BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 45-REMAINS

JONATHON MASSEY’S POV
”In ways that you can’t.”
“In ways that I won’t.”

Twenty-five minutes prior…

You were sitting on the futon in Sam’s studio; Richard chose not to sit next to you, opting instead for the upside-down orange milk crate on the far side of the room. His suit jacket was off and tossed over his lap; his sleeves were rolled up. He’d had enough. “I think you’re over-reacting, maybe,” you said, and he sighed. He looked up at you, his fingers resting on his face, his elbows on his knees, “I’m not the one over-reacting, Jon. You’re the one who chose to freak out because I read that poem.”

“Richard, Allen Ginsberg is just about the gayest author you could’ve picked.”

“Why do you even give a fuck? Sitting there giving me the death stare the entire time.”

“You know why,” you said because he did.

“I really don’t think this is the time to have this conversation,” he told you, and then he got up and stared out the window at Justin, Harper, and the rest of the congregation. “Look at them, Jon. Going to town on that wall.”

“I know.”

“That’s because of you, because you helped them.”

“Perhaps,” you admitted.

Richard laughed, a grunt almost, “’Perhaps.’ He was mocking you. In retrospect, you probably should’ve ignored it, but you didn’t. “All that contempt inside you, Richard. You know what they say, ‘if you love something, set it free….’”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Jon.”

“Well, it’s gotten me this far.” And that was as far as it was going to take you. He turned around and looked at you, the expression on his face felt reminiscent of the I’ve got bad news face that people wear on days like that one. When he spoke, you could already feel the reluctant freedom approaching. “Explain to me how I’m the one filled with contempt when you’re the one who detests every decision I make.”

“That’s not true,” you tried.

“Really? We get in a cab, and I sit too close to you. We’re in public; I hold your hand or touch you and get rebuked. I choose to read something at a private ceremony from a renowned poet who just happens to be gay, and you stare me down.”

“You’re a fucking priest, Richard. Can’t you just stick to the bible?”

“It’s my church, and I’ll read whatever the fuck I please.”

Your hands were tightening into fists, “Do you want it to remain your church? There’s no such thing as privacy when you’re a priest, and you know it.”

“Maybe not, but there’s such a thing as free will and my life, and if I want to quote poetic fags, I’ll do it. And if I want to hug my boyfriend in a hotel lobby, I’ll do it.”

Your anger finally burst out of you, “And what about your career, your whole identity? You’re going to destroy it!”

“It’s my identity, Jon. I define it, and I decide what I want. You just can’t stand the fact that I’m not gay your way—"

“Oh, please.”

“Oh, no. That’s what this is about. I’m not like you. I’m not going to pay thirty five dollars for a pair of socks. I’m not going to spend my life harboring a secret that I’ll only reveal to a narcissistic shrink who shaves his balls.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? Fuck you for only loving me when I’m in hiding. It’s your favorite part of this whole relationship. You get a boner every time you think that we’re fooling somebody. God forbid I come out, and you have to let the world see who you’re dating!”

“You’ve been gay for three months, Richard. I’ve been gay all my life.”

“I’ve heard that before. And now, it’s not enough that I work for God; I have to fuck him, too.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” you said.

“You’re trying to protect yourself…from the embarrassment, and don’t you dare say you’re not embarrassed.”

You couldn’t because it was true. You tried something else. “Richard…please, I love you,” and because it sounded so forced, you made the brilliant decision to add, “I mean it.”

His voice got so, so calm, “Jon, you love the secret you want us to share, not me. And I’m sorry, but I’m just not invested in the secret like you are.” He put his hand on the doorknob, and then turned and looked at you again, “I’m really, really sorry.” And then he walked out.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
”I just asked myself, ‘What would Brian Kinney do?’”

back at The Regency suite…

Justin was in the shower for-fucking-ever trying to scrub red paint off his hands, and the minute he was out, he was on your case, “I’m wearing a black shirt, Brian. You need to change. We’ll look like dorks.”

“I’m not changing. You need to wear that light blue button down; you’re going on television. Don’t wear black.”

“I look hot in black.”

“Justin, I dress people for TV all the time. Black shows lint. Can’t you just listen to me for once?”

“Fine. You win.” You were staring out the window, a glass of whiskey curled in your fingers he asked you, “So what the hell happened with Jon? They broke up?”

“Apparently,” you offered.

“Why?”

You ignored his question because you didn’t have an answer and asked him something instead, “So what did you and Cooper agree to?”

“We’re going to talk about art and grief, with very little mention of Alan.”

“Harper and Sam are going on with you?”

