Beyond the Yellow Brick Road-Chapter 42-Surrogates-Part 1/4
BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 42-SURROGATES-PART 1/4
ZEEK ZIRROLLI'S POV
here I am
the one that you love
The headline on the front page of the New York Times that Friday morning, April 8, 2011, was one you expected but that did nothing to lessen its impact when you read it:
New York’s Finest Plead Guilty: No Denial, No Trial
You tossed away everything but the first few pages, folded them, and stuck them in your interior suit pocket, and when you walked into Mama Zirrolli's at eight a.m. to find your little brother slinging hash in his suit pants, an old t-shirt of yours, and his trusty apron, he only had one question for you, “Who tied your tie?”
“Lana,” you said, pulling a stool up to the cash register island. “Coffee ready?” Gabe pointed his spatula at the coffee pot and declared, “So that's where you were last night.”
“That's where I was,” you confirmed for him, sitting down with your very hot mug.
“Rube called you six times.”
“I know.”
“I ended up talking to him for forty-five minutes because you wouldn't answer your fucking phone.”
“I was busy.”
“Busy,” Gabe repeated as if it was the vilest word in the English language.
“It’s your fault. If you hadn't given Trinity my fucking phone number, I probably wouldn't have been out so late.”
“You just said you were with Lana.”
“Did I say it was a private party?”
*********************
roses are red
some diamonds are blue
chivalry is dead
but you're still kinda cute
And, indeed, it wasn't...
The night before, well, you'd tried to do the right thing. You knew what kind of mood you were in when you showed up at Lana's watering hole for the second day in a row knowing that if you showed just the slightest bit of emotional unrest, her personal watering hole would be a welcome shelter for your dick in the very foreseeable future. She smiled when you saw you walk in; you were soaked to the bone from the endless rain. She was pouring-and smiling-before you even sat all the way down. “You're soaking wet,” she said as she handed you a double shot of some top shelf whiskey. “I'm kind of hoping to say that to you later,” you said as you took it from her. No need to beat around the bush when the bush was just as happy to be there as you were. “I get off in an hour and a half,” she replied. “Then so will I,” you said with a smile. The bar was crowded and noisy; no one wanted to venture out into the rain, and it was so loud that you never heard your cell phone ring. At one point in the evening, you went to use the restroom, and in that quieter echo chamber, it beeped at you until you flipped it open. There were nine calls: six from Rube and three from a number you didn't recognize. You called it and were greeted by a chirpy little voice that sounded vaguely familiar...
“Hello?”
“This is Zeek; who is this?” you asked.
“It's Trinity...from police--”
“How'd you get my number?”
“Your brother.”
You pondered that for a few seconds and decided you didn't really care, “Yeah, whatcha need?”
“Well... it's really late now...but...I was wondering if....” You wanted to tell her to cut to the chase, but women don't like that when you first meet them, so you waited patiently, staring at the crappy ceiling in the bathroom, “...Wondering if you wanted to have dinner.”
“I already ate.”
“Well, so did I, actually.... I mean, it's so late now....”
You looked at your phone, “Shit, it's eleven thirty.”
“Where are you?”
.......
With your foot propping open the back door of the bar’s kitchen, you pondered what you were about to propose to Lana while you smoked a cigarette. When you returned to your stool, Lana was way at the other end of the bar, but she eventually saw you and pulled herself away from the scores of drunks clamoring for her attention and made it back to you. She took one look at you and asked, “What's up? You okay?”
“You up for anything tonight?” you asked her.
“What happens if I say 'no?'”
“It'd be like old times...you know.....”
“How old?” she asked, leaning on the bar at that point; you could see right down her shirt.
“Dangerously old,” you told her.
Lana got a twinkle in her eye, “'Old' like pretty little artist with long, honey-colored hair and no boundaries...?”
“Same show, different actress,” you said.
“Who?”
“Police chief's sec--,” you responded and before you could say anything else there was a hand on your arm; you turned to your left and there was Trinity, looking much less prissy than she had earlier that day. Her hair was down; her shirt wet; her smile beguiling. You introduced her, “Lana, this is Trinity. Trinity, Lana.”
“Hi,” Trinity said. Lana smiled at Trinity, filled her drink order, and then smiled at you and said, “Let me wrap things up.” You put your arm around Trinity's waist and said, “Drink up.”
“So I guess it is too late for dinner,” Trinity said as she picked up her glass.
“Yeah...,” you agreed, “But there's always desert.”
*********************
you’re still the same
Gabe slammed your breakfast down in front of you. “You fucked her? The chief's assistant? The man who’s doing a major favor for us today?”
“Well, I wasn't the only one,” you offered.
“What in the holy hell is wrong with you?”
“Your vagina is twice as big as your dick, you know that, 'Cakes? She had no problem with it. This isn't nineteen fifty-five as much as you wish it was, and besides, I was a total gentleman; I let them get it on first.”
Gabe cracked another egg and threw away the yoke instead of the shell, you were so far under his skin, “Goddamnit. She's going to be there today; the chief’s going to be there today. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Only you could meet a girl named 'Trinity,' and coax her into a three-way.”
“I told her it was her birth right.”
