Date Night

LaVieEnRose

Justin wanted to check out this art opening in Manhattan, and I wanted to try this new restaurant in the area, and Evan was having a sleepover at Emily's, so it seemed like as good a night as any for a date night. Plans we make are always sort of tentative, pending how Justin's feeling when the time comes, which requires all sorts of finesse because Justin hates canceling plans partially because he feels guilty in that way he does, but mostly because...he just plain hates canceling plans. He wants to get out there and do things and experience life and meet people. He really doesn't have the personality for someone who needs to stay home a lot of the time, and that's hard, seeing him caged the way he is. Especially since I'm the one doing it most of the time, holding him back, no you can't, stay in bed, not tonight, it's time to go home. I didn't sign up to be his jailer, but he didn't sign up for just about any of this, and since we've previously established that I would chew off my own arm if it would prevent Justin from getting a hangnail, moderating him isn't a big ask.

Regardless, tonight he was feeling good. He looked good, too, dressed in jewel tones, his skin like fuckin' marble. I still get a kick out of toting him around, maybe more so now that I'm older and I have to some extent come to terms with the fact that I don't have the curb appeal I once did. Justin's still got it. People stare.

Some of that, of course, is the signing.

I forget it's not normal; I really do. At Kinnetik I'm always signing to people who know all of three signs to get by with Emily because I forget everyone isn't bilingual. But then we go out in public and people point and gawk and I remember, we're communicating in something most people think of as a cute party trick instead of a legitimate language. Tourists walk around speaking all sorts of shit and no one gives them any trouble, but the second you use your hands you're a fucking street performer. Anyway.

Justin slipped Martha into her service dog harness and she wagged her tail. She’s never really off duty, since Justin, as we know, is not picky about where or when he has seizures or forgets to breathe, but she takes it extra seriously when we’re out and about. It’s fun for her, they told us at the training place, which is the kind of twisted shit I enjoy. Hey, at least someone’s getting a kick out of seizures.

It was warm out, but I still saw Justin into a leather jacket because they refrigerate the fuck out of these art galleries, and he looked hot bundled up as we headed to the subway. Tell me about this artist? I said.

He’s supposed to be this big up and comer, Justin said. Apparently he’s doing some sort of post-modern sculpture work. Incorporating digital techniques, so could be interesting. Justin, obviously, used to be quite technologically influenced himself, back when he was still on the animation track, but once he discovered he could wield a paintbrush as easily as his computer stylus, that was pretty much it for drawing. And as much as I liked the computer stuff...thank God, honestly. The man isn't an animator; he's a fucking fine artist. Artforum named him as one of the frontrunners in his field, for fuck's sake.

Granted that was a couple years ago, but we don't talk about that part. We're on Justin's timetable in this little life, and fuck the rest of it.

Martha alerted Justin as we stepped into the station, and of course there were no fucking benches, but I found him a railing to lean against and managed to get him some semblance of privacy. Amazing what you can do with a little time. It ended up being small, barely more than a hand tremor. We got to figure out how to get her to ignore those, Justin said, with his left.

Better safe than sorry.

Christ, Kinney, what have I done to you.

I slung an arm over him and nibbled his neck a little on the train, and he’s a whore for public displays of affection so he was practically crawling down my pants, so as soon as we got to the gallery we found the bathroom and I fucked him up against the side of a stall, my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, Martha standing guard outside the door. Just the usual date night shenanigans.

Once I’d cleaned him up and dressed him we ventured out into the gallery. Justin was flushed and beautiful and I had a hard time pulling up any interest in the art, but he studied it all carefully, his eyes slightly narrowed. I gave him some space to explore on his own and did a round myself, checking out some sculpture work and some abstract paintings, none of which seemed entirely special to me. I met Justin eventually at a sculpture in the middle of the gallery. He was circling it slowly, completely oblivious to the youngish guy standing close to him and trying to chat him up. I nudged him, cocked my head towards the guy, and raised an eyebrow, and Justin glanced at him and wrinkled his nose a little at me. Okay. Not interested. Just trying to be a supportive partner.

How about this, then? I asked, pointing to the sculpture. It kind of looked like an elephant, but I wasn't sure if that was intentional or not. It was just called “Untitled,” which was unhelpful and seemed lazy as shit, but Justin hates coming up with names for his pieces too. Maybe it's an artist thing.

Come here, Justin said. He led me around to the side of the sculpture, Martha's nails clicking delicately on the wood floor.

What am I looking at? I said.

On the foot, there. There's this speck of green paint.

I looked, and sure enough there was.

Okay? I said.

So...what the fuck is that? Is it intentional? It can't be an accident. It can't be that nobody saw that. It has to be intentional. What the hell is the point of it?

I love when Justin gets all fired up about art.

I have no answers for you, I said.

Well, that's very frustrating. You should come up with something.

