BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 28-PROVENANCE

STITCH'S POV


and I don't want to feel like I did that day

Tuesday afternoon, April 5, 2011

You knew the papers would get it wrong. They'd use a word like 'slain' in the headline like it was the antiseptic that would make this go away. They'd address how overworked the force was, the recent increase in vagrant crime, how it was out of character for one of their own to do something so heinous.

The word on the street was that Alan was dead. Gone. Beaten to death by a couple of rogue cops who were a little too fond of their night stick. You knew it was true because a relatively new member of your clan was hanging around your doorway, wanting to claim Alan’s side of the bed. You ignored him Monday night, your wound too fresh for a replacement. And it wasn't like you'd never lost a man before. In fact, the scales were starting to tip--more of your friends were dead than alive. But Alan was different. He wasn't somebody that fought beside you in a hole in the desert; he needed to be fought for.

Your mission had failed.

A man can survive without a job, without a house, without his family, but he can't survive without a purpose. You paid for your copy of the New York Times that day. It was yours, this proof of his existence, this record of his death, fair and square. A decade later, your death would go unnoticed.

In many ways, life beneath the streets was the reverse image of life above them. The farther down you went, the more death was ignored, a pesky detail of life. Go deep enough, and it was almost a non-event. Mourning was quick; prolonging it only amplified the sting of survival. You took the path Alan would've taken that day, your pockets lined with pictures serving as a compass.

People who saw you on the streets that day would’ve seen your camouflage clothing and thought nothing of it. Nothing of the fact that you fought for your country, that you made it home alive. You were practically invisible to everyone, save the random veteran who stopped to tell you that you had no right to wear that uniform. They never lingered long enough for you to set them straight.

Much like the Middle East had been for Bush One and Two, Alan was a target to people in power. People—upstairs and downstairs alike—misunderstood him. They saw his ability to keep a foot in both worlds as disloyalty. But it wasn’t. Alan was extremely observant and not above altering his appearance or apparent stature in life just to make someone else comfortable. You never would’ve taken him in had he showed up clean shaven and in brand new clothes. He knew it, and so did you. But to those sworn to protect the upstairs, he was seen as conniving and unaware of his real place in society. They knew who he was, the estranged son of a man who’d spent decades in the subway systems gladly routing out any undesirables. Alan had just been the one who wouldn’t leave.

You used to tease Alan and call him a ‘shape-shifter’ and he’d always laugh because it was true. He had a sense of humor about himself and carried a personal humility with him in place of a wallet. You walked the streets that day with a sketch of his sister in your pocket. It was Alan’s favorite because he was in it, too.

Alan had done something, albeit by dying, that few in your community had ever accomplished—he’d become part of the upstairs landscape. In an odd way, you were proud of him—and determined to become a part of it yourself, if only briefly, if only to say good-bye.

*******************
BRIAN’S POV


Tuesday’s child is full of grace

Your suite at The Regency, Zeek informed you, was bigger than Rube’s old apartment. Zeek was staying with his parents, claiming that he was long overdue for a visit. Upon hearing the reason for her eldest son’s visit to the city, Mama Zirrolli began a lasagna-making frenzy that would’ve put Debbie to shame. Nobody mourns hungry if Mama Zirrolli has anything to say about it. You knew you’d be eating your share.

After depositing your luggage, you took a cab back to Mt. Sinai and then stood at the information desk, unsure of who to ask for. You called Justin from the lobby, and he told you to meet him on the sixth floor. You were the only person in the elevator.

When the doors opened, he was standing there waiting for you, holding the hand of a little girl who’d have been absolutely perfect for the soy milk commercial you’d made the week before. You kissed him out of habit-- perhaps because you’d just walked through a doorway-- and then looked down at her. She smiled at you like you were Santa Claus.

“Who are you?” she wanted to know.

“Brian Kinney. Who are you?”

“Amelia Harper Collins.”

“Nice to meet you. How old is she?” you asked Justin.

“Almost-three going on almost-thirty.”

Amelia had already moved on to the next subject, “You kissed Waffle.”

“Huh?”

But she was on a mission, intent on pulling Justin down the hall toward a large grey sign that read: Vending Machines.