Gabe tossed his spatula in the sink and sat down across from you, “Unfuckingbelievable.”
“I know; it was like I had my own little ass menagerie.”
Gabe stuck his fork in your face, “It's called a 'ménage à trois,' you dolt.”
“It’s called me and my dick and an all-night pass at Great Ass-venture, and let me reassure you, ‘Cakes, it doesn’t get any better than that.”
*********************
DANNY CARTWRIGHT'S POV
I’m findin’ it hard to believe we’re in heaven
When you’re alive, you get through each day, each challenge you face, convincing yourself that death is the ultimate relief, but you’d found no relief in this place you found yourself dead in. You’d been bored, restless, surprised, and confused. Relief seemed to be a foreign concept in the AfterDeath, but you weren’t willing to give up the ghost completely, although a dead man hanging onto hope certainly should’ve crossed over wearing an “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt that had an arrow pointing up. Your walking and walking and walking was coming to an end again, and there you were in front of:
Door Number One.
You stood there with Tate and Madeline, outside the closed gray door, and waited. Madeline was fifteen. She'd become unruly and then an emotional wreck, and then started her period, and then started doing cartwheels and handsprings down the halls, and then she became interested in you...
“She's just like her mother,” Tate said, “And her mother is just like her mother. If I had a dime for every doctor Ruth batted her eyelashes at, I'd be one rich zombie.”
“It's just... She's fifteen.”
“Her mother and your son--”
“They're married?” you asked.
Tate laughed at you, “Hell, no. Your son's a fairy.” And when she saw the look on your face, she revised her statement, “I'm sorry, I mean he's one of those homosexuals.”
“He's gay?”
“You didn't know that, did you?” she asked.
“He was a kid when I--”
“Shit, shit, shit. See, that's my fault. I'm sorry. We haven't found the remote yet; I shouldn't have told you that.” You'd stopped walking at that point and were just leaning against the corridor wall. “Danny, come on,” Tate urged you.
“I don't want him to be gay,” you said. Tate called ahead to Madeline and asked her to do her gymnastics in one spot for a while; she agreed and you kept hearing her feet smack the ground every few seconds. “I don't want to go any further,” you told her. “I don't want to see anything.”
“Well, that doesn't matter; you have to.”
“No, I don't. I'll just stay here. I'm in a fucking hospital. I have everything I need,” you told your post-mortem tour guide.
But then she broke the bad news to you, “This place isn't really a hospital, Danny. It isn't really anything, and even if Madeline and I were physically able to walk away from you, which were not, it wouldn't stay this way. It would go away.”
“Why?”
“Because it's only here as a means to a means.”
“You mean a 'means to an end.'”
“No, I meant what I said. There is no end, at least not one that I've ever seen.”
“Screw it; I don't care.”
Tate walked to the other side of the hall and leaned against the wall, “Let me explain something to you about being dead-the only difference between being up here and down there is that down there you had control over what you did and up here you don't.”
“So?”
“So you're going to feel the same things, want the same things, need the same things-only you can't control how you resolve those feelings or get what you want or need. The only thing you can do is go with the flow; that's the only choice you have and the best option to get you where you think you need to be.”
“TATE, DANNY, CHECK ME OUT!” you heard next, and Madeline came barreling down the corridor showing off her roundoff double back handspring back-flip and her picture perfect landing, and Tate shook her head at the teen, “Girl, it's a good thing your ass is already dead 'cause you're about to kill yourself.”
“I'm awesome,” she said.
“You ready to walk?” Tate asked you, and you nodded your head, and Madeline took off again. A few minutes later, you looked up and she was twirling two batons.
“Where the hell she'd get those?” you ask Tate.
“Zombie flea market, I guess,” Tate sighed.
......
On your way to Door Number One, you asked Tate what else she knew about your son, and she was reluctant to say anything, but finally, she gave in-sort of. “Look, I'm not gonna tell you too much about him because that gets everything out of order. All I'm gonna say is that I thought at first that you were him because--”
“Because why?” you asked.
“Because one of his friends, Alan, is up here...because he was just murdered in front of your son's home.”
“Because he was gay?” you asked.
Tate seemed exasperated, “Look, I know you died in the eighties and all, but not everything in life-or death-has to do with being gay, okay?”
“Okay, I'm sorry; I just don't understand.”
“He was murdered real bad, and your son found him...”
“Who killed him?”
“Cops.”
“Why?”
“Your son is a rich shrink; Alan was homeless, and they were friends. Maybe that pissed them off or something. Hell if I know.”
“My son's a doctor?”
“Yep, a very gay, very rich doctor.” She turned her head, put her hand on your arm and stopped your forward motion, “Now, you're not so upset about the fairy part, are you?”
“I'm so proud of him,” you gushed.
“He still likes to give blow jobs.”
“Shut up.”
And by that point, you could see Madeline up ahead standing still in front of a closed door, and as you and Tate got closer, she was visibly distressed. Tate reached out and put her hand on the girl's forehead, “She's burning up.”
“Somebody's in there,” Madeline said as she touched the metal handle on the door and the heat was obvious in her hand; she immediately let go. “You open it, Tate.”
