BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 29-CATALYST

BRIAN’S POV


I come to you so silent in the night

The decision to move your main residence to the house in West Virginia all those years ago had been an easy one. It was the adjustment that was difficult. To sleep in the still of the country when you were used to the sounds of city streets and elevators and random men roaming around the loft was a challenge. And that night at the hotel, the bustle of the city was a valiant, yet hopeless, panacea, trying to quell the restlessness inside you.

It was one of those nights. One of those nights where it's not too hot and not to cold and not too humid, and if you'd been at home, the windows in your bedroom would've probably been wide open. But there were no windows to open at The Regency, no over-bearing refrigerator to interrogate you when you snuck downstairs for a midnight snack. There was just you and Justin in a well-ridden, mass-produced, king sized bed trying to negotiate with the Sandman. And he was driving a very hard bargain.

You should've been tired after the day's events, after the gluttonous amounts of food and drink, but the prospect of going underground the next day had thrown a wrench into every rhythm your bodies knew. When you'd gotten into bed minutes before, he'd moved to be closer to you, facing you, his head resting on your arm. As he reached out, draping his arm over your hip, the sounds of the street began to fade into the background.

“I can’t sleep,” he whispered, as if he was afraid to admit it even to himself, his hand pressed against your chest.

“You will,” you said, your fingers in his hair.

Perhaps your words convinced him because his eyes closed when you kissed him. It wasn’t a prelude to anything at first, a tenuous connection void of expectation. It lasted longer than you expected; leaving you trying to taste an ending that was nowhere to be found.

You moved his hand, pushing it slowly down your stomach, moaning when he touched you, urging him to keep going. You worked his grip, letting it take you right to the edge, and then coated the side of his face with the steam behind your voice, “Roll over.” He did, and you kissed his shoulder blades, pressing yourself between his legs, watching his fingers disappear over the edge of the mattress.

You were inside him soon enough, your fingers curling over his as he held on. It was a means to an end, a way to exploit a warm, dark moment, a way to smell what you wanted to smell, feel what you wanted to feel. You’d done this more than once—fucked him vigorously in a New York hotel room. And just like always, the harder you fucked him--the harder he wanted it--the more you were convinced of his fragility.

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


he drowns in his dreams

The tunnel went on and on and got smaller and smaller and smaller until it ended in a flash of light. And there you were, with him, tangled in sheets you’d never known. And he was there, greedy and needy, just like you wanted him, a layer of sweat covered his body just from waiting for you. “It took me forever to get here,” you told him. And he didn’t ask why and you didn’t know why. And you were out of breath from the running or the fucking, you weren’t sure, just knew that you couldn’t breathe. But you could smell him; you’d been craving that smell. It’s what pulled you through the tunnel, the scent he gave off when he wanted you. You wanted to roll in it like it was mud, cake the sinful aroma all over you. The things you were going to do to him. His passion for you, it terrified you, unleashed something feral inside you. Something that meant you’d never be satisfied with this, he’d never be satisfied with this. Never, until he’d teased this out of you and made you use it, consequences be damned—

“Do you always fuck him like that?”

The man in the corner, with his legs crossed, with a legal pad on his knee, he was watching you, and only you. Your eyes spun quickly around the room. You were on top of Justin, both of your heads at the foot of the bed. He was begging you not to stop because you’d stopped, and he wanted more, and you weren’t listening to him—

“It’s none of your business,” you told the observer, his pen moving across the paper. He’d stopped looking at you, as if he’d seen all he needed to see.

“None of my business?”

“Don’t repeat what I say.”

“You don’t think it bears repeating?”

Justin’s energy was fading fast, as fast as your heart was pounding, “Get out. I need to be alone with him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” That was a lie, but the truth followed, “You’re in my bed.”

