(no subject)
Author’s note: This story does contain Slash, just to warn you. So, if that sort of thing offends you, please click on that lovely ‘back’ button overhead. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Thank-you.
Author’s note #2: This story is copyrighted, (Well, you know, the lovely plot is), so, please, if you want to use anything, please contact me at . You can also e-mail me if you want to give me feedback on this story or if you’re just looking for a little human contact. I’m pretty easy to get along with and understanding (not that I’m tooting my own horn or anything. J/K) Thanks. Mucho kissies. ~C.L.M.
Author’s Note #3: This is probably the first fic that has Gilliam as one of the main characters, so I’m probably the first little fanfic writer who is trying to correctly capture Gilliam’s personality here. I’m trying really hard and if I still manage to f*@k that up, I’m sorry. I’m trying to write this while pissing off as few people as possible. Thank ya. Much love. ~C.L.M.
Title: ‘A Token American’s Payback’ by Claudia L. McTavish
Rating: PG-13....for now....
Pairing: Gilliam/Palin
Dedicated to: Moody artists, anti-heroes, and underdogs everywhere. Also, to Jess...again because she always encourages me to do these things...
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Monty Python group in any way, shape, or form. Blah-blah-blah and any of these events, if they ever happened, is purely by coincidence. It’s fiction baby, not non-fiction. Blah-Blah-Blah. I also don’t own anything that Led Zeppelin owns.
__________
A Token American’s Payback
By: Claudia L. McTavish
__________
Chapter One:
Life isn’t fair. Get over it.
__________
I hate Terry Jones. I hate him from the bottom of his cloven hoofs to the tip of his pitchfork. I hate him and I hate him good. It wasn’t always this way though.
Of course, he was the one who started all this, which I find rather odd. We usually got along pretty well until he got the bright idea that he wanted to be the director for our new movie ‘Monty Python and The Holy Grail’. We fought over the job over the course of several days and the producers gave me the green light instead of Jones.
Now that I got the position that he wanted he does not want leave me alone, which makes me sad in a way because I miss the friendship we once had.
He pulls lame pranks on me. He gossips about me like a little girl behind my back. Well, that and he won’t leave me alone about the whole American thing.
He thinks he’s really clever and he’ll mutter so only the other Pythons will hear “Dumb-ass American says what?” to which of course I’ll say ‘What?’ because I’m naive enough to think that he’s actually trying to ask me a question and I didn’t hear it. Then they’ll all laugh except for Michael Palin, who blushes, looks very uncomfortable and whispers, “Jonesy, that wasn’t really funny.” Michael is too quiet though and everyone just goes on laughing.
That’s the main reason why I hate Terry Jones. He has Michael Palin. Before Jones and I started arguing we all used to be a pretty close threesome. Now that Jones and I have been fighting it’s as if we’ve gotten a divorce and Jones got to keep Michael in the settlement.
I’ve had a crush on Michael since the first time I’ve laid eyes on him, unfortunately for me. Yep, I’ve had a crush on him since 1969. Six dam years I’ve spent on this fixation of mine.
The first time that I saw him and thought he was cute didn’t alarm me like it might most people. I was quite used to the idea that I was bi-sexual and it was the swinging sixties after all with liberation, free love, and all that other stuff. That era didn’t really teach anyone shame.
It was his face that charmed me the most. Big hazel eyes, high cheekbones, light freckles sprinkled across his button nose, plump (but imperfect) lips, and fluffy, soft brown hair. Then when his face broke into a brilliant smile I believe I fell for him in that one moment. It lit up his whole face and showed me his heart-melting dimples that he would one day be world famous for.
Of course it had to be his wonderful dam personality that sealed the deal. He’s the sweetest person that I’ve ever met and that’s saying something. He is also so talented that it should be criminal. He is incredibly funny and has such a deliciously dark sense of humor that someone as sweet as him shouldn’t have, but he has it all the same.
You’d think that people like Michael just simply didn’t exist. Then, Bam! One of them falls into your lap and you still can’t have them. No matter how badly you want them.
The only other person who knows about this fixation of mine is Graham Chapman. I was really upset when Michael admitted on the set several years ago that he was finally dating someone after his two-year dry spell.
I was working on the camera at the time and almost dropped it out of shock. I then tried to continue working with the camera, blinking back tears, trying to tell myself that it didn’t matter, I shouldn’t care anyway because I “made” myself get over him that same year. Apparently, I didn’t.
The same night I went to my flat, searched through my cupboard, found a full, really old bottle of tequila and got completely blotto’d. Then, in my sad, pathetic state I made my way to Graham’s flat, figuring he’d be the best one to talk this through with. After all, he was gay, right?
Not really thinking about what I was doing I told Graham everything. The whole pathetic saga over the course of three hours. To Graham’s credit he listened to me the whole time, held me like a good friend would, told me that it was a good thing that I came to him and he could completely relate.
