BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 5-INSPIRATION

JUSTIN’S POV
on the first part of the journey I was looking at all the life

The streets of New York City pulsed under your sneakers as you made your way through the swarm of people determined to push you out of their way. On any other day during the almost four months you’d been living in this melting pot, you wouldn’t have noticed the obnoxious pedestrians obstructing your progress, but today was different. You had somewhere to be.

Your new studio.

Hopefully.

The address wasn’t hard to find, but the door was another story. You’d never seen a building with a street number on the front of it, but no door.

137

But you remembered what she told you, “Go all the way around the back. It’s next to the dumpster.”

Next to the dumpster. Choice real-estate. No doubt.

For four months, you’d been trying to live and paint in the small place you shared with Maya, Daphne’s friend, and you just couldn’t do it anymore. Clutter was not inspiring. But this place was a broken-down, who would want to work here?, sort of a place. Well, that wasn’t completely fair. The place wasn’t actually broken-down, just very, extraordinarily, aesthetically lacking.

VEAL.

You hadn’t even signed the dotted line yet, and you’d already named it.

The doorknob was loose in your hand when you turned it and were greeted by Harper, the artist formerly of this studio, the one you spoke to on the phone. A photographer/painter/something in a tight, lavender knit shirt and even tighter jeans. Most of her stuff was packed up.

“You must be Justin,” she said extending her hand. Her fingernails were all exactly the same length and shining from clear nail polish.

“Justin Taylor. Nice to meet you.” You glanced around the room. Plenty of space. Definitely workable. Gray cinderblock walls, an archive of being on the bottom floor.

Gray cinderblocks painted gray. Redundant.

Harper tightened and re-tightened her sandy-brown ponytail as she spoke to you, “Well, it’s pretty much like I said in the ad. A room, lots of windows, and your own private bathroom.” She grandly gestured toward the almost un-finished looking, closet-size bathroom. “Looks like shit, but it works.”

“It’s fine. It’ll be great.”

“If you want, you can just hang out for a few minutes, just get a feel for a place. Because I don’t know about you, but the way a space feels when I’m actually in it, is really important to me. So, go ahead and get comfortable. I’ve got a few more things to pack up.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You watched her stack what looked like shoe boxes of photos into a bigger box and then you wandered around, gazing out of every window, trying to imagine where you’d stand your easel and the small table you were using. And your chair.

Shit, I’ve got to get another chair.

Living and working in one place had some advantages, not having to have two of everything. Harper pointed to a stack of old milk crates that were sitting in a corner as if she was reading your mind, “You can have these if you want. My new place has built in shelving. I don’t need them.”

“Thanks. That’d be great.” You could sit on those if you had to, you’d just get waffle-butt. “Can I ask you how long you worked in this space?”

“Sure.” She looped her hair inside the rubber band holding up her ponytail. You wondered why girls always feel this compulsive need to fold their hair in half. “I’ve been here for almost two years.”

“And you just got a new place?” You were interested in where she was going. Maybe it was someplace you should check out, too.

“Well, my parents are helping me. My dad doesn’t want me to work down here anymore.”

“Oh, why?”

“Well, there was another girl who worked next door who was mugged twice. She worked here at night a lot; that’s when her muse was the most active, I guess. This place being on the bottom floor isn’t exactly conducive for women who want to work at night.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, after that, my dad decided to stop hating the fact that I was a starving artist and decided to help me out. Big motivator, fear, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“So Tess left, and then I found a new place. That’s pretty much the whole story, so, um, The End.” She made you smile.

You gazed out the window at the alley outside your ‘front’ door and then at the brick wall of the other building right on the other side, covered in graffiti, and then turned around to face Harper again, “So, I can move in tomorrow?”

“Or this afternoon, if you want. There’s the lease. I’ll probably be gone for good in a couple of hours, and then you can make the place all yours. No more essence of someone else’s vibe in your space.”

You signed the lease, handed her a check, and took the key she offered you, “Thanks. I’ll be back this afternoon, probably around three.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be long gone by then. Congratulations. I hope you like it here. Hope it makes you want to paint your little heart out, Justin.”

There were already pictures of canvases crowding your brain, “Yeah, I can’t wait. See you…..around I guess.”

