BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 15-TRANSITIONS

ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV

why's everybody always pickin' on me?

Saturday, January 7, 2009, 8:36 p.m. at Babylon

If Ruben didn’t stop spinning that goddamn top down the length of the bar, you were going to strangle him with your bare hands. You were convinced, although he always denied it, that his parents were in the circus. But Ruben declared otherwise; his mother, he said, was a school teacher and his father sold life insurance—probably to circus people.

“Give it a rest, Cocktail,” you told him as he was lining up to spin the damn thing again.

“This top is a collector’s item. Did you know that?” And it was coming toward you again. You swore that this time you were going to keep it. “Made by Ohio Art in the sixties.”

“Don’t you have some silly putty you can play with or something?”

“Shit, I forgot it, and it glows in the dark.” Rube moved back behind the bar, retiring the top and putting his Etch-a-Sketch in front of him. You’d never seen anybody work one of those faster than Rube. He turned the knobs furiously for a few seconds and then held it up in front of your face. It read: ‘WHY ARE YOU IN SUCH A BAD MOOD?’

“I told you a minute ago. You weren’t listening.”

“Tell me again,” Rube said, shaking the Etch-a-Sketch and starting a picture of what you thought was a martini. A random boy-toy wandered up to the bar and Ruben switched back into bartender mode, “What can I getcha?”

“Double take.”

“Coming right up.” Ruben pulled a bottle of whiskey out from underneath the bar, “Go ahead; I’m listening. I can do two things at once.”

Ruben could do twelve things at once—on a slow day.

“Ever notice how Boss Man always has me working security on Saturday nights?”

Ruben was back at his Etch-a-Sketch, the martini long gone—shaken, not stirred. He began to sketch a fifth of something. “So ask him for a night off.” Everything was always so simple to him.

“Yeah, right. He’s been on my ass twenty-four seven ever since I boned that girl in his office.”

Ruben stopped sketching and looked at you, “Well, you have to admit that was pretty fucking stupid.”

“It was pretty fucking stupid of you to give him the fucking tape.” You’d been pissed at Rube for two months, and just now got around to telling him.

“What did you want me to do? Wait until he reviewed the tapes himself and found out that way? Fuck, no.”

“Whatever.”

The phone rang behind the bar and Rube picked it up, flipped it, and answered it, “Babylon.” And then he handed the phone to you, “It’s your brother.”

You took the phone from Rube, “What ‘Cakes?”

“Bring me a case of vodka. I’m out.”

“Yes, Mr. Bossy Boss.” Gabe had become a Brian-Kinney-in-Training as far as you were concerned.

“It’s busy here. Just bring it.”

You sighed as you handed the phone back to Rube, “I’ll be back shortly.”

“See ya.”

……

The décor at Zeal was strange, the lobby and bar sporting a mustard-color wallpaper with dark brown designs that seemed to jump out at you because the furniture and the bar itself were so dark. Every time you looked at it, you thought that if the devil wore paisley, that’s what it would look like. You had a suspicion that Debbie had picked out the wallpaper, but Gabe swore she hadn’t. He told you it was a mutual decision between himself and Brian and that it was one of those wall coverings that looked heinous if you got within six inches of it, but otherwise, blended in really well. You figured you’d just take their word for it.

When you walked in with the liquor, you greeted Ted who was sitting at the bar punching shit in a calculator, “Evening, Point Dexter.”

“Rambo.”

“Where’s Gabe?”

“In his office.”

“Thanks.”

You sat the case of vodka behind the bar and went to find your little brother. He and the Swizzle Stick were reviewing the reservations for tomorrow night. Gabe took one look at you and said, “’FRESH MEAT?’ Why are you wearing that shirt? Aren’t you working security tonight?”

Emmett pointed his finger at you in that unbelievably faggy way of his, “I think it suits him.”

You thought you were wearing a ‘SECURITY’ shirt; you’d grabbed the wrong one. “Fuck. Now, I’ve got to go home and change. Goddamnit.”

“Perhaps if all of your clothes didn’t look alike,” Gabe suggested, getting that little rush he always gets when you fuck something up. Emmett laughed.