“She thinks I’m going to buy her a Coke,” Justin whispered to you. Amelia was fascinated with the vending machine area, pressing every red button she could find and then immediately putting her face in the beverage return to see if something was coming. After a minute or so, Justin burst her bubble. “Amelia, you have to put money in before anything will come out.”

“Just wait a minute,” she told him. Justin rolled his eyes. Amelia decided to sneak up on the machine and push a button, convinced that method would work. When the sneak attack failed, she walked right up to you, patting your pockets to see if you had anything, “I need some money, Brime Kinney.”

“I don’t have any,” you told her.

She didn’t believe you, “You have a big nose.”

Justin translated for you, “She means ‘your nose is growing,’ like Pinocchio. She thinks you’re lying.”

So you clarified, “I don’t have the kind of money that the machine wants.” It was true; there was nothing smaller than a fifty in your wallet. You prayed the words ‘debit card’ weren’t in her vocabulary yet. Unable to charm either of you out of a dollar, she gave up. The two of you followed her back down the hall to her mother’s room. She seemed to know exactly where she was going.

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


like a nervous magician waiting in the wings

You weren’t nervous meeting Justin’s friends, just dressed to impress. (The man that Justin introduced to you as Daniel Cartwright had done the same.) You were more curious than anything, curious to see who Justin had passed his time with when he lived there, soon discovering that they were as much of a motley crew as any of your friends. You met Harper in her hospital room that Amelia had escorted you to, but she didn’t really come out of her shell until later that afternoon when all of you were in Daniel’s house. She and Justin were deep in conversation, laughing with one another, sharing stories. The tale at that moment was the oft-told ‘Justin and the Franken-kitchen,’ so you began to tune him out; that kind of talk was completely unnecessary. You’d all but abandoned iWWINN® by that time and were just praying that Anderson Cooper didn’t notice your lack of postings on the members-only iWWINN® blog and report you.

Justin’s former studio looked about like you’d expected. The walls and floor were a pristine white, similar to the décor in the rest of Daniel’s place with the exception of the explosion of color in the corner occupied with Amelia’s play kitchen, complete with a washer and dryer. There were stunning black and white photographs of Amelia and Sam and one of Justin that Harper admitted to framing after he left hanging on the walls. ”I missed you.” It didn’t take long to realize that the people occupying the space were the color Daniel needed in his life. When you sat down on the sofa in the studio to relax for a minute, your solitude was short lived. Amelia was immediately in front of you, holding on to the outer edges of her yellow dress, asking you, “Wanna see me do a dance?”

“Sure.”

“Clap your hands, Brime Kinney.” she instructed you.

“You have to dance first. If you’re good, I’ll clap.”

“’That’s not how you’re 'upposed to do it,” she chastised you, and then went to get her father, “Clap, Daddy.”

“A fast clap or a slow clap?” he asked.

“Slow then fast. Like this.” She began a routine that looked like ‘Epileptic Seizure Meets River Dance.’ Apparently, Sam’s lineage was littered with the square-dancing sort. He clapped his hands and tapped his foot while Amelia performed for you. “I’m so good,” she told you.

You agreed, “You sure are. You have a ton of energy.”

Five minutes later she was zonked out on the sofa beside you. She’d fallen asleep to your applause.

“Works every time,” Sam said.

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


tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
one without a permanent scar?

Daniel’s place had the atmosphere of a ‘do-drop-inn.’ You were comfortable enough to leave Justin and walk downstairs in search of liquid refreshment, finding Daniel and Jonathon in the kitchen. Daniel was making salad and Jonathon was leaning against the counter with a beer in his hand. He offered you one, and when you declined, Daniel turned to you, “Something stronger?”

“That’d be great.”

“Liquor cabinet. Living room.”

Daniel’s liquor cabinet reminded you of Lindsay’s—way too tame for your taste. He had only enough hard liquor on hand to make you annoying. Zeek was sitting in front of Daniel’s wide screen watching a boxing match, and he seemed to notice your dismay, “There’s not enough Jack in there to beam me anywhere. Don’t bother.” He turned off the television and continued, “But there’s a bar down the street.”

“Let’s go.”

You told Justin you were going to refuel, and he waved you off, “Have fun.”