You walked back out into the humid, stagnant air of summer in New York, writing yourself a note to bring Maya’s little pink toolbox with you this afternoon when you came back, so you could fix that shitty doorknob.

******************************
all the lonely people,
where do they all belong?

The anonymity of the city freed something inside you. It wet your brush, sharpened your pencil, laid itself out for you to define. And yet it refused to be. The urge to capture even a moment of it, to recreate it, to make it hold still, never went away. Somehow you knew that those moments weren’t meant to be captured or exploited because the minute you made that happen, the moment was gone.

And New York City was nothing like L.A. New Yorkers didn’t want to schmooze you, the weather was completely imperfect, and no one pretended to be thrilled about the contents of their life. It was a target for hate and tragedy. It was a pool of raw opportunity. It was nervous, creative energy zooming around trying to find a place to land. The city was magnificently flawed, a living, breathing, heart-beating victim of circumstance.

And yet it survived.

Just like you.

There was a part of you that belonged here, that would always be a part of you, and you knew it the minute you’d arrived. And then there was another part of you, a much smaller part that felt like this wasn’t your life to be living.

It was Brian’s.

You could see him in the faces of all the people you passed on the street. His drive, his ambition, oozing out of every pore in his skin. But you were here, instead of him.

Because of him.

And when the ideas stalled and the world became quiet save the constant hum of sirens, you missed him.

But it was what you missed that bothered you. You missed being fucked within an inch of life on every available surface. You missed, oddly enough, being known because there were times when you wanted to be. Times when you wanted to walk into a club and see every man’s face look at you, admire you, and then turn away because they knew better. They knew you weren’t there for them.

But that wasn’t being known, you thought, that feeling that you missed, it was being loved. For years you fought to make that obvious to everyone, that that’s who you were, and realized that, more often than not, it hadn’t been obvious to you. And now it was, and you were gone.

New York City had a rhythm, a beat that you’d never been able to hear in Pittsburgh. And for once, it wasn’t just the gay thumpa-thumpa of your life. It was an erratic throbbing that made you wake up every morning and propel yourself into your day, into the meaning of all of this chaos. New York was inevitable.

As inevitable as Brian had been they first night he fucked you. Inevitable because you knew now just like you knew then that everything in your life was changing again.

And you were ready.

The being ready made you excited, and being excited made you horny.

But you weren’t Brian. You couldn’t stand naked from the waist down in the backroom of Babylon, your right foot propped on the end of a couch, reading the latest issue of Esquire (for the ads), jerking off, while some grateful twink ate your ass. And you tried.

It sucked.

Fucking, much to your dismay, wasn’t just an oil change for you. It was Gold Card, Preferred Customer, VIP Treatment.

You preferred to have your car serviced at the dealer.

So to speak.

After a couple of weeks clubbing in the city, you realized that you’d been tremendously spoiled. And then, within seconds, you were flooded with guilt. Guilt for missing Brian’s scent, the way he kissed you, the way he made every desire you had seem like exactly what he needed. For years you’d felt like Brian’s trick, fought to be more than that, and now, just for a while, you wanted the roles reversed.

So there was always masturbation. At least then, you always knew what you were getting. And your hand could be anybody you wanted. But, unfortunately, mostly, it was just a hand.

And one night, less than a month after you’d been gone, you got tired of giving yourself a hand.

*****************************
I've been holding out so long
I've been sleeping all alone
Lord I miss you

You picked up the phone and dialed.

“Kinney residence.”

You hung up.

What the fuck?

You stared at the ceiling over your bed, trying to decide if you should call back or just jack off all by yourself.

One more try.

“Kinney residence. Ted Schmidt speaking. Hello, Justin.”

You felt like a fool.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s going on?” That didn’t sound very nice. “I mean, what are you doing answering Brian’s phone?” It was almost eleven p.m.

”Apparently, we’re playing Batman, and I’m his butler.”

And then you heard Brian’s voice in the background, “He’s my fucking nursemaid. Aren’t you, Theodore?”

“As you can see, or rather hear, your significant other is rather inebriated.”

“Oh.”

“We just got back—"

Brian interrupted him, “He’s my ‘Designated Dork’………….And a damn good one, if I do say so myself.”

