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Author's Chapter Notes:

Justin's obsession with HIS building continues. Enjoy! TAG & Sally



Chapter 2 - Fade To Black.



I was furiously typing away at my laptop about a week later when Daph came in from another late night at school.


My project concept was to create a multi-medium collage incorporating computer manipulated photos of the building, historical pictures of the building that I’d unearthed through my research, and other photos and found objects that related to the building either from history or the present, all of which would be added to my own original painted depiction of the building done in acrylics. The canvas I planned to use for this unprecedented melange was going to be huge - 4x5 feet - and even then I wasn’t sure it would be big enough to accommodate all I wanted to portray for this piece. It was probably the most ambitious work I’d ever attempted. And it was imperative that I get all the elements ready in advance and have my concept schematic worked out to the most minute detail before I started or it would end up a mess. Which is why I was still up at almost midnight, trying to get the picture of Architect Andrew Peebles that I’d downloaded off the internet to come out just right, before I printed it out.


“Is it just me or do all the men from the 1880s look totally gay?” Daphne asked me as she walked past, giving Mr. Peebles an apprising glance. “I think it’s the hair. The way they all parted their hair right down the middle like that and then slicked it back. It’s totally gay. Not to mention that Freddie Mercury mustache thing he has going there.”



“Fuck you, Daph,” I complained, breaking into laughter at my unconventional friend’s assessment. Of course, after she’d said that, I couldn’t help but see it too. “Yeah, it’s definitely the hair. Even I’m not THAT gay.”


We both broke out laughing because, yeah, I really AM that gay. Not that I think I’m overly fem or anything. I probably could pass as straight if I tried, but I’d just never felt like bothering. It was clear to me and all those around me from a very early age that I was as queer as a three dollar bill. I was the ‘sensitive’ kid who hated sports and instead preferred to draw or paint or read a book. I have no idea how my parents managed to be surprised when I finally came out to them my senior year of high school - hadn’t it been obvious to everyone by then? My mother actually handled it pretty well after she adjusted to the idea, but my dad had been another matter. He threw a total hissy fit and refused to accept it or me. So it really wasn’t much of a surprise that my parents ended up splitting less than a year later. I felt bad for my mother, because her whole life had changed, but frankly I was glad I no longer have to deal with my father. And it also meant that I didn’t have to even attempt to seem anything other than my fabulous gay self anymore, because there was nobody that I associated with who cared anymore.


I sat back in my chair, nibbling on my thumbnail and looking at the picture of Peebles that I’d been trying to sharpen with only moderate success. I’d already come to the conclusion that working with historical pictures was a pain in the ass, but this one was worse than most. It was grainy and had odd shadows in it no matter what I did. Oh well, it was what it was and if I still wanted to use it in my work, I would just have to make do.


“So who is the dweeb anyway,” Daphne asked, pointing with a cheese puff at the picture.


“This is the infamous Andrew Peebles, one of the preeminent architects of 1880s Pittsburgh,” I elucidated for my less knowledgeable roommate. “He not only designed and built my building, but also The St. Peter Roman Catholic Church, the  First Lutheran Church, the Hotel Liberty, and he even Supervised the interior decorating of the Henry Clay Frick residence.”


“Sounds like he was a busy guy,” Daph summed it up in her own way. “I still think he was probably gay.”


“You think everyone is gay, Daph.”


“And I’m right most of the time too.”


Daph started to laugh maniacally and I felt a pencil run down the center of my head, her fingers playing with my hair. It took me a minute to realize what she was doing. I tried to reach up to stop her, but she batted my hands away.


“Stop. You look dashingly . . . gay,” she continued to giggle as I pushed her hands away, running my fingers over my head to rearrange my hair the correct way and get rid of the ridiculous part she’d given me.


“Well, in this case, you might actually be right about Peebles - but not because his hair looks gay,” I informed her, spouting my hard won research knowledge. “Peebles was a lifelong bachelor. He never married and the only info I could find on him said that he lived with his ‘partner’ - and I’m guessing they were referring to his business partner here, or at least that’s how it sounded - James Madison Balph, for several years. I mean, who knows, right?”


“Totally gay!” Daphne reiterated, mouth so full of cheese puffs that I could barely understand her.