“The problem is Terry,” he finally said to me as I continued to softly sob into his chest, “Michael has never really shown any…er…notion that he might play for the other side, if you know what I mean.”
Sadly, I did know what he meant.
“I mean, I personally always thought that Michael could bend either way. The way that he’s completely passive and feminine, at least to me anyway.” Graham continued thoughtfully, “But he hasn’t made any move towards any guy that I know of. Even then, if he ever did have a crush on some guy, it would probably be Jonesy.”
I stiffened slightly. I hated Graham for it, but I knew he was right about that too. Michael and Jones were inseparable. They’ve been best friends before I came on the scene.
“I just wish I knew. Or I wish I could just get over him.” I hiccupped softly.
“I know.” Graham said back sympathetically. “Boys are so confusing, aren’t they?”
“Oh yes they are,” I said back, “People are dam well confusing.”
“Well Terry, my suggestion is this. Get over him because it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
The problem is that I rarely listen to good advice.
________
I woke up early the next morning, jumped out of bed, put on my old black bomber jacket that my uncle sent me from Minnesota, grabbed my notebooks and tiptoed out of the old country house that was being lent to us by an elderly couple for filming. The cameras were coming in and I wanted to make sure that they were all in working order.
I’m very protective of the cameras, like any crazed director. It’s calming to load the cameras with fresh film, experiment with filters, and capture various moments. Testing them gives you the courage to face another crazy filming week. They’re one of the few bright spots in my life. Well, besides the rare times that Michael talks to me alone.
I walked across the whitewashed, wooden porch and started to walk down the steps when I saw them. Jones and Michael were both sitting on the bottom steps drinking steaming mugs of coffee, apparently engaged in a deep conversation. Of course, I felt a little jittery when I saw the back of Michael’s head, but I glared at Jones’ back as he laughed at something that Michael said. Even though I would never admit it, I was extremely jealous of the close friendship that Jones shared with Michael. Why was Michael close friends with such a jerk?
I took a deep breath to calm myself down and made my way down the steps careful not to look either one of them in the eye. But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t hear them.
“Oh gosh, Jonesy, don’t do it please. Be nice-.”
“Dumb-ass American says what?”
“That’s it!” I whirled around quickly, threw my notebooks down on the ground making as much noise as I could possibly make, and glared at Jones. Michael, embarrassed as usual, covered his eyes with his hand and looked down at the ground.
“You see this?” I continued as I started to rub my hands together several times, “You know what this is?”
“What?” Jones answered back smarmily.
“This is me washing my hands of you. From now on I’m not talking to you. If you want to know what’s going on with the filming you’re going to have to find out from some one else, got it?”
“Bu..bu..-.”
“Good.” I picked up my notebooks, turned around, and headed towards the van holding the camera equipment. I didn’t like being a hard ass, but I wasn’t taking anymore of Jones’ shit either.
________
“Gosh dammit! Who knew this would be so hard!” Of course, it’s always harder then I imagine it will be. Arranging scenes. Rearranging scenes. Making millions of storyboards that soon take up all the seafoam painted walls in my room. Painting on a canvas board incase I need to take out my stress on something, which ends up being a picture of something that seems to be totally acid drenched. There were random pieces of the script strewn about the polished, wooden floor of the room. The room that was lent to me for filming was starting to look more and more like Andy Warhol’s Factory then a peaceful, pastel-colored country room.
My glasses were falling down the edge of my nose. I was in my usual painting clothes, white t-shirt, blue jeans, and steel-toed boots incase I dropped a bucket of paint on them. I was extremely sweaty and basically a total mess. The creative process will take it out of you if you do it right. But at least it’s good exercise.
Knock, knock.
I groaned slightly. I hate it when people interrupt me when I’m trying to organize a film. That and I don’t like to deal with many people. I’m a loner by choice.
“Come in!” I said, my hands still on my hips as I continued to frown at the one storyboard scene that seemed to be giving me trouble.
“Hi Terry. It’s me.” Michael. I felt myself blush again and I turned around slowly. He was standing in the doorway dressed in his dark green, mod, Beatles-esque suit with a skinny tie that made his large hazel eyes stand out even more. He had two ceramic mugs of coffee in his hands. He looked at me, smiled his shy smile, and blushed slightly.
“We’re done with the read-through of the script so I brought you some coffee,” He continued timidly as he handed me one of the mugs and smiled faintly, “I thought you might like some after all the work you’ve been doing.” I couldn’t help but grin back at him as I held the mug in my hands. He’s so sweet, like always.
“Why thank you.” I said back just as softly, “It’s just what I needed.”
We smiled at each other nervously for a few more minutes. I knew he wanted to tell me something, but he just could not get the words out. Me, I just felt like a schoolboy who is afraid to talk to his crush.
“I’m sorry about Jonesy,” Michael finally said, breaking the silence, “He’s been acting like such an asshole lately.” Michael then sat on the edge of my quilt-covered bed and frowned slightly as he sipped his coffee.