********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV


heaven can wait

Father Richard Donnelly was a man of few words in bed; he saved them for Sunday. The first time you fucked him, sometime in late January 2011, you christened him ‘Father Dick.’ He didn’t like the nickname, so it stuck. You didn’t exactly like the fact that you were attracted to a man of the cloth, so the two of you fucked at least three nights a week. Tuesday was the most common night because the memory of the previous Sunday’s sermon had faded and the next Sunday’s had yet to form. You were often in the congregation those Sundays, sitting in the very back, listening to him warn his parishioners of the very sins he’d just committed. Sometimes Daniel would accompany you, just so he could shame you with the Lord’s blessing.

“You should be giving that holier-than-thou look to him, not me,” you told him. “I’m not the one who took a vow of celibacy.”

“You’re aiding and abetting,” Daniel retorted. “That’s just as bad.”

……

……

“It’s sad really,” you said to Dan one Sunday, “I know he’ll never love me like he loves Jesus.”

“Don’t be so sure. Jesus probably never made him come.”

……

……

It was a relationship of convenience, but you couldn’t exactly figure out which one. And it disturbed you that you felt closer to God when you were in his ass, so you’d usually say a little prayer into his upper back, ”Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, and I’m about to do it again.” God never answered you, leaving you feeling a little slighted. The least he could do was come down and strike you with a lightning bolt or something, instead of waiting for the delicious moment when he could turn you away from the pearly gates with a flourish of catty angels behind him. When you told Daniel about this train of thought, he scolded you, “Jesus and Zeus are not the same person, okay? If you want to get struck by lightning, you’re fucking the wrong flock.”

……

“So, what’s it like fucking a Catholic priest?” he asked one Sunday. (Daniel was always the guy on the high road rubber-necking a four-car pile-up. Then again, that was a prerequisite for practicing psychiatry.) “Is it ritualistic?”

“We do kneel sometimes.” Daniel tried not to laugh, bowing his head as if he had an urgent, sudden need to pray. “We take turns.”

“Who usually goes first?”

“He does; he’s had more practice.”

“And then you switch, and he puts his little wafer on your tongue?”

“Something like that.”

“And when it’s all over, he begs for forgiveness?”

“I make him beg. He likes it.” (Daniel thought you were kidding; you weren’t.)

……

“Does he have a shrink?” Daniel asked.

“Not that I know of.”

Daniel sighed and then looked at you a little too innocently, “Does he want one?”

You looked him straight in the face and whispered, “I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, but you’re too uptight, even for a priest.”

“Christ, I need therapy.”

They taught you in med school that a patient’s psychiatric breakthrough could occur at any moment, in or out of session. That Sunday you realized it was the gospel truth.

……

During your relationship with Father Dick, he’d never consented to wearing his collar in bed. You secretly wanted him to, but didn’t want to have to explain your recent fetish for white cardboard. But that night, when you came home from Dan’s, Father Dick was in your bed sound asleep. There was an open Bible face down his chest. He’d fallen asleep reading…and waiting for you.

“Sorry, I’m late,” you told him after you’d undressed and gotten into bed.

He mumbled something like, ‘It’s okay,’ and you slid the Bible out from underneath his hands, closed it and laid it on the night stand.

And then, as you started to get comfortable for the night, you realized he wasn’t wearing any pants…

You reviewed your options and then proceeded with an uncharacteristic caution, expecting to be pushed away, and when you weren’t you smiled down at your sleepy, good fortune and fucked the shit out of his flawed duplicity. He came on his very black, tunnel-collared, clergy shirt that you secretly hoped the two of you could burn afterwards, maybe even chant something.

It wasn’t until you were lying beside him again that you heard him laughing in the darkness. “What’s so funny?” you asked.

“Turn the light on.”

You did, and as your eyes adjusted, you realized what was so funny. It was one of your black shirts he was wearing, and the collar was the spine from one of the fifty-some binders given to you at every pharmaceutical convention you attended. Sometimes Father Dick really was a dick.

And then sometimes he wasn’t. When you told him why you were late, he offered you his church for Alan’s funeral.

“The place is going to be packed,” you warned him, “Alan’s friends will be there in droves.”

“We’re all God’s children, Jon.”