“Yeah. Maybe,” I had to agree with her on this one. “But the really weird thing is that I can’t find anything he did after he designed the Flatiron Building. He was really prolific from around the time right after the Civil War through the end of the 1880’s and then . . . nothing. It’s like he just disappeared. He eventually moved to Atlantic City around the end of World War One and that’s all I found on him. Then he died suddenly in 1919. It’s kinda mysterious, don’t you think?”


“Maybe he’s your ghost. Maybe he had some deep dark secret that was discovered and which ruined his life. Or he had a horribly disfiguring accident and could never go out in public again,” Daphne hypothesized. “OR maybe he was outed and once everyone found out he was gay they ostracized him, and his lover turned his back on him out of shame, so he was forced to move away and he died a lonely outcast and now haunts his last and greatest creation, the place where his love died. Ooh, or maybe . . . wait, no. I’ve already used up all of my good ideas.”


And she called ME a drama queen?


“Or, maybe, he was just old and retired and then died of the Spanish Flu in 1919 and that’s all,” I countered, dowsing her fantasies with a bucket of reality.


“You’re no fun.”


“I’m LOTS of fun. I’m just not totally delusional is all,” I smirked back at her before returning to my work. “And I’m going to be in deep shit if I don’t get all these pictures touched up and ready to print tomorrow so I can start painting already. So, take your icky orange fingers and your cheese puffs and go bother someone else’s hair, please.”


I couldn’t quite tell what Daph said in reply, mostly because the cheese puffs muffled her words, but I think there was something about HER not being the delusional one. I love Daphne. Even if she does get fake orange cheese gunk in my hair on occasion.

 

The next afternoon I left school with all my photos printed out and securely stowed in a file folder in my bag. I was actually pretty happy with how they’d all turned out, even the grainy one of Peebles, and I was eager to start crafting my masterpiece. I waved as I passed by a group of other students who were just coming in as I was leaving. Too late I realized that, hiding among the larger group of people that I did get along with, was the one person at TAIP that I really didn’t want to talk to.


Ethan Gold.


 


Ethan didn’t really go to the Institute. He attended a nearby music academy and fancied himself the next Mozart or something. But he was always hanging around our school anyway. He said he liked to ‘patronize the other arts’. That’s actually how he said it, too. Like he was some grand Medieval Lord or something. Personally, I found him totally pompous and endlessly annoying, but I’d made the mistake of hooking up with him once and now I just couldn’t get rid of him. I blame it all on the Strawberry Margaritas at Sean Carter’s party Freshman year. Those things get me every time. They sneak up on you, you know?


Anyway, I knew it was a mistake the minute I woke up and found myself in bed with this skinny, greasy-haired, wannabe that I didn’t even remember picking up the night before. I would have had to be totally wasted to go home with Ethan, too, because he soooo wasn’t my type. Of course, I hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings or anything, so I tried to be nice to him. I even accepted his invitation to go out with him a second time, but after I was bored to tears listening to a violin performance that caused my teeth to ache, I turned down all subsequent invites. That hadn’t stopped Ethan the Ever Hopeful, though. You couldn’t fault him for his persistence, at least.


“Justin. Justin! Wait up a sec,” Ethan called out to me as he sprinted to catch me before I could duck around the corner and effectuate my escape.


I sighed and rolled my eyes and cursed the fact that I loved margaritas so much, but my country club upbringing just wouldn’t let me be outright rude to someone’s face so I had to stop and wait for my stalker to catch up. “Hey, Ethan. I can’t really hang around and chat right now. I’m working on my end of term project for Art & Architecture and I’m a little behind already, so I’ve got to book,” I blatantly lied.


“That sucks,” Ethan whined, his whole face falling comically. “It feels like we haven’t had time to just hang out together in ages.”


“Yeah, my classes have been really intense this term,” I lied again, hoping he didn’t know I’d only taken three classes that fall, one of which was a sketching class that I could have passed without even showing up all term.


“People say Sophomore Year is a real workhorse year at most schools. Over at the Academy, every year is just as hard, so I wouldn't know, but that’s what people say, you know?” I hated it when Ethan pretended to know more than everyone else, which was, like, always. “I hope that you’ll be done with your project by Saturday, though, because . . .” He fished in his pocket and pulled out what looked like two theater tickets. “. . . I have a recital at Heinz Hall Saturday night and I saved you a seat. Do you think you’ll be able to make it? I know how much you love violin music.”


