembles eventually and Ted waves over our Busboy.

Okay, yeah, I know he's risen to the esteemed ranks of wait staff, but he’ll always be ‘Busboy’ to me. Busboy just has a ring to it, you know? ‘Waiter’ . . . not sexy at all. Busboy though is up there with house boy, cabana boy, boy toy. See where I'm going with this?

Busboy hustles over and takes the order. Emmett tries engaging him in conversation, flirting like a pro, but our little Busboy politely ignores him. Em’s a little miffed by this treatment and needs consoling after the Busy Busboy leaves. I just laugh because it's all part of the evening’s entertainment, right?

Right about the time that our table’s order is up, Debbie comes out of the back with a clipboard in her hand. As soon as our Busboy has served all the plates, the Diner’s longtime matron walks up and tries to shove the clipboard into the boy’s hand, pulling out one of the dozen or so pencils she's got hidden in the curls of her red wig at the same time. Busboy looks at her and then at the paperwork, obviously confused. He holds up his hands which are covered in ketchup that spilled from Em’s pink plate special. Debbie nods understandingly and turns the clipboard around again so she can write on it.

“Phil said you left your home address off your original application, Sunshine. He can't process the paperwork for your raise for being a waiter without this being completed,” she explains. “Want me to fill it in for you since your hands are a mess?”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks. I just moved in a couple weeks ago and when I was filling this out I couldn't remember the street address. It's 6 Fuller, Apartment 2A.”

Ding, ding, ding. All the alarm bells go off in my head at once. Fuck! 6 Fuller, Apartment 2A, just happens to be the apartment directly under my loft.

Busboy is my crier.

I am not prepared for this news. I know I'm not even close to being ready to think about this. I feel so totally thrown by this discovery, and I have no idea why, but I know I can't stay here and pretend not to know what I now know. I quickly make up some lame excuse, shove Mikey out of my way so I can get out of the booth, plunk down a couple of twenties for my uneaten ten buck salad and flee the scene.

I don't stop until I'm inside my loft with the door closed and locked behind me. Which is ridiculous and so lame that I can't believe I would act like this. What the fuck? Did I really just run away from some Twinkie Busboy? Why? Because I know his secret? And what exactly does that mean? I don't know this kid. I don't know anything about him, really. Why would I even care? And even so, why did I feel like I had to run away?

This whole situation is so fucked up. I don't want to get involved. It’s none of my business. I don't want to think about why a beautiful young man like my Busboy would be so disconsolate that he fucking cries himself to sleep every night. And I definitely don't want to think about why I care. Or why I sometimes feel just as empty and lonely as he sounds.

Because, if I did, if I was, then what does that say about me?

For some stupid fucking reason it takes me a really long time to get my mind set straight about this whole load of shit. I eventually reach the conclusion that obsessing about some depressed little blond boy isn't healthy. I need to get out of here. I need to get back to my usual haunts. I need to get laid. I need to get drunk AND get laid.

I need to hit the Baths.

Yeah, that's what I need. I need to lose myself in a good old fashioned orgy at the Baths. That will clear my mind. Get me out of this slump. Get me back in the swing of things. Yes. An orgy made up of beautiful, carefree, anonymous men is just the ticket. Much healthier than sitting here thinking about depressing shit. Right?

Right!

***********

I stumble back home just before three am. I'd not only visited the Baths but also done a bar crawl down the length of Liberty Avenue. I must have fucked or been sucked off by at least ten men over the course of the evening. Proving to myself and the rest of the world once again that I'm the most desirable, most beautiful, best fuck around. Men want me. I'm a winner. I'm not a loser who would sit around sulking in hiding all night.

I couldn't possibly have anything in common with someone like that.

Someone beautiful and happy-looking on the outside but so filled with pain that his eyes are a hundred years old.

***********

I avoid the Diner for several days.