“Yep. I told him it wasn’t negotiable.”

“That means I’m babysitting, right?”

“In the green room. You can watch me.” He was smiling-proudly-when he walked up to you, took your glass out of your hand and downed the rest of your whiskey. You pulled him into your arms and told him, “That idea I had; I talked to Zeek about it after lunch. I’m going to get those kids about ten light boxes, ones that double as ‘daylight.’”

“That’s really nice of you, Brian.”

“Their gray little faces; it’s just not right.”

“Do I look okay?” he asked.

“Beautiful.”

“I’m asking you for real.”

“And I’m answering you for real. You look fabulous. Make sure your wedding ring is very obvious when you’re on,” you told him.” He laughed. “I’m serious,” you continued, “Take it off and spin it on the desk or balance it on your nose or something. I don’t want anybody thinking you’re up for grabs…Eggo.”

And then you slapped him on the ass.

*********************
DANIEL CARTWRIGHT’S POV
”So what do you do when you realize you made the biggest fucking mistake of your pathetic, stupid life?”

early evening in Daniel’s home office

You can count on one hand the number of times that Jon’s been dumped by a lover. You wouldn’t even need any fingers on that hand except maybe your middle one. “Can I please turn on the light, Jon? This doesn’t feel therapeutic, this lone candle lighting the room. Feels more like a séance.”

“No.”

“Fine, make yourself comfortable,” you said as you picked up a legal pad from your very precise stack, popped the lid off your pen and crossed your legs. “I just want to go on record saying that I think this is counter-productive.”

Jon stretched out completely on your little sofa. “And I just wanna go on record saying that your ‘record’ has just been expunged.”

“Oh joy, teenage-Jon. How I’ve missed him.” He couldn’t seem to settle down, and then you saw his hand slipping in his pants. “You’re not going to masturbate through this,” you warned him.

“The only reason I let you pretend to be my shrink is because you let me masturbate when we do this.”

You decided to let him have his self-comforting ‘ritual’ considering his day had officially been for shit. “Perhaps we can channel Freud with this little setup and your hand in your pants?”

“Fuck Freud.”

Boy, this was going to be a blast. You attempted to reset the conversation, “It’s been quite awhile since we’ve done this. You’re not really one for the couch these days.”

“I was getting laid, Dan.”

“My mistake.”

He turned his head and gave you a piercing look, “So how big is Gabe?”

“I’m not the one on the couch.”

“But you were the one on your knees.”

“Yeah, well, we all worship in our own way,” you admitted.

“You mean grieve,” he corrected you.

That was almost too easy. “Yes, I mean grieve.’ Let’s talk about that.”

He flipped onto his side and engaged, “Okay. I want to talk about Alan.”

“Go ahead.”

“About you and Alan. About what you were doing for him.”

“I was just helping him like I’m trying to help you now,” you offered.

He pointed to stacks of sketch pads stuffed under the sofa, “I want to look at these.”

“Absolutely not,” you replied.

“Why not?”

“You know why not. It’s called ‘doctor-patient confidentiality.’”

“It was working, wasn’t it? You were making real progress with him, weren’t you?”

You sighed, “Why? Are you jealous? Are you the only person who’s allowed to help someone?”

He laughed and kicked off his shoes, “How does a day like this even happen? We go to a funeral for a murdered friend; you suck off Zeek’s little brother; I get dumped by a fucking priest, and Justin gets to make it big on our television?”

“I’m pretty sure he’ll be on everyone’s television. Not just ours.”

“You helped him, too…Justin. You didn’t even realize it, did you? Because of you, Harper, Sam, and Justin are going to hit the fucking big time tonight. I mean, look at it this way: you exorcised four people’s demons and only lost one of them. That’s a seventy-five percent success rate.”

Did he really have to go there? It made you wonder aloud, “Why does it have to be this way? They either succeed beyond their wildest dreams or die a horrible death?”

“That’s not your fault, Dan.”

“I tried to give him a key so many times. I tried to hide a key for him, and he wouldn’t let me…”

“Why? Because of Stitch?”

“Alan wasn’t comfortable. He felt like it would compromise me somehow.”

“He was probably right. That was a very bizarre relationship, the two of them.”

“Like yours and Richard’s?” you asked, wrestling the session back to its intended focus.

……

……

A tense cloud of angst hung in the air between you for awhile before Jon spoke again, “What’s wrong with me? Why don’t people like the way I love them?”

You tossed your pad and pen on the floor and leaned forward, folding your hands over your knees, “Jon, what happened between the two of you?”

“Why can’t I be like Alan, just accept people the way they are and not feel like I have to change them?”