“Anyway, his affection knows no bounds.”

“How can ‘affection’ know anything?”

“Would you like to speak with him?”

At that point, you weren’t sure. “I guess so. What’d you guys do tonight?”

“Well, basically Brian drank himself under the table, told me I was one of The Chipmunks, and then I drove him home.”

“Sounds like fun.” Not.

“It had its moments. He’s pissing, in the toilet, thankfully. He’ll be right here.”

“Thanks.”

You listened as Ted told Brian to flush and seemed to be trying to explain to him that you were on the phone, “Justin’s on the phone. Wants to talk to you.”

“Sunshine?”

“Yeah, Sunshine.”

“Gimme the phone. And you can go home.”

“Why thank you for giving me permission.”

“You were a very good Designated Dork tonight, Theodore. I’ll never forget it.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain you will. Here’s the phone and stay away from the staircase. You’ll kill yourself.”

“I will stay right here in this very bed. Don’t you worry.”

“Good, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Sunshine?" He’d picked up the phone. "Shut my door please, Theodore.”

“I’m locking you in.”

“Whatthefuckever…... Hey, Suh-shine.”

“Hey. You okay?”

“I’m just a little, extremely drunk.”

“I can tell.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, nothing really. I just wanted to talk to you, but you need to go to sleep.”

“No, s’okay. Talk.”

“You need to go to bed. You have to work tomorrow.”

“I’m already in bed. How ‘bout that? But I forgot to take my clothes off.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

“I’ll jus put you on speaker.”

“Okay.”

You heard some clunking, then ”Shit.”

He hung up on you.

You waited about two minutes and called him back, “Hello?”

“You all set now?”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. Whas’up?”

You felt your body relax for the first time in a while. You took a deep breath, “I guess I just miss you.”

“I miss you, too. A fucking a lot.”

It was hard to tell if he was serious or just drunk, “Really?”

“No, I’m lying.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop missing you or stop lying?”

“Stop lying.”

“I wasn’t lying. I’m too drunk to lie. Ask me anything.”

You knew better than that, “I miss—“

He interrupted you, “You wearing socks right now?”

You looked down at your feet, “Yeah, I am. It’s chilly here.”

“Are they floppin’ all over the place?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact they are.”

“I’ll bet they’re those navy blue ones.”

“No, they’re white.”

“Damn. I like the navy ones better.”

……

……

“Brian, I called because I miss being with you. I miss…..”

“Fucking?” Leave it to Brian not to mince words, even when he could barely form any.

“Yeah………….I miss fucking.”

“Me, too.”

……

……

You thought about it, “Well, I guess I miss the foreplay, too, not just the fucking—"

“I wanna kiss you right now.”

“I wish you would.”

“I wish I would, too……….I’d pay a million dollars to kiss you.”

“That’s how much I charge.”

“Yeah, and that’s with no tongue.”

“Shut up.”

……

.......

You rolled on your side, cradling the phone on your pillow, your chest starting to tighten. You tried like hell to stop it, or to ignore it, but that wasn’t working very well, so you just laid there quietly listening to him breathe.

Until he started to snore.

You hated the way your voice sounded, even though you were whispering, even though you knew he wasn’t listening, “Brian, I miss you so much. So much. I like it here…..I love it here. I’m painting like crazy every day…………..But at night, when I go to bed……….” You couldn’t say anymore. Couldn’t stand the sound of your own voice. You laid there a little listening to his steady snoring, and decided that a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. You closed your eyes and massaged your cock ‘till it was hard again and then came in your hand a few minutes later. You felt exhaustion start to claim you, you had to go.

“Brian. Wake up.” Nothing. ”Brian. Wake up.” You heard him stir. “Come on, Brian. Wake up.”

“I’m awake. I’m awake.” He was so not awake.

“We need to hang up. You’re asleep.”

“Mmm, you okay?” To this day, you have no idea how Brian can be drunk and intuitive at the same time.

“I’m fine.”

“I miss you, Sunshine.”

“I miss you, too….. Good night, Brian.”

“G’night. Get some sleep………………tomorrow.”

“Okay, tomorrow. Later.”

“Later.”