……

You were grateful for the opportunity to stretch your legs and to roam the streets with a man wearing a completely inappropriate shirt for Alan’s spontaneous wake:



“Where’d you get that shirt?” you asked him.

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “Some dumb ass probably left it in the backroom and I appropriated it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use a word with that many syllables, Rocky.”

“Yeah, and it’s only three o’clock.” And he wasn’t even wearing a watch.

……

It became immediately apparent to you as Zeek took a seat at the bar that he’d fucked the bartender. She had long, dark brown hair, very white teeth, and a smile that had clearly peeled Zeek’s pants off in a prior life.

“I haven’t seen you in ages. Where you been?” she asked him.

“Lana, this is my-,” he paused and looked at you, “My friend, Brian. Brian, Lana.”

“Hi. Whiskey. Top shelf. Neat.”

“A man who knows what he wants,” she said as she poured. “I assume you’ll have the same?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem, boys.”

You handed her fifty bucks and told her to keep pouring. She assured you she’d keep an eye on you. When she walked away, you told Zeek, “She is way too beautiful to be a bartender.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of appreciating a good woman, Boss Man.”

“It’s painful, but I suffer through it,” you told him.

“You think she’s beautiful now, you should see her when she’s bent over a kitchen table with her thong a little off center. Fucking work of art.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you told him, and waved to Lana to come back and pour.

As she refilled your glasses, she said, “I heard about that guy, Zeek. I’m sorry.” She put her hand on his arm forearm for a second, and Zeek smiled. “God, she wants me,” he mumbled to you when she’d walked away again. She left the bottle on the bar.

……

The place wasn’t very busy, but it was a Tuesday before four o’clock, so that wasn’t out of the ordinary. You decided you’d take the opportunity to probe Zeek a little, regardless of how sexual that sounded. When Roseanne Cash’s Seven Year Ache began to play, you wondered what kind of New York City bar would play such a country staple. But cowboys often seemed to have unrequited love cornered, and it might have been the song or maybe just a nosy hunch that made you lean over and ask Zeek, “So, how long have you loved her?”

“I said I fucked her, not that I loved her.”

“I’m not talking about the bartender.”

……

Zeek looked at you like you were a very smart asshole, “Since before I unknowingly partook of your piece of ass.”

“That’s a long time to carry a torch.”

“That the voice of experience talking?”

……

You laughed and filled his glass before refilling yours, “No. It’s the voice of angst talking.”

“Well, tell it to shut the fuck up.”

“Justin said the last time he saw you was at her wedding. That you crashed it. Last ditch effort?”

Zeek shook his head, “Yeah, last ditch effort. It was either carry her off into the sunset or fuck your wife in a linen closet. One guess.”

“The closet was closer?” you asked.

“Yeah,” he said, resigned to his fate, “The closet was closer.” He pulled a bowl of pretzels in front of him, “And, ironically, he was taken, too.” You pulled your lighter out of your pocket and lit it—your very tiny torch. “And all these years, I just thought you liked to smoke,” he said.

“Touche.”

……

“Well, since we’re being nosy, can I ask you something, Boss Man?”

“Yes, if you stop calling me that.”

“Why in hell didn’t you come with Justin when he moved here? It’s not like you couldn’t afford it.”

“I could afford to wait,” you told him.

“Because, just between you and me, you took a big risk doing that. A big risk.”

“Some sacrifices are merely investments in disguise,” you said.

“You never do anything by accident, do you, Kinney?”

“Not if I can help it.”

……

The conversation turned from Harper to Alan, to how Zeek met him, to how he took care of him whenever he could. “Sometimes you don’t realize how much someone means to you until they’re yanked off the earth,” he said.

“Believe me, I know.”

“Harper won’t tell me their names, but I’ll find out.”

“She knows you well.”

“That’s the main thing I can’t stand about women. No matter what you do, they’re always two steps ahead of you.”

“That’s why I keep any and all contact with them very structured,” you told him.

Zeek laughed, pointing a broken pretzel at you, “The only reason that works for you is because you don’t like pussy. If you did, you’d be so fucking hosed. So. Fucking. Hosed.”

“You’re probably right. You ready to head back?”