“You coming by the club later?” you asked Gabe.

“Probably. Brian’s gotta eat, right?”

“Yeah, no shit.” Saturday nights had become a routine with you and Gabe lately: you working security at the club and Gabe bringing over dinner for Brian after he closed the restaurant. Brian spent his Saturday nights at the club in his office, instead of on the dance floor. He preferred his flat screen with Technicolor feeds from all of the security cameras. You secretly suspected that he jacked off while watching what was going on in the backroom. “Give me the keys,” you told Gabe, and he tossed his car keys at you. You thanked him and left the two of them to their details.

As you walked out, Ted stopped with a hand on your arm, “Aren’t you working security tonight? You can’t wear—"

“I know that, Einstein. I’m going home to change. Don’t get your boxers in a wad.”

You weren’t really going home per se because you didn’t technically live in Pennsylvania. You were going to Gabe’s; your home away from home. You were a New Yorker, and there was no way in hell you were going to have a permanent address in boring ass Pittsubrgh. No fucking way. The only decent action in this town was in the backroom at Babylon and doing Brian Kinney’s bidding every Saturday was seriously cutting into your slice of that. Kinney paid you a shit load of money and you were practically guaranteed steady work given the age of Kinnetik, a reconstructed club, the Liberty Diner always on it’s last leg, a brand new restaurant, and Kinney’s own personal mansion. It seemed like you were installing something new for Brian at his house every other week.

Admittedly, though, your money went a lot farther in Pittsburgh than it would in the city. You were still a free agent, though, and kept your ‘get out of jail free’ card in your back pocket for the day you’d had enough of being Kinney’s personal handyman.

****************
they have everything for young men to enjoy,
you can hang out with all the boys

Babylon was known for having the tightest security of any club on Liberty Avenue and the city for that matter. Kinney always remarked that this was because of the bombing a few years ago, and he made it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that something like that was never going to happen at any establishment of his—ever again.

Working security at Babylon was real work; it wasn’t slacking off, getting wasted, or intimidating troublemakers with your air of authority. It was prevention, plain and simple. Brian expected security to walk through the bathrooms and the backroom every fifteen minutes looking for anything out of the ordinary, especially for underage kids getting drunk or high, or, if they were really young, getting fucked. There was always such a huge crowd to get into Babylon that the doorman couldn’t be the only gate for shit like that. And underage or not, if there was anybody overdosing or passing out, you were to call an ambulance immediately. Brian’s relationships with people in the community finessed the removal of tweaked-out kids, ambulances always pulling behind the back of the club and using sirens only when absolutely necessary.

From his perch in his office, Brian watched everything, and more than once, he’d spot someone who was getting out of control before you did, his voice instructing you to ‘get that guy out of here’ via the microphone in your ear. Once Brian had spotted a guy in the backroom making his own rounds without a raincoat, and had you throw him out. He was a fucking nazi about unprotected sex and STD’s, “Nothing will kill a club’s reputation faster than a round of syphilis, trust me.”

So on Saturday nights, you had your work cut out for you between making rounds, dealing with druggies, and trying to decide who was going to suck your dick when you went on break. Ironically, from his office on high, Brian was doing the exact same thing—just electronically.

And so it went. Gabe would bring Brian dinner, and you were responsible for making sure he had dessert.

****************
the king’s back in the ring

When you returned to Babylon that night around nine-thirty, the place was already hopping. You paused during your rounds of the backroom to watch some guy being fucked in a sling and were hit on by a cute brunette offering to suck you off. “I don’t get off until I get off,” you told him and he moved on to greener pastures.

Brian arrived at the club that night at his usual time, somewhere between ten-thirty and eleven. He rarely broke that routine, stopping at the bar to chat with Rube, quickly scanning the place for maximum profitability. He wanted things to run smoothly, he said, because the smoother they ran, the more money he’d make. You couldn’t really argue with that; he was right.

Around eleven o’clock, Gabe arrived with Brian’s dinner and Emmett in tow. Emmett quickly peeled off and went to find someone or something that suited his fancy, and Gabe stood at the bar, his containers stacked in front of him. The same question always on his lips,

“Can I go up?” Rube looked down at the monitor under the bar and flipped the view from the backroom to Brian’s office. The camera was on; Brian was on the phone.