You laid there listening to the dial tone for a few seconds, hung up the phone, and rolled to your other side, staring out your window at the fire escape until you finally fell asleep.

*****************************
all you do is call me,
I'll be anything you need

Your very first show in New York was going to take place just a month shy of your year anniversary in the big city. You arrived at VEAL one morning two weeks before your show with coffee in your hand that cost way more than five bucks, and found the door to your studio jimmied. One look inside and you’d seen everything you needed to see.

Your computer had been stolen.

“Fuck!”

You looked around helplessly like the perpetrators would’ve still been hanging around wearing signs that said, ‘WE STOLE YOUR COMPUTER.’ But of course they weren’t. The building was empty. You shut the door, threw your messenger bag on the floor, and sat on a milk crate.

“Goddamnit.”

Everything was on there. Your sketches, some finished work, notes, all the contacts you’d made since you got here. Everything. You got up and looked around to see if they stole anything else. Your oil paints. They were gone. Some creative thief stole your computer and your oil paints. And one of your canvases was missing, a small one, but one you really liked, one that was going to be in the show.

The show. In two weeks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I can’t believe this.”

You needed a drink. But they stole your liquor, too.

What the fuck kind of thieves are these?

You sat down and tried to think about what to do. About how they broke in, about the mess this was putting you in. You took out your cell phone and called Brian on his. No answer. You didn’t leave a message. You called his private line at Kinnetik.

“Justin? Hey.”

“Hey.”

He could tell by the sound of your voice, “”What’s wrong?”

“Are you busy?”

“I’m always busy. What’s wrong? I couldn’t catch my cell in time and you hung up.”

“I just got to my studio this morning...and my computer was stolen.”

“Oh shit.”

“I know.” Immediately, Brian wanted to know all the details. How did they break in? What else did they take? Were you okay? Did you back up your files? “No.”

Brian was quite for a few seconds, “Fuck.”

“I can’t believe this.” Brian told you he could empathize with you. He’d been robbed before and it fucking sucked. “I didn’t need to be reminded of that right now, okay?”

“Just trying to make you laugh.”

“Well, that’s not funny. My show’s in two weeks. I need my fucking computer. Shit.”

And then you realized that Brian didn’t know you had a show in two weeks. You had some reasons for not telling him that were mostly irrational, but, for some reason, they always made perfect sense whenever you’d been about to spill it. Maybe you just didn’t want to jinx it or something.

Fuck, you didn’t know.

“You have a show in two weeks?”

Shit.

“Yeah, well, I just got confirmation about that.”

You could hear Brian trying to reign in his disappointment, “Congratulations. Where is it?”

“At a niche-y gallery called Frequency. It’s not big deal, really.”

……

“Guess not, since you didn’t tell me.”

……

……

Your forehead was resting on your palm, “It was a tentative thing. I wasn’t even sure I’d have enough stuff ready for it.”

“Your computer’s insured. Call the police and file a report. I’ll call you back after I talk to the insurance company, so we can get it replaced.”

“I can call them if you want, the insurance company.”

“The policy’s in my name.” Brian didn’t call you back until after your new computer had arrived at your apartment two days later, “Just checking to make sure you got it.”

“Yeah, that was a surprise. I didn’t know….. What do I owe you?” You thought about your dwindling bank account and panicked a little.

“Nothing. It’s taken care of.”

“No. At least let me pay the deductible.”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars.” You could swing that.

“I’ll send you a check.”

You called the insurance company an hour later, pretending to be Brian, and found out that the deductible was a thousand.

The next day, you cancelled your show. There was no way you’d be ready in time.

*****************
I guess I'll rap on your door
tap on your window pane

Two days later, you sipped lukewarm coffee at your new computer trying to create something. The day before had been dead, not one idea was taking flight. You looked up from your screen when you saw the doorknob turning on your studio door. You moved in slow motion, picking up your weapon of choice from where it stood propped in a corner, and stood behind the door. You scared the shit out of Harper when she opened the door and saw you standing there with a rusty piece of pipe at the ready.

“What are you doing here?”

She looked stunned, “Why are you going to hit me with that pipe?”

“I was robbed this week. I thought you were the thief coming back. They took everything. Everything that mattered.”