“Even the ones that don’t bathe?” you asked.

“Especially the ones that don’t bathe.”

How Father Dick could emerge as the righteous one after he’d double-crossed you in your own bed…

Double crossed?

Maybe they cancel each other out?

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


if you can’t be with the one you love,
love the one you’re with

Lana’s apartment in the city was more than she could afford on a bartender’s salary, but she made up for that with alimony from a very intense, three year marriage to one of those Wall Street types. The more successful he became, the less interested Lana became in being a wife; she could see where it was going—a life of conformation to a society she despised. She was much happier working at the bar where she met him, although, post-divorce, he made a point never to stop by. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised to see you standing outside her building when her shift was over.

She invited you up, offered you a drink, and you took it, following her into her bedroom, lying on her bed as she undressed. She was wearing a red bra under her black t-shirt which she tossed on the floor. (Lana’s supposed penchant for a blue collar life never extended to her lingerie.) “Just a minute,” she told you, disappearing into the bathroom, doing whatever it is women always do in the bathroom before you fuck them. You didn’t mind; the wait was always worth it.

When she closed the door, you took your father’s pistol out of your pants and laid it in her nightstand drawer, took off your shirt, and relaxed on her bed, realizing how tired you really were. Knowing that Lana would emerge in red panties that matched her bra reminded you of the game you and Justin had played to pass time during your flight—Hot or Not? It basically consisted of the two of you flipping through the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly, pointing to random celebrities and declaring them one or the other. About halfway through the magazine, Kinney began to clear his throat repeatedly until Justin validated him, “You know you’re hot. Stop that.”

“Well,” he said, “It never hurts to be reminded.”

“I’ll remind you later tonight when I fu—" Kinney cut him off with an admonishing eyebrow. You were glad. You didn’t need that image in your head.

……

Lana liked to fuck with the lights on. You were grinning from ear to zipper when she opened the bathroom door, her long, brown hair—longer than you’d ever seen it-- falling over her shoulders. She laid beside you on the bed, unbuttoning your jeans as you kissed her in some sort of fast-forward mode that quickly resulted in your body on top of hers. When you (expertly) unhooked the front snap on her bra, she let her head hit the pillow, the red straps still hanging from her shoulders. You felt her fingers in your hair as you moved down her body, running your finger inside the fabric between her legs before pulling them off and settling between her thighs. She was wet, just like always, and came when you went down on her—just like always.

A fuck soon followed, a desperate ferocity behind it, and she came again when you did. There was no objection when you re-sheathed and told her to turn over. Lana’s backdoor was always wide open.

……

Afterwards, she indulged you again, holding you as you rested on top of her. She knew this was what you really wanted, that you were craving the arms of a woman. Truth be told, you’d survived every other emotional low in your life by drowning yourself in women who expected you to fuck the shit out of them and then found it in their hearts (and between their legs) to let you wallow in your sorrow.

……

“Tell me about your friend,” she said quietly.

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


I laid a divorcee in New York City

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

When you woke up that morning, Lana was gone. She left a note on her pillow, Went to get coffee. Back soon. Lana was never one for sleeping in. You found your cell phone and called Rube. He answered on the first ring; you knew he would. It was Wednesday; his work week was starting again. “Good morning, little buddy.”

"Skipper.”

“How’s life?”

“The same. You?”

“Got a big day today.”

The Sunday before you left for the city, you’d had your first argument ever with Rube over his treasured Ms. Pac-Man video game. He’d decided that the small loft in his bedroom should be an arcade and just assumed that you’d be able to drag some huge, mother fucking, Eighties relic up a spiral staircase. When you told him that there was no way that was going to happen, that, contrary to popular belief, you weren’t the Incredible Hulk, he began to throw out idea after idea about how you could hoist it up there and just clear the railing. It took you an hour to convince him that there was no fucking way you were doing that. “We’ll bust the game and your fucking railing doing that. It’s going in the goddamn basement.” He gave you the silent treatment for the next hour, lying on his couch, watching Gilligan’s Island, a TV Land marathon. At three o’clock that afternoon, the episode where Gilligan is hunted for sport broke his melancholy mood. He apologized to you for being an ass and then said, “I hope the next one is when Gilligan falls out of the hammock. That one’s my favorite.” (You began to wonder if perhaps Rube was under the weather because Gilligan falls out of the hammock in every episode…)

“I think Mary Ann’s hot,” you told him instead. He appeared deeply offended, as if sexualizing one of his childhood idols had never even occurred to him. You spared him your childhood fantasy of a three-way with Ginger and The Professor—in a hammock.