The sun was in your eyes for the walk back. The two of you decided to go a different way; Zeek seemed to want to take his time, to walk a while in the city he missed. You passed the coffee shop that you’d met Justin in all those years ago and thought about the look on his face when you’d walked in, how tentative he felt when you kissed him for the first time in that hotel room, how even though it was sweltering hot that day, you could feel him warming in your arms. When you walked by the actual hotel a block later, you just smiled. Zeek paid no attention to your reverie; the events of the day had made him angrier than you’d ever seen him.

*******************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV


give the devil his due

“Well, what do you know?” Jonathon said, walking into the kitchen. “The devil does wear Prada. And he wears it well—complete with a wedding ring.”

(You’d relocated to the kitchen with an overwhelming urge to chop celery after you’d heard a snippet of Justin’s conversation with Harper:

”So, tell me. Is he as good in bed as he looks?”

Justin laughed, ”You know those prank candles people get? The ones that never go out, no matter how hard you blow?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what he’s like in bed.”

“You bitch.”)

“Yeah, who knew Prada made fine jewelry?” you replied.

“I have to hand it to you, Dan. You’ve been nothing but gracious since the moment you’ve met him. Your restraint and good manners exemplify extraordinary integrity.”

“Integrity,’” you repeated. “This coming from a guy who’s fucking a priest.” It was the ultimate satisfaction for him—fucking a man who needed extensive analysis after every orgasm. Leave it to Jon to find the trap door to heaven.

“Shit, I’ve got to call him. Thanks for reminding me.” He cued his cell phone, backing out of one of the kitchen’s swinging doors.

“Ouch.”

“Oh, god, Amelia. I’m so sorry.”

She looked at you to see if she needed to cry, and then decided against it—as if Jon wasn’t worth it—passing by him and walking into the kitchen. “I’m hungry, Dr. Car-ride.”

You put your knife down and washed your hands, “Did you have a good nap?”

“Yep.” Her hair definitely had. It was everywhere. You picked her up and took her into the downstairs bathroom where she stood on a stool and watched in the mirror as you brushed it.

“There you go, Sleeping Beauty. Much better.”

She led you back into the kitchen where she announced, “It’s time for macaronis and chocolate milk.”

“That’s what you had for lunch. It’s time for graham crackers.”

“And chocolate milk,” she added as she hoisted herself up into one of your kitchen chairs. You slid a phone book underneath her so you could see her over the table. She ate her snack, and Jonathon wandered back in the kitchen, his dial-a-prayer apparently over. He sat down at the table next to her, and she asked him, her mouth full of cracker, “Dr. Jon, where is Brime Kinney?”

He busted out laughing.

*******************
BRIAN’S POV


that’s what little girls are made of

Zeek suggested and you concurred that the two of you should stop by a liquor store on the way home, and when you walked back through Daniel’s doorway, you were laden with Tequila, Vodka, and Johnnie Walker Gold—the three wise men. Daniel laughed as you stocked his liquor cabinet and told him, “You know what they say-- when life gives you lemons, get a bottle of Tequila and some salt.”

Dinner was ready about an hour later, and it was then that Justin emerged from the studio. The table was filled with a pan of lasagna, a huge bowl of salad, and a basket of bread. You offered to play bartender, catering to Harper’s request, “Just give me something that will make me forget my name.” You found just enough rum and gin to make her and Justin Long Island Ice Teas. Harper’s was decidedly weaker.

Amelia was perched at the head of the table, and when all seven of you finally sat down, she asked, “Is this my birthday party?”

“No, ‘Melia,” Harper replied. “This is April and your birthday is in May. You have one more month.”

“Yeah, and then I’ll be this many,” she said, trying to make three of her fingers cooperate, and when they wouldn’t, “It won’t work.”

“What do you want for you birthday, Amelia?” Sam asked.

She had both of her hands wrapped around her glass of milk when she smiled at you and answered her father, “Brime Kinney.”

(Justin would remark later that week--when he was wearing only a toothbrush--that Amelia’s affection for you bordered on the pathological. You reminded him, “This coming from a man who has a shrine of glass dildos that bear an uncanny resemblance to my cock.”)