She took the pipe out of your hand and laid it on the floor, never taking her eyes off your face, “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“I mean I got a new computer, but my I had to cancel my fucking show. A lot of my work is computer generated.”

“Look, I wasn’t trying to barge in. I knocked but your music is too loud or you were in space or something.”

“I was concentrating. What are you doing here?” You’d seen Harper a couple of times in the city over the past seven months, but never really spoken to her at length. She always seemed so busy, always doing three things at once.

“I came to talk to you. I’m sorry about just coming in.”

“It’s okay. You just scared the shit out of me.”

Harper was already moving on to the next subject. She laughed at your upside down milk crate in front of your computer, “You still haven’t gotten a chair?”

“No. The crate is fine.”

She shook her head at you, “You wanna go get some coffee or something? Maybe get your mind off of being vandalized? You look really stressed out.”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“I do,” she handed you your coat, “but why don’t we talk over lunch?”

You looked around, trying to decide if you felt like leaving. Seemed okay to have some company. “All right.”

She watched you lock the door, “Let me show you a little trick about that doorknob.”

*****************
and I wonder where she will stay
my little runaway

Harper walks faster than you do, faster than anybody you know, and you had to keep adjusting your cadence to keep up with her as she wove through the people on the sidewalk. Finally, you got frustrated and yanked on her ponytail.

“Ow!”

“Slow down, all right?”

“Sorry. Jesus.”

The overwhelming smell of a million versions of coffee comforted you as you walked inside the coffee shop. You told Harper you just wanted black coffee, not decaf, and sat down to save a booth for the two of you. She returned moments later with coffee and chocolate chip cookies, “Here, you look hungry.”

“I’m fine, but thanks.” You took the cookies anyway. They were warm. Now you wanted a glass of milk.

“You’re welcome.” She smiled at you and stretched her legs underneath the table, propping her feet on your side of the booth. She was acting like she’d known you for years, and this would be the first full hour you’d ever spent with her.

You talked, commiserating about dying muses, trying to sell your work, living in the city. You had to admit that it was nice to talk to someone who understood art. After about twenty minutes, you found out why she’d returned to talk to you, “My dad, that new place he got me, I don’t have it anymore.”

“Why not? What happened.”

“It’s a long story.” She turned and looked out the window, twisting her ponytail in her hand. “Suffice it to say that my parents don’t think my art is viable or some shit like that. I’m on my own again.”

“Fuck.”

“Guess we’re both having a shitty week, huh?”

“Guess so.”

She tapped her spoon on the table. Three taps on the end, turn it over, three taps on the other end, turn it over. “So, I want to come back.”

“What?” You were still counting the spoon taps.

“I want to come back. See if maybe we could share the space for a while? That place has always inspired me for some dumb reason, and I can’t afford anything else. We could split the rent. Make a schedule if you’re one of those people that needs to be alone to work. I understand if you are, a lot of artists are like that.”

“I don’t have to be alone to work. I’m used to having someone around. Brian, he’s my………..anyway, we lived in a loft. It was totally open. I’m used to having people in my space.”

“Then it’s okay? Is that what you’re saying?” You really didn’t think she’d take ‘no’ for an answer. She seemed like one of those people who always got her way.

“Yeah, it’s okay. I suppose I could tolerate the ‘essence of your vibe’ in my space.” She looked relieved as she sat fiddling with the napkin dispenser.

Harper was on her cell phone in thirty seconds calling a friend, “Hey, it’s me. He said ‘yes.’ Can you bring my stuff over this afternoon?” Her eyes opened wide and she winked at you. “Great, great…..yeah, anytime this afternoon. I’ll be there.”

Three hours later when Harper had gone to pick up some supplies she needed, there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” You needed a peephole.

“Santa Claus.”

That sounded like a street name for a really evil thug. You stood there on the other side of the door trying to think of what to do.

“Look, I’ve got Harper’s shit. Let me in.”

You opened the door and were staring at the chest of a guy who was much taller than you. He was carrying the same box of photographs you’d seen Harper pack up the day you met her. His shirt read, ‘SECURITY.’

Lyrics from America’s A Horse with No Name, The Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby, the Rolling Stones’ Miss You, Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer, Aretha Franklin’s Until You Come Back to Me, and Del Shannon’s Runaway.