“Sure, he’s on the phone.” He handed Gabe two cold beers.

“Thanks.”

You watched Gabe take the stairs to the catwalk in what he always seemed to be wearing, khaki pants and a light colored-dress shirt of some sort that made him look like a pansy. Gabe knocked and then disappeared into Brian’s office, closing the door behind him.

****************
GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV

don we now our gay apparel

Working for Brian Kinney was a dream come true. He didn’t micro-manage, he paid you extremely well, and he was always completely upfront with you whenever there was an issue. Running your parents’ restaurant was one thing, but you could’ve never gotten this kind of experience or autonomy under them. Babylon and Zeal were doing extremely well, due in large part to Brian’s advertising expertise. He knew exactly how to capitalize on the appeal of both businesses, how to get and keep their names out there, and could do all this without over-exposing. Brian wasn’t interested in over-exposure; he wanted to be known for excellent service—whether that service was an exquisite dining experience or a skilled twink in the backroom.

Or Debbie at the diner.

Believe it or not, working with Debbie was more stressful than working for Brian. You were both very strong willed people with intense family ties who were extremely (some might say, ‘overly’) proud of their lasagna. Basically, you were Italians. And you both took your jobs way too seriously. Trying to give Debbie tips or advice on how to improve something in the diner was like trying to convince Zeek that wearing shirts that said, ‘HERE’S THE BEEF’ with a down arrow pointing to his crotch wasn’t sexy or classy or appropriate.

The day that Zeek met Debbie is one that you’ll always treasure--Zeek in his ‘HERE’S THE BEEF’ shirt and Debbie in her, ‘VAGINA MONOLOGUE’ shirt. They circled each other in the diner like wild animals sizing up their prey. When you’d suggested that beef and vaginas did sort of go together to break the tension, Debbie cracked a smile, smacked her gum, and patted you on the head with her bracelets clanking in front of her face.

“Damn right, I like beef,” she’d said, and you saw a flash of tangible fear on Zeek’s face when he realized that his inappropriate wardrobe might be a come on to someone he didn’t want to fuck. The thought alone boggled his mind, as if it’d never occurred to him before. And then, as if on some silent cue somewhere, Chief Horvath had walked in the door. Debbie kissed him, lipstick everywhere, and announced, “Hey, sweetie. I was just talking about you.”

Carl smiled and then glanced at the two of you, his eyes stopping on Zeek’s shirt, “Nice shirt.”

Zeek glanced outside at Carl’s police car and fled the diner.

The main conflict you had with Debbie also occurred over wardrobe. It wasn’t uncommon for you to go help out at the diner in a pinch or for Debbie to help at Zeal when the diner was slow. Brian expected all of you to work together to get the job done; no one was an island under his employ. During the entire renovation, she’d showed up for work in her rainbow vest every single day. You’d mistakenly assumed that the vest was part of her diner apparel, but at some point over the years, it’d apparently just become part of her skin.

The first night she was actually going to work at Zeal with paying customers, she showed up in it, and did not take kindly to, “Debbie, you’re gonna have to take that off.”

“The fuck I do.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’m the proud mother of a gay son, and I’m not taking it off.”

By the time this incident happened, you’d learned one crucial thing about dealing with Debbie: Don’t. Let Brian handle it. So you went into your office and called him, and a few minutes later Debbie’s cell phone rang in her pocket. She had her phone turned up so loud that you could hear every word Brian was saying,

“Deb, you can’t wear that vest when we’re open.” Debbie glared at you like she was going to twist your balls off, one by one.

“Why the fuck not?” And then work her way up the rest of your body.

“Because that vest is a symbol of the Liberty Diner, and I want it to stay that way.” Your respect for Brian soared that night because only he could make Debbie fall in line using branding as the reason.

……

“Well, I didn’t think about that.”

“Zeal needs to have its own identity.”

Debbie pondered what Brian was saying before she responded, “Can I wear a button?”

“Just one, but nothing with text on it.”

