- Text Size +

BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 40-NOVACAINE

 

 

Warhol Knives



*********************
HARPER COLLINS’S POV
live and let die

It had been your own personal and quiet decision to have Alan cremated that Thursday. You didn’t want to be there, didn’t want that image in your head, didn’t want to know what time it was happening, just that it would done by Friday morning, that his ashes would be in the church when you came to say good-bye. You and Sam had had a nice, long dinner with Nate and Sarah, one that you knew wouldn’t have run so long were it not for the mutual confusion you all shared about what had happened earlier that day with Justin and Brian. Nate peppered you with questions all evening; you felt bad after he and Sarah had done so much for you in such a short time, but you had little to offer him; you knew little more than they knew. Nate kept watching you at dinner, like maybe you were going to reveal something by accident. “When Brian came into the church today, I knew something was wrong,” he said, “He never looks like that. Never.” And then you realized that he felt about Brian the way you did about Justin, and you smiled at him.

……

When dinner was over, Nate’s driver dropped Nate and Sarah off first, and then drove you and Sam to Daniel’s so you could pick up Amelia. Your key was in the lock when the door was pulled open, surprising you, and then Richard was standing in front of you.

“Oh, hi,” you said, staring up at him, “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s okay,” he said, moving out of the way so you could come in.

“Where’s Jon?” you asked.

“He’s at The Regency with Justin.”

“Daniel’s with him?” you asked.

He shook his head, “Dan’s sound asleep.”

“Oh god; I’m so sorry,” you said, running up the stairs to get Amelia, “I didn’t mean to impose.”

“It’s okay,” he said, following behind you, “Dan and I had a good time with her.”

You stopped in the doorway of the guest bedroom; Amelia was sound asleep amid a hundred stuffed animals. “Why’s Jon with Justin?” you asked.

“I think he’s upset.”

You posed the question, but you knew there was no way in hell, “He asked for Jon?”

“Brian did.”

“Jesus.”

“They probably asked for him, too.”

You sank against the door frame, crossing your arms over your chest and staring at your brand new shoes you’d purchased earlier that day, such an idiotic thing to do when there was so much pain all around you. “Justin’s like a brother to me,” you said to them. “I mean, you know, not including the orgies and all that.”

“I know,” Richard answered.

“So I’ve got one brother who’s in an urn somewhere and another who’s wishing he was.”

“Harper.”

“You didn’t talk to him earlier; I did. I’ve never seen Justin like that; I’ve never seen him so upset. He looked like he wanted to jump out of his own skin.”

"I think he's going through a lot right now."

“And like all it would take is for me to just say the right thing, only I couldn’t figure out what he wanted me to say, and I didn’t want to say it because I didn’t want him to come to whatever conclusion he was trying to come to, but at the same time I wanted to because it was like he just wanted some fucking relief, you know?”

“I know.”

“I can’t stand this. Alan’s fucking murdered; I put that to rest, and now this.”

Richard put his huge hand on your shoulder; you felt like it was the only gravity holding you down, “Whatever Justin’s going through is bigger than you or me and it goes way beyond what we know.”

And then you wanted to push his hand off your shoulder, shove it off for some reason, “I know that, but I don’t care. I want to help him. I need to.”

“He’s not your brother in this sense either; you don’t share his life story the way you shared Alan’s. It’s not the same.”

……

……

“With all due respect, Richard, when I want your advice, I’ll go to confession.”

*********************
the young and the restless

Amelia woke up in the limo, but that was okay, Sam said, because a girl ought to see her first ride in a limo, and it was just the three of you all the way home. “What’s the matter?” Sam asked you, his arms around your shoulders.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me when you’re ready, then,” he said. You lay your head on his shoulder, and he kissed the top of your head. “I like your new shoes; they’re hot.”

“They pinch my feet,” you told him.

“They pinch my dick, too, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

……

At home, Sam read to Amelia while you sat on the floor in your bedroom going through the trunk full of your mother’s things, trying to decide if you were going to put Alan’s things in there as well, if they’d all fit, and then you wandered into your office and pulled out a scrapbook from years prior filled with pictures of your ‘new’ studio, of Alan sound asleep on your then brand new futon, of an advertisement to lease the space, the print out of an email from a 'J. Taylor' saying he’d like to see the place, of your ad hock wedding invitation, the one you'd given to Sam, of a time when you thought fifteen minutes could make or break your marriage.

So long ago.

……

And then footsteps behind you, stopping, and then Sam's hands in your hair, “Ready for bed, babe?”

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

 

 

fork reflection



*********************
BRIAN’S POV
love actually

That Thursday night was the eve of the Alan’s funeral, and the events of that day had all but convinced you that laying Alan to rest was going to be the easiest part of all of this; as far as you were concerned, he was the only one, the only thing, that was at all interested in dying.

And that miserably rainy night when things were finally starting to get ‘better’….

Well, you were still inside Justin the first time you felt it, but you tried to ignore it as it wasn’t something you’d ever felt before, at least not when you were fucking him, but then again the fuck was more or less over…unless you could change that.

You tried…but your dick wouldn’t exactly cooperate.

“You’re tired,” Justin said, making his hands all heavy on your back, making it twice as hard to get hard, to get going again…

--Goddamn it.

“No,” you said disagreeing with him out loud so that maybe if your dick heard you tell him that it would get with the program, and he must’ve thought the effort you were making was cute or something because he kissed you, threading his fingers through the hair at the base of your neck. “Yes, you are,” he said, “It’s okay. Every race doesn’t have to be a marathon.”

You began to yearn for the good old days when fucking was really just about fucking.

……


You gave up and let your head fall over his shoulder so he couldn’t see your face.

……

……

……

There was a damp silence trapped in that room, held hostage by the rain outside, and it shielded you as you slid out and off of him and ended up lying beside him without feeling like you’d moved at all, but somehow the sheets were underneath you and not him anymore; he was beside you as you lay on your stomach, your head turned away from him and toward the door. He began smoothing his hand down your back like you were a small child he was trying to put to sleep.

But the Sandman had been given the night off. (Apparently, he didn’t work for you.)

……

“This isn’t about fucking, is it?” Justin asked you, lying beside you as close physically as he could get. You didn’t want to speak, feeling like the introduction of your voice into that moment was going to take it in the wrong direction, so you did the only thing you could think of—you turned your head so he could see your face.

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

 

 

kitchen sink



*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
basic instinct

When Jon said that your relationship with Brian had levels, he wasn’t talking about the top and the bottom or that sometimes when Brian was headed for the bottom, he needed you on the top because Brian was a bit of a chameleon in the bedroom, finding more pleasure in your initiative to top rather than in his to bottom. It was no different, really, than you being coy with him when you wanted him to be…hmm…relentless, rather than handing him a calendar with Tuesday circled in red and a note reading, 'If you want me tonight, you’re gonna have to work for it.'

“Talk to me” you said as he allowed his body to sink heavy into the sheets, as you straddled him and massaged his shoulders, as his eyes closed. He didn’t answer you, so you continued the pressure but only non-verbally, moving down his back, your thumbs riding the tension all the way down; he groaned in response. And then his right hand slid from above his head and found yours in the darkness, urging it lower, and then he pressed on your kneecap until you relinquished your current posture and lowered yourself between his legs. His other hand had somehow located the lube and propped it against his hip; you saw it as you let your thumbs finish their path down his back and trace the line between his cheeks, your breath enough to make him open his legs and surround you.

You stopped for a second and listened; he wasn’t breathing at first; he definitely didn’t want to talk. He sighed every time he felt your body move. You kissed the inside of his thigh and heard his fingers drag along the sheets.

You did it again, and his hand moved toward you, a fist full of cotton.

You moved to his other thigh and kissed him again, and that hand flew off the sheets and wrapped around your arm, holding it in such a vice grip that you would’ve cried had it been anyone but him. You could hear him scolding you in your head:

This is what you’re having for dinner, Sunshine.

So you ate.

Kind of took a one course meal and stretched it into five.

And when the review came in, well, let’s just say it was what you were hoping for:

Christ, god. Fuck me.

“Wanna come when you fuck me.”


……

Because they really don’t get much better than that.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
all the rage

The sheets were stuck to you and the room was thick with an exhausting overspent need; you’d worn him out to get where you needed to be and had a momentary flash—a snapshot that blinked and then disappeared in your mind--this was why you had to marry someone younger than you…

Sometimes fucking was nothing more than a cheap high because you could feel it coursing through your body, tiny endorphins running everywhere in brand new, bright white tennis shoes passing out Ecstasy to everyone they saw, and then you realized that they looked like the M&M people only in designer clothing and that their half-life was shorter than a fashion runway…

And Justin was still inside you…

And your inhibitions clock was running out…

But he knew that, and he was trying, as always—since day one--to help you, so you tried to relax, tried to let it work because, honestly, what did you have to lose?

……

……

He was kissing the back of your neck, having pushed your damp hair aside, and his voice sounds so different, so fucking grown up when you hear it behind your ear, “Please talk to me,” and when you didn’t answer him right away, he said, “Jon said I’ve really hurt you by not letting you talk about this stuff, so will you please fucking say something?”

So you did, “That mother fucker.”

“He’s right.”

“He is not.”

“Yes, he is, Brian, and I don’t want to argue about that right now. Please say what you were going to say.”

……

……

Please,” he whispered in your ear.

……

“I feel like I fucked this up for you,” you finally said.

“Fucked what up?”

“This. New York. Your big break. I feel like I broke your big break.”

“Brian, please.”

“I’m serious. Jon said that you came here to deal with my shit because I didn’t handle it myself, that you ended up doing that instead of living your life—"

“That mother fucker.”

“He’s right, Justin.”

“He is not.”

“Yes, he is. I wanted more for you than that. I wanted you to have everything, everything. Everything I never had or passed up or forgot to do; everything you would’ve ever—"

“Okay, stop.” He’d pulled out of you during your exchange and had gotten out of bed. You’d rattled his cage and he was standing in the dark in the nude with his arms crossed leaning against the corner of the wall beside the bathroom.

‘”I don’t want to stop,” you told him, propping your head on your hand, “I’m fucking serious. I regret what I did to you; for the first time in my life I feel it. I actually feel it; I felt it when I was fucking you—"

“Well, that’s a great thing to feel when you’re fucking me,” he said, and then he went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

You flattened your palms on your face, “Jesus H. Christ. This is why I keep my fucking mouth shut.”

