WINTER SOULS, Chapter 1 by Brian Hennessey
Ok guys, here is the first installment. I hope I remember how to post to this damned thing! HA! The usual disclaimers about I do not own these characters or profit from this writing etc. It feels strange but good to write again. Let me know what you think. And have a wonderful holiday, everyone.
WINTER SOULS Chapter 1
St. Regis Hotel, New York City
December 23, 2009, 2:10 a.m.
The actor’s hand moves down my torso towards his target. When he finds it, he gives it a hopeful squeeze. I brush away his grip and roll over on my side, my back a shield to him. At age 38, after a long and stressful day at work in a chilly studio, I am invoking the baseball rule. Three swings and he’s out. At twenty-something, I think he was looking forward to extra innings. God, I must be tired if I am reverting to sports analogies to describe sex.
“You should go before it gets light,” I urge him. “You don’t want to be seen crossing the lobby at dawn.” He is the handsome second lead in a hit television show about idealistic lawyers working in a legal aid clinic in New York City. His earnest image on the show and his youthful good looks makes him the perfect spokesperson for my client. The client’s company is reaching for the youth market and he has become a heart throb to all the adoring young girls who drank the Kool Aid produced by his publicity people who insist he is straight and looking for the right girl. Looking for the right beard, maybe, but I made him as gay after watching ten minutes of his show. Of course, I am the expert.
“You’re not going to send me out in that blizzard are you, Brian?” he leans against me as he laments the bad weather. The stiffness I feel pressing my hip was not induced by cold. I’ve noticed the steady beat of ice and snow against the double paned windows increased in intensity once we got this started.
The chance I’ll get back home by Christmas is fading. I don’t care. There’s no reason to rush back. My son is in Canada with his two mothers. Another Christmas dinner of overcooked lasagna at Deb’s while sharing in the boredom that is Michael and Ben does not appeal. But I’ve been in this hotel for over a week while we filmed multiple commercials and as nice as it is, I miss my own bed.
“I’ll never get a cab in this storm, and I live all the way down in Soho,” he adds to his lament. I knew we should have gone to his place rather than my room. That way, I could control the exit time without the drama.
“The hotel has a fleet of limos on standby,” I reassured him. “Besides, I like to sleep alone. You should go.” I feel the sheets and thick duvet fly off of me with a dramatic flourish. His acting genes are incited by my rejection. I’m sure he’s not accustomed to being sent home, and his little ego is smarting.
“It’s not like I can’t get laid whenever I want,” he proclaims as he zips and buttons himself into his discarded clothes. I realize I am supposed to feel honored to have had some bed time with his exalted self, and I acknowledge that by pulling the purloined covers back over me and turning on my stomach as I tell him,
“Push the Do Not Disturb light on your way out.” The shoot is over. He will be well paid for his time. I no longer have to babysit his ego. It’s done. His final statement is a slammed door. I realize I am no longer mellow and sleepy. I am now wide awake, but blessedly no longer horny.
I sit up, reach for a cigarette, my lighter, the remote control. I search for the weather channel and find out that a blizzard has indeed descended on the city and all airports are closed. I turn it off and fall back on the decadently overstuffed pillows as I smoke in the dark.
I wonder where he is.
Not the actor. Him. The one. Where is he right now? Asleep? Working on a painting? Partying? Having sex? I don’t even know where he lives anymore. Hard to believe how much things could change in four years.
It unraveled slowly, eroded by time and distance. There was no big event. Even after he left our home to chase his dreams in the Big Apple, we remained close for a period of time. I would seek him out on my frequent trips to the city. He would stay with me when he came home to visit his mother and old friends. At first, it was kind of exciting, like we were new again and stealing time to be together. The sex was hot, the partings melancholy.
My business picked up, he found some measure of recognition for his art and time became a premium. Phone calls and texts were fewer. Trips were sporadic. Other people intervened. Boyfriends on his side, some new tricks on mine. The silences between us were sharp when we were in the same room. We had grown apart.
No one’s fault.
It just happened.
And yet….I reach for the gold band on the bedside table and slip it on the little finger of my left hand, where I always wear it. It was to be his wedding ring when we were out of our minds for one brief moment in time. Now I wear it as a talisman, signifying nothing.
And yet...on cold and quiet nights like this, I do miss him. Or I miss us, more accurately. He was the one, the only one, who made it in. I never thought it could work out that way for me, and I was right. But for a blink of time, I had hope, and I was in love. I can admit that now. The pain has receded. I went on with my life, and my life is not bad at all. But there are gaps and he was the only one who filled them.
Even after we grew apart, we remained casual friends. I always knew how to reach him, where he lived. But he moved recently, into a place of his own after leaving his current lover, and he hasn’t yet sent me his contact information. I can always call his cell phone, but I haven’t. I’ve been here a week, and I haven’t even tried to call him. I twist the ring on my finger.