Tate gave both you and Madeline a wary look and then touched the door knob. “It's not hot to me,” she said as she turned it and then peeked inside. “Oh good lord, Jesus,” she whispered and she pulled it shut again.
“What? What is it?” you asked.
“The remote's in there,” Tate said as if she was rendering bad news.
“Well, go get it,” you said.
“Your wife is in there, too,” she said.
“Emma?”
“Yeah.”
“I don't really want to see her,” you admitted, feeling guilty, “I mean, maybe not right now.”
“No, you don't,” Tate said, “'Cause she ain't in there by herself.”
Madeline leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and her entire body started to glow. And then a sly, serene smile covered her face; her eyes closed. “It's an orgy,” she said, the way one fantasizes about eating a bag of Hershey’s kisses.
“With who?” you asked.
Tate pushed Madeline away from the door as she informed youu, “Emma, her best friend, Sandra, a Ronald Reagan impersonator, and Orville Redenbacher.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna get that clicker; it's on the bed frame, and then I'm gonna get the hell out of there. Do not follow me in there Madeline.”
“It feels good,” she moaned.
“You listen to me, Maddie. It probably does, but you don't want your first time to be with a man who probably only needs three minutes in a microwave to pop, got it?”
And then the three of you heard a voice from the other side of the gray door; it was Emma's:
“Oh, Mr. Redenbacher, tear down my walls!”
‘Reagan's’: “There you go again.”
“Or my name isn't Sandra Lynn Massey!”
You threw up in your mouth.
“Cover me!” Tate said as she bolted inside. When she returned a few seconds later, slamming the door behind her, she was winded and disheveled. “Here,” she said, slapping the remote in your hand.
It was covered in butter.
You looked up at Madeline who was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette; she glanced at you as she exhaled; her shirt had gotten tighter, her voice has gotten smoother; “So Danny, was it good for you, too?”
*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
he’s a real nowhere man
Waking up that Friday morning, the day of Alan’s funeral, wasn’t easy. In fact, you tried to avoid it for as long as you could. The guest room in the suite was dark thanks to its heavy, tacky curtains and Brian was right beside you, sound asleep on his stomach. You pulled the sheets off of him-albeit rather slowly--so you could stare at his body, and then you felt guilty because he might get cold, so you covered him back up and lay right beside him. His eyes fluttered for a few seconds. You kissed his bicep and gazed at his face.
…..
You sighed.
……
You rolled on your other side and tried to go back to sleep and that’s when he reached out, snatched you and pulled you back against him. “Where are you going?” he asked, his words branding the inquiry behind your ear.
“Nowhere, I guess,” you admitted, the significance of his question and your answer yet to make itself relevant.
His hand moved slowly up your back, his fingers eventually combing through your hair as he kissed the back of your neck. “How long ‘till we have to get up?”
“Doesn’t matter,” you said, “We’re not going.”
*********************
JONATHON MASSEY'S POV
and she’s taking off her dress
Harper invited you into her bedroom that morning when you made it clear that you'd come to see her, so you sat in an winged-back chair by the window, staring out of it when she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. “I really wish you wouldn't do that,” you told her, but she didn't care what you wanted-not one bit--as she picked the pooled fabric off the floor and reintroduced it to a hanger. She wasn't completely undressed; she was wearing a slip of some sort--something old and stained-as she stood in front of her closet exchanging one dress for another.
“I can't make up my mind,” she said.
“Was that your mother's?” you asked, meaning the creamy aged nylon coating covering her body. Years of knowing her and Daniel and you knew that therapy for Harper is whenever and wherever she wants it...and free.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is this the first time you've worn it?” you asked her.
“Yes, it is.”
Amelia toddled in with her cereal spoon in her left hand and questioned her mother, “Mommy?”
“You're supposed to eat breakfast at the table, Amelia.”
“But I hafta... I already knowed that... I hafta--”
“You have to what?” Harper asked her.
“I'm 'upposed to wear a leckness today 'cause it's a lock... and you're 'upposed to lock it.”
“Yes, you are, but you have to finish your breakfast first, then get dressed, and then I'll put the necklace on for you.”
“'Cause I'm 'upposed to,” Amelia reiterated.
“It's a 'locket,' Amelia,” Harper stressed. “One word... locket.”
“I already knowed that it's a lock 'cause you lock it 'cause I already knowed that.”
“Okay, well if you already know that, then why aren't you in the kitchen with your father finishing your breakfast?”
Amelia looked at her spoon and then at you, and you shrugged your shoulders, so she turned back to her mother, her tiny sticky hand reaching out and touching Harper's thigh and, therefore, the slip Harper was wearing; her eyes widened as she touched it as if it had magical powers. “'Cause...'cause you're so 'squisite, Mommy....and Daddy....,” and then she reached out and wrapped both of her arms around Harper's legs and hugged them, “'Cause Daddy F- 'Cause Daddy F-C-U... F-U-C-K you in that bery pretty dress.”
“Sam!”
You made a mental note to buy Amelia a very tiny couch for her birthday.