“Well, I noticed the asshole part all right. You don’t need to apologize for him.” I finally managed to say as I sit down next to him. I really could have cared less about Jones at that moment. It was the closest I’d ever been to Michael on a personal basis and I wanted to savor every moment of it.
“I feel like I do have to apologize for him though,” Michael continued as he took another sip of his coffee and then looked right into my eyes, “I don’t like how he treats you Terry. I always feel so guilty when I don’t tell him to knock it off.”
“I told him to knock it off so there’s no harm done. See? I’m all right. No need for you to feel bad.”
Michael then smiled at me, put his mug on the oak dresser next to him, and covered my free hand with one of his. I, meanwhile, tried to hide the excitement that was welling up in me.
“That’s nice of you to say Terry, but still, I feel so guilty. That and you and Jonesy were such good friends…I don’t know what happened…” Michael then trailed off, locked his eyes with mine, and squeezed my hand.
I felt myself blush and Michael blushed himself. We continued to stare at each other and hungrily looked at each other’s various parts of the face. I looked at his lips, wishing I could kiss him. He looked at mine. I really wanted to know if he was thinking the same thing that I was. If he was we could just lock the door and I could finally get what I have been longing for for six years…
“Terry, you have blue paint on your cheek.”
Oh dear. I felt my face turn crimson red. I must have gotten carried away with the painting and not noticed.
“Painting?” He asked me kindly.
“Yeah,” I said back as I continued blushing, “Will you excuse me a moment? I should probably wash this off.”
“Of course.”
I got off the bed, placed my mug next to his on the dresser, and made my way to the bathroom. After I wet a washcloth underneath the tap and started to rub off the offending splotch of blue paint Michael was still talking to me.
“So what were you painting?”
“Ummm….it’s kinda hard to explain-.”
“Can I see it then?”
“Sure you can,” I said back, feeling slightly shocked. That was the first time that any of the Pythons had wanted to see any of my paintings, besides the time that John was checking out my work in New York City the first time we met.
I walked out of the bathroom just in time to see Michael look at my painting. It was very serial, like always, done in shades of blues and dark purples. It was a picture of the side of a women’s face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth drawn in a soft, sad smile. There was one solitary tear that flowed down her cheek. Her hair was long, wavy and made up of various stars, moons, planets, galaxies, and other celestial bodies.
“Wow Terry, it’s gorgeous.”
I bit my lip slightly feeling that I didn’t deserve such praise, especially from someone like Michael. It was just something that I did in the spare moment before I felt my head explode, that’s all.
“Well, it’s okay, I guess.”
Michael laughed slightly, turned to look at me, and raised his eyebrow. “It’s just okay? Oh, come off it Terry. It’s brilliant. You and I both know it.”
I shrugged slightly. “I guess it is…sort of.”
Michael then rolled his eyes and playfully hit my shoulder. “Typical artist. Thinks everything he does is crap.”
“Not true!” I tried to argue although I already knew that he was right. I am my own toughest critic and it shows.
“Very true. You needn’t be so humble Terry. This stuff is brilliant. If you got it, flaunt it baby.” He then flashed me a cheesy smile, which caused me to laugh.
“Well sweetheart, I would, but it turns out that I’m just not that kind of guy. In fact, the limelight scares me a little. Maybe because people don’t want a mug like this being illuminated. Unless it was a cheap Neanderthal movie.” I goofily smiled and pointed at my face.
Now, this statement of mine is basically true. I am not the most handsome guy out there. In fact, I’m a bit ugly. I feel that I look like proof that evolution can actually go in reverse all the way back to the stone ages.
When I first started in theatre and film I was going to go into acting. I am a rather good actor too but the fact of the matter is that if you’re not one of the beautiful people you’re not going to go far. Several producers told me at auditions that I was very talented but I just couldn’t make it unless I visited a plastic surgeon.
So I found a job in being an animator, and, now, director instead and I find that I prefer it to acting. I get to draw cartoons all day and my looks are also no longer an occupational hazard that I have to worry about. Yet, when it comes to the dating scene, it’s still the same old story. I am basically unfuckable. Unless you fuck me in a dark room, that is. . .
“Terry, you are not ugly. Stop being so hard on yourself.” Michael said in a concerned way, like when you’re mother is trying to comfort you when you’re five and you skinned your elbow. I smiled at him.
“No mercy comments, please.”
Michael rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “You are not ugly.”
“Well, I’m not exactly Jim Morrison either.” I argued back, but I had a slight smile on my face.
“Neither am I.” Michael said back to me with a small smile. Of course, I think he’s better then Jim Morrison, but I didn’t tell him that. I just opted for smiling at him, blushing, looking down at my shoes, licking my lips, and looking up again. Michael did the same. As we continued to stare at each other I couldn’t help but be amazed that there was actually sexual tension between us. I also found that this tension was driving me crazy.
“Michael, where are you?!”
Dammit. I immediately recognized the voice and by the look on Michael’s face, I knew he did too. It was Jones. Of course he had to walk in the house and wreck the moment for me. Michael rolled his eyes at me and crossed his arms.