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

 

swiss army



*********************
FATHER DICK’S POV
a room with a view

By that Thursday night in April of 2011, your relationship with Jon Massey was a bit of a card trick to you…

”Pick a card.

Put it back in the deck. Don’t worry, I won’t look.

Shuffle the deck for me and give it back.

I’m going to pull three random cards out of this deck. The third one will be yours.

Is this your card?”

“Yes.”


The two of you seemed to be pulling it off, but you had no idea how it was being done.

Or who was holding the deck.

Or what your card was supposed to be.

……

You knew he’d be back late; you were prepared for that, and he called to let you know he was on the way, so you watched for him from Daniel’s bedroom window in the dark; Daniel was sound asleep—apparently, a little brandy and Ambien can do that to a guy when you’re not looking. Jon had neglected to tell you that he’d be arriving in a limo, that a chauffeur would be opening the door for him, even in the remnants of the rain, he was already carrying himself differently, or maybe you shouldn’t have finished off that bottle of brandy.

Toss up, really.

You listened in the dark for his key in the lock, for some melodramatic reason you hadn’t turned on any inside lights; he didn’t either as he began walking up the stairs. You watched him walk into the studio where he thought you were, take off his wet jacket and hang it up, and then you could see him as he started coming down the hallway in the dark. When he got to Daniel’s doorway, he stopped. He saw Daniel first, and then you sitting in the brand new chair.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

“Staying with him like you asked me to.”

“He’s asleep,” he pointed out.

“He’s a wreck,” you responded.

Jon looked down at the floor, “I know.”

“I assume we’re staying here tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” you said as you got up and started walking out of the room, “Because there’s no way in hell I’d leave him here by himself.”

*********************
st. elsewhere

“I can’t be everywhere at once, Richard,” Jon said to you as you helped him pull out the sofa bed in the studio.

“Did I say that you should be?”

He followed you into the bathroom, arguing with you as you washed your face, “No, but you’re acting like it.”

You swished mouthwash as you were probably the only person left on Earth who didn’t have a toothbrush at Daniel’s and spit it out, “I’m not questioning your whereabouts at all; I’m just telling you that he’s a fucking wreck.” He followed you back into the studio, “It’s not your job to fix the entire world, Jon, but for someone who doesn’t even believe in God, you sure as hell act like you’ve got his job description.”

……

“Fuck you.”

……

……

Your back was turned when he’d spoken, “What did you just say to me?”

……

……

……

The air in the room got so still; Amelia’s painting of Brian hanging on one of the easels, the paint stopped drying.

……

……

“Richard--

“I didn’t—

……

“Oh god. I’m so…sorry.

“I would never…

……

“Please don’t….”

……

He was standing in the doorway of the studio, at least ten feet away from you, blocking it in case you were going to walk out.

He was shaking.

……

You’d never seen him that way; you thought he was going to crumble, fold into himself and disappear. The Great Dr. Jon Massey was made out of Paper Mache.

But that night at that moment wasn’t the time to relay that bit of information.

……

“Did you just say you wanted to fuck me?” you asked him.

……

It took him several seconds to recalibrate himself, to rewind the moment, his thumb and forefinger whisked under both eyes so fast, the same way they’d done when he’d talked to you about Alan dying on the table; he amazed you in that way sometimes with his drive-thru emotions. Occupational hazard.

“I apologize,” he said, “For the crude come on. You deserve something much more sophisticated than that.”

You stripped down to your underwear and got comfortable on the pull out, “Yeah, well, maybe you can try again next week.”

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

 

knife and fork



*********************
HARPER COLLINS’S POV
love don’t cost a thing

“See, I was right,” Sam said as the two of you lay in bed that night.

“About what?”

“About Justin and his drawbridge. I told you there was something there. I just had no idea it was this massive, gargantuan thing of a thing.”

“I'm really worried about him; I hope he’s okay,” you said.

“Of course he’s okay. His husband’s a freaking millionaire.”

“You’re an idiot.”

……

“Come on, Harper. You know what I mean.”

“All I know is that you’re an idiot, and that Justin was so upset tonight that Brian asked Jon to come talk to him.”

Whoa.

“See, you’re an idiot.”

“Uh, yeah, no spoonful of sugar in that recipe.”

You turned on your side and looked into Sam’s dark eyes, “Do you know how unbelievably fucked-up-whack-o you’d have to be for me to ask Jon to come over here?”

“On a scale of one to ten, probably like seventy-five?”

“Exactly. That’s like hard-core intervention," you confirmed and then rolled back on your back like like you were. "You'd have to be standing on the ledge outside our bedroom window threatening to have a sex change."

……

……

“Okay, but see that's all part of the drawbridge," Sam said. "That supports my original theory. Justin's wigging out, so Brian lowers the drawbridge and lets Jon in and then he p-u-l-l-s it back up. So it all makes perfect sense.

"Except……" and then he stopped.

"Except what?"

"Except what if we never see Jon again. What if Brian doesn't let him back out?"

"Hmm. I think there's an even bigger question than that one," you said.

"Really? What?"

"How are you going to convince Nate to write the score for your blockbuster movie Drawbridge to Terabithia considering you're obviously out of your mother fucking mind?"

……

……

"I'm going to find that drawbridge one day, Harper."

"I'm sure you will."

"And then you'll have to eat your words."

"I'm sure I'll be starving by then. Anyway, Justin’s gonna be okay because his husband is sex on a stick."

Sam laughed, “Oh, by the way, Amelia played doctor with ‘sex on a stick’ today.”

……

“Why am I jealous of my own daughter?” you pondered out loud.

“I know; I’m wondering if I might be a bi limo driver,” he said.

“Sam, you can’t steer a grocery cart or a stroller without maiming yourself.”

“I think that’s because there’s no sex involved.”

……

……

“Why are you on top of me?” you asked him a few minutes later.

“Is that a multiple choice question?”

……

“Pencils down,” you said after several seconds.

“That’s not my pencil.”

*********************
from here to eternity

……

three and a half minutes later

……

“I never know how to act after you dry hump me,” you confided in him as he lay on top of you, his foreplaying comedian finally gone.

“I didn’t want to hurt you; I wasn't sure if--"

“I know.”

……

……

“We’ll try again,” you told him, “This miscarriage……god, that's a weird word; it's a setback, Sam. That's all." He didn't say anything; he just stayed where he was, so you kept your arms wrapped around him. You waited a few minutes to see if he was falling asleep, but when you knew he wasn’t, you said, “It was your baby, too; it’s okay for you to feel this way. You don’t need to tiptoe around me.”

“I know; I’ve tried, and I can’t. Your pain trumps mine for some reason,” he admitted.

“Okay, that’s all right. One day it won’t; one day you’ll feel it or you’ll see it through the lens of your camera or something. You’ll find it.”

He located your nightgown discarded in the sheets and used it to clean up the mess he’d made and then tossed it on the floor, getting comfortable for the night, his body next to yours. “I feel like I’m chasing my own pain,” he told you, “Like I’m on COPS, running down something I shouldn’t even want to catch--trying to arrest it or something."

You kissed him goodnight; he tasted like toothpaste and sorrow, and then you told him, “We’re artists, Sam; that’s what we do.”

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

 

the fork finger



*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
the story of us

“I’m pissed at you Brian.”

The smell of something other than sushi for dinner had seduced you out of your self-exile in the bathroom; Brian was sitting in the outer room eating—of all things—a cheeseburger. There was one for you sitting right next to his, prepared exactly the way you like it—extra pickles on the side.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“For telling me. Come eat.” You walked over and sat down next to him, and he smiled at you or, rather, at what you were wearing. When you’d come out of the bathroom and gone to your suitcase, it was completely empty save your mystical gray pants and a tight white t-shirt that you were amazed still fit you considering you hadn’t worn it since your days of sucking Brian off in the backroom.

“What did you do with the rest of my clothes?” you asked him.

“They promised me that no harm would come to them,” he told you.

“’They’ who?”

“N.E.C.R.O.”

“Who the fuck is ‘necro?’”

“No, N.E.C.R.O., the Non-Erotic Clothing Repossession Organization; they assured me that everything always gets a good home.”

“You better hope that this is some side-effect from the spill you took today,” you informed him as you dumped way too much salt on your French fries, “Because if it’s not, you’re going to go to work one day, open your briefcase and find nothing inside it but a dildo and a cock ring.”

“I think you might be over-reacting,” he said, popping a fry into his mouth, but you ignored him and finished your thought, “And every time you open your briefcase, it’s going to be rigged to a little device that plays sounds of you begging me to suck you and fuck you over and over and over—"

Whoa.

“And harder and harder and harder—"

“You are pissed at me.”

“And it’s going to be set to opera music so that Ted will always come running in to see if it’s a new aria or something.”

“Okay, okay, settle down. There’s no need to bring Theodore into this.”

“I don’t know, Brian. It’s just that sometimes I don’t know what the hell you want.”

“I want you to eat that cheeseburger and those French fries and drink that ten dollar bottle of Coke and relax for a little bit, and then we’ll talk about it. Okay?”

“Okay.” You handed him your bottle of Coke because The Regency wanted to be all fancy and served it in glass bottles, and you didn’t feel like fucking with it, “Open this please.”

“My pleasure. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Taylor?”

“You better put my fucking clothes back.”

“Your wish is my reprimand.”

……

You were so hungry, hungrier than you even realized because you really hadn’t eaten much all day and then uncomfortably full because you ate too fast and way too much, the way you and Daphne used to eat when you got stoned. Brian was reclining on the sofa, his bare feet poking out of the end of his jeans and propped on the coffee table as he was watching some crime drama, and when you laid your head in his lap, his arm migrated from the back of the sofa to your hip, “You all right?”

“Stuffed.”

“I thought you were going to eat the plate for a second there.”

“Probably charge us twelve thousand dollars if I did that.”

…..

Your arms were wrapped around your stomach, and when you felt Brian’s hand toying with your shirt, you relaxed them allowing his hand to slip underneath and then resumed your position, holding onto his hand, so warm against your chest.

“Seems like we never do this anymore,” he said to you at one point, his fingers in your hair.

“Do what?”

“This. You never do this; just come lay in my lap.”

“I don’t remember doing it that many times before,” you told him.

“You were usually drunk.”

“I was?”

“Took you awhile to learn to hold your liquor.” His hand opened wide on your chest and you loosened your grip a little so he could move it; it felt nice just to lie there and concentrate on his touch. “You were very affectionate when you were drunk,” he told you, “It wasn’t hard to get you to lie down instead of stumbling around the loft bumping into shit.”