I really wanted to tell him, ‘yeah, almost as much as I like listening to cats mating’, but I didn’t. Damn my mother and all those Emily Post etiquette lessons she made me sit through as a child. I wish I had the balls to just tell his troll to get lost, once and for all. But I’m terrible at being mean and I’m even worse at lying. I scrambled to think up something - ANYTHING - I could use as an excuse for why I definitely, positively, could NOT be at that fucking recital . . . but my brain went completely blank and all I could do was stand there and stutter like a complete imbecile. The longer I flailed the wider his grin became, and the harder it became for me to think of anything at all other than the fact that I was doomed. Eventually I just gave up and shrugged in defeat.


“Excellent! You’re gonna love it. And afterwards we can go get a coffee together and hang out and really catch up with each other. I can’t wait!” Then, while I was still standing there paralyzed and dumb, he leaned in, wrapped his skinny arms around me, gave me a huge hug, and even snuck in a little kiss on the cheek as the disgusting topping to the already indigestible shit sandwich I felt like I was being forced to eat. “See you on Saturday, Jus. And don’t worry, you don’t have to bring me flowers or anything; your presence alone will be sufficient to make my night.”


Then Ethan scampered off, happy as a puppy who’d just been patted on the head and fed a milkbone, while I groaned in misery. How did I get myself into this shit? Or, better question, how the hell did I get out of it?


Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I quickly texted to Daphne: ‘I have to break my leg before Saturday. Do you know anyone with a baseball bat?’


Her, ‘WTF’? emoji in response made me chuckle. And it gave me hope. If anyone could help me figure out how to get out of a night of listening to Ethan torturing cats, it was my bestie. Daphne wasn’t raised all polite like me. She was fine with being a total bitch when needed. And I definitely needed her then.


So I was feeling a little better by the time I got her text. I decided to walk the dozen or so blocks west from school past My Building before catching the bus so I could garner any last iota of inspiration I might find before I went home and started painting. I had no idea why I felt so anxious about this particular project. Usually I found painting came as easily as breathing for me, but this time I felt some eerie compulsion that I had to get it ‘right’. Nothing another look at the inspiration itself wouldn’t cure, though.


My walk along The Strip and through the Cultural District was as enjoyable as always, even on a grey, cold day. I skirted around the Convention Center and the Allegheny Riverfront park before cutting south on 8th Street till I found my way back to Liberty Avenue again. I stopped to look down at the street name carved into the pavement at my feet and got the same happy feeling I always got at seeing the name of the famous street. I loved that our entire state was founded on such a lofty concept - Liberty. As a gay man, that principle meant a lot to me, so even just looking at the damn street name sometimes gave me chills. No wonder the building I picked for this project fronted my favorite street.




Since it was a busy workday afternoon, the streets were relatively crowded and my usual bench was occupied by an elderly woman who was probably waiting for a bus. Instead of sitting and sketching the building again, though, I walked around it, circling the edifice and looking up at it from all the many strange angles that I could, trying to soak in the feeling of the stone; make myself ‘one with it’. Fuck, I was such a nerd sometimes. Didn’t matter, though, it’s what I felt like doing and because I was on ‘Liberty Avenue’ and I had the freedom to act like a total geek, I did. I looked up at the cornices. I looked at the decorative cabbage-shaped thingies that framed the doorways. I looked up at the towering walls from below. I examined the old gas lamp fixtures close up. I looked at everything, all over again, and fell in love with the place all over again too.


 


And just like I always did, I walked up to the lobby door and pulled on the handle in the off chance that this time the door would be unlocked. Of course, it wasn’t. The door had always remained solidly locked. It was so frustrating. I just wanted one quick peek at the inner sanctum. How could that be wrong? I wouldn’t bother anyone. Really. I would have just walked around and looked at things and silently sketched them and then, finally satisfied, I would have left, and this compulsion I felt about the building would have been sated once and for all. Was that too much to ask for?