“That’d be Jonesy.”
“I see.”
“So, I better go.”
“Yeah…” I trailed off as I examined his body from his shoes all the way to his face, “You better go. Although I enjoyed talking to you-.”
“So did I.” Michael said back to me warmly. His hazel eyes were glittering deliciously and he seemed to not be moving towards the door, as if he didn’t want to leave.
“We’ll have to do this again.”
“We definitely will.” I said back.
“Michael?!”
“That would be Godzilla calling me. See you la’er.”
He then gave my arm a squeeze, flashed me one last smile, and walked out the door.
_________
That night I painted my first remotely happy painting. After talking with Michael that afternoon my happiness was nauseating. I suddenly became the guy that I usually hated. The annoyingly happy one.
“Okay Mr. McSmiley, who exactly told you where my secret stash of pot was? ‘Cuz you’re smiling waay too long and waay too much.” John said to me sarcastically as I was filling up my glass with ice cubes and water in the kitchen.
I smirked as I took a sip of water. “You have pot John? Are you sure it’s not Oregano that your dealer is giving you instead? Because I would figure that if you did smoke pot you’d be a mellower person.”
“Oh piss off!”
I laughed good-naturedly as I walked back up the rickety staircase with my glass of water. I then laughed at myself because I was so fucking happy. I wasn’t feeling sullen, like I usually do feel. I wasn’t feeling any overly powerful emotions. It was such a strange feeling, like walking on air, which is bizarre for a usually morbid, moody artist to feel. It was amazing, but it felt like nothing could spoil my happiness. Or could it?
“Mikey, you gotta listen-.”
“Jonesy, don’t-.”
I paused outside of Michael’s door for obvious reasons. I peeked through the crack in the old whitewashed wooden door. Jones and Michael were arguing.
“Mikey, I just don’t like you hanging around Gilliam-.”
Michael whirled around to face Jones looking very displeased. His face was slightly flushed and his already large hazel eyes were very alert.
“Why don’t you want me to hang around Terry? What do you have against him?”
Jones fell silent.
“Is it because he got that directing job instead of you?”
Jones’ face turned red, as if he was caught in the act, and then he rubbed his face out of agitation.
“No Mikey, that’s not it at all-.”
“Then what is it? You’ve been mean to him Jonesy and I don’t know why.”
“I don’t trust him Mikey. I just don’t want him to use you-.”
“Use me? Why would he use me? For what?”
Jones sighed deeply then looked up at Michael wearily.
“I’ve seen how he looks at you Mike. He likes you, in a gay kinda way-.”
I felt my face go red and Michael’s face went red too. Then he started laughing sarcastically.
“Dear gosh Jonesy! That’s ridiculous! You’re so paranoid-.”
“I’m not kidding Michael!” Jones shouted furiously. He then grabbed Michael’s wrists and pulled Michael down onto the bed that he was sitting on so he could stare Michael in the face. Michael yelped slightly from the pain. I wanted to run in there and tell Jones to fuck off for even laying a finger on Michael but I knew that I need to know whatever Jones was going to say next so I stayed quiet.
“He doesn’t know you half as well as I do!” Jones cried out urgently, still holding onto Michael’s wrists, “He doesn’t care about you as much as I do and he still likes you in that way. I just don’t…I don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
Jones trembled slightly. He then ran his fingers through Michael’s hair causing Michael to shiver faintly and close his eyes. “I don’t want him to get any ideas.”
“Dear gosh Jonesy,” Michael whispered naively as his eyes opened slowly, “I’m glad that you care for me but who says that he likes me like that? He’s always treated me respectfully. Hasn’t made one move on me because he’s a nice guy. I don’t understand why you don’t see that.”
“Please Michael, tell me you won’t spend any more time with him,” Jones then cupped the left side of Michael’s face and rubbed his cheek softly with his thumb, “I care for you Michael.”
“I don’t know Jonesy, I don’t know.”
______
And just like that I became miserable again. Of course, I blamed Jones for this. Michael was probably going to avoid me and it was all because of Jones.
I sat hugging my knees on the window seat in my room, looking out across the country field drenched in violet, ethereal moonlight. I’ve been able to sleep through anything. Storms, loud neighbors when I was staying in a crappy apartment building, sirens… I could sleep through anything. I found that I couldn’t sleep that night.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael and felt horrible about not being about to get rid of these feelings that I had for him. I was also angry with Jones because he made it sound like I was completely shallow when I wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t like I just looked over at Michael one day and thought to myself “Aw, he looks mighty tasty. I so-o want to hit that.” It wasn’t like that at all. I really cared for him and that’s what made this so much harder for me in the end. Michael was probably never going to talk to me.
I know I was being melodramatic in a way, but I just felt terrible. I started to cry softly into my arms and knees. A spring of warm, salt water tears made wet patches on my jeans as I continued to hiccup (and simultaneously lecture myself) about how horribly unfair life was and how I needed to get over it. Instead of making me feel better this just made me cry more.
