BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 44-TRANSIENT

JUSTIN’S POV
”Things can change in a week.”

Had you not attended Alan’s funeral that Friday morning, your life would’ve turned out markedly different as it set off a chain of events that you could’ve never predicted, a chain of events that made you comfortable with the man you are today. You felt something pop free inside you when Harper stood up, and though you weren’t exactly sure what it was; you felt like it had something to do with the hours you’d held her hostage in your old studio the day before grilling her about a bunch of nonsense. At least, it felt like nonsense now. As you watched her walk to the front of the sanctuary and stand behind the lectern, a weirdly peaceful feeling spread through your body. But every inch of you was starting to feel different by then. You felt oddly taller; you felt like your clothes might be a little too small; you felt like maybe your shoes might finally a real impression after every step…

…the realization that the haphazard life you thought you led may have been a work of art in progress the entire time, a picture you were painting, blindfolded in the dark…

It hit you hard when you let yourself really look at Harper that morning standing in front of everyone. When you stopped forcing her to be a mirror for you, a distraction for you, a buffer for you, you saw the fearless scaffolding shaking beneath her skin welded together with drive, talent, intuition, wit…the magnetic glue of loyalty and systemic generosity…often in the form of promiscuity.

And because every man has a moment in his life when clarity invades and he sees his life for what it was, what it is, and where it’s going, and you had that moment in your life when you looked at Harper and saw Brian. They were just alike. They both took care of people at all cost, found pleasure at all cost, sacrificed at all cost. Your throat began to tighten as you realized that you’d hiked seven levels beneath New York City to see the truth that was living right in front of you, splattered on the walls by a dead man no less. A dead man who knew you better than you knew yourself. You tried to relax and bring your mind back to the present before looking up at Harper as she spoke, ”I just want to thank everyone who’s here today.”

It was all she got to say that was scripted.

*********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV
“I once wanted to be a priest, but I thought, how unnatural, living your life cloistered away in a roomful of men.”

One of the reasons you don’t attend church on a regular basis is because you always feel guilty the minute you walk inside one, and most of the time, you don’t even know why. Being in this particular place of worship made guilt extremely unavoidable since you were pretty sure God knew you were fucking his man of the cloth. And then you felt guilty for not having enough time to check in with Brian and Justin before arriving at the church that morning because you’d spent all of your time with Harper and then Dan, but each time you looked back over your shoulder, Brian would raise his eyebrows and smile at you, intimating that everything was okay. You found it much more difficult to get Justin’s attention, but under the circumstances, the fact that he was uber-focused on Harper who was at the podium was a good thing. You were surprised he even made it there.

It was as if no one had even noticed Amelia hopping down from her seat next to Sam and making her way up to Harper until she was halfway there which is logical because Sam always spends most of his time ogling Harper anytime her legs are showing, so you weren’t really surprised when it was Harper who attempted to reprimand Amelia, “Amelia—.” Nor were you surprised when Amelia would have none of it, “I’m ‘upposed to be like you today,” and kept marching right on toward her mother. But Sam, always the dutiful husband and eager father figure, called Amelia back, and though Amelia had no intention of listening to Sam, she did intend to turn around and let him know that she was going to proceed with her own agenda, and that’s when everything that was supposedly planned for Alan’s funeral service was thrown out the proverbial stained glass window.

*********************
”I'm not a child. I'm turning eighteen soon. That means I can vote, and get married, and join the army.”

If Harper was ever guilty of one thing as a mother, it was forgetting that Amelia should probably spend some time in the company of people her own age if for no other reason than she might know what children actually are, and that morning it became achingly clear that maybe she didn’t because as she turned around to let Sam know she was going to disobey him, she saw her fellow congregates for the first time and professed to Harper with her tiny palms facing up to the heavens in confusion, “Dhere’s kids here, Mommy.” The entire congregation shuffled in their seats and laughed a little. Amelia laughed just a little, too, which made everyone laugh a little bit again. “They’re part of Uncle Alan’s family, just like you and me,” Harper said to Amelia who was now frozen in the main aisle save her head slowly rotating from her mother to the kids and back again. “Amelia,” Harper said to get her daughter’s attention. Amelia turned toward her mother and announced, “I already knowed that.” Another rumble of laughter from the congregation.

“Amelia,” Sam said, “Come sit with me until Mommy’s finished.” She would’ve ignored him completely, but he’d gotten up from his seat, and the minute he touched her, she turned around ready to inform him that she had no intention of sitting down with him until she saw who else was in the congregation and had been sitting behind her the entire time. She pushed Sam away with indignant force and looked back at Harper who by now was just leaning on the lectern with a bemused smile on her face. Amelia’s tiny hand pointed as if he was the toy she just had to have for Christmas, “Mommy, Brime Kinney’s here, right dere..” You turned around and looked at Brian again; he looked honored to be chosen.

*********************
“Not as long as I’ve got you to protect me.”

The last thing you expected was for Justin to come to the rescue, but he stood up, walked right up to Amelia, and then bent down to her eye level. You had to stand up a little to see him, but the next thing you knew, he was standing back up again with Amelia’s hand in his and walking with her to the front of the church. He sat down on the steps next to where Harper was standing and Amelia sat in his lap, perched proudly and staring at Brian with a huge smile on her face. You gave Brian a quizzical look, and he returned it. “You’re ‘upposed to say words now, Mommy,” Amelia informed her mother. Harper thanked Justin, and Amelia said, “Welcome.” Daniel elbowed you and whispered, “Don’t ever let Amelia fool into thinking she’s a one-man-woman.”