“Fine, I’ll wear my little rainbow.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Deb. You and Gabe make some money tonight.”

“We will.”

“I’ll be there in an hour to see how it’s going.”

“Okay. We’ll see you in hour.”

That night you realized that you desperately wanted to be Brian Kinney when you grew up.

****************
taking care of business

Babylon practically reeked with the smell of sweaty boys and beer that night, just like it did every night. And on the few trips you’d ever taken into the backroom, mostly just to see if the rumors were true, the scent of sex seemed to seep into your clothes. If someone bottled that smell and produced it as a cologne, you were quite sure it’d be called Raunch, and that Brian and your brother would wear it proudly every day for the rest of their lives.

You knocked on the door to Brian’s office with the back of your hand, “Brian? It’s Gabe.”

“Come on in.” When you entered, Brian was on the phone, finishing a conversation with a thoughtful expression on his face, “I miss you, too.”

Brian’s office was basically central command at Babylon. His flat screen was on and divided into four quadrants—the dance floor, the backroom, the bathroom, and the bar. You watched the screen until he got off the phone, not wanting to give the appearance of eavesdropping. You spoke as he hung up, flipping his phone shut and slipping it back in his pocket, “Hey, Brian.”

Brian’s black shirt sleeves were rolled up and a slim, silver case was sitting in front of him on his desk, “Greetings, Gabriel.”

“Oh god, don’t call me that. Makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

“Sit down,” Brian said, reaching to take the food from you.

“There’s a fork in there,” you told him as he searched the bag for everything he needed.

“Thanks. Can you tell me who the fuck Julie Warner is?”

“What?”

“Julie Warner. Some woman named Julie Warner called me yesterday to let me know that she had a very bad experience at Zeal. Know anything about that?”

“Shit.”

“Does that mean, ‘shit, yes I know,’ or, ‘shit, no I don’t know?’” he asked you.

You opened the two beers you’d brought up with you, handing one to Brian, “It means, ‘shit, I think I know.’”

“Care to enlighten me?” You didn’t really, but felt you probably didn’t have a choice in the matter. “Don’t like getting calls from pissed off women, Gabe. That’s why I’m a fag.”

You laughed for a second and then got serious again, “It was my fault. I’ll take care of it.”

Brian eyed you, as if he was wondering if he should accept that as an answer, and then decided he would, handing you a slip of paper, “Here’s her name and number. Take care of it.”

“I will. And I apologize; it won’t happen again.”

“So tell me, how’s Emmett doing?”

You were anxious to tell him that Emmett was doing a great job as your new host, better than you’d expected for some reason. The customers adored him, he was always extremely polite (even when being rude), and he was a problem solver. You smiled, “He’s amazing. That guy was born to be in the service industry.”

Hearing your response, Brian almost choked on his food, guzzling his beer to clear his throat, “You have no idea how accurate that statement is.”

“Very funny.”

“You said a mouthful,” Brian replied, still coughing.

You changed the subject, “When I came in, Rube was building something on the bar with that Erector Set you gave him for Christmas."

“He’s easier to buy for than my son.”

“He’s got about three guys helping him—"

“And he’s selling them liquor like there’s no tomorrow, isn’t he?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, he was a find. There isn’t a club in town that has anybody as charismatic as he is,” Brian said, finishing his beer. Or as hard working, you thought.

“That’s the truth. I wish Damien over at Zeal could put a little more spice in his repertoire.”

Brian threw his empty food containers in the trash can next to his desk, “Damien’s a clock-puncher. Good luck.”

……

You knew instinctively, from having so many of these impromptu meetings with Brian, when they were over. You stood up, smoothing out your pants out of habit. Brian stood, too, walking you to the door, but stopping in front of the flat screen before you got there. He pointed to the bottom left corner of the screen, a shot of a young blond on the dance floor, and said, “That one, right there. That’s the one I want.”

You nodded your head as you opened the door, “I’ll tell him.”

“Tell him to give me about fifteen minutes.”

“Sure.”

Zeek wasn’t at the bar when you descended the catwalk; he was in the backroom. You’d seen him on the monitor.

Time to get this over with.