And at five o’clock that Wednesday morning, he listened as you told him your plans, how you were escorting Justin, Brian, and Sam into the underworld, how Stitch would be your guide.

“This sounds like a completely insane idea, so I’ll just assume you know what you’re doing.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, too.” He laughed. You heard the front door open, close again, and then the sounds of Lana crinkling a paper bag in the kitchen. “Gotta go. Need to stuff a muffin one more time before I hit the road.”

“May the force be with you.”

“And so with you, and don’t say shit to my brother about this. He’ll flip the fuck out.”

”Roger Dodger.”

……

Lana returned to the bedroom, wearing nothing but a tight black t-shirt and blue jeans, her expensive underwear still somewhere under the sheets. Her hair was pulled up, and she handed you your coffee. It was exactly what you wanted. That was the nice thing about Lana, she never forgot anything you preferred. “When do you have to go?” she asked. You glanced at the clock before you answered, “I need to hit the pavement by seven thirty.”

She looked at the clock as she sipped her coffee, “Two hours.”

“Yeah.”

“You sleep good last night?” she asked.

“Like a baby.”

She smiled, sat her coffee on the small table beside her bed, and began to undress, “I take it you don’t want to go back to sleep?”

“Not at all.”

You pulled the rubber band out of her hair once she was underneath you and tossed it on the floor. Two hours later, at ten after seven, your bodies had switched positions. Her hair smelled so good, a scent you could identify only as ‘Lana.’ You glanced at the clock again, two minutes had passed. “I have to go.” She slid off of you, and when you emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered, she laughed at the shirt you had on:



She microwaved your stone cold coffee for you, and when your hand was on the door, she said, “Guess I’ll see you in a few years.”

You smiled, “Probably a safe bet.”

……

The elevator was opening to the lobby when you realized you’d forgotten something. You rode right back up, and when you knocked on her door, she opened it instantly, your father’s pistol dangling from her fingers, “Forget something?”

********************
NATE ROCKFORD’S POV


they paved paradise and put up a parking lot

You weren’t supposed to be sitting in the dining room of The Rockford at six fifteen that morning. You were supposed to be on your way to the airport to catch yet another plane to Chicago. But you were beginning to tire of the weekly travel and preferred to work on the New Hampshire end of the Brown Athletics’s plant relocation. You were only needed in the Windy City to keep up appearances, and, as your lawyers put it, ‘to make it look like you care about this city and the people who made Brown Athletics what it is today.’ You did care about them, but you cared about yourself more, and, when you were being completely honest, you cared more about New Hampshire, too. The state knew they were getting the plant—under conditions that they kept that fact confidential for the time being. It hadn’t been a hard compromise to make; New Hampshire needed the industry.

So when you saw Sarah walking down The Rockford’s main staircase, still in her yoga wear, you weren’t surprised at her reaction, “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the airport.” She sat down at your table, and a waiter was instantly at her side. “Orange juice, fresh fruit, and an English muffin,” she rattled off without a moment’s hesitation. “You’ve been putting this trip off all week. What’s going on?”

“I just don’t feel like going.” You stopped talking when a different waiter appeared with her breakfast, and when he left, you said, “I’d rather stay here; be with you.”

“You’re sweet talking me so I won’t fuss at you about not going to work,” she said, as she sprayed butter on her English muffin.

“Guilty.”

“Well, keep going,” she told you, “I didn’t say it wasn’t working.”