The meal felt like a long-awaited party, and there was more hilarity and laughter than you expected after the day’s tragedies. That would change once the alcohol took effect and Amelia was tucked into bed. You ended up in Daniel’s guest bedroom with Justin as you waited for Amelia to emerge from the bathroom with Sam, bathed and in her pajamas. There’d been a potent temper tantrum about half an earlier, and a truce was called when Sam told her, “Once you take your bath, they’ll come up.” Sam typically told her a story when he tucked her in each night—an original tale in which Amelia naturally had a starring role. She began the story for him, “Once upon a time.” It unraveled from there into the demented tale of three men and little lady.

You, of course, were Prince Charming.

Justin was the dog.

*******************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV


even heroes have the right to bleed

Arriving back at your home earlier that day, you did the first thing you always do when you come home—check your messages. There was one from your secretary offering condolences and five from various city reporters anxious to get the story—to talk to you about (as message number four put it), “The role you may have played in Alan Harper’s death.” The reporter had done his research, the cops who beat Alan were the cops you’d testified against in a police brutality case a couple of years ago. They’d ultimately been acquitted but were still suspended for six months to undergo anger management counseling. When they completed the training and rejoined the force, they’d only been cops for eighteen months.

You were quiet at dinner, feeling that if you didn’t inform anyone about this, you could ignore it. But your cryptic behavior wouldn’t get past Jonathon. He’d assumed you were channeling your grief, but you told him the truth while you were loading the dishwasher, “This is my fault. Those cops, they were punishing me.”

“You don’t know that,” he said. “You’re assuming.”

“No, I’m not,” you told him. “It’s no coincidence that those particular cops killed Alan. I made him an easy target.”

*******************
BRIAN’S POV


you don’t tug on Superman’s cape

Harper didn’t last long after dinner; she and Sam adjourned, returning to her studio where he pulled out the sofa bed and helped her get comfortable. She was asleep almost instantly; Sam closed the door behind him and came back downstairs. “Is she okay?” Justin asked. “She just doesn’t feel good,” he replied as he gathered his coat and then directed his attention to Daniel, “I’m going home real quick to get our things for tomorrow. Can you listen out for her?” “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll come back in a couple of hours. I don’t want her to spend the night alone.” With all of the XX chromosomes slumbering and Sam heading back home, the five of you sat in Daniel’s living room and began to talk more frankly about Alan’s death. Daniel had bleached the sidewalk that morning before coming back to the hospital, and he choked up when he spoke about finding him, the guilt he felt feeling all too familiar. Jonathon spoke about the extent of his injuries, how he never expected him to die on the table. “He had one of the best surgeons I know.” Justin had remained fairly quiet through the entire conversation, wide awake and taking it all in, his arms almost always crossed in front of him. Your arm was around him on the sofa, and you tapped him on his far shoulder, causing him to turn and look at you, “What?” “I’m going outside to smoke,” you told him. You didn’t tell him you felt like throwing up.

It was finally dark when you stepped outside Daniel’s front door, the darkness not at odds with how you felt at that moment. You lit up and took a long drag, pacing back and forth in front of the doctor’s steps. It felt good to be alone for a few minutes. When you passed by the spot that Daniel had tried to erase from the sidewalk, your emotions got the best of you. Alan had been beaten and tossed into the bushes that you were vomiting right next to.

A few minutes later, and the front door opened. You hoped it wasn’t Justin, and the hope paid off. It was Zeek, tapping a pack of cigarettes as he walked down the steps. He said nothing at first, just lit up as well, walking off his nervous energy. “I can’t sit in there and listen to that and be all fucking civilized,” he told you. “I don’t talk about my feelings,” he added, “I act on them.”

“Then you’re better off out here,” you told him.

It was at that moment that a man emerged from a dark doorway across the street and began to approach the two of you. He was filthy and looked ‘mildly psychotic’ (if there is such a thing)—psychotic and driven. He spoke before he’d crossed all the way over, “You’re Zeek, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Stitch?” Zeek responded.

“Yeah, long time no see.”

There was a light breeze that evening, carrying his sour smell right to you. You turned the other way, vowing to yourself not to throw up again. You took a deep breath and turned around again, just as Zeek was offering him a cigarette, which he took. “What I read in the paper, it’s true?” he asked Zeek. “They beat him up and killed him?”

“Yeah, man.” Stitch looked heartbroken for a few seconds, and then gathered his composure as Zeek continued, “I’m sorry, man. I really am.”