The downstairs apartment is quiet. Or at least it's quiet by the time I roll in sometime in the early hours of the morning after I'm done with my rounds of the clubs and bars on Liberty Avenue each night. Plus, it's cooled off a little - it hasn't topped eighty five once in the past couple of days - so I stay inside with the A/C on and the windows and doors closed.

My plan to avoid the Busboy and all things related thereto is working well.

Except that even Brian Kinney can't go full tilt twenty-four/seven. I do need sleep every so often. The day that my assistant, Cynthia, orders me home with instructions not to return until I've had at least eight hours sleep and a total attitude adjustment, I finally give in and decide to stay home for a night. I can't function without Cynthia. It's not a good idea to make her angry.

So my brilliant plan totally falls apart.

There's nothing on any of the seven hundred channels I get on my television. I'm too lethargic to go out and pick up a movie. Cynthia confiscated my laptop saying that I was forbidden to do any work tonight. I'm not lame enough to sit in my living room playing solitaire or some shit like that. And I'm bored.

Somehow I find myself out on the balcony with a tumbler full of beam and a fresh pack of cigarettes.

About ten I hear noises from the apartment below me. The slider opens. There's random movement. The sound of a chair’s legs scraping on the cement tiles of the balcony. Then a voice.

“Owwww! Stupid fuckers and all their fucking hands all over me all night. If one more asshole pinches my ass or asks me if I'm on the fucking menu, I swear I'm going to kill someone . . . I don't care how great the tips are, I don't get paid near enough to put up with this shit . . . Can't even fucking sit down after being pinched so many fucking times . . .”

I'm chuckling silently at these comments, remembering how entertaining the kid was the other night when he was fending off all comers. I figure I can help with this little problem. I jump up and jog to my bathroom. A minute later I've got the tube of cream I sometimes use - very, very, VERY rarely when my own ass is feeling a bit . . . shall we say, chapped - tied to my trusty piece of twine.

When I toss it over the railing, I feel the string pulled tight almost immediately. There's a subdued chuckle. After a couple of tugs on the line, I unwind a couple more feet of twine. A minute later the line goes slack again and I reel it back in. The cream is still there but there's now a note wrapped around it.

It reads, “Ahhhhhh! Much better.”

Since this is the first night we've had any dialog that didn't end in crying, I'm inclined to keep it going. I happen to have this three inch square block of sticky notes that Cynthia gave to me as a joke a while back. I bring it and a pen back out onto the balcony. I quickly rig the twine so it will hold the block of notes. I scribble a quick message on the topmost sticky.

“Alcohol = Painkiller. Need some of that too?”

The block of notes swings over the edge.

The return note comes back right away. “Only if you send aspirin as well this time.”

No problem. I tie a loop of the twine around the neck of the bottle I was drinking from and then wrap a bottle of aspirin I happen to have in a second loop. This ensemble also goes over the railing along with another note. “Cheers, Downstairs Guy!”

“Thanks, Upstairs Guy,” reads the note that comes back and we spend the rest of the evening drinking together on our separate balconies.

***********

The next morning the empty bottle is sitting in front of my door alongside an aspirin bottle that's a little less full than it was the night before. There's a slightly blown red rose sticking out of the neck of the bottle. There's also another note.

“Have you heard about this amazing new technology called text messaging? It's like a block of sticky notes on a string, only better. 444-555-1234. Love, Downstairs Guy. P.S. I'm getting a new phone after work tonight - wait till then.”

I'm still smiling when I come back home after work and see that fucking bottle with its lesbianic rose - I made sure to add some water before I left that morning - and the note sitting beside it on the kitchen counter. Can you believe that I’m twenty-nine years old . . . fine, okay, I’m thirty years old . . . and this is the first flower anybody’s ever given me. How pathetic is it that I’m fucking grinning about getting a damned flower from some annoying little twat. I should probably just throw it out.

I don’t, though.

At 8:12 I hear the distinctive sound of the slider downstairs being pulled open. I settle myself into the patio chair and pull out my phone. I’ve already got Busboy’s number programed into my phone.

“You didn’t like the block of sticky notes on a string?” I text him.