Sad.
Even if something ends, there are so few people in the world we really care about that it makes no sense to lose track of those who mattered most. I should call him. Maybe not now, at this hour, he would accuse me of being drunk, which I am not, and he’s always grumpy when he gets jolted awake. I stub out the cigarette and close my eyes. Maybe tomorrow. I’m trapped here, anyway. Maybe I’ll call him tomorrow. And then again, maybe not.
Manhattan, December 23, 2009, East Village, 3:15 a.m.
I am awakened by the cold. It creeps in despite my long johns, sweat pants, wool socks, a fleece shirt, two blankets and a down comforter. An artist’s loft in a bedraggled former hat factory in the East Village is not a loft in Soho or Tribeca or even a Brian Kinney loft in Pittsburgh. This loft is not picturesque or cutting edge or scenic. It’s a dump.
All one big room with cement floors, chicken wire in the windows, and a single radiator that sizzles more than it heats. When the weather turns, it gets so cold in here, I have to paint in gloves and my oils refuse to mix and adhere in the way they are supposed to mix and adhere. There is no kitchen, just a small office style fridge and a hot plate and coffeemaker. I share a bathroom down the hall with two other lofts. And for this, I pay a fortune.
But it’s a lot of room. I can slap paint around on walls and the floor without guilt. It even makes a decent venue for an exhibition. Did that earlier this month, and made some good sales. As my manager says, a few candles and a cater waiter or two makes any venue palatable. Only now can I afford this kind of space on my own nickel.
I pull on a second pair of socks, some gloves and a wool cap and give the radiator a glance. It hisses at me. Outside the snow is coming down in a solid white sheet. I’ll never get home for Christmas. I’ll let Mom know tomorrow. Maybe I should call Brian and leave a message at his office. That way he won’t be expecting a visit and I won’t have to talk to him. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him, but, lately it’s been awkward between us.
I hate that.
When I was with Matthew, I can understand the tension. Matthew was a jealous bitch and Brian couldn’t stand him. But Matthew is history. I wonder if the tension comes from the fact Brian has someone new in his life? I doubt it. I would have received at least ten calls from Pittsburgh if Brian was seeing someone seriously, and the first one would come from Michael, who has never forgiven me for having the audacity to love his best friend and secret desire.
I don’t miss Michael’s sneering disapproval. I don’t miss much about Pittsburgh except Brian. I miss the way it was with us, even when it was dramatic. This recent distance makes me sad. I don’t know what to do to change it, to at least recapture our friendship. I don’t know why it exists.
I spread my puffy coat over the duvet and climb under this mound of insulation before I pick up the phone and push a button to speed dial his office. I wait for the recording, but then,
“Hello, Kinnetics. This is Ted.”
“Ted? What the hell are you doing there at this hour?”
I hear one of Ted’s deep Eyore sighs. “You just think that President Lincoln signed the proclamation. Not here.”
“Are you working on something important?”
“I’m trying to close the books. Year end, you know? I told Brian I wouldn’t go home until I was finished. I’m on day two right now. I don’t think I’ll survive day three, but death beats the wrath of Brian.”
I smile. “Is he working late, too?”
“If he is, I haven’t been informed. He’s out of town. In fact he’s in New York. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from him. He’s been there all week. They’re filming commercials.”
I’m surprised too, and a little hurt, even if that is unreasonable. “Where’s he staying?”
“That hotel he loves with the big mural in the bar.”
“The St. Regis? He must be doing well.”
“Bushels of it, kid. When he decided he’d stay here and be a big fish in a small pond and specialize in mid-sized clients, it was beyond wisdom. He has built a real boutique industry, known for unusual and cutting edge ads. Even the big boys are coming to him to refresh their images.”
“I’m glad for him, Ted. He deserves it. All of you do.”
“I even have an accounting staff, believe it or not, and a billing department under me. But you know Brian, he doesn’t trust anyone but me to close the books.”
“I’m glad you are there for him.” We both grow quiet. Neither of us mentions how I am not. How I left. Water under the bridge, now. “I was just calling to let him know I won’t be able to get home for Christmas due to the weather.”
“Then he won’t either, Justin. Maybe you two can meet for drinks in the city?” Ted was always the hopeful romantic.
“Yeah, maybe.” I am the cynic. New York makes you that way.
We say goodbye so he can get back to work and I burrow deeper into my lair. Why didn’t he tell me he was here? He knows I broke up with Matthew. Why didn’t I give him my new address? Why does all of this shit still bother me. I wonder if he still wears the ring? That always gripped my heart in a fist. I glance at the receiver and consider calling the hotel, but it’s a ridiculous hour and he’s probably not alone. I know Brian. Maybe in the morning. But then again, maybe not.