“I want to come to the funeral,” he told Zeek, as if he expected to be refused. “When is it?”

“Don’t know yet,” Zeek told him. Stitch seemed agitated at that answer; Zeek rephrased, “But I’ll let you know. You’ll be there. Don’t worry.”

You wondered how that would work, how you call a homeless guy, but you kept quiet. Stitch finished his cigarette, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and producing a few pieces of rolled paper. He unrolled them and showed Zeek the first one, “I need to find that guy that drew this,” he told you. Your curiosity go the better of you and you stepped forward as Zeek replied, “That would be Justin.” “Is he here?” Stitch wanted to know. Zeek glanced at you very quickly, as if trying to ascertain what answer you’d approve of and said nothing. You walked closer to Stitch and introduced yourself, “Name’s Brian,” you told him. “Can I see that?” Zeek nodded, and Stitch reluctantly handed you the papers.

Stitch stepped back a few feet, and Zeek stepped forward, looking at them with you. The first one, the one on the inside of the roll, was a sketch of Harper with her arms around what had to be Alan. Zeek confirmed your thoughts, “That’s Alan. I remember when Justin drew that. He did a much larger version that sold at some show.” The word ‘SECURITY’ was in the bottom right corner of the sketch, sitting on top of Justin’s initials. You handed it to Zeek to reveal the next one. “That’s his niece, isn’t it?” Stitch asked, as a sketch of a younger Amelia stared back at you. Justin had captured her perfectly—her innocence masking her perceptiveness. Stitch had lit another cigarette by this time and was standing a few feet away as if granting you some sort of respect as you looked at Justin’s work. The third and final sketch felt completely different that its predecessors. It was Justin standing over a grave site, the shadow looming behind him larger than the headstone in the foreground. You recognized it immediately—Chris Hobb’s final resting place.

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


if a picture paints a thousand words

Minutes later, Justin joined the three of you on the sidewalk. “You’re Stitch, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Alan talked about you a lot.” Stitch looked almost apologetic. “He had a lot of respect for you,” Justin continued. Stitch smiled.

Justin looked through the sketches in the same order that you had, a perplexed look on his face. When he got to the last one—the sketch of the gravesite—he rolled them back up and handed them back to Stitch, asking, “Where did you get these?”

“They were Alan’s.” Stitch began to respond to the uncomfortable look on Justin’s face, “He had a lot of respect for you,” he continued. “That’s why I came to see you.”

Justin sat down on the front steps and asked you for a cigarette. You lit it for him and then sat down beside him. Zeek leaned against the wrought iron railing; Stitch had the floor: “Those sketches I brought, Alan and I recreated them in the tunnels. This one is on the wall in my—our—room. The one of the little girl, we painted it in an area underground where most of the women live. The last one, the cemetery one, it’s at the entrance of one of the main, hidden tunnels.”

“Why?,” Justin asked. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a tribute, I guess. He liked your work, and he liked you.” Justin smiled. “And he was an artist, too. You should’ve seen what he could do with a can of spray paint.”

“Does Harper even know this?” he asked.

“His sister?”

“Yeah.”

“No, don’t think he ever told her.”

Justin offered to feed Stitch, offered to let him come inside, but he refused. Justin went inside anyway, returning with a paper plate full of lasagna and a cold beer just as Sam was stepping out of a taxi cab with an overnight bag on his shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked as he came upon the four of you. Justin explained while Stitch ate; you’d never seen a man enjoy lasagna quite that much. “Can we see this stuff?” Sam asked. Stitch resisted at first, claming it wasn’t safe, that the areas were hard to get to, but then Zeek intervened, “It stays between us, Stitch. If Justin’s stuff is under the streets, he has a right to see it.” Stitch reluctantly agreed, and you got the feeling that he was trading access to the tunnels in return for access to the funeral. It would turn out to be another investment masquerading as a sacrifice.

*******************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV


you don't need a penny just to hang around,
but if you've got a nickel, won't you lay your money down?

If the four of you were going to do this, it was going to be done your way. Stitch had dissolved back into the shadows he’d come from, and now there were six of you sitting at Daniel’s kitchen table. You had their attention. You were in your element—smack in the planning stages of a task that would require your expertise. You spoke to Sam first because you knew he was chomping at the bit to explore the tunnels; he’d been trying unsuccessfully for years. There was no way to go down there safely without the blessing of the tunnel dwellers themselves. “I know you think this is your big break ‘cause you want to make your movie—"

“Documentary,” he corrected you.