Busboy: “It was . . . quaint. And, since my phone was out of order anyway, it was probably for the best.”

Upstairs Guy: “You’re going to give me shit after I let you use my best ass cream?”

Busboy: “Why do you have a tube of ass cream so handy?”

UG: “No comment!”

Busboy: “LOL!”

UG: “Changing subject. What happened to your old phone?”

Busboy: “My parent’s killed it.”

UG: “Huh?”

Busboy: “I was forced to throw the phone against the wall after talking with my mother because my father’s an ass. The kind that no cream will fix. In other words, they killed my phone.”

We banter back and forth for some time. It’s . . . nice. I see more of that cutting sense of humor. We’re laughing. I can hear his pleasant tenor chuckle drifting up to me from downstairs. And yet we don’t actually speak any words to each other. We just type back and forth. I can truly say this is the oddest conversation I’ve ever had.

And maybe the easiest. I find myself disclosing shit I never would have told anyone else. What’s with that? I think it’s because he can’t see me. I don’t think he even knows who his upstairs neighbor is. There’s something freeing about that. He seems to be opening up more too. Maybe he feels the same way about the not looking at each other thing?

UG: “You seem different tonight. Not so sad.” I comment on this phenomenon when there’s a little lull in the texting.

Busboy: “Today was actually a good day. I got paid. I got a new phone. Only two guys tried to grab my ass at work. I haven’t had to talk to my parents for days. And I got to chat with this Upstairs Guy who has great ass cream.”

UG: “Good to hear. I like the laughter. Much better than the other. Besides, somebody drank all my Off Switch/Painkiller last night.”

Busboy: “You’re a really bad influence on me. Getting me drunk. I begin to suspect you have ulterior motives here . . .”

Hmmm. I recognize that deflection technique. Very smooth. I couldn’t have done it better. And the segue into the topic of sex is usually a sure fire way to avoid talking about anything unpleasant. Reminds me of someone . . . oh, yeah, me.

But I let him get away with it, because I’d want him to do the same if it was me trying to change the subject.  

************

I finally return to the Diner the next morning. Busboy must be working a different shift though since there’s no sign of his bright blond head. That’s okay. We were up ‘talking’ together until late. He probably could use the sleep before he starts his next shift.

I find myself back at the Diner again for lunch. What? I was hungry - that’s all. There’s no rule that says I can’t eat at the Diner more than once a day. Deb, however, acts like it’s a major deal or something. Which is just so unfair because her own son eats there eight meals out of ten and she never gives him shit.

It’s really crowded today so I end up sitting at the counter. I’m relegated to the very last stool on the end, which means I’m out of the way and not very visible. So I get a good look at ‘Busboy’ the blond waiter from a distance before he sees me.

I don’t like what I see.

I catch sight of him while he’s standing at the far end of the room, cleaning off a table. He probably thinks nobody’s looking at him. It’s an unguarded moment. He’s let his mask drop. And if you look at him closely enough you can see that he’s not okay. The signs are subtle. Not everyone would notice. Mostly because not everyone would care. I find myself caring.

My Busboy is dragging today. And it’s not just the kind of dragging you get from lack of sleep. It’s the kind of dragging that comes with a twenty ton weight pressing down on your soul. As he finishes up his task and seats the next group of diners, I watch him don the smiling waiter mask. He chats with the customers. He makes a little joke. He even gives them a forced smile. They don’t even see it. They’re too busy with their own lives, or too preoccupied with their own worries, to bother. I see it.

When he turns and heads my way, I see that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Those thousand year old eyes. There’s no joking in those eyes. No laugher. Barely any spirit left in them at all. He’s just going through the motions.

I hate that look in his eyes.

“Hey, Deb,” I stop her as she hustles past me to the order pick up window. “What’s up with your new waiter?”

“Huh? Who?” Debbie looks around and sees the only waiter there that day. “You mean Justin? Why? He looks fine to me.”

“Look again,” I direct her. “Something’s wrong. You should see if he’s okay. Talk to him or something.”