****************
I wanna push you around

You’d been hoping to avoid the backroom altogether that night because there was no way to walk through it without being pawed by some determined top who thought that you should be his next meal. But you held your breath and did it anyway because now you had two missions to accomplish. You located Zeek with his back against a far wall, his eyes closed, his huge hands splayed over the head of some sweaty, shirtless trick who was sucking him off. You stood beside your brother, refusing to lean on the disgusting wall.

Zeek, as if having a sixth sense that someone was watching him, opened one eye and looked at you, “What?”

“Get rid of him,” you said, pointing to the trick with your shoe, your arms folded tightly across your chest.

“Fuck, no. I’m on my lunch break.”

“Get rid of him. I want to talk to you.”

The trick, sensing the adversity brewing between the two of you, let go of Zeek’s cock, made a rude comment, got up, and walked away. You led Zeek out of the backroom, yanking him into the electrical closet through a black door marked, ‘AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.’

There were two guys in there fucking.

“Christ, get the fuck out of here,” Zeek told them, throwing their jeans and them outside the door, and slamming it behind them before he turned and looked at you, a scowl on his face, “What? What the fuck did you blow my blow job for? This better be good.”

“What was the name of that girl you fucked in Brian’s private office?”

The question seemed to disorient your older brother, no doubt because it required group participation from his brain cells. “Fuck, ‘Cakes, I don’t know. ‘Hot piece of ass?’”

“I’m fucking serious, Zeek.”

Zeek rolled his eyes, trying to rally his cranial troops, handing you your car keys as the wheels turned, “Jill? Jane—"

“Julie?”

“Yeah, that was it. Julie.” He repeated her name as if it was conjuring up a wonderful memory. “Very nice piece of ass.”

“Did you tell her she could have a free dinner at Zeal?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe? That’s your answer?”

“Yep, that’s my final answer, Regis,” Zeek snarked, his hand moving to the doorknob. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—"

You leaned against the door, arms folding again as they often did when you dealt with your brother, “No, I will not excuse you. She came into Zeal claiming she had a coupon for a complimentary meal, and when Emmett told her that we didn’t have any coupons in circulation at the moment, she called Brian. And complained.” Zeek smiled and tried not to laugh. “It’s not funny, asshole. How would you like it if I went around town fucking up your livelihood every rip stitch?”

“You did, man. You ruined an excellent blow job.”

“Look, I’m gonna tell you this one last time: Don’t do that again. Don’t promise somebody anything that has anything to do with a business that I’m running. This isn’t New York, Zeek, and this isn’t Mama’s restaurant. This is my job and my future and I want you to stop fucking with it.”

“Are you done?” Zeek asked, opening the door for real this time and stepping back onto the dance floor.

“No. See that guy over there? The one in the blue shirt with the blond hair?”

“Yeah.”

“Brian wants him.”

Zeek sighed as if he was at the end of his rope, “Well, get out of my way so I can tell the lucky twink that he’s got an audience with the Wizard.”

You turned to leave the club as Zeek was tapping the kid on the shoulder.

“Good night, Gabriel!” Rube shouted from his perch on top of the bar.

You waved to him and smiled as the doorman opened the door for you, glancing back at the catwalk to be sure Zeek had done his job. Blond hair, blue shirt was almost at the top of the stairs. You were pretty sure it’d been fifteen minutes.

“Have a good night, Mr. Zirrolli,” the doorman said, handing you your coat.

“Thanks, you too,” you responded, buttoning up your coat and crunching through old, dirty snow as you walked across the street to your car.

****************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV

I’m taking what they’re givin’
‘cause I’m working for a livin’

Monday, December 13, 2010
9:34 a.m., Kinnetik

Cynthia was still one of the hottest women you’d ever laid eyes on, you’d decided as you walked into Kinnetik that morning. The holiday decorations you’d put up this year looked pretty damn amazing, if you did say so yourself. And Cynthia, the prettiest decoration of all, was about to make your cock jump out of your pants if she didn’t take off that navy blue pantsuit. You watched her walk in and out of Brian’s office, staring at her matching navy heels. You loved the way they clicked on the hard floor when she walked. She could boss you around all day, and you’d just ‘yes, ma’am’ her to death.