“What couldn’t you accept?” you asked. He immediately turned to lie on his back again, his masturbatory fun fading away. He indulged himself with a dramatic sigh, his hands resting on his stomach when he spoke, “Dan, this is the Catholic church. A church made famous of late for molesting little boys. Explain to me how a priest just lets his homosexuality ooze out whenever it wants to and doesn’t understand the fucking implications of what he’s doing?”

“You were worried about his career? About what would happen to him?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Not exactly.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“I tried to let him know in subtle ways….”

“Such as?”

Jon’s voice became louder, his tone frustrated, “Why the fuck do I have to let him know this shit? It’s common sense. You can’t just behave the way he behaves and not suffer the consequences.”

“What consequences?”

“What the fuck do you think? Public humiliation, defrocking, a horrific fifteen minutes of fame that never ends.”

“Okay. Perhaps his positive feelings for you were drowning out the negative that you just described?” you asked.

“They were. That’s my fucking point.”

“Okay. So let me get this straight: Richard cared for you so deeply that he didn’t give a shit about what would happen if he was outed?”

“Yes.”

“And no good deed goes unpunished?”

……

……

“I hate you.”

You ignored his acting out, “Explain to me how a priest who prefers the vocal stylings of Dionne Warwick and Three Dog Night over a gospel choir is capable of being any more embarrassed that he already is.”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Well, I suggest you try or I’m billing you for this waste of time.” Sometimes the best elixir for whatever is ailing Jon is a little antagonism. You waited for his answer much more patiently than he did. His hands were waving around in front of his face; his inner-effeminate was practically an endangered species. Seeing it was a bit like a Big Foot sighting; it was kind of scary and no one would believe you afterwards. “Jon, whatever it is, will you just fucking spit it out?”

He sat up like he was possessed and yelled at you, “Jesus Christ, he’s a fucking priest. How many priests have stepped down in the last few years? A ton. Why? They’re child molesters. He steps down; word gets out that, oh, wow-ee, zow-ee, he’s homosexual, and bingo—“

“You’re dating a supposed child molester? Is that what you think?”

“And then word gets out that he is or was dating a fucking shrink, and that just makes it worse!”

Honestly. Jon has a way of complicating things that just don’t need to be complicated. “Jon, I’m going to ask this even though I already know the answer. Is Richard a child molester?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Of course, I am. He couldn’t molest a fly. His heart is bigger than the state of Texas. His morals are even grander.”

“Then why are you punishing him like he did?”

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
"In your own weird, subversive way, you’re not a bad father."

To say that Amelia enjoyed being in the green room at CNN’s studios would be a colossal understatement. Her ecstasy at meeting ‘Amerson Tooper’ was almost pathological considering she didn’t even know who he was. You figured she assumed Cooper was a long lost grandfather or something. You tried to correct her pronunciation of his name, “It’s not ‘Tooper;’ it’s ‘Pooper.’” That effort was beyond futile because Amelia had spotted a bowl of M&Ms. She immediately grabbed it and flipped it over, sending M&Ms all over the carpet. You yelled, “Amelia!” before you caught yourself and she ran over to a sofa, buried her face in a cushion and started to cry. That was when you remembered Harper warning you, ”She hasn’t had a nap today, Brian. Just FYI.” You picked up the overturned bowl and sat down on the floor, leaning against the very sofa she was soaking with her tears. She kicked you and told you to, “Go ‘way, Brime Kinney!” Clearly she had no true understanding of how badly you take rejection, but you rose above it. Two minutes later, the M&M game was in full swing, a game you and Gus used to play when he spent time with you at the loft. It more than made up for your lack of toys. You started by telling her, “Okay. I’m going to pick up all the blue M&Ms.” She pretended to ignore you as you filled the bowl. “Okay, I’m all done. See?” She lifted up her little puffy face, looked at the bowl, and then looked at you like you were mentally challenged, “Dose aren’t bue, Brime Kinney.”

“They’re not?” You put on your very best ‘puzzled’ look, “Then what color are they?”

“Dhey’re geen!”

“Are you sure?” you asked her.

She abandoned the sofa and started picking up blue M&Ms for you. “Dhese are bue, Brime Kinney.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Boy, you sure know your colors. Help me find the blue ones?”