“Clearly, she can juggle several at once.”

“Just like her mother,” Daniel laughed. The smile on his face, the comfort it brought you took you by surprise.

*********************
HARPER COLLINS’ POV
”It’s always good to be part of a dynamic duo."

By the time everyone expected you to speak, you’d lost your train of thought, but then you looked up and made eye contact with Stitch and his brood and your thoughts returned to trains…of thought and of subways, to Alan, your brother…whose ashes were resting in an urn a few feet behind you.

Amelia, though perched on Justin’s lap, wrapped one arm around your leg, leaning on you. She began sucking her thumb like perhaps you were about to tell her a bedtime story, and in a way you were because your thoughts had drifted back to your own childhood and away from the words you’d written and brought with you to say. You folded the useless paper in half, looked up and began to speak, ”Sometimes I think the true gift that children bring us is the immediacy of emotion. They never allow us to postpone a feeling; they never seem to fear the moment; they have little power to avoid it.” Everyone seemed to sit up a little; you glanced down at Richard, and he smiled and nodded his head. ”When Alan and I were young, we spent all of our time trying to cultivate enough power to affect our situation, to figure out a way to make our mother smile when she was in the hospital, to make our father want to see her, to need her…like we did.

“We were children; we didn’t believe in futility.

“After our mother died, we were forced to grow up for the rest of the world, but we refused to grow up for each other. We told each other that our mother was in heaven teaching the angels to dance and sing the way we danced and sang for her; we loved each other the way our mother loved us.” You stopped to wipe a tear falling down your face. ”When I look at all of you sitting here today, I’m comforted by the fact that each of you knows exactly what I mean, that all of you stand in for somebody who’s missing in someone else’s life and that all of you have someone else who does that for you as well.. I feel like I’m looking at a crowd of insulation, very worried insulation.”

A restlessness seemed to fill the room, and then it bore fruit as you watched Daniel stand up, step over Sam and walk toward you. He sat down next to Justin on the steps at your feet and put his arm around him. Justin didn’t pull away.

*********************
DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV
”How’s my successful son?”

Your son, your suffering son at the front of the sanctuary, his left hand was resting in his lap; you imagined that you could see the tiny white scar on the back of his hand that he got the day he rode his new bike, training wheels and all, down the brick steps of your patio into your backyard. You remember telling him after he finished screaming bloody murder and attracting half the neighborhood to your house that there are two things he forgot about that day: common sense and gravity. Several years later when you tried to build him a tree house and ended up in your own emergency room because you fell off a ladder, Daniel sat faithfully at your side, lecturing you about, “Common sense and gravity, Dad.” You ended up buying him a pre-fabbed one. Daniel stood outside the entire time supervising the installation crew. It didn’t dawn on you then that he had an ulterior motive for watching a couple of shirtless high school boys sweating for an hour. You thought his constant lemonade refills were just another one of his repetitive obsessions. Looking back on it now, his request for a ‘tree house upgrade’ every Christmas seems a bit tainted.

But there was nothing tainted about what you were watching now, nothing but a wretched sadness pouring out of him. You turned to look at Alan, and he was curled up in a ball in his chair staring at his sister. “I feel like someone’s trying to rip my heart out of my chest,” you said to him. “Curl up and hold it inside,” Alan replied, “There’s nothing else you can do.”

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
“It’s about thawing his cold heart. It’s about bringing him back to life.”

You were strangely proud of yourself as you watched the ceremony unfold because in reality, it was nothing like a ceremony at all. Justin was crying—not a lot, just a little, and you were relieved when you saw Daniel catch it before you did because maybe you were finally feeling your own feelings before you felt his. And Justin, he wasn’t looking to you for help or relief or an escape route. Daniel whispered something to him when he sat down beside him, and he smiled a little, accepting the comfort, comfort that he fought so hard to deny himself during the previous twenty-four hours You were still wrapping your head around this when you saw Zeek out of the corner of your eye…. He was walking up there, too. You looked over at Gabe, and he shrugged his shoulders. Zeek sat on the steps next to Daniel.

*********************
HARPER COLLINS’ POV
“You’re still a member of this family.”

”I think Alan and I were determined to have more in common with each other than our tragic childhoods. I think that’s why independently from each other we became artists…painters. I prefer the brush; he preferred the can. I prefer the city and galleries; he preferred trains and tunnels…but somehow we knew that this was something positive that we shared that no one could ever take away from us. Alan used to tell me that art either moves through you or you move through the art, that as long as we kept creating, we’d never get stuck. Art was like currency to Alan; it greased the wheels of his soul.

“Our lives were changing so fast these last few years. I got married, had a child; Alan became more entrenched in his underground life, and yet every time we saw each other, regardless of the reason, we lingered around easels. If my work wasn’t coming along, if he didn’t have something new to show me, we looked at Justin’s work or Sam’s photography and talk about that. That was how we framed our lives. I realize that now…the framing. We knew we had to do it to keep the pain and the loss in perspective. We had to contain it.