“Like those stupid columns.”

Brian laughed, “Like everything. Every time you got a little liquor in you, you acted like I rearranged the furniture.”

“Stop it; I did not.”

“Oh yes, you did. One time we got into this huge fight because you accused me of moving the bed.”

“Brian, that is not true.”

“Yes, it is. You were so mad at me, and then I got pissed at you for being pissed at me, and I went and got a measuring tape and proved to you that I didn’t move it because the light was still centered over the bed, and there was no way in hell that I’d moved the light fixture.”

“Oh…yeah. I sorta remember that now.”

“And then you were embarrassed that you were wrong, so you said you were going to go sleep on the sofa, so I said, ‘Fine, but you’re gonna have to get there by yourself.’”

“I never made it to the sofa, did I?”

“Hell, no. You barely made it to the bathroom before you pissed on yourself.”

……

“Good times, huh?”

He laughed, “Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago.”

……

You rolled toward him and said, “It was a lifetime ago, and I guess that’s what I don’t understand. I’m not that kid anymore; sometimes I feel like you still think I am.”

……

Brian turned off the television.

……

……

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

 

unfocused forks



*********************
something’s gotta give

Once Brian turned off the television, the darkness in the room had become foreboding.

“I’m listening,” he said almost immediately, and you kind of hoped he was speaking to the room and not to you because your mind was going blank very quickly, like somebody had flipped open your brain, power-washed your thoughts, and then fled the scene as they dripped out of your head.

“I know you are,” you said.

……

The rain had abated, but you didn’t believe it was gone for good. Your eyes focused on the window behind the sofa, on the clouds trying to dress the moon. Brian said nothing; his eyes were on you, his hand smoothing across your stomach; he was reminding you…reminding you of the part of him that was okay with what you’d done to the place…in the last minute.

……

You finally spoke, finally found a way to pull the words out of your head, stuck like they were like rubber cement, “Brian?”

“Hmm?”

They came out jumbled and stuck to one another, “I’m not sure that what I said before came out the way I meant for it to come out when I said it.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars if you can diagram that sentence.” You asked for twenty, and he agreed, but only if you’d do it later. He told you that he’d shake your hand to seal the deal but you were already holding it, squeezing it actually, and you said, “That’s okay, I trust you.”

“That’s nice to know,” he said, and it took you a minute to hear the sarcasm that wasn’t there.

He’d taken it away.

……

And even though you didn’t want it to, it started to happen again, your inner paintbrushes dove into the sink—fuck soap and water—they were going right down the drain, your easels slammed shut and faced the wall; fear was the only color left.

And that’s important to you, that it feel the same?’

You felt like you had to catch it before it was gone for good.

“Brian?”

“Hmm?”

“I have to talk to you.”

“Okay.”

“But the thing is I really don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

“The reason for that is the same reason that I can’t talk.”

“Okay.”

“So I have to try it a different way.”

“Okay.”

“Will you help me move the coffee table?”

Brian looked at you carefully as you sat up, and when you stood up and he realized you were serious, he got up and went to the opposite side of the table from where you were standing and, “On three.”

“I have to get some blankets and the pillows off the bed,” you said.

“I’ll get them,” he offered, and then he came back momentarily with two blankets and two pillows and helped you spread the blankets on the floor. You tossed the pillows at the far end, and then looked at him because he was just standing there in the barely-moonlit room in his jeans and a t-shirt waiting for you to say something, so you said, “I want you to go on a date with me.”

He smiled a funny smile like when you got all your hair cut off and said, “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere really.”

“Sounds like fun.”

You walked over to him and extended your hand to him, “Are you ready to go?”

He put his hand in yours, “Guess so,” and walked two steps with you to the middle of the blankets and sat down when you did, facing the sofa and therefore the windows. The curtains were open, the moon mostly shy, and then he asked you, “Can I ask where we are?”

“Sure. The movies.”

……

After inquiring if the seats reclined, and therefore, getting your permission to lie down on the pillows next to you, Brian asked, “So what’s this movie about?”

“Lots of things, really.”

“Any chance I can get some candied walnuts and a large Diet Coke?”

“I’m sorry; the concession stand is closed.”

“A little weed?”

“Stop it. It’s about to start.”

……

He got very quiet and so did you, and then you felt like he was staring at you, so you turned your head and sure enough he was. “What are you doing?” you asked him.

He smiled that smile, the one that the wolf must’ve smiled at Little Red Riding Hood, “I’m so going to get to third base with you.”

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

 

simple life



*********************
HARPER COLLINS’S POV
three’s company

You were falling asleep despite Sam’s post-coital fondling, but then your eyes popped open, and you stopped his roaming hand. “Okay, sorry, I’ll stop,” he mumbled.

What happened next was more significant than either of you realized in that sleepy moment because it was you that noticed it first, “She’s crying; can’t you hear her?” You found Amelia by following the trail of toilet paper she’d left from the bathroom to her room, but you could’ve followed your nose and found her even quicker. “’Melia, what’s wrong?”

“Mommy.”

“What’s the matter? Did you have an accident?”

Her panties were soiled on the floor surrounded by a pile of toilet paper. “I hadded a bad dream and I pooped the macaronis.”

“Okay, that’s okay. We’ll clean it up.” Sam wandered in as you were leading Amelia to the bathroom, soiled clothing in your hands. “Could you change her sheets, please?” you asked him.

“Sure.”

“I pooped on the accident, Daddy.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “We’ll get it all cleaned up.”

……

“Do you need to use the potty again?” you asked her when Sam brought you clean pajamas.

Amelia shook her head, “I pooped all the macaronis; they’re all gone.”

“Why don’t you pee some chocolate milk?” you asked her.

“'Cause I already peed the chocolate milk all gone."

"Okay."

……

Once Amelia was put to bed for the third time that evening, and both you and Sam were settled in yours, he turned to you and said, “I didn’t have to change her sheets; the bed was fine.”

Assuming he took the lazy way out, you scolded him, “Sam, it was all down her legs. It was a mess. You better—"

“Harper, she didn’t have that accident in bed. She had it at her little table. I had to wipe down one of those chairs. She was wide awake, having a tea party…that we were not invited to until she crapped her pants.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious, and that little bracelet she swiped; I had to clean that, too. It was on the floor covered in poop.”

“Oh my god. That little—"

“Stinker?"

……

……

five minutes later

“Harper, one is probably enough for now; don’t you think?”

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

 

wet fork

 


*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
dodgeball

Hollywood was right when they pulled the plug on your movie because you had no fucking clue how to make a movie, and that night was no different. You lay on your back on that floor in the dark with Brian patiently waiting for something to start until you couldn’t stand it anymore and sat up, startling him, “Okay, fuck it. I can’t do this. Nothing’s happening. I’m sorry; the date’s over.”

You started to stand up, and he grabbed your hand and pulled you back down, “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. Maybe we’re just a little early.”

That’s not it.”

“Well, maybe it’s just time for the previews,” he suggested.

“There are no fucking previews, Brian. There’s nothing, okay? Absolutely nothing.”

And again you started to stand up, and again he yanked you back down, “Lie down and shut up.”

“I’m going to bed,” you protested.

“No, you’re not. It’s starting right now. Please turn off your cell phone and be considerate of those around you.”

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

 

two forks

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
the breakfast club

Justin practically threw himself back down on the floor, full of his patented self-disgust, but he was listening to you as you began, “Three, two, one… "

“Coming soon to a theater near—" he chimed in.

“No, wait; this is just an advertisement,” you said.

“Brian.”

“Excuse me, it’s paying for the very ‘screen’ you’re watching this ‘movie’ on right now.”

“Fine.”

“Oh look, it’s a very attractive, very talented guy having breakfast at The Waffle House. Hmm, wonder what’s so special about The Waffle House?”

“Illegal product placement,” he told you, “Not to mention atrocious timing.”

You ignored his citation, “He goes every single day but only in New York City.”

“Cut.”

“Is he meeting someone there?”

“Cut!”

“What’s wrong with the plethora of Waffle Houses in Pittsburgh or West Virginia? Is he too good for them?”

“CUT!”

“To be continued…”

“You pull another stunt like that, and you’ll be thawing third base out of a glacier in Antarctica,” he warned you.

And you believed him, “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears the answer to that question will remain a mystery.”

“Much better.”

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

 

Pfork illusion



*********************
son of Frankenstein

You grabbed your cigarettes and your lighter off the coffee table, lit up and started again, “We have a double feature tonight, ladies and gentlemen, a short film, if you will, starring my son, Gus, and then our feature presentation.”

“What about Gus?” Justin asked.

You raised your hands to set the stage, "Picture this: a penthouse in the Big Apple, a man so handsome, so beautiful--"

"I thought this story was about Gus, not me."

"Pardon me, my fair lady, but you're in a movie theater; you're supposed to be quiet."

"Sorry."

"Where was I? Oh yeah: Is he a god? No. Should he be? Quite possibly. Was it an oversight by the powers that be or a conspiracy concocted by those threatened by his je ne sais quoi--?"

"ACTION!"

"He receives a cellular telephone call from the mother of his child, a child who up to that day had brought him nothing but sheer joy--"

"Would you please get to the good part?"

"I thought artists liked to use their imaginations; my bad. Apparently, Gus refused to participate in gym class today because he was—and I quote—‘practicing being gay.’”

“What the hell?”

“Thank you; that’s pretty much what I told him.”

“Did you yell at him, Brian?”

“No, I did not yell at him. I simply pointed out that gay people enjoy physical activity just as much as anyone else.”

“Okay, but you mean fucking when you say that.”

“True...but I clarified and explained to him that there are plenty of gay athletes, that there’s not a straight man on this earth that could beat me at racquetball.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said, ‘Name one.”

“Name a straight guy who can beat you in racquetball?” he asked.

“No, name a gay athlete.”

“Oh, what’d you say?”

“I told him that only real gay people know who they are, so if he doesn’t know, he’s obviously not gay yet, so there’s no reason for him to be sitting out of gym class.”

“Brian, give me a break.”

“I was desperate; my mind went blank. I had to think of something.”

“Hello? Drew Boyd? Duh?”

“I told you; my mind froze. I panicked.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Brian Kinney, Father of the Year, via satellite from an insane asylum.”

“I’m sorry, what’d you say? The applause is deafening.”

“You need to have your head examined.”