*********************
BRIAN'S POV
don’t need no baggage
just get on board
Justin’s announcement had taken you off guard. He was ready to move on, ostensibly to get his morning fuck right on schedule, but his abrupt change of plans had made you lose interest. He turned to face you, maybe to see what the hold up was, and that’s when you told him, “Well, I’m going.” You watched his face trying to gauge his reaction as the light around the edges of the curtains began to sneak in, slowly surrendering to the day, and then you finished, “And after what happened to me yesterday, I’m not going by myself.”
“Don’t do this,” he said.
“I’m serious. I need you with me.”
He sat up and crossed his legs, “No, you don’t. You need a babysitter.”
“Okay, fuck that then. I want you with me. How’s that?” He was pissed on all fronts at that point because the bed in the guest room was in a corner, and he had nowhere to go except deeper into it, scooting away from you.
“You didn’t even know Alan. You’re just being a dick.”
“He painted my goddamn portrait underneath New York City, Justin. I’m gonna go pay my respects to the guy and his friends. I happen to have a lot of respect for struggling, young artists.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I married one, didn’t I?”
……
And the rapid fire was over as quickly as it had started.
……
And the silence that followed was so awkward it creaked.
……
Like a ghost in the attic.
Sometimes something can go wrong in the weirdest way with Justin, and you never know it until its way too far gone-like cheese and crackers and a picnic on the floor.
You couldn’t tell from the look on his face what you’d said or done, but whatever it was, it was worse than cheese and crackers-way worse.
So you lay there trying to think of what could be worse than cheese and crackers.
Moldy cheese and crackers?
Funny thing…you weren’t that far off.
*********************
JONATHON MASSEY'S POV
and she opens up her eyes
Harper’s bedroom was the darkest room in their apartment, but not because of the windows. The floor and walls were a dark mahogany reminiscent of an old, old movie. It was the only room in the apartment where the walls matched the dark hardwood floors, and it made the occupier feel encapsulated, almost as if he or she were living in a very roomy coffin. It had to be haunted by something.
Amelia was led out of the foreboding room by her father, and then Harper turned to you, “You can stop laughing now. Why are you here anyway?” She was still--supposedly--deciding on a dress. “I wanted to see how you were doing,” you admitted, taking in the random pieces of decorative molding in the corners that didn’t seem to serve any purpose. “Well, clearly, I'm ‘Mother of the Year.’”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Your righteous-ass boyfriend pissed me off last night.”
“I know, and he's sorry. He doesn't know you inside and out, and he's used to having a pulpit.”
“Is he okay?”
“Richard? Of course.”
“No, Justin. He said you were with Justin last night.”
“I was.”
“Well? Is he okay?”
“He's struggling with today; are you?”
“You really came all the way over here to check on me?”
“I did.”
“I find that suspiciously considerate of you.”
“Well, regardless, Daniel would be here if he had it in him; he'd be sitting right here.”
“I should call him,” Harper said wistfully, sitting down on her bed. The thin ivory sheets looked ghostly; the abandoned wrappings of a mummy perhaps. “I don't want you to call him,” you said, leaning forward, “He's not himself right now.”
“That's why you're here,” she said, and when you nodded, she finished her thought, “I'm worried about the wrong person.”
*********************
BRIAN’S POV
when the walls
come tumblin', tumblin'
crumblin', tumblin'
down
You knew you could probably seduce Justin out of his well, but you wanted him to come out on his own. The whirlwind of the last few days was beginning to alter your perspective...
Although Justin had been ‘gone’ for six years, your reunion-for the most part-felt like slipping back into your favorite pair of jeans that had fallen down-almost forgotten--in the back of your closet. But once you put them back on and started to move around in them, you realized how old they really were, saw that the holes in them were bigger than you remembered, and that there was a bunch of shit in the pockets you’d forgotten all about.
Something had just shaken out of one of those pockets and was lying in between you on the sheets, and nobody wanted to claim it.
Justin’s jaw was set firm, but it was all for show, you could tell. His anger was a cloak around something else. “I just said something that really pissed you off, right?” He nodded his head. “Gonna tell me what it was?”
……
……
It took him awhile because apparently his mouth was sewn shut. “The last thing you said,” he finally released.
“The last thing I said?” He nodded again. You thought for a second, “That I married an artist? That pissed you off?”
“Yes."
“Why? You don’t like that ring on your finger?”
……
(His impending reaction to your remark, well, it reminded you of those tops you used to play with on the kitchen floor when you were little, the ones where you’d yank the wire, let go, and then watch it spin like mad bumping into the dishwasher, the cabinets, the refrigerator, over and over again until the string was back inside. Sometimes you’d corner it, pull the string, and then put your finger on the very top just to feel the wicked vibration as it spun wildly in place burning your skin. Justin was starting to spin like that, and his string was a lot longer than you ever imagined…)
“Fuck the ring. You don’t know what the fuck you married,” he spat out.
“I don’t?”
What came next, his answer to your stupid question, came at you hard, his words like one of those rogue tidal waves that supposedly explains the Bermuda Triangle, “No, you don’t. You don’t know shit about anything--except that your life is perfect with your millions of dollars and huge house and robots and businesses and minions and me to fuck every night-“
Whoa.