WINTER SOULS Chapter 1
St. Regis Hotel, New York City
December 23, 2009, 2:10 a.m.
The actor’s hand moves down my torso towards his target. When he finds it, he gives it a hopeful squeeze. I brush away his grip and roll over on my side, my back a shield to him. At age 38, after a long and stressful day at work in a chilly studio, I am invoking the baseball rule. Three swings and he’s out. At twenty-something, I think he was looking forward to extra innings. God, I must be tired if I am reverting to sports analogies to describe sex.
“You should go before it gets light,” I urge him. “You don’t want to be seen crossing the lobby at dawn.” He is the handsome second lead in a hit television show about idealistic lawyers working in a legal aid clinic in New York City. His earnest image on the show and his youthful good looks makes him the perfect spokesperson for my client. The client’s company is reaching for the youth market and he has become a heart throb to all the adoring young girls who drank the Kool Aid produced by his publicity people who insist he is straight and looking for the right girl. Looking for the right beard, maybe, but I made him as gay after watching ten minutes of his show. Of course, I am the expert.
“You’re not going to send me out in that blizzard are you, Brian?” he leans against me as he laments the bad weather. The stiffness I feel pressing my hip was not induced by cold. I’ve noticed the steady beat of ice and snow against the double paned windows increased in intensity once we got this started.
The chance I’ll get back home by Christmas is fading. I don’t care. There’s no reason to rush back. My son is in Canada with his two mothers. Another Christmas dinner of overcooked lasagna at Deb’s while sharing in the boredom that is Michael and Ben does not appeal. But I’ve been in this hotel for over a week while we filmed multiple commercials and as nice as it is, I miss my own bed.
“I’ll never get a cab in this storm, and I live all the way down in Soho,” he adds to his lament. I knew we should have gone to his place rather than my room. That way, I could control the exit time without the drama.
“The hotel has a fleet of limos on standby,” I reassured him. “Besides, I like to sleep alone. You should go.” I feel the sheets and thick duvet fly off of me with a dramatic flourish. His acting genes are incited by my rejection. I’m sure he’s not accustomed to being sent home, and his little ego is smarting.
“It’s not like I can’t get laid whenever I want,” he proclaims as he zips and buttons himself into his discarded clothes. I realize I am supposed to feel honored to have had some bed time with his exalted self, and I acknowledge that by pulling the purloined covers back over me and turning on my stomach as I tell him,
“Push the Do Not Disturb light on your way out.” The shoot is over. He will be well paid for his time. I no longer have to babysit his ego. It’s done. His final statement is a slammed door. I realize I am no longer mellow and sleepy. I am now wide awake, but blessedly no longer horny.
I sit up, reach for a cigarette, my lighter, the remote control. I search for the weather channel and find out that a blizzard has indeed descended on the city and all airports are closed. I turn it off and fall back on the decadently overstuffed pillows as I smoke in the dark.
I wonder where he is.
Not the actor. Him. The one. Where is he right now? Asleep? Working on a painting? Partying? Having sex? I don’t even know where he lives anymore. Hard to believe how much things could change in four years.
It unraveled slowly, eroded by time and distance. There was no big event. Even after he left our home to chase his dreams in the Big Apple, we remained close for a period of time. I would seek him out on my frequent trips to the city. He would stay with me when he came home to visit his mother and old friends. At first, it was kind of exciting, like we were new again and stealing time to be together. The sex was hot, the partings melancholy.
My business picked up, he found some measure of recognition for his art and time became a premium. Phone calls and texts were fewer. Trips were sporadic. Other people intervened. Boyfriends on his side, some new tricks on mine. The silences between us were sharp when we were in the same room. We had grown apart.
No one’s fault.
It just happened.
And yet….I reach for the gold band on the bedside table and slip it on the little finger of my left hand, where I always wear it. It was to be his wedding ring when we were out of our minds for one brief moment in time. Now I wear it as a talisman, signifying nothing.
And yet...on cold and quiet nights like this, I do miss him. Or I miss us, more accurately. He was the one, the only one, who made it in. I never thought it could work out that way for me, and I was right. But for a blink of time, I had hope, and I was in love. I can admit that now. The pain has receded. I went on with my life, and my life is not bad at all. But there are gaps and he was the only one who filled them.
Even after we grew apart, we remained casual friends. I always knew how to reach him, where he lived. But he moved recently, into a place of his own after leaving his current lover, and he hasn’t yet sent me his contact information. I can always call his cell phone, but I haven’t. I’ve been here a week, and I haven’t even tried to call him. I twist the ring on my finger.
Sad.