Author’s note #2: This story is copyrighted, (Well, you know, the lovely plot is), so, please, if you want to use anything, please contact me at . You can also e-mail me if you want to give me feedback on this story or if you’re just looking for a little human contact. I’m pretty easy to get along with and understanding (not that I’m tooting my own horn or anything. J/K) Thanks. Mucho kissies. ~C.L.M.
Author’s Note #3: This is probably the first fic that has Gilliam as one of the main characters, so I’m probably the first little fanfic writer who is trying to correctly capture Gilliam’s personality here. I’m trying really hard and if I still manage to f*@k that up, I’m sorry. I’m trying to write this while pissing off as few people as possible. Thank ya. Much love. ~C.L.M.
Title: ‘A Token American’s Payback’ by Claudia L. McTavish
Rating: PG-13....for now....
Pairing: Gilliam/Palin
Dedicated to: Moody artists, anti-heroes, and underdogs everywhere. Also, to Jess...again because she always encourages me to do these things...
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Monty Python group in any way, shape, or form. Blah-blah-blah and any of these events, if they ever happened, is purely by coincidence. It’s fiction baby, not non-fiction. Blah-Blah-Blah. I also don’t own anything that Led Zeppelin owns.
__________
A Token American’s Payback
By: Claudia L. McTavish
__________
Chapter One:
Life isn’t fair. Get over it.
__________
I hate Terry Jones. I hate him from the bottom of his cloven hoofs to the tip of his pitchfork. I hate him and I hate him good. It wasn’t always this way though.
Of course, he was the one who started all this, which I find rather odd. We usually got along pretty well until he got the bright idea that he wanted to be the director for our new movie ‘Monty Python and The Holy Grail’. We fought over the job over the course of several days and the producers gave me the green light instead of Jones.
Now that I got the position that he wanted he does not want leave me alone, which makes me sad in a way because I miss the friendship we once had.
He pulls lame pranks on me. He gossips about me like a little girl behind my back. Well, that and he won’t leave me alone about the whole American thing.
He thinks he’s really clever and he’ll mutter so only the other Pythons will hear “Dumb-ass American says what?” to which of course I’ll say ‘What?’ because I’m naive enough to think that he’s actually trying to ask me a question and I didn’t hear it. Then they’ll all laugh except for Michael Palin, who blushes, looks very uncomfortable and whispers, “Jonesy, that wasn’t really funny.” Michael is too quiet though and everyone just goes on laughing.
That’s the main reason why I hate Terry Jones. He has Michael Palin. Before Jones and I started arguing we all used to be a pretty close threesome. Now that Jones and I have been fighting it’s as if we’ve gotten a divorce and Jones got to keep Michael in the settlement.
I’ve had a crush on Michael since the first time I’ve laid eyes on him, unfortunately for me. Yep, I’ve had a crush on him since 1969. Six dam years I’ve spent on this fixation of mine.
The first time that I saw him and thought he was cute didn’t alarm me like it might most people. I was quite used to the idea that I was bi-sexual and it was the swinging sixties after all with liberation, free love, and all that other stuff. That era didn’t really teach anyone shame.
It was his face that charmed me the most. Big hazel eyes, high cheekbones, light freckles sprinkled across his button nose, plump (but imperfect) lips, and fluffy, soft brown hair. Then when his face broke into a brilliant smile I believe I fell for him in that one moment. It lit up his whole face and showed me his heart-melting dimples that he would one day be world famous for.
Of course it had to be his wonderful dam personality that sealed the deal. He’s the sweetest person that I’ve ever met and that’s saying something. He is also so talented that it should be criminal. He is incredibly funny and has such a deliciously dark sense of humor that someone as sweet as him shouldn’t have, but he has it all the same.
You’d think that people like Michael just simply didn’t exist. Then, Bam! One of them falls into your lap and you still can’t have them. No matter how badly you want them.
The only other person who knows about this fixation of mine is Graham Chapman. I was really upset when Michael admitted on the set several years ago that he was finally dating someone after his two-year dry spell.
I was working on the camera at the time and almost dropped it out of shock. I then tried to continue working with the camera, blinking back tears, trying to tell myself that it didn’t matter, I shouldn’t care anyway because I “made” myself get over him that same year. Apparently, I didn’t.
The same night I went to my flat, searched through my cupboard, found a full, really old bottle of tequila and got completely blotto’d. Then, in my sad, pathetic state I made my way to Graham’s flat, figuring he’d be the best one to talk this through with. After all, he was gay, right?
Not really thinking about what I was doing I told Graham everything. The whole pathetic saga over the course of three hours. To Graham’s credit he listened to me the whole time, held me like a good friend would, told me that it was a good thing that I came to him and he could completely relate.
“The problem is Terry,” he finally said to me as I continued to softly sob into his chest, “Michael has never really shown any…er…notion that he might play for the other side, if you know what I mean.”