Oh, I'll come up with something all right, I said, and I grabbed his crotch in the middle of the gallery.

**

We walked to dinner in comfortable quiet. Martha stopped to pee in a gutter and Justin took a hit of his inhaler, and I looked around and took in the city for a little while. It had been, despite what we swore to ourselves when we moved out to Flushing, a hot minute since I'd been in Manhattan, and as much as I love our house and our yard and our little life, I do miss it. But who knows if Kinnetic would have even risen how it did if we'd tried to make it here instead of in Queens, and who do we have to thank for that? This wheezy little genius here. There's just so fucking little to complain about.

Justin was a little spacey at dinner. Not in a bad way—I can see a seizure from a mile away, and so, obviously can Martha, and she was napping under the table—just clearly thinking.

Care to share with the class? I said, helping myself to a bite of his salad.

What did you think of that exhibit? he said. That's a Justin thing. You ask him his opinion, and he asks you yours right back. I used to think it was annoying, but over time I realized it was an insecurity thing. You have to give him permission to either love or hate something, or he'll worry he's insulting something you love or hyping up something you thought was banal. Disagreements are hard for him. Do you really need me to spell out why?

Of course the fact remains that he picked the wrong fucking partner for that particular need, but how is that news, and regardless, even an old dog can learn new tricks with the right incentive. And have you seen that smile? You'd roll over and beg too.

So you go neutral. I liked a few of the pieces, I said. That blue painting with the purple center?

Yeah, that one was okay.

But nothing I was considering buying. Even though we still need a piece for Molly's room and you won't make anything.

He took a moment. “I thought it was really...uninspiring,” he said eventually. “He's supposed to be this big up-and-comer and this like, new authentic voice in the art movement, and I thought it was really derivative of every show I've seen in the past two years. And I didn't particularly like it the first time I saw it.”

All right, so you wasted an evening. Not the worst thing in the world.

“It's not just that,” he said. “I just feel so disconnected. Like we've entered this new art movement while I was sick and not producing and now I'm behind and I don't even like what I'm supposed to be making.”

Who says you're supposed to be making it?

“This is what's big,” Justin said. “This is what's selling.”

So....who says you have to sell?

He twirled some pasta around his fork while he processed that.

“My goal has always been to be as successful as possible,” he says. “To be as close to a household name as artists even get nowadays.”

You're the one always saying we have plenty of money.

“It's not about the money really. It's about...you know, doing something that matters. The longevity of it. Y'know, when Gilgamesh sails back in and sees his city walls. Creating something is how you live forever.”

And you've created masterpieces, I pointed out.

He shrugged. “I could do more. I could be doing so much more. People are forgetting me every day. I'm just not showing often enough, or producing enough pieces, or keeping up with the trends. I spend too much time incapacitated.”

Sorry, what was—

Incapacitated, he fingerspelled. I don't know why he bothers speaking with me anymore, honestly. It's not as if it's hard for me to code switch back and forth, hearing him in English and responding back in ASL, but it's not that much easier for me than just signing the whole thing. I think he does when he doesn't want to feel himself speak, if that makes sense. When he speaks out loud the words fall out of him easier because he doesn't have to hear them. He can almost pretend it isn't happening, that he isn't admitting the things he is.

Like that he spends large portions of his life incapacitated, for instance.

And how do we feel about that? I asked.

He rolled his eyes. I honestly don't know anymore. I think I've lost perspective on it.

It's just what is.

Yeah. He wheezed out a sigh and sat back in his chair. I don't know. The goal was always to be famous. Isn't it everyone's? I mean, you keep expanding.

And as you astutely pointed out, that ambition will probably kill me one day. You don't need another thing trying to kill you.

So what do I do? Stop painting?

Of course not, I said. But what if you didn't give a shit about the trends? What if you didn't have to care about whether or not it would sell?

He thought about this.

And I've got news for you, I said. There's plenty of patrons out there who don't like the current trends either. Just paint for them. Or hell, paint for us. Paint all the walls.

That's not how someone gets famous, he said.

You're famous in our house, I said.

He smiled a little. That's really what I wanted.

I know.

**

Justin was worn out by the time we headed home. He rested his head against my shoulder on the subway while I watched the lights break into the skyline as the train lifted out of Manhattan. Back to Queens, where there's a mural of Justin's in Forest Hills. Back to where my boy is famous.

Not that he has to be. He's not for public view, is the thing. His paintings, sure, but he's...he's this fucking tough-as-nails person and maybe I know a thing or two about that, but I don't know about being open, unprotected. He has to fight every second he's out there in the world. He gets so tired.

He's not for your consumption. But a date night every once in a while doesn't suck.

I fucked him gently in the shower and harder in bed, and Justin kissed my chin and lay his cheek against my chest while I played with his damp hair.

“This was a good night,” Justin said sleepily, and I scratched lightly on the nape of his neck.