“Whatever. If you flash any of your fancy camera equipment down there without Stitch’s okay, you can kiss it good-bye. They live down there for a reason; they don’t want publicity.”

Sam countered, “I’ll just bring it, just in case. It’s small. No one has to see it.” Everyone looked at you again as that matter was settled, so you continued, “All right, doc, I’m assuming you don’t want in on this adventure?” Jonathon laughed, “I don’t think I can see Daniel traipsing through sewage.” Daniel rolled his eyes at his friend and confirmed your thoughts, “No, we’ll stay up here. Probably safer that way.”

“Okay,” you continued, “We need to bring some stuff: Flashlights, batteries, face masks, water, and probably some saline.”

“Saline?” Kinney asked.

“Your eyes are gonna burn, Boss Man. It’s wall to wall urine down there. We’ll meet at eight a.m. outside the terminal on 103rd.”

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Justin asked.

“To get to the gravesite painting, it’s twenty minutes down if you know where you’re going. I figure we’ll go for that one first, and then try to find the others if we can take it.” Everyone nodded. The plans were set. “And there’s one more thing we need,” you added, looking right at Kinney.

“What?” he asked.

“Cash. We’re going to be paying a lot of people off—toll money.”

Justin looked at Brian as if worried he might refuse, but you knew he wouldn’t. He rarely passed up an opportunity to flex his wallet. “Not a problem.”

“Well, okay,” you said, suddenly uncomfortable with the amount of power you’d been afforded in that fifteen minutes. “Then I guess we’re all done.”

The four of you—you, Brian, Justin, and Jon—said your goodbyes. Sam headed upstairs to join Harper in the studio. Daniel waved goodbye before closing his front door. You heard him lock it—chain and all. Kinney hailed a cab, and he and Justin disappeared, heading back to their hotel. Jonathon took the subway home, and you walked to the restaurant. It was a nice, clear night. Your parents were closing up when you got there, but they waited with the door open when they saw you coming.

Your mother hugged you, told you she missed you; your father slapped you on the back. You helped them turn off all the lights and empty the cash register. As you suspected, the gun your father kept was still underneath it. “I need to borrow this, Pop,” you told him when your mother was out of earshot. “You’re in trouble?” he asked. “No. Everything’s fine.”

Borrowing your father’s gun with only trust for collateral—it was something only you could do. That privilege would've never been extended to your little brother.

*******************
BRIAN’S POV


I need you tonight

You didn’t realize how tired you were until the door of your suite clicked open, and the two of you walked into the dimly lit room. The bed had been turned down, a small lamp was on with a handwritten note laying beside it, Mr. Kinney, Please let us know if there’s anything you require.

“I require a shower,” you told Justin after he read it. “Care to join me?”

He shook his head, “No, I just want to go to sleep.” He began pulling his shirt over his head, and you waited a second to see if he was going to change his mind. When he didn’t, you stood under a very hot shower by yourself, letting the steam clear your head. You dried off, fastening the towel around you and set up your laptop on the small table by the window. When the blue light from the screen was staring back at you, you turned the small lamp off so Justin could sleep.

You checked your email (a picture of Gus in his new soccer uniform), your voicemail (a message from Nate, too late to call him back), and then shut it down. When the room went dark, you heard Justin, “Coming to bed?”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I wish I was.”

You slid into bed beside him, your damp, white towel sliding off the chair you’d thrown it on, seconds from gracing the floor.



Lyrics taken from Red Hot Chili Pepper's Under the Bridge, nursery rhymes, Blues Traveler’s Run Around, Train’s Drops of Jupiter, Charlie Daniel’s Band Devil Went Down to Georgia, Five for Fighting’s Superman, Jim Croce’s You Don’t Mess Around With Jim, Bread’s If, Credence Clearwater Revival’s Down on the Corner, and INXS’s Need You Tonight. Icon bases used in this chapter came from basicbases, basebeat, khushi_icons, obsessiveicons, graphical_love, anithradia, simplybases, and randomicons.