Sadly, I did know what he meant.
“I mean, I personally always thought that Michael could bend either way. The way that he’s completely passive and feminine, at least to me anyway.” Graham continued thoughtfully, “But he hasn’t made any move towards any guy that I know of. Even then, if he ever did have a crush on some guy, it would probably be Jonesy.”
I stiffened slightly. I hated Graham for it, but I knew he was right about that too. Michael and Jones were inseparable. They’ve been best friends before I came on the scene.
“I just wish I knew. Or I wish I could just get over him.” I hiccupped softly.
“I know.” Graham said back sympathetically. “Boys are so confusing, aren’t they?”
“Oh yes they are,” I said back, “People are dam well confusing.”
“Well Terry, my suggestion is this. Get over him because it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
The problem is that I rarely listen to good advice.
________
I woke up early the next morning, jumped out of bed, put on my old black bomber jacket that my uncle sent me from Minnesota, grabbed my notebooks and tiptoed out of the old country house that was being lent to us by an elderly couple for filming. The cameras were coming in and I wanted to make sure that they were all in working order.
I’m very protective of the cameras, like any crazed director. It’s calming to load the cameras with fresh film, experiment with filters, and capture various moments. Testing them gives you the courage to face another crazy filming week. They’re one of the few bright spots in my life. Well, besides the rare times that Michael talks to me alone.
I walked across the whitewashed, wooden porch and started to walk down the steps when I saw them. Jones and Michael were both sitting on the bottom steps drinking steaming mugs of coffee, apparently engaged in a deep conversation. Of course, I felt a little jittery when I saw the back of Michael’s head, but I glared at Jones’ back as he laughed at something that Michael said. Even though I would never admit it, I was extremely jealous of the close friendship that Jones shared with Michael. Why was Michael close friends with such a jerk?
I took a deep breath to calm myself down and made my way down the steps careful not to look either one of them in the eye. But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t hear them.
“Oh gosh, Jonesy, don’t do it please. Be nice-.”
“Dumb-ass American says what?”
“That’s it!” I whirled around quickly, threw my notebooks down on the ground making as much noise as I could possibly make, and glared at Jones. Michael, embarrassed as usual, covered his eyes with his hand and looked down at the ground.
“You see this?” I continued as I started to rub my hands together several times, “You know what this is?”
“What?” Jones answered back smarmily.
“This is me washing my hands of you. From now on I’m not talking to you. If you want to know what’s going on with the filming you’re going to have to find out from some one else, got it?”
“Bu..bu..-.”
“Good.” I picked up my notebooks, turned around, and headed towards the van holding the camera equipment. I didn’t like being a hard ass, but I wasn’t taking anymore of Jones’ shit either.
________
“Gosh dammit! Who knew this would be so hard!” Of course, it’s always harder then I imagine it will be. Arranging scenes. Rearranging scenes. Making millions of storyboards that soon take up all the seafoam painted walls in my room. Painting on a canvas board incase I need to take out my stress on something, which ends up being a picture of something that seems to be totally acid drenched. There were random pieces of the script strewn about the polished, wooden floor of the room. The room that was lent to me for filming was starting to look more and more like Andy Warhol’s Factory then a peaceful, pastel-colored country room.
My glasses were falling down the edge of my nose. I was in my usual painting clothes, white t-shirt, blue jeans, and steel-toed boots incase I dropped a bucket of paint on them. I was extremely sweaty and basically a total mess. The creative process will take it out of you if you do it right. But at least it’s good exercise.
Knock, knock.
I groaned slightly. I hate it when people interrupt me when I’m trying to organize a film. That and I don’t like to deal with many people. I’m a loner by choice.
“Come in!” I said, my hands still on my hips as I continued to frown at the one storyboard scene that seemed to be giving me trouble.
“Hi Terry. It’s me.” Michael. I felt myself blush again and I turned around slowly. He was standing in the doorway dressed in his dark green, mod, Beatles-esque suit with a skinny tie that made his large hazel eyes stand out even more. He had two ceramic mugs of coffee in his hands. He looked at me, smiled his shy smile, and blushed slightly.
“We’re done with the read-through of the script so I brought you some coffee,” He continued timidly as he handed me one of the mugs and smiled faintly, “I thought you might like some after all the work you’ve been doing.” I couldn’t help but grin back at him as I held the mug in my hands. He’s so sweet, like always.
“Why thank you.” I said back just as softly, “It’s just what I needed.”
We smiled at each other nervously for a few more minutes. I knew he wanted to tell me something, but he just could not get the words out. Me, I just felt like a schoolboy who is afraid to talk to his crush.
“I’m sorry about Jonesy,” Michael finally said, breaking the silence, “He’s been acting like such an asshole lately.” Michael then sat on the edge of my quilt-covered bed and frowned slightly as he sipped his coffee.
“Well, I noticed the asshole part all right. You don’t need to apologize for him.” I finally managed to say as I sit down next to him. I really could have cared less about Jones at that moment. It was the closest I’d ever been to Michael on a personal basis and I wanted to savor every moment of it.