Debbie looks at me like I’ve grown another head. Like I can’t possibly be concerned for another human being. I think she’s starting to believe her own hype that I’m some complete asshole or something. I shake my head and then physically turn her shoulders around so she’s not looking at me but at my Busboy.

“Hmm. You might have something there,” Deb admits as she watches Busboy heave a huge sigh and surreptitiously wipe something away from the corner of his eye before he lifts up his tray and smiles weakly at the next customer. “I’ll see what I can do. Thanks for the head’s up, Kiddo.”

A few minutes later Debbie calls the boy over to her. From that concerned mother look on her face it’s pretty obvious she’s going to ask him something personal. They’re standing just a few feet away so I can hear the entire conversation. Deb’s never been much for ‘subtle’. Busboy doesn’t know Debbie quite as well as I do though. He’s obviously not happy about the lack of privacy. There’s no stopping Debbie Novotny though when she’s on a mission.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Sunshine. There’s something wrong and I know it. Now tell me what it is so I can fix it and then we can get back to work,” Deb overrules all objections.

“It’s really nothing, Deb.” The glaring redhead just stands there with her hands on her hips, staring at him and smacking her chewing gum until the boy relents. “It’s just . . . well . . . My mom called me this morning. She said my father is refusing to release the funds in my college trust. He says he won’t pay for me to go to some fairy art school. If I want to go to college, I have to give up what he calls my ‘disgusting gay lifestyle’, go to his alma mater, Dartmouth, and get a business degree like a good little clone.” He tried to make it sound like he thought that statement was funny, but it didn’t disguise the anger and hurt lying just below the surface. “Whatever, though. It doesn’t matter.”

The defeat in that statement . . .

Busboy tries to smile at Deb but it takes too much effort. He drags himself back to work and takes the next customer’s order. Then the next. And the next. And he never lets on to any of them how crushed he is inside.

*************

I pick up another bottle of beam on my way home from work. Best to be prepared, right? I know I'd be self-medicating after the kind of day my Busboy had. I'm frustrated because I can't think of anything else I can do to help.

I'm dragging myself by the time I reach the loft. I'm not looking forward to this. I know what I'll find. But I can't stay away.

Deb must have let him go home early. I can already hear unhappy noises emanating from below my balcony. It’s like these waves of despair lapping at my feet. I hate it. I want it to stop. I wish I could stop it. For him and for me. I have to do something, but what?

I start to pull the largish bottle of beam out of its brown paper bag, but then hesitate. Maybe I am a bad influence? Maybe there's a better way to handle things? My M.O. has always been to not think about anything that hurts too much. Ignore it. If you can't ignore it, drown it out with something else - work, sex, drugs, alcohol, whatever it takes. It's always worked for me.

Or maybe not.

If my methods work so great, why do I always feel on the brink of collapse? I may not be sobbing on my balcony every night - that's not my style - but if I was really as happy and unconcerned as I pretend to be, I wouldn't feel so empty all the time. So unsatisfied.

I wouldn’t feel like my Busboy sounds right now.

All those unconvincing smiles. Busboy’s not the only one who's mastered them. Brian Kinney’s an expert at the smiling mask. And the deflecting joke. Anything so long as nobody knows what I'm really feeling.

Like the boy crying in the apartment downstairs, I try to sound all cocky and strong. I laugh and joke. I've perfected the insincere smile. Everyone thinks Brian Kinney's this uncaring, heartless asshole and nothing touches him. But I’m not heartless or uncaring. And I'm not really all that strong. A lot of the time I feel like I'm just about to crumble. Like one more thing will crush my spirit irredeemably. And then I'll finally admit that the answer to the questions Justin's been asking himself nightly - ‘what's the purpose of all this?’ and ‘why do I bother?’ - is that, ‘there is NO purpose. No reason to go on’. And when that happens I'll finally give up for good.

Sometimes I don't think that day is very far off.