“I don’t want his life to be any different now that he’s no longer with us. I want him to continue to linger around easels and have paint-stained fingers for the rest of eternity. I want every one of you to know that he loved you in the purest sense of the word. I used to think that Alan was a simpleton, scarred by losing our mother, but he was smarter than all of us.” You unfolded the piece of paper in front of you and continued, ”Alan and I used to talk about Heaven and Hell, about meeting our mother again someday, that whoever got there first would make sure she could feel the love both of us still had for her. I know that he’s done that, and if he were standing with me right now, I think he’d want you to know that the only real Hell is the one we put ourselves through. He’d want you to know that Hell…is a man of god whose prayers seem to go unanswered, whose words seem to bring no relief. Hell…is a doctor whose tireless efforts won’t stop the world’s pain, who exhausts himself healing the sick to avoid healing himself; it’s an artist who cannot find a medium to adequately express what is felt or not felt, seen or not seen; it’s a man whose intimacy, care, shelter, and generosity is countered with horrific violence; it’s an entire community that loses its lifeline and has to read the newspaper to get the details, and it was a son who lost his mother, a sister who’s lost her brother, a mother who lost hope…

“But most of all he’d want you to know that every bit of that Hell is temporary. It lasts only as long as you continue to visit it. I’m not going back there. I will remember Alan with a smile on his face and a pencil in his hand. I ask that you join me; I can’t frame this new picture by myself…”

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
”In a positive, life-affirming way.”

People were getting up out of their seats, coming from behind you, and you looked up at Jon who was pointing at the no longer pew-bound congregates who were making their way to the front of the sanctuary. It was Stitch and every child who’d been sitting with him, most still wearing their sunglasses as they made their way. “It’s okay,” Stitch said as they walked with him, “Go ahead.”

You glanced back at Justin and Amelia was no longer in his lap; she was standing in front of him, bouncing in her little black shoes, her hand resting on his knee as if it was an anchor holding onto her while the tide of children came closer and closer. You watched as child after child handed a picture to Justin or Harper. Harper sat down next to Justin and listened as the children explained what they had made. Justin’s hands were filling up fast…

*********************
STITCH’S POV
“I remember that boy. His murder was tragic, someone so young.”

It didn’t dawn on you until after Alan was gone, until you tried to explain it to the children in your community, that they knew Alan’s art better than they knew him. He spent so much time upstairs living the other half of his life that to the children in your family, he was the pictures painted on the walls of your home. They knew he was the one who brought food and clothing to your brood; he was a savior to them, rescuing them from the darkness they’d accepted as their home. The kids were rarely, if ever, brought upstairs in their daily life, so to them the tunnels they lived in were their world, and they couldn’t go far without being in front of something Alan had painted. His death only added to their skewed sense of his identity because his art would live as long as you could protect it.

It was one of the older children, Brody, a boy of almost fourteen, who first started to draw when he learned of Alan’s death. Brody had real talent; he could almost handle a can of paint as well as a brush. He began to memorialize Alan’s tag on the wall in the kitchen, and the other children, most too young to handle spray paint, found paper and began to mimic what Brody was doing. They were at it for hours, perfecting Alan’s tag, the ‘alley-oop’, and as they learned that they were going upstairs to tell him good-bye, they worked at it even harder. So few of Alan’s pieces were solo works, the children were incorporating your tag and then Justin’s as well, and that was their offering on that Friday morning. As far as they were concerned, Justin was Alan’s brother as much as Harper was his sister. It would never occur on them to think of him in any other way.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
“You’re a little young for me.”

You were so mesmerized watching Justin’s reception of the children that you jumped in your seat when someone tapped on your shoulder. You turned around to see a young boy about Gus’ age staring at you with a piece of paper in his hand. His sunglasses hung from a cord around his neck. He said his name was Greg as he handed you a picture he’d drawn of you and remarked, “I like your spiky hair.” You told him your name and he replied, “I always figured your name was ‘Hobbs.’” He paused for a second and then continued, “Because you were standing behind Justin in that picture; I thought you were supposed to be a ghost, but then I saw you in the tunnels, and I knew you were real.” “Yeah, everything got real really fast in those tunnels,” you said, and finally, he smiled. He looked as if he had something else to tell you, but his head turned to look at the little girl standing in front of you with crocodile tears in her eyes.

Amelia.

She stood in front of you, defiant though her lower lip started to quiver. You leaned forward to pick her up, and she backed away from you. “Amelia?” you asked, “What’s the matter?” She sucked in a giant gulp of air and tried to tell you, “I draw-ded you a picture. I draw-ded it with Faber Donnelly, but I borgot-ted it.” You looked down at the sketch in your hand, folded it and put it in your suit pocket. “It’s okay if you forgot it; you can give it to me later.”

“But…I’m ‘upposed… to give it to you… right now.”

“Amelia, I have the picture,” Sam said, his hand hanging over the back of the pew. “It’s right here.” The paper hung, folded in his fingers, but Amelia wasn’t assuaged, “But I borgotted it.” Sam pressed on, “And I remembered it when you forgot it. You can give it to Brian right now,” he said. Amelia moved like she was in a daze, recalibrating her emotions. She handed you the picture, smiling through her fleeting sadness, ”Here, Brime Kinney. I draw-ded this for you.” You opened the picture to see your body stopping at the waist. Perish the thought.

“Your legs are on the back ‘cause dere so big,” Amelia explained. You turned the picture over and sure enough, the rest of you was still in tact. “I borgotted to make a picture for Waffle.”

You smiled, “That’s okay. He’s trying to talk to you. See?” You pointed to Justin who was standing up now, his stack of pictures sitting on the piano. He was waving Amelia toward him, telling her to bring her rabbit. Amelia forgot all about you and went running to the end of your pew and then down the one in front of you where Sam was waiting for her, holding her rabbit. She snatched it from him as if it was in mortal danger and ran back to the front of the church.