“I feel like I do have to apologize for him though,” Michael continued as he took another sip of his coffee and then looked right into my eyes, “I don’t like how he treats you Terry. I always feel so guilty when I don’t tell him to knock it off.”
“I told him to knock it off so there’s no harm done. See? I’m all right. No need for you to feel bad.”
Michael then smiled at me, put his mug on the oak dresser next to him, and covered my free hand with one of his. I, meanwhile, tried to hide the excitement that was welling up in me.
“That’s nice of you to say Terry, but still, I feel so guilty. That and you and Jonesy were such good friends…I don’t know what happened…” Michael then trailed off, locked his eyes with mine, and squeezed my hand.
I felt myself blush and Michael blushed himself. We continued to stare at each other and hungrily looked at each other’s various parts of the face. I looked at his lips, wishing I could kiss him. He looked at mine. I really wanted to know if he was thinking the same thing that I was. If he was we could just lock the door and I could finally get what I have been longing for for six years…
“Terry, you have blue paint on your cheek.”
Oh dear. I felt my face turn crimson red. I must have gotten carried away with the painting and not noticed.
“Painting?” He asked me kindly.
“Yeah,” I said back as I continued blushing, “Will you excuse me a moment? I should probably wash this off.”
“Of course.”
I got off the bed, placed my mug next to his on the dresser, and made my way to the bathroom. After I wet a washcloth underneath the tap and started to rub off the offending splotch of blue paint Michael was still talking to me.
“So what were you painting?”
“Ummm….it’s kinda hard to explain-.”
“Can I see it then?”
“Sure you can,” I said back, feeling slightly shocked. That was the first time that any of the Pythons had wanted to see any of my paintings, besides the time that John was checking out my work in New York City the first time we met.
I walked out of the bathroom just in time to see Michael look at my painting. It was very serial, like always, done in shades of blues and dark purples. It was a picture of the side of a women’s face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth drawn in a soft, sad smile. There was one solitary tear that flowed down her cheek. Her hair was long, wavy and made up of various stars, moons, planets, galaxies, and other celestial bodies.
“Wow Terry, it’s gorgeous.”
I bit my lip slightly feeling that I didn’t deserve such praise, especially from someone like Michael. It was just something that I did in the spare moment before I felt my head explode, that’s all.
“Well, it’s okay, I guess.”
Michael laughed slightly, turned to look at me, and raised his eyebrow. “It’s just okay? Oh, come off it Terry. It’s brilliant. You and I both know it.”
I shrugged slightly. “I guess it is…sort of.”
Michael then rolled his eyes and playfully hit my shoulder. “Typical artist. Thinks everything he does is crap.”
“Not true!” I tried to argue although I already knew that he was right. I am my own toughest critic and it shows.
“Very true. You needn’t be so humble Terry. This stuff is brilliant. If you got it, flaunt it baby.” He then flashed me a cheesy smile, which caused me to laugh.
“Well sweetheart, I would, but it turns out that I’m just not that kind of guy. In fact, the limelight scares me a little. Maybe because people don’t want a mug like this being illuminated. Unless it was a cheap Neanderthal movie.” I goofily smiled and pointed at my face.
Now, this statement of mine is basically true. I am not the most handsome guy out there. In fact, I’m a bit ugly. I feel that I look like proof that evolution can actually go in reverse all the way back to the stone ages.
When I first started in theatre and film I was going to go into acting. I am a rather good actor too but the fact of the matter is that if you’re not one of the beautiful people you’re not going to go far. Several producers told me at auditions that I was very talented but I just couldn’t make it unless I visited a plastic surgeon.
So I found a job in being an animator, and, now, director instead and I find that I prefer it to acting. I get to draw cartoons all day and my looks are also no longer an occupational hazard that I have to worry about. Yet, when it comes to the dating scene, it’s still the same old story. I am basically unfuckable. Unless you fuck me in a dark room, that is. . .
“Terry, you are not ugly. Stop being so hard on yourself.” Michael said in a concerned way, like when you’re mother is trying to comfort you when you’re five and you skinned your elbow. I smiled at him.
“No mercy comments, please.”
Michael rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “You are not ugly.”
“Well, I’m not exactly Jim Morrison either.” I argued back, but I had a slight smile on my face.
“Neither am I.” Michael said back to me with a small smile. Of course, I think he’s better then Jim Morrison, but I didn’t tell him that. I just opted for smiling at him, blushing, looking down at my shoes, licking my lips, and looking up again. Michael did the same. As we continued to stare at each other I couldn’t help but be amazed that there was actually sexual tension between us. I also found that this tension was driving me crazy.
“Michael, where are you?!”
Dammit. I immediately recognized the voice and by the look on Michael’s face, I knew he did too. It was Jones. Of course he had to walk in the house and wreck the moment for me. Michael rolled his eyes at me and crossed his arms.
“That’d be Jonesy.”