“I had my sushi earlier today, thank you. Okay, so anyway, he was sent to the fucking principal’s office because when the gym teacher told him his little ‘sit out’ had gone on long enough, he claimed he was being discriminated against, threatened to sue him, and then called the guy a homophobe.”

“Oh Brian, you’ve created a little monster.”

“I did not teach him that word. That’s probably Mel’s fault.”

“Right.”

“Shut up.”

“Maybe he learned it in English when they were teaching him the difference between homonyms and homophones. Maybe he misunderstood,” Justin offered.

“Well, regardless, I told him that he didn’t need to practice being gay. That if he’s gay, he just is, and if he’s not, then he’s not, and practicing is just completely unnecessary.”

The extent to which Justin found that amusing was unbelievably uncalled for, “Yeah, ‘cause all those years of practicing never did you any good.”

“I was not practicing; I was honing an art form.”

“I’m sorry; did you say ‘honing’ or ‘humping?’” he asked you in between his obnoxious bouts of laughter.

Honing,” you informed him.

“And did you say ‘art form’ or ‘art-tist?’”

“Fuck you.”

……

……

When he finally settled down, Justin asked, “So what did Gus say?”

“He said, ‘Dad, I understand your point of view, and I know you’re my dad, but I still have rights under the constitution.’”

“Oh my god. What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘The hell you do, son; you live in Canada.’”

“Oh god, Brian.”

“Yeah, and then he told me that I needed to read this book he got from the library that says he’s an American citizen because he was born on American soil and that he has a right to due process and to appeal my decision—"

“Oh, Jesus.”

“Then he tried to give me the ISBN number of the fucking book.”

“He did not.”

“Yes he did, and then he started telling me about Rosa Parks, and I said, ‘Gus, Rosa Parks wasn’t gay; she was black,’ and he goes, ‘Well, maybe she was both, Dad, and she was too ashamed and too oppressed to admit it. Have you ever thought about that?’”

Justin’s hands were covering his face; he slid them down so you could see his eyes, “Please tell me that’s when you hung up.”

“No, I just said, ‘Put your mother on the phone,’ and he said, ‘Which one?’ and I said, ‘You know damn well which one,’ and then Lindsay got back on the phone and asked me if I wanted him back.”

“And?”

“I said, ‘Lindsay, it’s been a really long time since I’ve said those three little words to you…

“Anonymous Sperm Donor.’”

“That was mean, Brian.”

“He’s becoming my worst nightmare; I seriously don’t know what the hell is wrong with him.”

……

Suddenly Justin’s hands were in front of your face forming the universal symbol for ‘time out.’ (He was apparently the ‘gay umpire.’)

“Okay, whoa,” he said. “Let’s review. You, Brian Kinney, a man who staked his entire reputation on being sure that his sexuality walked through the door before he did doesn’t understand why his own son is obsessed about his?”

(This is exactly what’s wrong with Justin. You fuck him the first night you meet him and he’s automatically Smitten Twink Extraordinaire. He spends one evening with a shrink and he’s Freud.)

“He’s probably having wet dreams about men, women, and anal beads, Brian, and doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. Have you talked to him?”

“Now, you’re yelling at me.”

“No, I’m not. I’m asking you. Have you talked to him?”

“Yes, I have. Lindsay and I both have, a million times. We’ve talked to him together; we’ve talked to him apart; we’ve talked to him here, there, and everywhere,” you said waving your hands in the air like you were Emmett or something.

“And?”

“It doesn’t make any difference. He calls me every couple of months and tells me he still doesn’t know if he’s gay or straight, tells me he’s keeping me updated. What the hell am I supposed to say to that besides, ‘Okay, Gus. Thanks. I’d appreciate it you’d call me before three a.m. when you need to update me about this stuff?’”

“He’s probably calling you at three in the morning because he’s waking up from a wet dream, duh.”

“I can’t stop thinking about when he used to wear those cute little beanie hats,” you told him. “You know the ones that made him look like a tiny court jester?”

“Yeah, well you need to teach him where to buy those for his other head now.”

……

“I missed his whole childhood,” you told Justin via the ceiling, “It can’t be time for this shit already.”

“You need to talk to him Kinney-to-Kinney. His hormones are making him irrational.”

“Very funny.”

“Well, I’m sort of joking, but sort of not. He is your son, Brian. I mean, for once in your life you need to be thinking with your other head and you're not.”

"Ooh, score one for you."

"He wants you to be proud of him, Brian, and he thinks he needs to be like you--obsessed with sex--so you will be. That's what he's confused about."

…..

You turned and looked at Justin who was still faithfully staring at your movie screen. He turned his head, facing you when you spoke, “It’s no coincidence that I met both of you on the same night, you know?”

“It’s not?”

“You’re both exactly alike.”

“I never wore cute little beanie hats.”

“True,” you conceded, “But you both liked to suck on things.”

……

“You need to go talk to him, dick-to-dick,” he told you, "So he can picture something other than his dad when he gets a hard on."

“And you both over-intellectualize the fuck out of everything.”

……

“I mean, come on, Brian, he’s the only penis in that house."

“And neither of you ever cut me a fucking break.”

……

“He was such a cute little baby. And you were such a hot dad.”

“Then again, you both love me unconditionally.”

……

“Sometimes I’d look at you when you were holding him, and I’d think, ‘I should not be getting turned on by this...'"

“And you’re both beautiful.”

……

“Just think how weird it would be if he was going through all this and they’d named him ‘Abraham,’” Justin pointed out.

“And I love both of you so much it makes me crazy.”

……

……

“Yeah, I think you’re beautiful, too,” he said.

……

You flicked him in the head.

"Ow. You're supposed to warn people in there's violence in your movie."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to give away the ending."

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

 

french knife



*********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV
romancing the stone

When you lay down next to Richard that night, you felt like you were lying on a bed of nails. You knew you had to do something to break the tension between the two of you before calling it a night. The air between you was stuffed with expectation, not unlike those moments in a session when a patient has come to a crossroads and refuses to take another step.

You glanced at the small clock on Harper’s desk:

11:44 p.m.

Your eyes toured the moonlit studio, stopping on the chair you and Brian had placed in the room earlier that day. By that point, it truly didn't belong in Daniel's bedroom anymore having been further defiled with a plethora of tiny footprints, Amelia's little shoes. You tiptoed out of the gate with a safe subject as you both lay there on the sofa bed with more than a foot of space between you, “Amelia likes having that chair in here, doesn't she?”

He laughed, “You can say that again; she went bananas when she saw it in here after dinner.”

“What’d you guys end up having?”

“Macaroni and cheese."

No,” you said doling out far more sympathy than required.

“Look, we gave up, the rain and everything. She was starving; that’s what Dan made. I ate it. Then we came up here because she wanted to paint a picture of Brian.”

“Is that it?” you asked pointing to a painting on one of Harper’s easels.

“Yeah, she ran out of room for the rest of his legs and his feet. They’re on the back. And then she pretended to be Daniel for the rest of the night. You know how he always reads to her in that chair?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s what she was doing. Putting on these pink glasses she has--"

"They were sunglasses; she popped the lenses out so she could look like him.”

"Okay...so she must think Daniel looks like Elton John then.” You laughed. “Anyway, she put them on, read to Daniel and then put him to bed. And it worked; he went right to sleep. Then she read to me and tried to put me to bed, and when I didn't stay in the guest room; well, let's just say she wasn't too happy."

"The trick with Amelia--well, all women, really--is to make her perceive that she's getting her way," you told him.

"Like I don't know that; I have three sisters."

"I know; I want to meet them."

"No, you don't. Trust me,” he insisted.

"Sure I do. I love women as long as they go easy on the perfume and don't want to fuck me. Hell, seventy percent of my patients are female."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. Women were made for the couch. Don't you have more women coming to confession that men?" you asked him.

"Actually, yes," he admitted. "I never really thought about it."

You were beginning to relax; felt like the ice between you was thawing a bit. “It makes sense, doesn't it? Men don't admit they're wrong; they just redefine the problem to fit their solution.”

"Women don't?” he asked.

"Not at all. Women have the completely opposite problem: they redefine a solution to prove they caused the problem.”

“Hmm.”

“See, here's the thing: Hire a man to dig a ditch and when he shows up to dig it and the shovel you promised him isn't there, he says, 'Fuck it,' and goes home, right?"

Richard smiled, "Yeah, pretty much."

"But hire a woman to dig the same ditch with no promised shovel, and she'll wait an hour because the guy might show up with the shovel or maybe she got the time wrong, and then she'll look for a stick and something in her purse and try to make a shovel, and when that doesn't work, she'll just start digging it with her bare hands, work five hours past quitting time, and not ask for overtime pay because for all she knows, she's not even in the right place."

"And that makes them good patients? Because they'll dig ditches with their bare hands for free?"

“Kind of. Women will come to the couch willingly, but they'll be on it for years; men won't show up until the shit's about to fan, but they don't stay as long. Different method, same result. I'm generalizing, obviously.”

“I think Amelia's a ditch digger,” he said to you.

“She comes from a long line of ditch diggers, trust me.”

“I think that's what happened tonight. She was digging her little ditch, and I stepped in it.”

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

 

 

pink digger



*********************
FATHER DICK'S POV
she's all that

"You stepped in it?" Jon asked.

"Yeah, the look on her face when I came back into the studio--"

"Because you didn't do what you were supposed to do, right?"

"Right. So, anyway..."

And then you told him about your first solo adventure with the little Pink Princess...

Amelia was back in the chair reading to one of her dolls when you walked back into the studio, and she looked up at you through the rims of her plastic pink glasses, her eyes getting bigger and bigger as you got closer and closer to her.

"Amelia, it's time for bed," you said.

"No."

"I can read you a few books if you want. Why don't you pick some out?"

"No," she said, pulling her feet and her doll and her book underneath her in the chair, "You're 'upposed to go to bed."

The fate she'd dealt Daniel was to be yours as well, and you were quite clearly engaging in an egregious breach of conduct by not being sufficiently lulled to sleep by an indignant little lady marching you down the hall, pushing you into the guest room, putting her hands on her hips and declaring, “You're 'upposed to go to bed,” and then coming closer—ostensibly to offer day-ending affection that was just a tiny face with dark brown eyes rimmed in pink plastic--saying, “And night night and don't letthebedbugsbite 'cause they're just betend.” Perhaps Amelia, unlike Jon, didn't know you had three sisters, and you were used to being bossed around and undoing it.