Kinney, on the other hand, was another story.

You were mumbling to yourself as you looked over what Brian wanted you to install that day, “Never in my life. I’ve hooked up a ton of shit for this guy, but this bakes the cake.”

“Takes the cake. You mean ‘takes the cake.’”

You looked up to see Ted stepping over your tools and parts spread all over the floor, “Thanks, Point Dexter.”

“You’re welcome. Brian, are you ready?” he called as Kinney came around the wall from the conference room. You knew they were meeting about Christmas bonuses because when you work maintenance somewhere, you hear everything. People just assume that you’re either deaf or invisible when you’re standing on a ladder.

Brian stood in front of the now dismantled doors of his office, and put his hand on his chin as if he was pondering the vast array of crap all over the floor, “We can’t meet in here. We should go in your office.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Point Dexter made a dramatic production over stepping over all of your stuff a second time and then disappeared on his way to his office. His shoes clicked when he walked, too, just like Cynthia’s, only not nearly as sexy.

Brian’s hand was still on his chin when he asked you, “You know what you’re doing, right?”

You read from the box, “If you’re asking me if I’ve ever installed Transition Privacy Doors, the answer is ‘no.’ I’ve never even seen anything like this before. But a door’s a door, I suppose.” You could already tell that the hinges weren’t going to line up, so you warned Brian, “I’m gonna be making a lot of noise putting these things up. You might want to relocate until after lunch.”

“Don’t forget to hook up the remote control thing for them.”

“I won’t forget; they won’t work without it.” You started taking down Brian’s existing office doors as he gathered stuff to take to Ted’s office. “Can I ask you why you didn’t just get regular solid doors? If you want privacy, then just have privacy.”

Brian stepped over everything, seven file folders clutched in his hand, “I don’t like doors to begin with. I like big, open spaces. But sometimes I need to have the option of privacy.” He said option of privacy as if it was something only rich fuckers were entitled to and bent down, picking up the remote control and looking at it as he spoke, “This way, I can have transparent doors, slightly shaded, mostly shaded, or dark, depending on my needs at any particular moment.” You wondered what new ‘need’ had surfaced in Kinney’s life to suddenly have to have this done. He slid the bar on the remote up and down, pointing it at doors that weren’t even there. “It’s nifty,” he concluded, sitting the remote back where he’d gotten it from. “Good luck. I have to have my office this afternoon.”

You listened to him as he walked down the hall--click, click, click--and then to the of sound Point Dexter’s office door closing with a heavy thunk.

It took you three and half hours to get those doors up and functional, and when you finally did, you had an audience of three as you demonstrated how they worked—Brian, Ted, and Cynthia.

“Basically, all you have to do is point this remote vaguely near the doors and you can adjust the transparency. There’s a stationary control on the wall, too.”

Cynthia seemed extremely excited, “It’s like those sunglasses that get darker in the sun.”

“Only you control the transparency; it doesn’t happen automatically.”

Point Dexter took the remote out of your hand and tried it, seeing how fast he could get them to go from clear to dark to clear again.

“Don’t break them, Theodore,” Brian chastised him, and then instructed the three of you to go outside his office so he could try it.

So the three of you stood on the opposite side of Brian’s doors and watched as he darkened them, until eventually you couldn’t see him anymore.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Brian called from the other side.

Ted answered, as if he was the teacher’s pet, “We have absolutely no idea.”

The three of you heard Brian say, “Perfect.”

You began to pack up your tools and all of your materials scattered all over the floor as Cynthia tilted her head towards Ted shoulder, “But we can sure as hell still hear him, can’t we?”

The two of them shared a laugh as they parted to go their separate ways, two sets of heels echoing in the hallway.

Lyrics taken from The Coaster’s Charlie Brown, The Village People’s Y.M.C.A., Lou Bega’s Can I Tico Tico You?, Deck the Halls, Author Unknown, Bachman Turner Overdrive’s Taking Care of Business, Matchbox Twenty’s Push, and Huey Lewis’s Workin’ for a Livin’.