********************
ANDERSON COOPER’S POV
”Thank you, CNN.”

By April of 2011, your formerly top-rated news program spent every morning sucking the ever-growing ratings dick of MSNBC’s Keith Olberman’s ten p.m. Countdown rerun. The unseemly tall, fast talking, liberal Jesus was kicking your ass so badly that you’d stopped enjoying all the attention to your posterior. A few months earlier, you and your producers decided to throw a Hail Mary pass and revamp the focus of the show. It was, after all, the devastation and indifference you exposed in Hurricane Katrina, Haiti, and then the Gulf Coast that propelled you into ratings heaven, so you went back to your roots searching for that raw humanity. Your viewers had tired of interviews with politicians, moguls, and entertaining flash-in-the-pans. You were determined to take the news of every day and report it through the lens of an every man. And it was working. Word on the street was that was leaning toward moving Shultz to eight and making Olberman go live at ten just to slow you down.

On that particular Friday morning in April, you had a very hot story burning a hole in your Blackberry, and the story had more appendages than Medusa’s best headdress. Unfortunately, you also had as many factors working against you, number one being that you were the Anderson Cooper, and sending one of your many minions to handle this recent development was out of the question because no one knew more about this story than you did. The odds of not getting scooped were in your favor. The odds of not getting punched in the face, however, weren’t nearly as impressive.

There were many ways you could approach the subject (and subjects), but you figured your best bet was to go straight to the top. If you tried to circumvent Kinney, it would be over before it started. He was standing outside the cathedral smoking a cigarette, and then another and another while glaring right at your CNN van. Finally, you ditched your CNN hat and donned one that would hopefully make him less combative:

(Let the record state that you were wrong about that.)

He barely let you cross the street before he was standing right in front of your face, and he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a muscle-bound man that looked-or rather smelled-a little too familiar. Your ass tightened as you tried to place him. He stood behind Kinney breathing in and out like a dragon. You were about to speak to Kinney when his goon darted out from behind him and got right in your face, “You need to get that news van out of here, douche bag. The chief promised us no press.”

Kinney would have to wait. You spoke to the hulking figure the way polite, affluent people communicate, “I’m sorry, but I feel like we know each other?”

The brute didn’t miss a beat, “I knew you when you were paying three sixty, asshole.”

You realized that you had to get through this low-budget Guido to advance your agenda, so you told him, “I can promise you, we’ve received no warnings from NYPD to hang back.”

“Well, then, I’ll go get you one. The chief is still here; he’s inside the holy house.”

“Why don’t you go do that, Zeek? I can handle him,” Kinney advised.

“Whatever you say, Boss Man. Whatever. You. Say.”

You watched as Mr. Muscles turned and went back up the church steps. Now, your work was really cut out for you. Kinney looked at you like you were a mentally-challenged Martian. You felt almost violated by his curious stare. “It’s good to see you, Brian,” you said.

“No it’s not. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m working a story. That’s what journalists do.”

“You don’t need to show up here to cover this story. This story is five days old.”

“Maybe for some, but not for me.”

“And why is that? Because I’m here? You think that makes this a more compelling saga?” he asked.

You shook your head. Would the world always revolve around Kinney? Not if you could help it. “No, you narcissistic cradle-robber. I’m here to interview your better half.”

(On second thought, maybe you could stand being punched in the face. Talk about ratings gold…)

*********************
”I’m his muse.”

You were counting on Kinney’s competitive streak outweighing his possessive streak, and, admittedly, it was a treacherous wager to make. It took a little longer than you hoped for his curiosity to get the better of him, but you stood there like a steel statue until it did. “What business do you have with Justin?” he asked, clearly uncomfortable, “Surely you wouldn’t be this obtuse if you were plotting some sort of futile, vengeful conquest?”

“Is that really the only thing you think he has to offer?” you replied. “Although…he did sleep with a shrink so he could have somewhere to plop his paintbrush, so I can understand why you get nervous when he’s around older men with more than one checking account.”

“I’m going to assume for your own good that you didn’t come here just to insult me or my devoted piece of ass, so I’ll ask you one last time, ‘What business do you have with Justin?’”

You reached into your inside jacket pocket and produced a brochure from an estate sale that you’d been hanging onto for several months. Kinney took his time examining it, desperately trying to keep his temper in check. “So, you have good taste in art,” he offered, “Big fucking deal.”

“Oh, I have more than that, much more. Not only do I own this original now, I know it was recreated in the tunnels—“

“Really? Who’s your source? A crack head?”

“I have photographic evidence.”

“So you paid that crack head a hundred bucks and gave him a disposable camera?”

You ignored his challenge, “Secondly, the artist who painted it was murdered this week, in case you’ve forgotten what you’re doing here today. Thirdly, he was murdered outside the home where Justin painted this piece by men sworn to serve and protect.”

“So what?”

“So, I want to interview him.”

Kinney laughed, “That won’t be happening.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. He’s been through enough this week.”

“So you take the ‘daddy’ in sugar-daddy pretty literally, huh?” you asked.

……

The fumes Kinney’s anger was giving off outside the church that day—ironically—stunk to high heaven; he was clearly terrified to let it out, but when he finally spoke, you realized that you’d gotten somewhere. “Fine. Take that fucking hat off. You know better than to wear that thing in public.” You obeyed. “Now, get rid of your van, go around the church and enter through the back door. That puts you down near the fellowship hall. Wait for us in the men’s room.”

“Boy, if I had a dime for every time I dreamed about hearing that from you….”