Of course nobody who sees us knows any of this. Neither of us are the type of person to bare our souls. I know I'm vulnerable enough already without exposing any more of myself to the judgement of the masses. I think Justin feels the same.

Besides, it's not good manners to burden others with my insecurities, my grief, my perceived failings. Why would they care anyway. I'm sure they've all got their own problems. No one wants to be around someone who's always a downer. I barely have any friends as it is. I don't want to risk driving away even more of them by complaining all the time about my problems. People don't like people with problems. People like happy people. People like winners. Nobody would like a loser like me.

So I pretend that I'm a winner. That I'm somebody who could actually win. That I'm happy and still striving towards some verifiable goal. But, really, I long ago gave up believing that I'll ever achieve anything more than a lonely subsistence existence. I just make the people around me think that that’s what I want. Then I don’t feel so pathetic.

Which just brings me right back to the original question - ‘why should anyone bother?’.

Because if that's the best I can look forward to for the remainder of my life, there really is no point to this ongoing struggle.

But that’s not the answer I want to give to Busboy. I don’t want him to feel as hopeless as I sometimes feel. I WANT there to be a different answer.

I don’t know what to do though. I can’t fix myself let alone someone else. And I’m not the comfort-you-when-you’re-down kind of guy. So if the big bottle of ‘Off Switch’ isn’t the way to handle this situation, what is? What can I, of all people, do here?

Another cry - louder and more bleak - echoes out of the night. In desperation, I grab my phone. I can at least send him a message. He isn’t alone. He needs to know that.

Upstairs Guy: “Hey, Downstairs Guy. Want some company?”

Busboy: “I can’t do this tonight, Upstairs Guy. I can’t joke and pretend that I’m not miserable.”

UG: “Who’s asking you to.”

Busboy: “I just can’t.”

I try sending a few more messages, but there’s no response. Annoying little twat. The crying from down below has abated some, but that doesn’t mean all is well. I know that. He is just trying to block me out. I’m not going to make it that easy on him though.

Luckily I still have my trusty block of sticky notes on a string. I write another message. I toss the missive over the railing. Leaning over the edge as far as I dare, I feed out the line until it’s at just the right level. Next, I add a little torque. Before long I have that whole big cube of notes swinging far enough that they knock against the mesh of the screen door on the patio below.

After about ten collisions between the block and the screen, I feel the line go taut. There is a huge sigh from my Downstairs Guy. A minute later the tension on the string abates and I reel my message delivery device back up. The note I’d sent down now has an addition added to it.

I had written: “About that texting thing - You can turn off your phone and ignore a text but that’s not gonna stop the big block of sticky notes.”

In black Sharpie, he’s written back: “Fuck off!”

Well, anger is better than depression, right? I feel like I’m making some headway. Just to be contrary I send back: “Make me!”

The subsequent response makes me smile even though it’s still angry: “What is your problem? I just want to be done with it all. Go the fuck away!”

I send back yet another note. “My problem is that you’re upset and I can’t just leave you alone. I don’t know why, but I can’t.”

This time, however, the block of sticky notes bounces against the screen door repeatedly without any answer. I swing the block a little higher. It rattles the screen even more. Again and again. But there’s no response anymore from downstairs. I had been thinking that I was getting somewhere. Now, I’m not so sure.

Fuck!

Now what the hell do I do? I mean, sharing bottles of ‘Off Switch’ and texting or even tossing down sticky notes is one thing. I don’t really even know this kid. He’s just this hot guy that has a great ass and really old eyes. And horrible parents. And a crappy life. And, yeah, I guess I connect with him on a certain level. But does that mean I have the right - the obligation - to stick my nose even further into his business? I know I wouldn’t be thrilled if things were reversed.

Except . . . what if he couldn’t find a different way to answer that question. What if I finally give in and can’t find any answer. Would I want there to be nobody?

I could fucking debate this shit till the cows come home and never win. I don’t think I have that kind of time, though. Fuck it. This is making me crazy. I can’t just sit here but I’m not the kind of person who would interfere either. And when I look around myself to try to find some kind of guidance from the ether, my eyes land on an empty Beam bottle with one red rose inside. That fucking flower decides everything. Because I can’t stand the thought that someone who could give a stranger a rose could reach the wrong answer.