“I passed out cold yesterday and smacked my head on the fucking sidewalk. What’s perfect about that?” you asked him.
“You’ll have that fixed in three days, tops-just like always.”
“Oh yeah, right; I forgot because I’m also a magician.”
“And probably God,” he shot back.
“Okay, fine, I’m the be all end all, so then who the fuck are you?” you asked him, and that really pissed him off, and he kicked a pillow toward your face. You caught it and threw it on the floor.
“Fuck you, Brian.”
“Answer me.”
……
……
He stared at you, his eyes so dark they looked like two gun barrels pointed at your face.
……
You didn’t look away.
……
……
And then he pulled the trigger, and as you suspected, his bullets were blanks…
……
“I’m an idiot,” he said, and the anger was bleeding out of his voice, and you really didn’t like the ache that was taking its place, “A total…fucking…idiot.”
He’d spun out, completely.
…...
“Why are you an idiot?” you asked him, your voice softening in response to the look on his face.
“It’s really complicated,” he answered, almost disgusted by it.
“I know I’m not the genius that you are, but try me, I might understand it.” He made a face at you, and you made one back, and then the stiff silence returned, but you felt safe enough to reach out and touch him, so you put your hand on his thigh. He looked down at it. You squeezed and right then a tear fell and landed on the back of your hand. “Don’t,” you said, reaching up and wiping away the next one that was ready to fall. Your request made no difference, so you tugged on his hand, pulling him back down in the sheets. He pressed his face against your chest as if that was going to hold everything else inside him. He’d been an emotional basket case for days, but this was different. Those meltdowns were more about you or the friction between the two of you; this one was about him. You could feel the difference; you could feel how physically tired he was and what it took for him to get to that moment with you in the room. So you let him lie there and you thought about the nights after he got hurt when he wouldn’t let you touch him, and you realized that although you’d broken through that barrier a decade ago, you’d missed the mark by a country mile. You were standing in front of the wrong fucking wall the whole fucking time.
“Just tell me,” you said, and he wrapped his arms around you and said nothing. “Are you straight? Is that it?” you tried. You could feel him laughing, just a little. “No, you dumb ass.” (According to the New England Journal of Medicine, verbal marital affection wanes in the morning hours.)
“Pregnant?”
“I was, but it was Zeek’s, so I had an abortion.” (Talk about a perfect recipe for a dumb blond.) You reached beneath the covers and pinched his ass. “Ow, damn.” And again the room got quiet again, so you threw out your last idea, “So what? You don’t want to bottom anymore?” And that’s when he looked at you, and it was, in retrospect, one of the scariest ten seconds of your life, but then he finally started getting real with you…
Part 2
ZEEK ZIRROLLI'S POV
here I am
the one that you love
The headline on the front page of the New York Times that Friday morning, April 8, 2011, was one you expected but that did nothing to lessen its impact when you read it:
New York’s Finest Plead Guilty: No Denial, No Trial
You tossed away everything but the first few pages, folded them, and stuck them in your interior suit pocket, and when you walked into Mama Zirrolli's at eight a.m. to find your little brother slinging hash in his suit pants, an old t-shirt of yours, and his trusty apron, he only had one question for you, “Who tied your tie?”
“Lana,” you said, pulling a stool up to the cash register island. “Coffee ready?” Gabe pointed his spatula at the coffee pot and declared, “So that's where you were last night.”
“That's where I was,” you confirmed for him, sitting down with your very hot mug.
“Rube called you six times.”
“I know.”
“I ended up talking to him for forty-five minutes because you wouldn't answer your fucking phone.”
“I was busy.”
“Busy,” Gabe repeated as if it was the vilest word in the English language.
“It’s your fault. If you hadn't given Trinity my fucking phone number, I probably wouldn't have been out so late.”
“You just said you were with Lana.”
“Did I say it was a private party?”
*********************
roses are red
some diamonds are blue
chivalry is dead
but you're still kinda cute
And, indeed, it wasn't...
The night before, well, you'd tried to do the right thing. You knew what kind of mood you were in when you showed up at Lana's watering hole for the second day in a row knowing that if you showed just the slightest bit of emotional unrest, her personal watering hole would be a welcome shelter for your dick in the very foreseeable future. She smiled when you saw you walk in; you were soaked to the bone from the endless rain. She was pouring-and smiling-before you even sat all the way down. “You're soaking wet,” she said as she handed you a double shot of some top shelf whiskey. “I'm kind of hoping to say that to you later,” you said as you took it from her. No need to beat around the bush when the bush was just as happy to be there as you were. “I get off in an hour and a half,” she replied. “Then so will I,” you said with a smile. The bar was crowded and noisy; no one wanted to venture out into the rain, and it was so loud that you never heard your cell phone ring. At one point in the evening, you went to use the restroom, and in that quieter echo chamber, it beeped at you until you flipped it open. There were nine calls: six from Rube and three from a number you didn't recognize. You called it and were greeted by a chirpy little voice that sounded vaguely familiar...
“Hello?”
“This is Zeek; who is this?” you asked.
“It's Trinity...from police--”
“How'd you get my number?”
“Your brother.”
You pondered that for a few seconds and decided you didn't really care, “Yeah, whatcha need?”