You stole a strawberry off of her plate.

……

“Brian called me back this morning,” you told her.

“You called him last night, and he didn’t call you back until this morning?” She had an incredulous look on her face and a piece of cantaloupe speared on the end of her fork. “He’s losing his touch.”

“He’s not working this week; he’s in New York.”

“No doubt protecting Justin from all of those art vultures just dying to gobble him up.”

“No, actually, a friend of Justin’s was killed.”

“Oh god, and I’m sitting here being a smart ass.” She looked around the room as if to see if anyone had seen it besides you. “What happened?”

You told her the story, the little that you knew, and explained that, “I didn’t talk to him for very long. He seemed like he was in a hurry.”

“Where can we send flowers? We need to do something,” she asked.

“We are. I’m playing and you’re singing at the funeral.”

“We are?”

“I offered.”

She reached across the table and held your hand, “You’re a good man, Nate Rockford. You know that?”

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect.”

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


but my words like silent raindrops fell

Amelia’s job that morning was to find out what Harper wanted for breakfast and report back to you in the kitchen. She did return, but without the information you’d requested.

“Mommy’s crying.”

You sat Amelia in front of her favorite movie, Finding Nemo, with a bowl of Cheerios, a sliced banana, and a spill-proof cup of orange juice.

“I’m going to go upstairs for a while and talk to your Mom,” you told her. “If you need anything, just call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Harper’s baby monitor was in the kitchen; you turned it on, and then walked upstairs with a cup of coffee in each hand. Sam had been gone for fifteen minutes. You’d seen his face when he walked out the door and told him not to worry, that you’d take good care of them. He thanked you, closing the door quietly behind him.

……

At the top of the stairs, the door to the studio was partly open, the sun streaming bright through the windows. “Harper, can I come in?”

“Yes.”

When you pushed the door open, you felt foolish to be carrying coffee; it was clearly the last thing she needed.

********************
SAM COLLINS’S POV


the world has crumbled and you don't know why

Your marriage to Harper had always been tumultuous. You fought like you fucked—hard and often. You’d resigned yourself to this, telling yourself that there was no way two talented, ambitious, and artistic souls could coexist without the by-product of emotional confetti. You learned quickly that love was messy, and that marriage was about cleaning it up.

You fell in love with Harper because your view of the world was as visual as hers, because she believed, as you did, that art was about sifting through truth and revealing it in time. You could read her mind most of the time, and it was always an intense collage searching for a frame. She could mirror your thoughts and feelings as well, and it was this that weighed on you that Wednesday morning. What was running through your head wasn’t fit for her to see.

You tried to put the mirror away, to hide how you felt when you saw her doubled over in pain, when you realized what was happening, that the losses would just keep coming. You didn’t want her to know what it did to you to see her cry like that, to look at you as if you had an answer for the madness that your lives had so quickly become. Almost instantly, you began to lie to yourself, convincing yourself that this wouldn’t destroy her, that she was strong. But she saw the doubt on your face and cried like it was responsible for all of the pain she’d ever known.

……

The night before, when you’d gone home to get a few things, the answering machine was blinking. You paged through the caller ID and saw Harper, James in the list and pushed play:

"Josie? It’s your Dad..”

It was odd to hear a voice from the grave…especially one that wasn’t dead.

“…I don’t know what to say…Your brother…We should talk….decide…we could bury him next to your mother…”

……

When you returned to Daniel’s that night and slipped into the sofa bed next to Harper, she woke briefly. Her body had curled into a fetal position, and she looked at you as if disoriented, her hair hanging in her face. “Are you hurting?” you asked her, tucking it behind her ear. She nodded. “You want me to get your pain pills?”

“Please.”