"I can't go to bed. I need to wait for Jon to come back,” you told her. “Remember?”

Now, the other thing you knew about having three sisters was that girls—from one to one hundred--don't like to be wrong, and Amelia was no exception, “Yeah, I 'membered that.” And then you sat on the ottoman in front of her, and she looked away.

Because she was starting to cry...

“Amelia,” you said, “What's the matter?”

“I want Dr. Car-ride.”

"Daniel's asleep, remember? You did such a good job when you put him to sleep, he's snoring. Listen." And then you cupped your hand to your ear. "Do you hear him?"

……

"Do my ear snored-ing," she said after a few seconds.

"You can do it. Take your hand and put it around your ear like mine is." So she did, and you were both very quiet, and then, "I hearded Dr. Car-ride, Faber Domelly."

"I know. He's sound asleep, isn't he?"

"Yeah...'cause I readed to him onceuponatime."

"You did great."

"'Cause I already putted Dr. Car-ride to bed; I hafta put Mommy to bed now." And before you could say anything else, she began reading to the doll in her lap--the shortest story you ever heard, maybe three sentences--climbed down from the chair, walked down the hall, disappeared into the guest room, and then reappeared in the studio heading straight for her corner of baby dolls and stuffed animals. She yanked a teddy bear out of the pile and climbed back in the chair, "Time for Daddy onceuponatime." And on and on she went...

"Time for Dr. Jon onceuponatime.

"Time for Waffle onceuponatime good night.

"Time for Brime Kinney onceuponatime right now.

"Time for gingerbed lello sumarine onceuponatime so tired.

"Time for Sarah-Macy onceuponatime."

"You're making me tired, Amelia," you told her, "You're working so hard."

"Yeah...I already knowed that," she told you, sighing like she was exhausted as she stood over her dwindling pile of possible onceuponatimes and then chose a big white floppy rabbit. She walked cross the studio and handed it to you, "Time for Uncle Alan onceuponatime." And then she climbed into the chair for the last time.

"Uncle Alan?" you asked her.

"Yeah, 'cause he had to go to the hobspital...'cause he was boken...'cause I knowed that 'cause...'cause...," and then her voice went up very high joining her hands as she shrugged her little shoulders, "'Cause I just borgot."

"So, okay, what are you going to read to him?" you asked her.

"No, you," she insisted, shoving a book in your lap. "You say onceuponatime."

"You want me?"

"You do it."

“Okay.”

So you began with that one after she got comfortable in your lap with 'Uncle Alan,' and you read to both of them, several stories ending with Mama, If You Had a Wish because it had a two bunnies on it, Amelia said, "'Cause one is me, AmeliaJocelynHarperCollins, and one is UncleAlan-onceuponatime." She was falling asleep in your lap toward the end of the story and was sound asleep for the last two or three pages but you read them anyway...for Uncle Alan-onceuponatime, and then you closed the book, tucking it in the cushion beside you, and sat in that chair with Amelia and Uncle Alan-onceuponatime for at least ten minutes before carrying both of them to bed, mentally reworking your sermon for the next morning as you stared out the window at the pouring rain.

……

……

Jon was lying on his side, just looking at you when you finished talking, and he reached out and put his palm on your chest, "Alan gave her that rabbit and that book last Christmas. They were in a box on Daniel's front steps on Christmas morning with a note from him."

“They were?”

"She likes--liked--to dance for him, and that rabbit has those elastic straps on it's feet so she can hook them to hers and they dance together.”
……

"Jon..."

"I know. You don't have to say it. I know."

……

……

But you said it anyway, "She knows he's gone; that's why she saved him for last.”

“She believes everything she hears,” Jon said. “There's only once upon a time.”

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

 

 

icepick



*********************
JONATHON MASSEY'S POV
the iceman cometh

And then just when you thought that the time for talking might be drawing to a close, that you might be moving your hand down Richard's chest...

His voice echoed in the darkness, “I think I said something to Harper tonight, that I shouldn't have.”

“You sound like you're in confession,” you told him stilling your hand and your thoughts of moving it.

“I think I am.”

“What'd you say?” you asked him.

“Well, she came to get Amelia, wanted to know why Daniel and I were here and you weren't, so I told her where you were; she got upset about Justin, said she felt like she was losing another brother...”

“Oh boy.”

“So I told her that she wasn't because it wasn't the same situation, because Justin's not Alan; she didn't grow up with him; they don't share the same life experience--"

……

And then he stopped talking..., “And?”

“She basically told me to go to hell.”

“She's right,” you said.

You are an ass.”

You are a dumb ass,” you told him, “Don't stand in Harper's way when she's digging, or you're going to get whacked upside the head with her shovel.”

“She doesn't need to walk around with the whole world on her skinny little shoulders,” he argued.

“She doesn't know any other way to live, Richard. It's the only language she speaks. She's learning another way, but it's a slow process, and this whole fiasco set her back quite a bit as one might expect.

Duh.

“Whatever,” he said, and then he turned away from you, and then you felt like you were going to sleeping next to a wall that only the late, great Ronald Reagan could tear down.

……

So you pondered your options...

……

And then made a decision.

“Richard?”

What?

“Can we just rewind tonight? Just take it from when I walked in the door or something?”

……

He didn't say anything right away, so you waited. You'd waited as long as forty minutes in a session, so it was no big deal to you; you'd seen plenty of psychological wheels get stuck in the mud.

……

……

"No."

"Richard--" you were protesting when he finished his sentence.

"Daniel's in a ditch he can't get out of,” he said.

……

You sighed, and then his words hung between the two of you like a bad smell that just wouldn't go away, and when you didn't say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing, he added, “He's very upset about Justin.”

"Yeah, well, so am I."

"It's just that tonight when we were playing with Amelia; I mean, you can just tell, Jon. He thinks she's the only friend he has left." You were going to say something but bit your tongue. "I don't feel good about tomorrow, not at all."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" you asked him.

"I don't think you should've pulled him into this thing with Justin--"

"That's not what I asked you."

"This wasn't the right time to sacrifice that friendship. It's isolated him during the one time when he doesn't need to be alone."

"Sometimes you have to choose the lesser of two evils, Richard."

"Sometimes you have to make decisions with your heart and not your ego-llect, Jon."

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you asked him.

“I'm just saying that this ditch is huge, and it's a pile on now, and Daniel's at the bottom, and he's getting crushed; that's all I'm saying, okay?”

You were both sitting up by that point, and you got out of bed because pacing is integral to anger as far as your body is concerned, “You think I don't know that?”

“No,” he said, “I know you know it, and that's what's pissing me off. You all know it, and no one is there for him. He found him, Jon, found his bloody, mangled body in front of his own fucking house, and you're running around town playing shrink to the stars, and roping Dan into helping you do it, and he's here with a fucking three year old trying to keep his shit together, and--"

“Okay, okay--"

“It's not okay. And then you're telling me that I'm the dumb ass? You're the fucking dumb ass.”

……

……

……

You crossed your arms and leaned against the window, cool against your shoulder, and stared down at your bare feet, “You're right, okay?”

“I don't give a fuck about being right; I give a fuck about all this goddamn suffering around us. I give a fuck about tomorrow. I've got a hundred transients, two shrinks, three mental cases, Sonny and Cher, Rocky, a Martin Scorsese wannabe and Shirley Temple coming to my church tomorrow for some kind of closure, and I have no fucking clue how I'm going to pull this off.”

You looked at him, at his insistent posture sitting up in bed, at his gay hands flying his front of his face as he whisper-yelled at you and told him, “We're going to wing it.”

“That's your med school, diploma on your wall, initials after your name answer? 'We're going to wing it?'”

“Yes, that's my professional opinion.”

“I'm glad I'm not paying for this.”

“Me, too,” you said as you got back into bed next to him, “Because I'd probably end up having to give you a refund.”

……

"And what exactly does this 'winging it' plan of yours entail?" he asked you.

"It has two steps," you told him.

"And they are?"

"Step one is have a little faith."

"Okay, what's step two?" he asked.

"Repeat step number one."

*********************
the remains of the day

"Are you going to hit me if I touch you?" you asked him.

He laughed, "Have I ever hit you when you touched me?"

"No," you admitted, "But you've also never called me a dumb ass or chewed me a new asshole, either, so I'm just checking."

"That asshole chewing thing...you like that."

……

"I've never seen you so angry," you told him taking his hand and pushing it between your legs, "But I guess I like it."

"Only you would endure the wrath of God and get a boner."

You pressed his hand against your balls, "Grapes of Wrath."

"On steroids maybe."

You kissed him in that tentative what are we doing here? way, the way you used to kiss him the first few times you fucked him, made him come after you a little if he wanted more, wanted to string his desire between the two of you and then watch him walk the rickety bridge back to you, and it worked, and when he came back for more, you put your hand behind his head and kissed him hard, and the only reason you stopped was to tell him, "Suck me."

And in mere seconds, you were sitting up in the sofa bed, leaning back against the scratchy fabric, watching him as he settled between your legs, pulling his hair when he was about to swallow you so he'd look at you, "Deluxe, please."

And then he spent three minutes teasing you, kissing your stomach, the inside of your thighs, until you ran your hands down both legs denying him that surface area and closed them a little, but they were wide open five minutes later when you were buried in his mouth, your hands pressing on the back of the sofa as you fucked his face.

You were soaked with his spit-an intentional waterfall, could feel it running between your legs, and you were burning up when you grabbed a knot of his hair and lifted your hips for a move the two of you had choreographed and mastered over the past few months, and he pushed his wet fingers inside you, and you released his hair and started coming down his throat.

You chanted, and he pushed them harder, not stopping until you stopped begging him, and when your body sagged, his moved so he could lay his head on your chest, and you fixed his hair and told him, "That was perfect."

"It's better when we use that dildo," he said. "It takes days for your toes to uncurl."

"Sometimes I'd rather feel you," you said, "Your fingers have more dexterity than a Mansize SuperThruster 1000."

"True."

“I’m sorry I was such a dick all day."

“You can’t help it.” You wanted to be insulted, but he was right. “Jon, sometimes you have to remember that some of what you do is church-like; you need to let people come in on their own.”

“I prefer the catch-and-release method,” you told him.

“I know you do, but humanity is not a dog pound.”

Richard smelled so good, having him suck you off and then lay there all semi-sweaty and warm was heaven, “Have you looked at humanity lately, Richard? I mean, come on.”

“Perhaps you need new glasses.”