And so the game progressed and eventually you’d pick up a yellow one and declare it orange, and Amelia would squeal with delight at your idiocy, “Dat’s lellow, Brime Kinney!” and on and on it went: ‘bue, geen, lellow, oranch, bown, and wed.’” By the time Justin’s interview was getting ready to tape, the two of you were creating a picture on the rug using the green ones for grass, the brown ones for a house, the blue ones for the sky, and carving out a space for the yellow ones to complete the scene with sunshine. You took out your phone and took a picture of it for her. She posed for about five more pictures, put all the M&Ms in the trash, sat on your lap, put her head on your shoulder and her thumb in her mouth and promptly fell asleep. You took the opportunity to wander out of the green room and onto the set, standing far enough of the way with a very cute, drooling, zonked out bag of potatoes draped over your shoulder. Justin saw you and nudged Harper and you motioned to them that everything was fine, that Amelia was sound asleep.

*********************
”The ubiquitous Justin Taylor”

Justin was adamant that Harper was not one for teary good-byes and because Amelia was still asleep when they were done taping the interview, the parting was relatively quiet but heartfelt. You flew home that night. Justin let you have the window seat and slept for most of the flight, leaning on your shoulder. He was exhausted. A driver was waiting as you exited the airport. He drove you home through the dark country miles; Justin dozed off again, his head resting on your lap. He didn’t know that while he was sleeping, every screen in Babylon, every television at Zeal and the diner and at his father’s store were all tuned to CNN watching him talk about what he’d just been through and what he’d gone through years before. He didn’t know that by midnight, the asking price for his paintings and of Harper’s and Sam’s art as well had already increased twenty percent…

Anderson: “Harper, what can you tell us about your brother? I understand he was homeless?”

Harper: “To us, yes. He didn’t have an address like we do, but he wasn’t ‘homeless.’ He lived in a community; he was loved and cared for; he lived with people he considered his family as much as I am.”

Anderson: “I know you don’t want to go into too much detail about that, so I won’t press you. What can you tell us to help us get to know him?”

Harper: “Well, he was an artist; he could sketch, draw, paint; he was a graffiti artist as well. The next time you see a Monet mural painted on the side of the subway train, think of my brother. He was that talented. He could reproduce almost any work of art—he and his fellow graffiti artists—from memory. It was absolutely amazing.”

Anderson: “Where do you think that kind of talent comes from?”

Harper: “I think it comes from an overwhelming need to make your own canvas, to revamp your world into one you can stomach and eventually thrive in. I think his talent came from the urge he had to figure out who he really was outside of what people thought of him. The more they scorned him; the more brilliant he became.”

Anderson: “Justin, do you agree?”

Justin: “Alan was one of those people who lived between worlds, literally and figuratively. I think that’s why the cops went after him, because he was comfortable anywhere. He didn’t mind the space in between. He never felt a need to close it.”

Anderson: “Justin, you say that like you can relate to it.”

Justin: “I think a lot of violence happens because people can’t handle someone who doesn’t fit exactly into their world view and doesn’t care that they don’t. I think, and this is just my opinion, that it pissed those cops off that Alan lived comfortably under--…in both worlds. He never sought to forsake one for the other. So yeah, I guess I can.”

Anderson: “You were almost killed when you were a senior in high school—“

Justin: “I was bashed in the head by another student wielding a baseball bat.”

Anderson: “You were part of two worlds yourself? You think that was the reason you were attacked?”

Justin: “I think that was part of it. When someone expects you to be a certain person and you violate their expectations…a lot of pain and violence is often the outcome.”

Anderson: “You try to capture that in your work?”

Justin: “I think it’s captured me….”

*********************
JENNIFER TAYLOR’S POV
”Yeah, I know. I was there.”

During Justin’s time in New York City, your relationship with Brian morphed into a true friendship. He felt for you, missing Justin and all, and you (although you kept it to yourself) felt for him. He was a businessman making it in the world; you were a businesswoman making it in the world. He was the father of a son he loved but rarely saw, and you were the mother of one. You were in a ‘complicated’ relationship with a much younger man, and so was he. He was hot and…so were you. (You had to be considering how often Brian’s employees hit on you.) You threw business Brian’s way and he always returned the favor. So when he called you that Friday afternoon in April of 2011 and told you what was getting ready to go down for Justin, you hung up the phone and cried.

Really cried.

Because the hope you had for Justin was violently torn away from you, not once, but twice, and because you’d watched him struggle to draw again, to love himself again, to believe in himself again…. You’d watched him wrestle with the fact that the father he loved didn’t love him the same way. You’d owned so much of that grief, wanting to keep it far away from your beautiful, sweet, blue-eyed little boy--a futile effort all around.

You walked into Taylor Electronics right before closing time and informed Craig that he needed to tune all of his televisions to CNN. You didn’t know it then, but it would make all the difference in the world.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
”A husband, a family, a home…. All the things that make life worth living.”