You found them in Daniel’s extra bathroom in the medicine cabinet and were careful walking back down the hallway so as not to wake Amelia. Harper had fallen asleep again by the time you returned, but her eyes opened a little when you said her name. “Here,” you said, putting two small pills in her hand and opening the bottle of the water next to your bed. She swallowed them and laid back down again, as if it was painful even for her head to touch the pillow. You couldn’t tell how much of her pain was physical; there seemed to be less and less distinction as the day had gone by. You undressed and slid under the blankets with her, her head laying on your chest. You wound her hair in your fingers and stared at the ceiling.

……

When morning broke, you showered, and when you turned off the water and pulled back the curtain, you had an audience you weren’t expecting.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Luckily, there was a towel close by. You let Amelia sit on the bathroom counter while you finished getting ready. She spent most of the time making faces at you in the mirror. Daniel emerged from his bedroom a few minutes later, and Amelia immediately abandoned you when she realized you weren’t the one making breakfast. You forgave her that day; you needed to tell Harper you’d be gone for awhile.

She was sitting up in bed when you walked back into the studio; she looked cold, pale, and alone. You sat down beside her and held her hand; it felt like ice. “How do you feel?” you asked.

“How do you think I feel?”

You leaned in to kiss her on her cheek; you were successful but she didn’t reciprocate, as if it just took too much energy. “When I went home last night to get our stuff, there was a message from your Dad on the machine.”

“What does he want?”

You found yourself staring at your shoes as you answered her, “He didn’t really say much, just that he wants to know—" and then you stopped and tried to gather your thoughts, “He wants to know if you want to bury Alan next to your mother.”

Harper looked as if someone had spit on her, “In fucking Georgia? Bury Alan in fucking Georgia?”

“Honey—"

“What the fuck? Alan wasn’t far enough away from him in the tunnels? Why don’t we just bury him in Bosnia?”

“We’ll do whatever you want to do, Harper. It’s your call.”

The hysteria that was building in her voice began to subside, “We’re not burying him. When they release his body, I’m going to have him cremated. And you can tell my fucking father that Alan’s spent enough time underground.”

“You don’t have to make that decision right now—"

“I’ve made it. It’s done. Period.” You knew Harper well enough by that time, not to push her. It always had disastrous consequences. And then she changed the subject, “Is Amelia up?”

“Yeah, she’s downstairs with Daniel. She’s hungry.”

“Imagine that.” Harper managed a tiny smile, and you reached out and hugged her. “You’re hugging me good-bye,” she said. “Where are you going?”

……

Your explanation of the day’s upcoming activities didn’t sit well with Harper at all. “You’ve all lost your fucking minds, Sam.”

“Justin wants to go.”

She threw her hands up in defeat, “Then go, but so help me god, if anything happens to you or any of them, I’m going to—" The tears rolling down her face, her voice choking up, it seemed to surprise her. She slapped them out of the way and tried to continue, “I can’t lose anything else. I can’t lose you—" And then she stopped, staring at her hands in her lap, “Just do whatever you want. Just go. I can’t…I just can’t—"

……

You thought seriously about canceling your plans, about not going, but you knew you had to go.

……

“Harper, listen to me. If it’s true, that Alan and Stitch have done this work under the street, I want to see it. I want you to see it. It’s the last thing of his we’ll ever know. He was the reason I met you. And your love for him, your concern for him, it’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you. I owe him a lot.” She looked at you as if she wanted to believe every word that was coming out of your mouth, so you kept going, “I have my small camera. If I can manage to generate enough light, I’ll take pictures. You can see who he really was.”

“Zeek’s going, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You listen to him, okay? He’s been down there before. He’s the only one of you who has a fucking clue about what you’re doing.”

You agreed and kissed her good-bye.


Lyrics taken from The Rolling Stones’s Emotional Rescue, Kelly Clarkson’s Beautiful Disaster, Michael Jackson's Heaven Can Wait, Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s Love the One You’re With, The Rolling Stones’s Honkey Tonk Woman, Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi, Simon and Garfunkel’s Sounds of Silence, and Firefall’s Just Remember I Love You. Icon bases used in this story came from basicbases, basebeat, khushi_icons, obsessiveicons, graphical_love, anithradia, simplybases, randomicons, and ___sunnyskies.