“Don’t push it, Cooper. “

You readily complied.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
’No sex in bathrooms. That’s what the couches are for.’

Jon was standing in the doorway of the sanctuary when you went back inside. He held his hand up to stop you from going in. “What’s going on?” you asked.

“Prayer circle, I guess.” You looked inside and saw Justin holding hands with Harper, Sam, Richard, Zeek and Daniel. Everyone’s head was lowered. “I think Harper wanted some kind of closure like this.”

“Okay.”

“How are you doing?” he asked you. “I ran out of time this morning and wasn’t able to come see you guys.”

“I think he’s okay. We had a very long night.”

“I can imagine. So did we.”

The prayer circle broke, and Justin was looking around for you. You left Jon in the doorway as Justin started walking toward you. “I think we’re done,” he said. He had a roll of papers in his hand, the pictures from the children. He gave them to you to hold like you were now his human purse or something.

……

You were halfway down the stairs to the church fellowship hall when you realized that Justin not only thought you were pulling him away to fuck, he wanted to fuck. He held your hand and hung back a little, a gesture that always makes you want to fuck him. You tried to explain, “Justin, I’m serious. We’re meeting someone down here.”

“Is he cute?”

“No, he’s not cute.”

“Then his ass must be tighter than a drum.”

You always knew you were going to pay for your wicked ways, but this was not the way you thought it would go down…so to speak. You pushed him against the wall at the bottom of the stairs and decided to use his confusion to your advantage after you kissed him. “Mmm ’kay,” he conceded, “If he’s ugly, we’ll just tell him to fuck off.”

(Are you there, God? It’s me…Monogamy.)

“All right, listen to me. Are you listening?”

“And getting hard at the same time.”

“Justin.”

“What? You’re so hot when you’re pissed.”

“Look, I’m serious. There’s someone in the bathroom who wants to talk to you.”

“Who?

“Anderson Cooper.”

He busted out laughing, “Yeah, right.” You had no choice but to prove it to him, and the look on his face when you opened the door…well, he did a complete one eighty standing in front of Mr. Three Sixty. “O. M. G,. you’re really Anderson Cooper.”

“I am.”

Justin stared at Cooper, then at you, then back to Cooper before he spoke, “Well, fuck off. I don’t know what you’ve got against my partner, but you’re the last person I’d ever want to meet.” And then he turned to exit the bathroom and told you, “You’re right. He isn’t cute. We’ve got to get to the restaurant. I bribed Amelia; I told her if she behaved during the service, you’d sit with her at lunch.”

Cooper was clearly less afraid of Justin’s wrath than you were. He called out to him, “Justin, I’m a big fan of your work. I own one of your paintings…Unearthed.”

Justin turned around on his heel and looked right through you, his interrogatory face front and center, “How did you get your hands on that?”

“The original owner, the guy who bought it, Stan Abernathy, that ancient queen who frequents the gay psychiatrist circuit, he passed away a couple of months ago. I bought it at his estate sale.”

“Is that so?” Justin asked, circling back to stand next to you. His attitude was making your balls invert.

“Yeah,” Cooper admitted.

“Well, I get it now,” Justin announced, his pointed finger practically drilling into your chest, “That’s why you hate him. He owns that painting. That’s what this stupid feud of yours is about.”

You tried to defend and clarify the situation to no avail, “Justin, no, wait. I didn’t know about—“

Cooper interrupted looking perplexed, “I don’t know what you mean by ‘feud.’”

“Then buy a dictionary,” Justin suggested, once again turning to walk out the door.

Cooper tried again, “Did it ever occur to you that your work speaks to people, Justin? You’re not the only person whose life has been riddled with senseless tragedy…like what happened to your friend…and you.”

O. M. F. G.

The one good ball you had left was now residing in your throat. It wasn’t nearly as tasty as you’d always promised the boys on their knees. “Excuse us for a minute,” you told Cooper and then pulled Justin outside the bathroom. His arms were folded across his chest; he was staring at his shoes. You put your hand on his shoulder, “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to. I just wanted it to be your decision.”

“I don’t understand. You hate him. Why are we even standing here?”

“Because…you told me that once you put your artwork out there, it’s out there. I shouldn’t care where it ends up, right?” He nodded so you continued, “He says he has photos from the tunnel of that same painting. I don’t know who he got them from, but I thought…maybe…”

“He can’t air those. Their community will be completely exposed,” Justin said.

“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell him to fuck off. Maybe you can talk him out of it?”

“I really thought you wanted to fuck,” he laughed.

“I’ll fuck you right in front of him if it will make you happy.”

“Maybe later,” he conceded, and then pulled something out of his pocket and put it in your hand. You figured it was a condom, but you were wrong. “What the fuck is this?” you asked.

“A handi-wipe. I found them in our suite; I thought they might come in handy.”

“No pun intended?”

“Oh no, I intended that,” he reassured you.

“You think you can seduce me with travel-sized toiletries and the promise of getting to wipe your ass when we’re done?”

“Yes,” he said matter of fact-ly.

Why is he always right?

…

Cooper poked his head out the door of the men’s room, “Any chance I can come out now?”

Justin asked you for a pen and one of your business cards and scrawled his cell phone number on it, handing it to Cooper, “I’m going to be busy until approximately four o’clock. Call before then and you can forget it.” Cooper immediately returned the favor, handing his card to Justin, “I’d appreciate any time you can give me. Truly.”

“I’m not promising you anything.”