You were standing in baggage claim in Pittsburgh when Justin’s interview aired. You sat on a metal bench and watched it with him. No one noticed him or made the connection. When it was over, you grabbed his suitcase and yours and headed for your limo. Once you were finally home, you unpacked your suitcases while Justin wandered around aimlessly in his studio. You started the laundry while he lay on his back in your bed staring at the ceiling, his fingers locked behind his head. You checked your email and found hundreds of them waiting for you but one from Cooper stood out; he thanked you for introducing him to Justin and for your trouble, sent you a link to a grocery delivery service recently incorporated into iWWINN®. You spent almost an hour registering the refrigerator, inputting all of your staple foods and seasonal choices, and scheduling the first delivery. Justin would be thrilled that he never needed to grocery shop again; you just wished you could think of a way to explain that to him that didn’t involve mentioning the refrigerator in the first place. You assumed he’d fallen asleep again because he never came and got you, but when you went to look for him he wasn’t in your bedroom, he was back in his studio sitting on the futon in the dark and staring out the window. You sat down beside him, your hand on the back of his neck. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Thinking.”

“Want me to leave you alone?” you asked.

“Not unless you want to,” he said, and you didn’t, so you stayed.
…..

…..

“Marriage is harder than you think, isn’t it?” he asked you after several seconds of silence.

“I prefer to think of it as a trial by fire but whatever works….”

He crossed his legs and stared at his hands in his lap, wringing them a bit, “You know, I’m really glad that you’re older than me.” You didn’t know quite what to say so you just squeezed his shoulder and smiled at him. “I don’t know why you hate Anderson so much. He’s okay. He only tried to hit on me once.”

Once?

“Um, excuse me. When did this happen?”

“I don’t think he was really hitting on me; I think he was just trying to break the ice and get me to loosen up a little.”

“What did he say?” you asked.

Justin laughed, “He just asked me why I have a thing for older men.”

Oh no, he didn’t.

“What’d you say?”

“I said, ‘I didn’t marry Brian because he’s older; I married him because he’s unfuckingbelievable between the sheets,’ and then I tried to raise my eyebrow like you do, but it didn’t work. He asked me if I was getting a headache or something.”

He made you laugh. “You did a good job showcasing your ring during the interview. I almost felt like I was watching QVC.”

“Yeah, really. Wonder what the ‘Q’ stands for…?”

……

“Brian?”

“Hmm?”

“My dad; he’s been calling me…leaving messages.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Says he saw my interview, that he’s proud of me—"

“Wow…nice.”

“That he wants to hang one of my paintings in his office at work.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No…because the only thing I can think of to say is, ‘You better buy now because my prices are only going up.’ That’s shitty, huh?” he asked.

“It’s kind of funny, actually, and more than understandable.”

……

……

“So why are you glad that I’m older than you?” you asked trying to steer the conversation back to its original intent.

He laughed a little, “Because as much as I hate to admit it, we’re not on the same emotional level. Sometimes I think you’re much more mature than I ever give you credit for.”

The compliment felt a bit suspicious to you, like those non-reciprocal blow jobs he he insists on giving you. “Um, thanks.” And then you began to see the picture coming into focus. “That feels like less of a compliment for me and more like you putting yourself down,” you told him.

“Was my interview really okay?”

“Don’t change the subject. What’s bothering you?”

……

“You know when I told you about going back to St. James? About being in the locker room again?”

“Yeah.”

“My world, my mind, it’s like it’s frozen in time…even after all these years, but time has changed things.”

“Like what? A new coat of paint?” you asked.

“No, like real change. The janitor, the guy who recognized me when I went in there, he started talking to me, telling me that gay kids have a much easier time there now. That they can bring whomever they want to school events. That they have a voice on the student council and stuff.”

“Something good came out of what happened to you.”

“To us.”

You nodded, “To us, right.”

“I was so determined to keep all of it inside me, and things happened anyway. I never really thought about that.”

“You had more pressing things to think about, like getting better and keeping me sexually satisfied.” He smacked you in the stomach. “Well, you’re very good at it. That’s all I’m saying.”

“We were so worried about each other, you know?”

“I know.”

“I have mixed feelings about being back here,” he admitted.

“It’s okay. I figured you would.”

“It’s not you or us; I just feel so fucking unsettled. I can’t stand it.”

“It’s okay, Justin. You don’t have to be perfect to be here. Be whoever you need to be.”

“You know what’s funny?” he asked you.

“What?”

“That I always thought that all the work had to happen before we got married; I never thought we could work through something…like this…together.”

Section quotes are Queer as Folk dialogue.