Even if something ends, there are so few people in the world we really care about that it makes no sense to lose track of those who mattered most. I should call him. Maybe not now, at this hour, he would accuse me of being drunk, which I am not, and he’s always grumpy when he gets jolted awake. I stub out the cigarette and close my eyes. Maybe tomorrow. I’m trapped here, anyway. Maybe I’ll call him tomorrow. And then again, maybe not.
Manhattan, December 23, 2009, East Village, 3:15 a.m.
I am awakened by the cold. It creeps in despite my long johns, sweat pants, wool socks, a fleece shirt, two blankets and a down comforter. An artist’s loft in a bedraggled former hat factory in the East Village is not a loft in Soho or Tribeca or even a Brian Kinney loft in Pittsburgh. This loft is not picturesque or cutting edge or scenic. It’s a dump.
All one big room with cement floors, chicken wire in the windows, and a single radiator that sizzles more than it heats. When the weather turns, it gets so cold in here, I have to paint in gloves and my oils refuse to mix and adhere in the way they are supposed to mix and adhere. There is no kitchen, just a small office style fridge and a hot plate and coffeemaker. I share a bathroom down the hall with two other lofts. And for this, I pay a fortune.
But it’s a lot of room. I can slap paint around on walls and the floor without guilt. It even makes a decent venue for an exhibition. Did that earlier this month, and made some good sales. As my manager says, a few candles and a cater waiter or two makes any venue palatable. Only now can I afford this kind of space on my own nickel.
I pull on a second pair of socks, some gloves and a wool cap and give the radiator a glance. It hisses at me. Outside the snow is coming down in a solid white sheet. I’ll never get home for Christmas. I’ll let Mom know tomorrow. Maybe I should call Brian and leave a message at his office. That way he won’t be expecting a visit and I won’t have to talk to him. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him, but, lately it’s been awkward between us.
I hate that.
When I was with Matthew, I can understand the tension. Matthew was a jealous bitch and Brian couldn’t stand him. But Matthew is history. I wonder if the tension comes from the fact Brian has someone new in his life? I doubt it. I would have received at least ten calls from Pittsburgh if Brian was seeing someone seriously, and the first one would come from Michael, who has never forgiven me for having the audacity to love his best friend and secret desire.
I don’t miss Michael’s sneering disapproval. I don’t miss much about Pittsburgh except Brian. I miss the way it was with us, even when it was dramatic. This recent distance makes me sad. I don’t know what to do to change it, to at least recapture our friendship. I don’t know why it exists.
I spread my puffy coat over the duvet and climb under this mound of insulation before I pick up the phone and push a button to speed dial his office. I wait for the recording, but then,
“Hello, Kinnetics. This is Ted.”
“Ted? What the hell are you doing there at this hour?”
I hear one of Ted’s deep Eyore sighs. “You just think that President Lincoln signed the proclamation. Not here.”
“Are you working on something important?”
“I’m trying to close the books. Year end, you know? I told Brian I wouldn’t go home until I was finished. I’m on day two right now. I don’t think I’ll survive day three, but death beats the wrath of Brian.”
I smile. “Is he working late, too?”
“If he is, I haven’t been informed. He’s out of town. In fact he’s in New York. I’m surprised you haven’t heard from him. He’s been there all week. They’re filming commercials.”
I’m surprised too, and a little hurt, even if that is unreasonable. “Where’s he staying?”
“That hotel he loves with the big mural in the bar.”
“The St. Regis? He must be doing well.”
“Bushels of it, kid. When he decided he’d stay here and be a big fish in a small pond and specialize in mid-sized clients, it was beyond wisdom. He has built a real boutique industry, known for unusual and cutting edge ads. Even the big boys are coming to him to refresh their images.”
“I’m glad for him, Ted. He deserves it. All of you do.”
“I even have an accounting staff, believe it or not, and a billing department under me. But you know Brian, he doesn’t trust anyone but me to close the books.”
“I’m glad you are there for him.” We both grow quiet. Neither of us mentions how I am not. How I left. Water under the bridge, now. “I was just calling to let him know I won’t be able to get home for Christmas due to the weather.”
“Then he won’t either, Justin. Maybe you two can meet for drinks in the city?” Ted was always the hopeful romantic.
“Yeah, maybe.” I am the cynic. New York makes you that way.
We say goodbye so he can get back to work and I burrow deeper into my lair. Why didn’t he tell me he was here? He knows I broke up with Matthew. Why didn’t I give him my new address? Why does all of this shit still bother me. I wonder if he still wears the ring? That always gripped my heart in a fist. I glance at the receiver and consider calling the hotel, but it’s a ridiculous hour and he’s probably not alone. I know Brian. Maybe in the morning. But then again, maybe not.