Cooper offered you a cautious, but appreciative gaze along with, “I understand that.” Then Justin started walking back to the stairs, pulling you right behind him. He stopped you at the top, a hand to your chest, “Brian, oh my god. Anderson Cooper just asked us if he could come out.”

You laughed, “About damn time, isn’t it?”

*********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV
”It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

Richard sat directly across from you at lunch and said nothing aloud aside from the basic pleasantries. You knew he was mad at you. You also knew it would have to ‘til later. Nate and Sarah were at your table as well; you had no clue where Daniel had disappeared to. Brian sat across from Amelia at the booth in front of you; she was still beaming brightly from her booster seat like a lighthouse bringing a lost ship home to port. Sarah complimented Richard about the service, “It was very nice. Very nice,” the way people compliment you when they don’t mean it. “I think you need to thank Harper,” Richard said, and then he decided to look at the shaker of grated parmesan rather than you.

“We have to leave soon,” Nate said to no one in particular, “We’re flying back tonight.”

You chewed your salad (sans dressing) and looked to your left at the three tables pushed together to seat the women and children from Alan’s community. Justin, Harper, and Sam were sitting with them. The conversation was lively. Zeek was a very entertaining waiter for kids that had probably never eaten in a public restaurant. He sat in a booth with Stitch after he’d served all of them. Stitch was inhaling his food.

*********************
BRIAN’S POV
”If that’s what you want, go find yourself a pretty, little girl…”

It had certainly not been your intention to drag Amelia out of her seat for a smoke break, but Justin ignored your repeated signals that you needed one, so you took her with you; cigarette in one hand, her tiny hand in the other. “See the fire ‘gin, Brime Kinney,” she requested, so you flicked your lighter one more time and then put it back in your pocket. “Did you have a good lunch?” you asked her, and she nodded dutifully from her prized position. “I had a beatball,” she said. “And noodles,” you reminded her.

“’You borgotted to have noodles like me,” she informed you.

“No, I didn’t forget. I had salad.”

“Yeah, I already knowed that.”

……

“Brian, we’re leaving,” Nate said as he and Sarah joined you outside. “Yes, we’ve said our goodbyes,” Sarah said, “Just one more to go.” She bent over to address Amelia, “It was very nice to meet you, Amelia. I had fun shopping with you.”

“Yeah….”

“And I enjoyed your dance at the church. You’re a very good dancer, you know.”

“I’m sure she already knows,” you said, “Don’t you?” You attempted to pick her up, but she pushed you away so she could dance for Sarah one more time. She ordered you to clap when she was finished. “Can I pick you up and hug you good-bye now?” Sarah asked Amelia, and Amelia nodded, holding her arms up. Sarah scooped her up, fussed all over her, and then handed her to you. You thanked Nate for coming on short notice, for everything, watching as he and Sarah pulled off in their limo. Amelia waved, her hand in a fist. You knew something was up; she was far too young to know how fabulous a fist could be.

“Show me your hand, Amelia,” you said, and she opened it for you, hanging her head over your shoulder pretending she was ashamed.

She’d swiped one of Sarah’s earrings.

*********************
”Shouldn’t you be getting back to your boyfriend?”

“I think you’ve smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, and it’s just after noon,” Justin remarked, bumming one off of you before they were all gone. “I’m trying to set a good example for the little lady, here,” you said, pointing down to Amelia. Justin informed her that cookies were being served inside, and she immediately abandoned you, reaching up high for the door handle. Justin opened the door for her, and she left you alone with him; your fleeting relationship shattered by the promise of ‘besert.’

“You doing okay?” Justin asked you.

“Yeah. You?”

He smiled, “I feel kind of good. I probably shouldn’t feel that way at a funeral, but I do.”

“Don’t shrug it off,” you told him, “Let yourself feel it.”

“I know, but it’s hard.”

He had a glow about him. “Tell you a secret?” you asked.

“Sure.”

You moved in closer and pulled him against you…just a little…”You’re ungodly hot when you’re almost happy.”

He whispered into your neck, “I already knowed that.”

*********************
”Stop selling yourself as a hero, and start selling yourself like a man.”

The afternoon was all planned out. You were all making a final pilgrimage to the same place, to what had been Harper’s and Justin’s and then Sam’s first studio, Stitch and his brood wanted to repaint the concrete wall right outside the door and dedicate it to Alan, and he wanted Justin and Harper to join them. “I need to go back to the hotel and change,” Justin said, and you shook your head, “Don’t worry about it. You have jeans that cost more than that suit. Run with it.”

“But it will ruin it.”

“Then ruin it proudly.”

He smiled at you, handed you his jacket as you were now his personal coat rack, and asked, “How much cash do you have on you? I need to buy a lot of paint.”

You pulled your wallet out and handed it to him, “Take whatever you need.”

He took several bills. “We’re going to walk there, okay? Harper wants these kids to over-dose on sunshine.”

“Do I get to O.D. on Sunshine later?”

“…oh, ‘cause you want to play doctor again?”

God, I feel so sick..

*********************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV
”Well, since we’re related, wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Lunch had been over for fifteen minutes, and you hadn’t seen Gabe in twenty. Your parents were leaving; their generosity more than appreciated. Lana had amazed you with her customer service, helping you feed every hungry child until they were too full to pop. She bagged up all the extra cookies and gave them to go bags, and then started wiping down tables and dragging them back to their rightful spot. She made you hard every time she bent over to straighten the condiments because you could see right down her shirt. “Lana, that’s good enough. You’re more emasculate that my brother.”

She smiled proudly; her nipples were hard, “I think you mean immaculate.”