……

Maybe you did, but at that moment, you didn't really care. All you wanted was to get in his ass, to fuck him, to give both of you a physical and emotional release you needed, and to repair some of the damage you'd done, so you said, “If you make me wait a week to fuck you, you’re going to end up in the hospital needing an emergency ass-endectomy.”

“Is that right?” he asked in his sleepy voice, his arms wrapping around your torso.

“And your insurance won’t cover it, trust me.”

“I’ll call the Vatican tomorrow and ask.” Damn it.

His eyes were closed on your chest; you ran the back of your hand down the side of his face, "I need to fuck you," you whispered.

He smiled and you let your fingers trace its path on his cheek. "You need to fuck," he said.

"I need to fuck you."

“You know, they still haven’t answered my other inquiry about whether we can officially specify that the three Wise Men at Jesus’s birth were Earth, Wind, and Fire.”

“That’s because you sent that email on April Fool’s Day, Richard.”

“Well,” he sighed, “Timing is everything.”

……

“Yes, it is, and you have ten seconds to roll over on your own.”

……

……

You really should learn to listen to Richard.

He rolled over in three.

He was moaning in six.

And laughing at you in eight.

……

At ten, you were walking buck naked into Daniel’s bedroom with the world’s biggest boner stealing a rubber out of his nightstand drawer.

……

Somewhere in heaven, God was probably so fucking proud of himself.

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

 

 

fork knife lay



*********************
BRIAN’S POV
say anything

As the credits were running on your short film, Justin was fidgeting next to you, sighing a lot, but you said nothing, lying quietly beside him, watching the window, your hands flattened on your chest. He said nothing for several minutes.

……

……

But finally, “Brian?”

“Yeah?”

“I shouldn’t have asked you to go on this date with me; I don’t have a movie.”

“Damn it, I want my money back.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I know you are,” you said. “What’s the problem? What’s making it so hard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Throw out a reason; who cares if it’s the wrong one?” you encouraged him.

……

……

“I’m not you,” he finally said.

……

The room felt suddenly lighter, and you stole a quick glance to see if he was hovering off the floor; he wasn’t. You focused back on the window, tried to keep everything the same, not wanting him to run back in his rabbit hole, “Okay, why does that make a difference?”

……

“You know who you are,” he told you. “I don’t.”

……

There was a part of you that wanted to sit up and say, ‘That’s what I meant when I said I broke your big break,’ but you didn’t dare. You lay there following the rules of the date he’d invited you on.

It was a privilege after all.

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
moonlighting

You didn’t know that as you were desperately trying to conjure up an image or a way to explain how you were feeling that night that Amelia had already painted her version, acted it out, and been put to bed—for the first time, that Nate was still up, that something Harper had said to him at dinner was still on his mind, that Daniel had cried himself to sleep over you and Alan and Harper and everything, that the only way Zeek was able to get through buying a suit for the funeral was by fucking the guy who sold it to him, or that Jonathon had screamed himself to sleep over the things that were so fucking wrong in the world not understanding that if they weren’t, neither he nor Richard would have jobs. You didn’t know that beneath the city Stitch was wide awake walking from group to group still trying to convince them that it was safe to come upstairs in the morning, that you weren’t the only one worried about tomorrow.

You didn’t know that Gabe had talked his father into closing the restaurant on Friday even though it wasn’t one of Alan’s official stops and that Mama Zirrolli insisted on cooking anyway and, “We’ll give it to them, Gabriel. You tell the people at the church; you tell your brother to bring them here. They can eat here afterwards.” That when Gabe told her who was coming to the funeral, she didn’t care who they were, that she was down right insulted when Gabe pointed out to her that they didn’t have any money, and that he felt like shit after that because he hadn’t exactly been a gentleman to Alan the day they’d met, the same day he met the man still lying next to you on the floor in your New York City penthouse, the man still waiting for your movie to start.

All you knew was that things weren’t moving fast enough for you, and that if you tried to get back up, Brian was going to smack you back down.

“It’s hard to make a movie about yourself when you don’t know who you are,” you said to him.

“I’m sure.”

“That’s kind of my problem right now.”

“Okay, let’s start with what we know, or, rather, with what you know, like what we do at Kinnetik when we get an account that we didn’t really want, like tampons or something.”

“Do not compare me to tampons.”

“I’m not. You know what I mean. You came out before and said you were pissed at me—"

“Right.”

“Because I took your clothes.”

“Wrong.”

“Start from there.”

“Well, it’s complicated,” you said.

“Undoubtedly.”

“It’s hard for me to say I’m mad at you because I love you.”

“You don’t have to stop loving me just because you’re mad at me. I mean, unless you want to.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“Okay,” he said. “Why are you mad?”

You were both staring straight ahead which was beginning to make the whole thing feel much safer to you, and you started to see something…yourself…kind of. “Everybody knows who you are, practically the whole world now because even if they don’t know you, they’ve seen your work, and you don’t even know me at all.”

“Okay.”

“And how can you really love me if you don’t really know who I am?” You paused, “And I can I even expect you to if I don’t know who I am?”

Brian sighed.

You continued, “I feel like you think I’m this brilliant, talented artist; this person with this amazing potential, like the talent I have is on par with the creative talent you have—"

“I do.”

“But I don’t think you understand or even care-- No, I don’t mean that you don’t care; I mean, I don’t think it ever occurred to you that I wanted my life to be about more than that, because if my life was about more than that, then my art would be, too.” You glanced over at him, “Are you about to kill me?”

“Not at all; keep going.”

“I’m not you…. I don’t see the world the way you see it; I don’t want to own it or control it or understand all of it. I actually like it all fucked up.”

“Hence, your choice of husband?”

“Ha, ha.”

And then your movie started to play, took off right in front of your face…

*********************
edge of seventeen

A picture is worth a thousand words, and finally, it began to deliver…

“Okay, before I go any further, I need to explain that my movie doesn’t go in order, and it’s probably very confusing.”

“So it’s Faulkner, stream of consciousness?” Brian asked.

“Well, I was going to say Joyce, but yeah, same thing.”

“Duly noted.”

“Okay, for instance, I played tennis when I was a little kid. I can see myself out on the court at our country club every summer—tan and blond—and I was the worst tennis player you ever saw. I hated it. I begged my parents not to make me go, but every summer, my dad insisted that I take tennis lessons because he played tennis and of course, I wasn’t involved in any other sport, so I had nothing to bargain with or anything. So every fucking summer, I’d go out there in my new tennis clothes—which, by the way, was the only thing I liked about tennis—"

Brian laughed.

“And I’d give it my worst possible effort so I wouldn’t have to go back the next year. But guess what? The tennis pro at the country club was gay; he was one of those not-out guys that you never suspected until you realized that you never saw him with anyone but the golf pro, you know? So, when my mom or dad would come pick me up and ask him how I did, he would lie and say that I was getting better or showing improvement in my backhand or whatever so that—"

“He could hang out with you in the locker room?”

“Yep.”

“That weasel.”

“He never tried anything with me, but that was probably because I caught on to him, and we had this silent, unspoken war going on between us for at least three years. I’d go to my tennis lesson and fuck up like you have never seen; I’d beam him with the ball whenever I could or just stand there like a statue; I mean, it’s kind of funny now, and then he’d follow me into the locker room and try to pretend he wasn’t watching me change into my bathing suit or take a shower or whatever. And then at the end of each summer, we’d have these little country club tournaments, and he’d always put me on the roster, and I’d always embarrass the fuck out of him and lose to the worst tennis player in the world in the first round just to piss him off and my dad at that point.”

“This is why I love you.”

“So then I turned sixteen, and I could drive myself to my lessons, so I quit showing up, and he charged my parents anyway, and then my dad found out I wasn’t going and that he was still being charged and the shit hit the fan, and he was fired, but when he was fired, the golf pro quit, too, and then everybody figured it out—"

“And the next year, you decided to take tennis lessons on Liberty Avenue instead?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, “I was trying to find a sport I liked.”

“Hit that one out of the park, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I only attract pros.”

“Because your ass is a magnet and you have the face of an angel, that’s why.”

“Brian.”

He reached down, grabbed his crotch, and grinned at you, “Sorry, but the truth squirts.”

You kicked him because he deserved it, “Okay, but our relationship has to be based on more than sex.”

“It is. It’s based on lots of sex.”

“Brian, cut it out. I’m being serious.”

“Justin, if our relationship was based solely on sex, would I be lying here on this hard floor staring at a movie I can’t see keeping my hands to myself listening to you explain why you’re pissed at me?”

“Probably not.”

“Keep talking; I’m listening.”

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

 

 

fork in the road



*********************
BRIAN’S POV
eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

He kept going, and it was truly a relief to you because as you listened to him, you began to feel the meaning behind some of Jon’s words.

You have to understand … how high the stakes are for Justin. He's killing himself trying to do the impossible. He’ll do anything to keep you safe…seeing you in pain is unbearable to him…”

Those words you’d spoken to him, “It’s only time,” were being revised…

It’s only perspective.

And you realized that you’d already done it to him again less than two hours prior: Justin hadn’t walked away from you all those times you’d watched him go; he’d walked away from what he could no longer handle. Your emotions or lack thereof were not his problem; your regret that very night was not his problem. In ten years, he’d practiced and perfected that half of the circle, gotten strong enough to walk away and now he was trying to complete the loop, trying to find the courage to face the full circle now that he’d come back.

It wasn’t easy to lie there and listen and wait and listen and wait, but when you considered how much pressure he’d been under in his life and he wasn’t even thirty, it became easier and easier. He deserved all the time in the world.

……

“Okay, so now it’s time for Act Two,” he said.

“Okay.”

“So, the reason I was telling you that is because that experience is kind of what I thought you and I had in common when we met even though I never told you about it, but our relationship was so intense and so strange and then I got hurt, and then everything changed and none of that shit even mattered anymore.”

“Right.”

“That fucked everything up.”

“I know.”

“We have to talk about this; there are things I’ve never told you, things I’m still afraid to tell you…”

“Why are you afraid?” you asked him.

……

His voice changed, his eyes moved from his movie screen to his hands. You didn’t realize it right then, but you’d hit his pause button.

“I have a million reasons, I guess, the obvious one being that talking about it makes you relive it and making you relive it—"

“It’s okay; I know.”

……

“You said that one time that it was like I got hit all over again, remember?” he asked you.