“I see.”
“So, I better go.”
“Yeah…” I trailed off as I examined his body from his shoes all the way to his face, “You better go. Although I enjoyed talking to you-.”
“So did I.” Michael said back to me warmly. His hazel eyes were glittering deliciously and he seemed to not be moving towards the door, as if he didn’t want to leave.
“We’ll have to do this again.”
“We definitely will.” I said back.
“Michael?!”
“That would be Godzilla calling me. See you la’er.”
He then gave my arm a squeeze, flashed me one last smile, and walked out the door.
_________
That night I painted my first remotely happy painting. After talking with Michael that afternoon my happiness was nauseating. I suddenly became the guy that I usually hated. The annoyingly happy one.
“Okay Mr. McSmiley, who exactly told you where my secret stash of pot was? ‘Cuz you’re smiling waay too long and waay too much.” John said to me sarcastically as I was filling up my glass with ice cubes and water in the kitchen.
I smirked as I took a sip of water. “You have pot John? Are you sure it’s not Oregano that your dealer is giving you instead? Because I would figure that if you did smoke pot you’d be a mellower person.”
“Oh piss off!”
I laughed good-naturedly as I walked back up the rickety staircase with my glass of water. I then laughed at myself because I was so fucking happy. I wasn’t feeling sullen, like I usually do feel. I wasn’t feeling any overly powerful emotions. It was such a strange feeling, like walking on air, which is bizarre for a usually morbid, moody artist to feel. It was amazing, but it felt like nothing could spoil my happiness. Or could it?
“Mikey, you gotta listen-.”
“Jonesy, don’t-.”
I paused outside of Michael’s door for obvious reasons. I peeked through the crack in the old whitewashed wooden door. Jones and Michael were arguing.
“Mikey, I just don’t like you hanging around Gilliam-.”
Michael whirled around to face Jones looking very displeased. His face was slightly flushed and his already large hazel eyes were very alert.
“Why don’t you want me to hang around Terry? What do you have against him?”
Jones fell silent.
“Is it because he got that directing job instead of you?”
Jones’ face turned red, as if he was caught in the act, and then he rubbed his face out of agitation.
“No Mikey, that’s not it at all-.”
“Then what is it? You’ve been mean to him Jonesy and I don’t know why.”
“I don’t trust him Mikey. I just don’t want him to use you-.”
“Use me? Why would he use me? For what?”
Jones sighed deeply then looked up at Michael wearily.
“I’ve seen how he looks at you Mike. He likes you, in a gay kinda way-.”
I felt my face go red and Michael’s face went red too. Then he started laughing sarcastically.
“Dear gosh Jonesy! That’s ridiculous! You’re so paranoid-.”
“I’m not kidding Michael!” Jones shouted furiously. He then grabbed Michael’s wrists and pulled Michael down onto the bed that he was sitting on so he could stare Michael in the face. Michael yelped slightly from the pain. I wanted to run in there and tell Jones to fuck off for even laying a finger on Michael but I knew that I need to know whatever Jones was going to say next so I stayed quiet.
“He doesn’t know you half as well as I do!” Jones cried out urgently, still holding onto Michael’s wrists, “He doesn’t care about you as much as I do and he still likes you in that way. I just don’t…I don’t…”
“Don’t what?”
Jones trembled slightly. He then ran his fingers through Michael’s hair causing Michael to shiver faintly and close his eyes. “I don’t want him to get any ideas.”
“Dear gosh Jonesy,” Michael whispered naively as his eyes opened slowly, “I’m glad that you care for me but who says that he likes me like that? He’s always treated me respectfully. Hasn’t made one move on me because he’s a nice guy. I don’t understand why you don’t see that.”
“Please Michael, tell me you won’t spend any more time with him,” Jones then cupped the left side of Michael’s face and rubbed his cheek softly with his thumb, “I care for you Michael.”
“I don’t know Jonesy, I don’t know.”
______
And just like that I became miserable again. Of course, I blamed Jones for this. Michael was probably going to avoid me and it was all because of Jones.
I sat hugging my knees on the window seat in my room, looking out across the country field drenched in violet, ethereal moonlight. I’ve been able to sleep through anything. Storms, loud neighbors when I was staying in a crappy apartment building, sirens… I could sleep through anything. I found that I couldn’t sleep that night.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael and felt horrible about not being about to get rid of these feelings that I had for him. I was also angry with Jones because he made it sound like I was completely shallow when I wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t like I just looked over at Michael one day and thought to myself “Aw, he looks mighty tasty. I so-o want to hit that.” It wasn’t like that at all. I really cared for him and that’s what made this so much harder for me in the end. Michael was probably never going to talk to me.
I know I was being melodramatic in a way, but I just felt terrible. I started to cry softly into my arms and knees. A spring of warm, salt water tears made wet patches on my jeans as I continued to hiccup (and simultaneously lecture myself) about how horribly unfair life was and how I needed to get over it. Instead of making me feel better this just made me cry more.