It takes me all of two minutes to hoof it down the fire escape. There’s no sign of Busboy out on the patio. There aren’t any lights on inside the apartment either. I gingerly climb over the balcony railing and peek around the edge of the door. There’s no movement. I have to cup my hand around the side of my face and press my nose to the glass of the sliding door to see anything at all inside.

I finally spot him. He’s sitting so still that my eyes almost slide right over him. I only notice that he’s perched atop one of the beat up old bar stools because a stray beam of light from a street light glints off his hair for a brief second.

Should I speak? Announce myself? Knock on the screen door? What precisely is the etiquette for breaking into someone else’s home because you’re too fucking nosy to leave them in peace?

I’m still dithering when I see him finally move. It’s a small movement but with huge consequences. My eyes have adjusted a bit so I can make out a bit more inside the room. I see his hand reach out for something on the kitchen bar. It’s a small orange vial. The hand flips over and I hear the ‘plink, plink’ of about a hundred little pills landing on the beat up formica countertop. The orange bottle is dropped and, after toppling for a moment on the edge, it falls to the carpeting. The hand that had been holding the little bottle is now scooping together all the pills into a more concentrated pile. I also see that he didn’t need my bottle of Beam since he has his own bottle of something waiting next to his other hand.

So far he’s just staring at the pile he made.

Fuck knocking or announcing myself. I slide the screen door open and walk right in. He’s so enveloped in whatever is spiraling through his mind that he doesn’t even hear me. I’m standing only inches away from him but he still doesn’t acknowledge me. Then, right as he lifts up the hand, as if ready to grab a handful of that misery medicine, I lay my own hand on his shoulder. That startles him enough that he jerks back and knocks half of his carefully horded pile of pills to the floor.

The puffy red-rimmed blue eyes, millennia old, look up at me with confusion. “Who? What?” Then it all clicks for him. “You’re Upstairs Guy?” he finally voices the perplexity. “But . . . you’re Brian Kinney. You’re the guy that doesn’t give a fuck about anything. What are YOU doing here?”

“I’m here because I can’t not be here. And because you gave me a fucking flower like some totally lesbianic twat. And because, maybe I do give a fuck, but I’m just as good as you at hiding what I really feel. Ever think about that, Busboy?” I answer him, my voice hushed, as if I don’t want my secrets to get out beyond this room.

And I look him in those old, sad eyes and let my own mask fall for once. There’s nothing left to hide behind here. There’s no reason to try to hide. We’re kindred spirits of a sort. Related through our hidden misery once removed.

And maybe he has given up and given in to the answer we both were dreading to that miserable question but, looking down at him, I all of a sudden come up with at least one good reason to carry on for another day.

Those lips need kissing. And that soft, pale skin needs to be touched. And even though I’m Brian Kinney and I don’t do sentimental or cuddly, I think that maybe I could be persuaded to give that pliant, slim frame a hug. Merely for emotionally supportive reasons, of course. Because I’ve already said way more than I’m comfortable with. Likewise, the rose will never be spoken of again. And I think we can come up with something to keep us busy so we don’t have to talk.

But he’ll know - and so will I - that there’s more to all this than either of us want to discuss.

So I share the only alternative answer I have. I tilt his head back with one finger under his chin. He hesitates. I don’t. I lean down and press my lips against those deliciously pink, pouty lips. And you know what? They taste just as sweet as I imagined.

Which means that, at least for tonight, we both have something to do other than think about unanswerable questions.

And maybe tomorrow won’t seem as unbearable. Maybe the weight pressing down on his shoulders will feel a little lighter. Maybe his smile will be a little bit more sincere. Maybe he won’t need to cry tomorrow night. Who knows?

But at least it will give us both another day to try to figure out this thing called life.

************

The Beginning of Better Times . . .