……

“Yeah,” you breathed out, feeling a tear push out of the corner of your eye and prepare to do a flying cannonball down your face. Justin stopped talking, scooting over and rolling on his side so he could be right next to you. He caught the traitorous droplet before it ran down your face. “Thanks,” you said quietly.

“Anytime.”

……

His arm extended across your chest, “I don’t want to upset you, Brian. This is why—"

“The world’s not going to end just because I get upset.”

…….

……

……

……

He said nothing in response, just rested his head on your chest.

But the room wasn’t exactly quiet.

……

……

……

“Didn’t know this movie was gonna be such a tear jerker,” you said after a few minutes.

……

……

……

So many things were running through your mind, so many images; some you wanted to stop and freeze frame and really examine and some you wanted to fast forward and pretend you never saw, but they were only there for one reason, and when they were done flying by, Jon’s words followed them like the billboard on a tour bus full of emotional groupies, “You have to understand … how high the stakes are for Justin. You’re more to him than his lover or his partner. You’re his foundation.”

……

……

You wound your fingers in between his on your chest, “Justin?”

……

……

He exhaled when you said his name, the sob he was holding hostage making it’s escape, his body jerking in response, "…What?"

……

Our world’s not going to end if I get upset; your world isn’t; my world isn’t. We’ll just go visit some parts of it we’ve never seen before, that’s all.”

……

“I believe you when you say that, but seeing you get upset is…and if I think I’m the one causing it, I can’t—"

“You’re not the one causing it,” you told him.

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

……

……

For a man who’d made millions finessing the art of persuasion, you felt like a pathetic amateur at that moment.

……

Your body had shifted trying to help you; you were on your side facing him, holding him against you, and you let it take over while your mind searched for something to say. You could feel your heartbeat, the rhythm like footsteps, first forward, but then, no…backwards—to earlier that night, to when he came back, to that brisk November day...

And it paused there for a minute, idling. And you began to question why you jumped on that plane so fast to get him, why you didn't call him first, give him the option of attending Chris's funeral, why you felt like you just had to show up out of nowhere. Was the closure that you so desperately needed fueling you that night? Did you use him like a bump you'd take in the backroom, something that would heighten the experience, make it worthwhile, maybe get you to your release? And then you felt like something that deserved to live in the sewer.

And then you thought about when he left and when you spoke, your own voice surprised you; it was trying to soothe both of you, “Can you calm down and listen to me for a minute?”

“I’m trying.”

You tried to pull back from him a little so you could see his face, but he wouldn’t let go, so you let him stay where he was, deciding to go ahead and propose something to him that was far more valuable than anything you’d ever offered him up to that moment in your lives,

“Justin, if I’m willing to accept that what happened to you is not my fault, will you accept that you’re not responsible for the way I feel about what happened to you?”

……

……

His body became very still in your arms.

He stopped sniffing.

……

……

And then he moved again, pulling away from you a little so he could look up at you. You brushed his hair off his forehead. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

……

He ran a grateful hand across your chest, "You think you can do that for me?"

“I can and I will," you told him. "I'll do anything for you."

……

……

The six years of waiting and wondering crystallized into that moment that night, and you could see it in him as powerfully as you could feel it in yourself. There was a true method to this renewing madness the two of you had been going through; there was a journey underway, circular for years, sewer-bound and spinning like you were destined to go down a drain at times, but that had suddenly stopped, terminated at a legitimate fork in the road, and it was the reason you were lying on that hard penthouse floor holding him as the relief flowed through his body. The last time you’d seen such pure, untainted pleasure on his face was the first night you met him...

You had something to offer him that you’d never even considered before, something only you could give him, something he truly needed, the unspoken vow of your partnership finally confirmed. And while you had to concede that your end of the proposal might be a bit of a illusion for a while—a true work in progress--you knew that giving it to him meant pardoning yourself as well, and if it took doing it for him to make it happen for you, then that’s what it would take.

Because some sacrifices are merely investments in disguise.

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

 

twisted fork



*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
a league of their own

Someone had kicked the exit doors to your theater wide open and there in the middle of the night, in the middle of your movie, there was sunlight streaming in, and you snaked your arms around Brian's neck, and he just looked at you for a few seconds like he just wanted to look at you or something, and you said, “Will you just kiss me, please?” and he smiled a little bit and put his fingers on the edge of your face like he needed you even closer than you were, and he closed his eyes before you did and that almost never happens, only you didn’t even realize that until that night, and all of a sudden you wanted to be able to kiss and talk at the same time and tell him how much you loved him, how sometimes your heart just exploded inside you so hard, but you couldn’t say that because he was kissing you really, really hard.

Jesus, god, he steamed into your neck, and before you realized how badly you wanted it, you felt his hand in your pants, and the moan you set free wasn’t even finished before he’d turned you away from him, pulled them down, and pushed your thigh out of the way, his jeans in a heap two feet away by some act of ecstatic terrorism. His left arm appeared underneath you and pulled you back against him, his forehead bearing down on your shoulder and then you felt his hand guiding his cock, spreading you; you couldn’t move; he had you pinned, so you let escape the only thing you could, his name into your pillow.

Want you,” he said as he pushed inside you, his hand spreading wide on your ass, kneading it as if he was trying to make room, squeezing it hard, and then slowing everything down. ”Uh,” he groaned into your neck as he slid deep inside you, “Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Not yet,” you whispered.

“I won’t; I just…need this…right now.”

“Me, too,” you said, pulling his hand off of your hip and wrapping it around you. “I’ve needed this for a really long time.”

……

……

And you didn't want to see it, all you wanted was to feel it, to hear it, so you pressed back against him with your eyes closed, with his arms wrapped around you, and just that incremental movement tightened his body around yours, and, "Stop," he whispered behind you. And when he felt your muscles relax a little, give up a little, he kissed your shoulders, tucked your hair back so he could touch the side of your face. "Fuck me," you breathed, and the request came solely from your body, not your mind or your heart, and somehow he knew that and said, "I will...when I'm ready," basically ignoring your request and for some reason that made you smile.

And there were minutes ticking by and neither of you were acknowledging the existence of time, you were watching his hand move down your neck and then your chest and then your stomach, all in your mind's eye, and trying to guess which time it wouldn't stop, and you were always wrong, but then you weren't, and his hand was very close to how badly you wanted him, so you snuck one of your hands down and moved his over a little, and he laughed very low in your ear, "When I'm ready."

"You're ready now," you told him.

"Your impatience makes your ass tighter."

"I'm getting very impatient."

"In a minute."

His response put you in a bit of a predicament because you no longer knew what a minute was...

Somehow he'd exiled your hands from your own dick, so they were tucked under your pillow in protest, but when you felt his hand move ever so slightly, you released one of them, reaching back behind you and resting it--pressure free--on his hip, just so it was ready when he was.

You heard yourself saying his name as his fingertips skimmed the head of your cock, slipping around and then back down again and begging him when he was cooking words behind your ear, "You're unbelievably wet."

Everything that came out of your mouth sounded mostly like a variation of, "Uh."

But then he started stroking you, his dick still so still inside you, and that hand resting on his hip, well, it suddenly got a mind of it's own and slapped him...

And then it said, "Don't."

……

And that was pretty much the last thing it ever said that night...

Because it was flattened on the sheet in front of your face keeping the rest of you from being smothered by the lecture Brian was giving your ass, and holy fuck, it was so good to be back in school again.

In the front row, no less.

……

……

And before he was done, he made sure you at least got a passing grade.

And then, um, class dismissed.

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

chili pepper fork



*********************
BRIAN’S POV
gentlemen prefer blondes

Bedtime was after one a.m. that Thursday night, or rather, that Friday morning. In your younger days, you would’ve slept wherever the last fuck had ended, but sleeping on the floor didn’t have quite the luster that it used to, so the two of you had gotten up, straightened up the living room, and gotten ready for bed.

As far as Justin was concerned, the best part of getting room service at The Regency was putting the cart with all of the dirty dishes in the elevator and sending it down to the kitchen all by itself. “Brian, why can’t we put an elevator in our bedroom so we can do this?” he called to you as he enjoyed the highlight of his evening.

“Because that’s what dumbwaiters are for,” you called back from your perch on the actual bed, lit cigarette in one hand, remote control in the other hoping to glance at the markets one more time before calling it a night.

……

“Why does the waiter have to be dumb?” he asked.

……

(Clearly, he wouldn’t have to be as long as Justin was living there.)

…..

When he walked back into the bedroom, he took one look at your face, “What’s so funny?”

“You.”

He crawled across the bed and got underneath the sheets with you, “Why?” and then he took your cigarette from you so he could smoke it.

……

“Haven’t you ever seen a dumbwaiter?” you asked him.

“Yeah, most of the waiters at our country club were idiots.”

……

You busted out laughing.

……

“What did I say?” he asked. “What?” You couldn’t even answer him. “Stop laughing at me. Your eyes are watering, Jesus.”

Finally, you calmed down enough to explain to him what a dumbwaiter was as opposed to a ‘dumb waiter,’ and then he promptly announced that he pretty much hated you.

“Oh, come on. It was funny.” He gave you back your cigarette, laid down and pretended to ignore you. “And by funny, I mean cute and adorable.”

“No, you don’t. You mean stupid.”

You stubbed out your cigarette, turned off the nightstand lamp and lay down beside him, “I do not mean stupid, you little drama queen.”

“You just insulted me again, Brian.”

“I did not,” you told him, taking astute notice of the fact that he wasn’t exactly pushing you away or stopping you when your finger ran up and down his perfect little crack. “I happen to think you’re very, very smart.”

“Why?” he asked, stopping your hand, apparently your permission to move it was contingent upon a satisfactory answer.

“Because you have excellent taste in men?”

“Try again, asshole.”

……

It took you a second to realize that he was calling you an asshole and not commanding you to do something that involved one of your favorite parts of his body. Good marital communication takes years of practice.

……

“Because you fuck one of America’s best gay athletes?”

“Fucking is not a sport, Brian, and I don’t just fuck you, I'm your own personal Bowflex machine."

……

(Well, that’s a chicken and egg issue, but sometimes when you’re married, you have to pick your battles.)

……

The third one had to be the charm, right?

……

“Because you see through all my bull shit and love me anyway?”

(Where the hell did that come from?)

“Well, that’s not the number one answer on the board, but I’ll accept it.”

(Then what the hell is? You spit that out and didn’t even win? Fell on your sword for honorable mention? What? And why were you talking again?)

“Well, if it’s not the right answer, then I retract it,” you announced.