“Well... it's really late now...but...I was wondering if....” You wanted to tell her to cut to the chase, but women don't like that when you first meet them, so you waited patiently, staring at the crappy ceiling in the bathroom, “...Wondering if you wanted to have dinner.”
“I already ate.”
“Well, so did I, actually.... I mean, it's so late now....”
You looked at your phone, “Shit, it's eleven thirty.”
“Where are you?”
.......
With your foot propping open the back door of the bar’s kitchen, you pondered what you were about to propose to Lana while you smoked a cigarette. When you returned to your stool, Lana was way at the other end of the bar, but she eventually saw you and pulled herself away from the scores of drunks clamoring for her attention and made it back to you. She took one look at you and asked, “What's up? You okay?”
“You up for anything tonight?” you asked her.
“What happens if I say 'no?'”
“It'd be like old times...you know.....”
“How old?” she asked, leaning on the bar at that point; you could see right down her shirt.
“Dangerously old,” you told her.
Lana got a twinkle in her eye, “'Old' like pretty little artist with long, honey-colored hair and no boundaries...?”
“Same show, different actress,” you said.
“Who?”
“Police chief's sec--,” you responded and before you could say anything else there was a hand on your arm; you turned to your left and there was Trinity, looking much less prissy than she had earlier that day. Her hair was down; her shirt wet; her smile beguiling. You introduced her, “Lana, this is Trinity. Trinity, Lana.”
“Hi,” Trinity said. Lana smiled at Trinity, filled her drink order, and then smiled at you and said, “Let me wrap things up.” You put your arm around Trinity's waist and said, “Drink up.”
“So I guess it is too late for dinner,” Trinity said as she picked up her glass.
“Yeah...,” you agreed, “But there's always desert.”
*********************
you’re still the same
Gabe slammed your breakfast down in front of you. “You fucked her? The chief's assistant? The man who’s doing a major favor for us today?”
“Well, I wasn't the only one,” you offered.
“What in the holy hell is wrong with you?”
“Your vagina is twice as big as your dick, you know that, 'Cakes? She had no problem with it. This isn't nineteen fifty-five as much as you wish it was, and besides, I was a total gentleman; I let them get it on first.”
Gabe cracked another egg and threw away the yoke instead of the shell, you were so far under his skin, “Goddamnit. She's going to be there today; the chief’s going to be there today. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Only you could meet a girl named 'Trinity,' and coax her into a three-way.”
“I told her it was her birth right.”
Gabe tossed his spatula in the sink and sat down across from you, “Unfuckingbelievable.”
“I know; it was like I had my own little ass menagerie.”
Gabe stuck his fork in your face, “It's called a 'ménage à trois,' you dolt.”
“It’s called me and my dick and an all-night pass at Great Ass-venture, and let me reassure you, ‘Cakes, it doesn’t get any better than that.”
*********************
DANNY CARTWRIGHT'S POV
I’m findin’ it hard to believe we’re in heaven
When you’re alive, you get through each day, each challenge you face, convincing yourself that death is the ultimate relief, but you’d found no relief in this place you found yourself dead in. You’d been bored, restless, surprised, and confused. Relief seemed to be a foreign concept in the AfterDeath, but you weren’t willing to give up the ghost completely, although a dead man hanging onto hope certainly should’ve crossed over wearing an “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt that had an arrow pointing up. Your walking and walking and walking was coming to an end again, and there you were in front of:
Door Number One.
You stood there with Tate and Madeline, outside the closed gray door, and waited. Madeline was fifteen. She'd become unruly and then an emotional wreck, and then started her period, and then started doing cartwheels and handsprings down the halls, and then she became interested in you...
“She's just like her mother,” Tate said, “And her mother is just like her mother. If I had a dime for every doctor Ruth batted her eyelashes at, I'd be one rich zombie.”
“It's just... She's fifteen.”
“Her mother and your son--”
“They're married?” you asked.
Tate laughed at you, “Hell, no. Your son's a fairy.” And when she saw the look on your face, she revised her statement, “I'm sorry, I mean he's one of those homosexuals.”
“He's gay?”
“You didn't know that, did you?” she asked.
“He was a kid when I--”
“Shit, shit, shit. See, that's my fault. I'm sorry. We haven't found the remote yet; I shouldn't have told you that.” You'd stopped walking at that point and were just leaning against the corridor wall. “Danny, come on,” Tate urged you.
“I don't want him to be gay,” you said. Tate called ahead to Madeline and asked her to do her gymnastics in one spot for a while; she agreed and you kept hearing her feet smack the ground every few seconds. “I don't want to go any further,” you told her. “I don't want to see anything.”
“Well, that doesn't matter; you have to.”
“No, I don't. I'll just stay here. I'm in a fucking hospital. I have everything I need,” you told your post-mortem tour guide.
But then she broke the bad news to you, “This place isn't really a hospital, Danny. It isn't really anything, and even if Madeline and I were physically able to walk away from you, which were not, it wouldn't stay this way. It would go away.”
“Why?”
“Because it's only here as a means to a means.”
“You mean a 'means to an end.'”