“Have you seen, Gabe?” you asked her.

“Nope. Not for a while. Maybe he left with everyone else.”

“He wouldn’t do that. He can’t breathe unless everything is absolutely perfect.”

“Call him,” she suggested.

You pulled out your phone, tapped his name, and then listened as the theme from The Devil Wears Prada rang out. You followed it to the door of his old office which your mom and pop had mostly converted to storage. You knocked, the back of your fingers on the wooden door, “’Cakes? Are you in there?”

No answer.

You tried again, “Yo, Gabe? What are you doing?”

“Nothing…,” came the faint reply.

You tried the door but it was locked. “Open the door. What’s the matter? You got really bad gas from the salad?”

“Just go,” came the response. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll lock up.”

*********************
GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV
"No apologies. No regrets."

half an hour prior…

You’d kept your rightful place in the kitchen. These weren’t exactly your friends; you were here for Zeek, but he seemed to be doing fine. He’d never been more helpful. He and Lana were expediting like crazy people. You were so focused on making sure everyone’s portion of lasagna was the same size that you almost sent a piece flying through the air when someone tapped you on the shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry,” the intruder said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” You put your spatula down and turned around to face him. He was barely taller than you; he blinked rapidly behind his round glasses as he spoke, “You’re Zeek’s brother, right? Your name is…Gabriel?”

“’Gabe’ is fine. Yes, he’s my brother. You must be Daniel?”

The man smiled in that reassuring-pharmacist-on-television kind of way, “Yes, Daniel Cartwright.”

“I’d shake your hand, but my hands are…”

“Dirty?” he asked.

It embarrassed you, “Yes. I’m cooking.” Like, duh.

“I was just wondering if we could use these plastic forks and paper plates, so there wouldn’t be so much to clean up?” he asked you, pointing to a stack of disposables on a cart by the kitchen door. “Uh, yes. Feel free. That’s a much better idea.” His eyes were brown like really-expensive-coffee. He left with the cart, and a few minutes later he pushed it back in, the bottom shelf stacked with the plates you’d originally set out for everyone. He walked up right next to you with a stack of paper plates. “You can put the lasagna on these, and I’ll pass them on to Zeek,” he said.

You moved like a robot, carefully cutting and placing each piece on each plate. You didn’t care about the lasagna anymore. Your new friend stayed in the kitchen with the last portion, leaning against the stainless steel counter while he ate; his tie flipped over his shoulder. You felt self-conscious in your dirty apron, something you usually wore with pride.

“You’re a good man, coming up here and doing all of this for your brother,” he said. “Did you know Alan?”

You shook your head, too embarrassed to admit that you’d thrown him out of this very restaurant the first time you met him. It took a minute for the rest of your memory to come back, to orient you to the man who was eating your lasagna, but eventually, the words and feelings came back around. “I’m…so sorry for your loss. What you must be going through…. I can’t even imagine.”

“Well, that makes two of us. I’m trying not to imagine it myself.”

That was the moment your manners found you floating, lost at sea, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”

You opened the bottle anyway. “Forgive the Styrofoam cups,” you said as you poured the liquid into two cups. You’d emptied two thirds of the bottle.

“This isn’t bad,” he said, and then he quickly corrected himself, “I mean…for a Styrofoam cup.”’

“We sell a ton of it,” you said, “Although usually in actual glasses.”

“I don’t want to keep you from your brother,” Daniel said apologetically, “I know you came here to see him.”

You laughed, “We’re always better when we’re in separate rooms; trust me.”

……

……

“Oh…well…I’m an only child.”

“I often wish I was,” you confessed.

“You two couldn’t be more different.”

You smiled, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

The bottle of wine was soon empty, abandoned in a recycle bin.

*********************
“We’re stripping for charity here.”

Your office was filthy, caked with dust. Your stapler was where it was supposed to be, not, thank god, hanging from the ceiling. Even your scissors were resting comfortably in your leather, monogrammed pencil cup. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like John-John?” Daniel asked you.

“Actually, yes,” you admitted, suddenly embarrassed.

“It’s true.”

“It’s tragic…what happened to him.” And as soon as you said it, you realized that you were much closer to a much more personal and tragic situation and regretted your words. Somehow he read your mind. “It’s okay,” he said. Somehow he was leaning on you; his skin was soft and warm and felt like something you couldn’t afford, something you’d always dream of. “You smell good,” you whispered, embarrassed that these things were even coming out of your mouth. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, and your heart (that was suddenly in your pants) started to throb. And as if he sensed your nervousness, he added, “It’s okay. There’s nothing to clean up, remember?”

Yeah, except the mess we’re probably going to make, you thought. He kissed you without permission, and somehow it made the zipper on your pants give up the fight and go down like a broken freight elevator. Oh my god. Your thoughts were pounding between your ears; they began to get thicker, like a persistent fog that didn’t want you to see what was about to happen. “No,… your… pants, you screamed in your head when he started to kneel down. “Daniel, don’t. The floor, it isn’t clean.”

“And for once, I don’t care,” he replied.

“Look, this is probably grief talking,” you told him when he freed your cock from your underwear. His hair had less gel in it than you expected. It felt alive.

“And I’m not listening to it,” he said, “I’d much rather listen to you.”

You moaned on cue.

It was, after all, the polite thing to do.

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
“That’s for the boys at the precinct.”