This time I let my frustration have rein. I was almost out of time. I had less than a week to complete my term project and then I’d turn it in and my time with this place would be over. Life would move on and I’d find other things to usurp my attention. There would be other things to spark my imagination and new obsessions to while away my time with. And I’d probably come back by this building every so often, and maybe even think about it, but my chance to solve its mystery would be gone so it would have to forever remain a mystery. But I didn’t want that. I WANTED to know, to understand, to glean whatever this building had to offer and I wanted it NOW!


“Fucking stupid door,” I muttered under my breath, giving the door one last jiggle and kicking at the bottom of the metal frame at the same time.


Which was when the miracle happened.


Call it providence. Call it luck. Call it the intervention of the God Hephaestus, patron god of all artisans. Call it whatever you want, but it FELT like a miracle. Because whatever I’d done right then -  some combination of the way I’d kicked at the bottom of the door frame at exactly the same time that I’d pulled at the handle and jiggled it in an upwards direction - caused the lock to give. With my mouth hanging open and my hand actually shaking with anticipation, I pulled the lobby door all the way open. And then I just stepped inside. Me, inside the Triangle Building, imagine that!


So, I’m not sure what I’d expected to happen once I was inside. Maybe that I’d suffer some artistic revelation and be driven to my knees on the spot or something? That I would be a changed man? That there’d be music? Whatever. But, still, I was excited beyond words as my footsteps echoed through the space of the narrow entry hall between the lobby doors. I let my fingers trail along the rough brickwork of the walls and the wooden molding below. I was probably imagining the tingle in my fingertips and the feeling that my touch on those old walls was the very thing that was bringing the building to life after decades of inactivity. It was just so fucking exhilarating, though. It was like I was about to enter the secret sanctum of someplace with almost magical powers. Little old me!



I walked up to the the nook in the wall where I’d thought the stairs to the upper floors would be located and was relieved to see that I had been correct. There was a long, narrow staircase going upwards that appeared to end on a landing on the floor above. It was almost pitch dark, so I couldn’t see much around me as I took my first tentative steps up the well-worn wooden risers of the steps. Up and up, I counted the steps as I rose, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. And I was just about to the top where I could step beyond the confines of the cramped passage of the staircase onto the more open landing which appeared to be lit by natural light, probably from the nearby windows, when something large and dark and menacing flew at me out of nowhere and completely blocked my path and my vision.


“What the FUCK are you doing here? Get out! GET OUT!” a hoarse voice bellowed at me so loudly that it actually hurt my ears.


I couldn’t see anything at all now that the form above me was blocking out what little light had been trickling down from the landing, but I could feel the heat of a huge something or someone bearing down on me.


I stepped backwards, missed the step with my foot, and the next thing I knew I was flying ass over tea kettle backwards, down the steps into the empty lobby. I hit the hard stone tiling of the lobby floor with enough velocity to completely knock the wind out of me. I must have also hit my head because a shock of painfully bright white light lit up my vision for a brief moment and then everything started to fade into a tunnel of black.


You know how your brain does strange things sometimes and you find yourself thinking odd thoughts at even odder moments? Well, that’s what happened to me right then. Instead of being worried about the fact that I was hurt or wondering who it was that had just attacked me, my last thought was something along the lines of ‘maybe I shouldn’t have been joking about breaking my leg just to get out of a date with Ethan’.


Then I forgot everything else as the haunted face out of my picture appeared out of nowhere right above me just as I lost consciousness for good.


 

Chapter End Notes:

11/6/18 - Fade To Black by Metallica. Confession time - that is NOT a picture of Andrew Peebles, the 1880s Pittsburgh Architect. I could not find a picture of the man anywhere - not even when I went to Pittsburgh to do research on this book. Apparently the man was camera shy. The picture I used is of a buddy of his, Frederick John Osterling, who was a contemporary and rival. I apologize for the inconsistency, but I just needed a picture for this chapter, so . . . it’s fiction, right? Who’s excited to see Ethan make an appearance? Don’t worry, he’s mostly here just for comic relief this time. LOL. Thanks to Lorie for the suggestion about the Margarita’s being the cause behind this unfortunate hookup. So, who do you think just attacked poor Justin, hmmmmm? Off to write you down off that cliff, now. TAG & Sally.

PS. If you live in the US and you haven't voted yet, you can't read this chapter until you have. Vote Blue for QAF!

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