“No, I meant what I said. There is no end, at least not one that I've ever seen.”
“Screw it; I don't care.”
Tate walked to the other side of the hall and leaned against the wall, “Let me explain something to you about being dead-the only difference between being up here and down there is that down there you had control over what you did and up here you don't.”
“So?”
“So you're going to feel the same things, want the same things, need the same things-only you can't control how you resolve those feelings or get what you want or need. The only thing you can do is go with the flow; that's the only choice you have and the best option to get you where you think you need to be.”
“TATE, DANNY, CHECK ME OUT!” you heard next, and Madeline came barreling down the corridor showing off her roundoff double back handspring back-flip and her picture perfect landing, and Tate shook her head at the teen, “Girl, it's a good thing your ass is already dead 'cause you're about to kill yourself.”
“I'm awesome,” she said.
“You ready to walk?” Tate asked you, and you nodded your head, and Madeline took off again. A few minutes later, you looked up and she was twirling two batons.
“Where the hell she'd get those?” you ask Tate.
“Zombie flea market, I guess,” Tate sighed.
......
On your way to Door Number One, you asked Tate what else she knew about your son, and she was reluctant to say anything, but finally, she gave in-sort of. “Look, I'm not gonna tell you too much about him because that gets everything out of order. All I'm gonna say is that I thought at first that you were him because--”
“Because why?” you asked.
“Because one of his friends, Alan, is up here...because he was just murdered in front of your son's home.”
“Because he was gay?” you asked.
Tate seemed exasperated, “Look, I know you died in the eighties and all, but not everything in life-or death-has to do with being gay, okay?”
“Okay, I'm sorry; I just don't understand.”
“He was murdered real bad, and your son found him...”
“Who killed him?”
“Cops.”
“Why?”
“Your son is a rich shrink; Alan was homeless, and they were friends. Maybe that pissed them off or something. Hell if I know.”
“My son's a doctor?”
“Yep, a very gay, very rich doctor.” She turned her head, put her hand on your arm and stopped your forward motion, “Now, you're not so upset about the fairy part, are you?”
“I'm so proud of him,” you gushed.
“He still likes to give blow jobs.”
“Shut up.”
And by that point, you could see Madeline up ahead standing still in front of a closed door, and as you and Tate got closer, she was visibly distressed. Tate reached out and put her hand on the girl's forehead, “She's burning up.”
“Somebody's in there,” Madeline said as she touched the metal handle on the door and the heat was obvious in her hand; she immediately let go. “You open it, Tate.”
Tate gave both you and Madeline a wary look and then touched the door knob. “It's not hot to me,” she said as she turned it and then peeked inside. “Oh good lord, Jesus,” she whispered and she pulled it shut again.
“What? What is it?” you asked.
“The remote's in there,” Tate said as if she was rendering bad news.
“Well, go get it,” you said.
“Your wife is in there, too,” she said.
“Emma?”
“Yeah.”
“I don't really want to see her,” you admitted, feeling guilty, “I mean, maybe not right now.”
“No, you don't,” Tate said, “'Cause she ain't in there by herself.”
Madeline leaned against the door, closed her eyes, and her entire body started to glow. And then a sly, serene smile covered her face; her eyes closed. “It's an orgy,” she said, the way one fantasizes about eating a bag of Hershey’s kisses.
“With who?” you asked.
Tate pushed Madeline away from the door as she informed youu, “Emma, her best friend, Sandra, a Ronald Reagan impersonator, and Orville Redenbacher.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna get that clicker; it's on the bed frame, and then I'm gonna get the hell out of there. Do not follow me in there Madeline.”
“It feels good,” she moaned.
“You listen to me, Maddie. It probably does, but you don't want your first time to be with a man who probably only needs three minutes in a microwave to pop, got it?”
And then the three of you heard a voice from the other side of the gray door; it was Emma's:
“Oh, Mr. Redenbacher, tear down my walls!”
‘Reagan's’: “There you go again.”
“Or my name isn't Sandra Lynn Massey!”
You threw up in your mouth.
“Cover me!” Tate said as she bolted inside. When she returned a few seconds later, slamming the door behind her, she was winded and disheveled. “Here,” she said, slapping the remote in your hand.
It was covered in butter.
You looked up at Madeline who was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette; she glanced at you as she exhaled; her shirt had gotten tighter, her voice has gotten smoother; “So Danny, was it good for you, too?”
*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
he’s a real nowhere man
Waking up that Friday morning, the day of Alan’s funeral, wasn’t easy. In fact, you tried to avoid it for as long as you could. The guest room in the suite was dark thanks to its heavy, tacky curtains and Brian was right beside you, sound asleep on his stomach. You pulled the sheets off of him-albeit rather slowly--so you could stare at his body, and then you felt guilty because he might get cold, so you covered him back up and lay right beside him. His eyes fluttered for a few seconds. You kissed his bicep and gazed at his face.
…..
You sighed.
……
You rolled on your other side and tried to go back to sleep and that’s when he reached out, snatched you and pulled you back against him. “Where are you going?” he asked, his words branding the inquiry behind your ear.
“Nowhere, I guess,” you admitted, the significance of his question and your answer yet to make itself relevant.