The truth about ashes is that they get all over everything no matter what you do; they feel like top-of-the-line cat litter available only to movie stars and drug dealers. They smear your hands like charcoal and yet, mix amazingly well with paint. Harper insisted that there was no place Alan would rather be than inside a painting. “So, that’s where I’m burying him,” she told you with a smile on her face, “And so are you.”

You finger-painted with a zeal that had escaped you for months, your hands coated with the ashy red evidence.

*********************
JONATHON MASSEY’S POV
“Pain management.”

When Daniel reappeared at Sam’s studio, you were happy to see him, but something was clearly amiss. The dark gray sadness that had nested beneath his eyes all week was gone, evaporated. You had to know why…and how…he made that so stuck feeling disappear. He didn’t hesitate to give you an answer, “I just blew Zeek’s little brother.”

You felt faint.

And completely out-shrinked.

*********************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV
”You were touching yourself, and you didn’t call me?”

You felt Lana up one last time and then watched her get into a cab and drive away. Your cigarette was freshly lit when Gabe finally emerged from the restaurant. You gave him a long, vertical gaze before observing, “Your pants aren’t zipped, ‘Cakes.”

“Oh shit.”

The look of his face when he realized you were shitting him…

“So, you were slapping the old salami, huh?”

“I wasn’t the one slapping it, and I’d appreciate it if you’d mind your own business.”

“We have to get to the airport. Our flight is in a couple of hours.”

“You’re going with me?” he asked, “You’re bouncing tonight?”

“That I am.  First person I'll probably bounce is Rube for blowing up my fucking phone.  This is redunkulous."  You cursed under your breath as you looked at all the texts he'd sent you that morning.

"You mean 'ridiculous,'" Gabe admonished.

"The fuck I do."

"He can't help it, Zeek.  You forget, he's a twin.  He feels incomplete when he's alone."

"WOW.  Suck a shrink's dick and suddenly you are one."

*********************
DANNY CARTWRIGHT’S POV
”The nurse's station. I used to think it had something to do with radio. 'All nursing, all the time.'”

Most people are afraid of being alone in real life, but you were dead and stressing out because you were alone again, wandering the halls of your old hospital, a tug in your chest pulling you toward the Nurse’s Station. Tate and Madeline were dressed in old-fashioned nurse’s uniforms, the ones with the little white caps. Tate met you at the counter, her plea almost torturous, “Where is Alley?”

“I don’t know,” you said, “Somehow I lost him. We got separated. I don’t know.”

“Well, where were you?” Madeline asked like you were clearly stupid. She stuck a glass thermometer in her hair.

“At the church, at his funeral,” you tried to think, “And before that, the subway.”

“Well, think,” Tate demanded, “Think harder because I can’t find his records anywhere in this damn hospital. It’s like he’s gone for good.”

And then like a fog the memory re-emerged, “In his seat…at the church…after he was gone…there was an open Bible in his chair. I remember now.”

“We need more than that,” Madeline said, “This is an old hospital; we don’t have any fancy diagnostic equipment. All we have is you.”

Ruth screamed out, strapped to the ECT table, “He’s not coming back!”

**********************
BRIAN’S POV
”Same interests? Same temperament?”
“Same disease.”

By the time Daniel arrived at Justin’s old studio, he was clearly tired yet still intrigued by the creative grief spilling out of Justin and Harper. He came and stood next to you, almost a smile on his face. “He seems to be working through it, doesn’t he?” he asked you pointing to Justin painting furiously. You nodded, “I guess so. How ‘bout you?” Daniel’s gaze shifted to the ground in front of his feet, “I feel better now that the ceremony’s over, I guess.”

“You were praying?” you asked him, your eyes focusing on the patches of dirt on his pants. He caught your glance and laughed, “Um, well…not exactly.”

“Don’t feel bad,” you told him, “Some people spell ‘god,’ ‘d-i-c-k.’”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, you know, we all worship in our own way.” And then you did some very quick math in your head and coupled it with the fact that you’d just had lunch in a restaurant where Gabe wasn’t hovering over you, refilling your water glass the entire time so he had to be somewhere. “Um, Gabe, huh?” you asked.

Daniel laughed a little, “It’s not polite to suck and tell.”

You slapped him on the back, “You take that ‘heal thyself’ code to heart, don’t you? Good for you, doc.”

He rolled his eyes at you and your theatrics.“I’ll probably just throw these pants out,” he said, “Or donate them. I doubt I’ll want to wear them again.”

You were proud of him, “I’d highly recommend it. I have extensive experience with emotionally damaging formal wear.” Daniel nodded, a sad expression on his face. “Look,” you continued, “This is gonna sound crazy, but thank you for looking after Justin…while he was here. Whatever happened, I don’t care; I’m just relieved that someone had his back, you know? That someone really cared about him.”

“We all do. It’s not just me.”

“I know, but you gave him a safe place to be; you were…are…a real friend to him.”

“His safety is really important to you,” he observed.

You nodded, “You have no idea.”

Daniel leaned against the building and sighed, “It was so quiet at my place when he left, and then I thought I’d have Alan around to make up the difference….”

“I know what it’s like to have a quiet house.”

“Yes, I guess you do. You’re a patient man.”

“And you’re a good man, Daniel. This doesn’t change-—“ You stopped talking in mid-sentence because you heard footsteps. Richard was walking toward you, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He barely slowed down to tell you and Daniel, “Bye, guys. Take care. I wish you the best.” Jon followed right after him, “Richard! Please, wait!” But he didn’t wait and he didn’t look back. He just kept on walking. You found yourself staring at the funny criss-cross marks on his pants….