“You can’t retract it.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t. The sheer nature of your answer makes it un-retractable. That’s the point.”

……

“Fucking dumbwaiter,” you said to the back of his head.

“Don’t blame him. It’s not his fault.”

……

Marriage, unbelievably similar to parenthood, means the joke—even when you tell it—is always on you.

*********************
braveheart

When Justin fell asleep that night, he was lying right beside you on his stomach, facing you with the remnants of a smile on his face. He’d fallen asleep trying to tell you more about his movie, none of it making much sense because he was so tired; each word he spoke coming out slower than the next, his hand draped on your shoulder.

“You’re falling asleep,” you told him, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“You have to remind me…because I don’t remember…what I’m trying to remember…”

“I will.”

“’Kay,” he said, and he closed his eyes for good.

Had you been an artist like Justin, you probably would’ve painted a museum’s worth of paintings that night with what was running through your head as you tried to fall asleep, but you were Brian Kinney, the ad man, and you’d trained yourself to see your life in thirty second montages, to shoot a lot of footage, write a lot of copy, and then go into the editing room and start chopping until your message—day after day, week after week, year after year--was pure and succinct. Had that been your task that night, you would’ve been watching a brand new spot when all was said and done because you’d done the unthinkable, taken a product, a brand name, that everyone had known for forty years and re-invented it from the inside out.

Maybe it was because you were such a success, because you never met a product you couldn’t sell, because you’d surrounded yourself with smart, loyal people and good friends.

Or maybe it was because you were a father, because the inner terror of becoming one just like yours had never come to fruition, because your own son didn’t fear you; he challenged you—in court if necessary--because despite how crazy he made you, you had to confess to seeing yourself in him, his courage, his drive, his unflappable determination to speak his own mind in a house full of vagina monologues.

Or maybe it was because Justin was going to be okay because you were in his life and not in spite of it, because you finally truly understood that love wasn’t a threat--to either of you. The image of a superhero that you’d subscribed to since you were a boy—bold lines, bright colors, everything else so black and white…you were beginning to see that it was the product of a boy’s imagination, a boy who desperately needed a superhero even worse than he needed to be one. And when those colors and capes and capital letters finally sunk into the background, you could see the real hero standing there.

And he was no crusader or mogul or millionaire, he was just a man who understands that our most formidable villains lie within ourselves, who accepts that love isn’t about giving up or giving in but about giving what you can and being there when someone is ready to give back, who knows that his personal wealth can be stated on a balance sheet in a boardroom but only truly appreciated on ones made of Egyptian cotton in a bedroom, who realizes that love is misguided yet well-intentioned sacrifice, beginnings disguised as endings, that it's fear trapped in dogma, and that in the meantime, at it's best and at it's worst, love is always a bit of a benign, and in your case, a well-dressed masquerade.

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

 

surgical instruments



*********************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV
through a glass darkly

The empty bottle of brandy on the bathroom counter, you didn’t remember it that way.

4:02 a.m.

A scalding hot shower.

Too many clean shirts in the closet for a Friday. A white shirt chosen as if it was Monday, navy pants, the ones you don’t really like, a belt somewhere. Shoes you got for Christmas.

From yourself.

Coffee in the kitchen, staring out the little window over the sink, staring at the road like there was nothing of value out there. Mug in the sink, light off, burgundy tie pulled out of its hiding place in your office. Monday’s evidence that Jonathon thought he’d discarded when you weren’t looking, tied once again in the bathroom mirror. Watch centered on your wrist; it’s a little too big.

Lights turned off, front door unlocked as you left for work, closing the door behind you, leaving your briefcase to stand alone, untaken.

Unnecessary.

*********************
die another day

……

“Why didn’t you scream?” you asked him, the brick steps unyielding underneath you; your face pressed against the wrought iron railing because it just felt good, felt crucial, to push so hard against something so inhuman.

I tried.

“I was in the kitchen. I was right there. I would’ve—"

Called the police?

……

……

And then you moved, sitting on that very spot, leaning against the steps, your hand in the mulch you’d found him in…

*********************
FATHER DICK’S POV
someone like you

Your alarm was set for five fifteen that morning, and it was no surprise to you that Jon didn’t sleep that long either, and you were standing in Daniel’s dark foyer with a cup of coffee in your hand, peeking out of the curtains framing the front door, when you heard Jon walking above you…down the hall to the bathroom…out of the bathroom….down the hall to Daniel’s room…and then his fast feet to the top of the stairs. You were waiting for him at the bottom; you both had your hands on a light switch--the same light, opposite ends of the stairwell.

“Don’t,” you said.

“Where the hell is he?”

“Out front.”

“Doing what?”

You took a sip of your coffee and surveyed Jon’s naked, concerned form before you answered, “On the surface, I suppose he’s talking to himself.”

Jon threw his hands up in the air like you were of no use to him and disappeared into the studio (for a split second he reminded you of Amelia...), re-emerging seconds later with the clothes he had on the night before. You were still standing at the foot of the stairs when he came flying down.

“Good morning,” you said when he got to the bottom.

“Move, please.”

“No.”

“Richard, I don’t have time for this.”

“You’re not going out there.”

He looked in your eyes, examining you closely, and then sat down on the stairs defeated. “Why are you still pissed at me?” he asked you, his head hanging down.

You didn’t fall for it and sit down next to him because you knew he’d leapfrog right over you and fly out the front door. Instead, you bumped his knee with yours so he’d look up, “This isn’t about you and me; this is about him.”

“That’s why I’m trying to go outside, Richard.”

“Well, by the power bestowed upon me by the Catholic Church and Jesus, I’m over-ruling you.”

“He needs help.”

“He needs a friend.

“I am his friend.”

“No, right now you’re Super-Shrink, and if you go out there, all he’s going to do is feel even worse. You’re going to go out the back way--quietly, get in a cab, get our suits and come back here. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Jon’s eyes fixed on you in that way they always do when he knows you’re right, and he can’t stand it. You didn't know Jon well enough then, but you were just about the only person he'd ever speak the following words to: “Okay, fine. You win."

He sprinted back upstairs to get his wallet, pager, and keys and then came back down to say good-bye. You were once again standing at the sliver of a window by the front door peering out. "I'm going," he said.

"Okay."

He tugged on your arm, and you turned your head. "How's your ass this morning?" he asked you.

"Get out of here, please."

"Throw the sheets in the washer; I stripped the bed."

"Does the word 'please' exist in your vocabulary when your dick isn't hard?" you asked him.

He didn't even think about his answer, "Nope."

*********************
ordinary people

You watched Daniel from the window beside the front door until you suddenly lost sight of him. You left your coffee mug in his kitchen sink and opened his front door. He was almost all the way in the bushes, his wet face littered with dirt; you knelt down beside him. He jumped when you touched him, “Dan, it’s just me. Let me help you, okay?”

You could tell that he wanted to resist you, but his body was exhausted, and so he let you help him sit up. “Where are your glasses?” you asked him. You knew he’d been wearing them; he shook his head like he didn’t know. You glanced at the dirt he’d been lying in and saw them, picked them up, shook the dirt off of them, and then set them on the steps. “Let’s get you inside, okay? Take a shower, get you cleaned up.”

He shook his head, “I already took one."

You sat down on the sidewalk, facing him, your hand propped on his shoulder, “Everything feels kind of pointless right now, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re just gonna take it one minute at a time, okay?”

He looked up at you, trying to ascertain if you were really serious, and then said, "I think I drank a whole bottle of brandy last night."

You laughed as you tried to brush some of the dirt off of his clothes, "Oh god, no, you didn't. I helped you with that."

"You did?" he asked, the first hope you'd seen on his face since this nightmare had started.

"Oh yeah; I helped you a lot."

He reached up and put his hand on your arm, hanging on it for support, "Thank you so much for doing that."

"Anytime."

“Where’s Jon?”

“Getting our clothes. He won’t be back for a while.”

"Richard?"

"What?"

"Did I die and go to heaven?"

"Only for the next two hours or so," you said as he got to his feet.

"I'm just on a little vacation then," he mumbled as you got him through the front door and helped him up the stairs.

……

You called Jon while Daniel was in the shower and told him to dress at his place and, “Take as long as you want.”

Is he all right?” Jon asked you.

“Honestly, I think he's in shock...some kind of delayed shock."

"Do you want me to come back?"

"No, I’m going to make breakfast and see if he’ll open up a little.”

……

……

Jon was so quiet, you thought he’d hung up, “You still there?”

Yeah, I’m here. I’m just…. Thanks for doing this. I just... I really appreciate it.

“You don’t need to thank me; I care about him, too."

I know you do."

……

……

Silence hung between you, snagged somewhere in space.

……

……

"Jon?"

"What?"

"Maybe you could call Harper? See how she is...after last night and all..."

"Sure. That'll help...

"Give you some more time, too."


"Yeah... Okay... Well, I think he's out of the shower. I'll see you in a couple hours."

"Okay... But Richard?

"Wait."


"What?"

"I meant to tell you; his eggs, it's just, he's really picky. He only likes them--"

"Over easy, I know."

……

……

"I'll check on Harper after I get dressed."

……

"Maybe Justin and Brian, too?" you suggested.

……

……

"Yeah.... I could do that; that's not a bad idea.

"I'll just get dressed and start making rounds...probably the best thing. But Richard--"


"I know. If I need you, call you."

"Please."

"Well, whadd'ya know? You do know that word after all."

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

 

 

tuning forks




No lyrics or icons this time; all POV subheadings were titles of movies, television shows, or plays. Most images were found on AllPosters.com and are as follows: Knives, c. 1981-1982 (Three Black on Cream) by Andy Warhol, 1 0r 2 forks by Lori McAllister, stock photo of cutlery in bin, stock photo of swiss army knife, Knife and Fork by Christian Choisy, Close-up of Forks art print, Partially Unfocused Image of Four Worn Forks by John T. Wong, Knife Fork and Spoon by Allayn Stevens, Intemperie by Jean-Francois-Dupuis, Middle Finger by Matthew Bartik (this guy's work is unbelievable and hilarious; go look!), Fork by Pep Ventora, French army knife, a little pink ditch digger, stock photo of ice pick, stock photo of cutlery, a literal fork in the road, Spoon and Fork by Carlos Clarke, Steaming Chili Pepper on fork by Howard Sokol, Surgical Instruments by French School, and tuning forks.

Chapter End Notes:

Original publication date 7/15/07

You must login (register) to review.