His hand moved slowly up your back, his fingers eventually combing through your hair as he kissed the back of your neck. “How long ‘till we have to get up?”
“Doesn’t matter,” you said, “We’re not going.”
*********************
JONATHON MASSEY'S POV
and she’s taking off her dress
Harper invited you into her bedroom that morning when you made it clear that you'd come to see her, so you sat in an winged-back chair by the window, staring out of it when she unzipped her dress and let it fall to the floor. “I really wish you wouldn't do that,” you told her, but she didn't care what you wanted-not one bit--as she picked the pooled fabric off the floor and reintroduced it to a hanger. She wasn't completely undressed; she was wearing a slip of some sort--something old and stained-as she stood in front of her closet exchanging one dress for another.
“I can't make up my mind,” she said.
“Was that your mother's?” you asked, meaning the creamy aged nylon coating covering her body. Years of knowing her and Daniel and you knew that therapy for Harper is whenever and wherever she wants it...and free.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is this the first time you've worn it?” you asked her.
“Yes, it is.”
Amelia toddled in with her cereal spoon in her left hand and questioned her mother, “Mommy?”
“You're supposed to eat breakfast at the table, Amelia.”
“But I hafta... I already knowed that... I hafta--”
“You have to what?” Harper asked her.
“I'm 'upposed to wear a leckness today 'cause it's a lock... and you're 'upposed to lock it.”
“Yes, you are, but you have to finish your breakfast first, then get dressed, and then I'll put the necklace on for you.”
“'Cause I'm 'upposed to,” Amelia reiterated.
“It's a 'locket,' Amelia,” Harper stressed. “One word... locket.”
“I already knowed that it's a lock 'cause you lock it 'cause I already knowed that.”
“Okay, well if you already know that, then why aren't you in the kitchen with your father finishing your breakfast?”
Amelia looked at her spoon and then at you, and you shrugged your shoulders, so she turned back to her mother, her tiny sticky hand reaching out and touching Harper's thigh and, therefore, the slip Harper was wearing; her eyes widened as she touched it as if it had magical powers. “'Cause...'cause you're so 'squisite, Mommy....and Daddy....,” and then she reached out and wrapped both of her arms around Harper's legs and hugged them, “'Cause Daddy F- 'Cause Daddy F-C-U... F-U-C-K you in that bery pretty dress.”
“Sam!”
You made a mental note to buy Amelia a very tiny couch for her birthday.
*********************
BRIAN'S POV
don’t need no baggage
just get on board
Justin’s announcement had taken you off guard. He was ready to move on, ostensibly to get his morning fuck right on schedule, but his abrupt change of plans had made you lose interest. He turned to face you, maybe to see what the hold up was, and that’s when you told him, “Well, I’m going.” You watched his face trying to gauge his reaction as the light around the edges of the curtains began to sneak in, slowly surrendering to the day, and then you finished, “And after what happened to me yesterday, I’m not going by myself.”
“Don’t do this,” he said.
“I’m serious. I need you with me.”
He sat up and crossed his legs, “No, you don’t. You need a babysitter.”
“Okay, fuck that then. I want you with me. How’s that?” He was pissed on all fronts at that point because the bed in the guest room was in a corner, and he had nowhere to go except deeper into it, scooting away from you.
“You didn’t even know Alan. You’re just being a dick.”
“He painted my goddamn portrait underneath New York City, Justin. I’m gonna go pay my respects to the guy and his friends. I happen to have a lot of respect for struggling, young artists.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I married one, didn’t I?”
……
And the rapid fire was over as quickly as it had started.
……
And the silence that followed was so awkward it creaked.
……
Like a ghost in the attic.
Sometimes something can go wrong in the weirdest way with Justin, and you never know it until its way too far gone-like cheese and crackers and a picnic on the floor.
You couldn’t tell from the look on his face what you’d said or done, but whatever it was, it was worse than cheese and crackers-way worse.
So you lay there trying to think of what could be worse than cheese and crackers.
Moldy cheese and crackers?
Funny thing…you weren’t that far off.
*********************
JONATHON MASSEY'S POV
and she opens up her eyes
Harper’s bedroom was the darkest room in their apartment, but not because of the windows. The floor and walls were a dark mahogany reminiscent of an old, old movie. It was the only room in the apartment where the walls matched the dark hardwood floors, and it made the occupier feel encapsulated, almost as if he or she were living in a very roomy coffin. It had to be haunted by something.
Amelia was led out of the foreboding room by her father, and then Harper turned to you, “You can stop laughing now. Why are you here anyway?” She was still--supposedly--deciding on a dress. “I wanted to see how you were doing,” you admitted, taking in the random pieces of decorative molding in the corners that didn’t seem to serve any purpose. “Well, clearly, I'm ‘Mother of the Year.’”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Your righteous-ass boyfriend pissed me off last night.”
“I know, and he's sorry. He doesn't know you inside and out, and he's used to having a pulpit.”
“Is he okay?”
“Richard? Of course.”
“No, Justin. He said you were with Justin last night.”
“I was.”
“Well? Is he okay?”
“He's struggling with today; are you?”
“You really came all the way over here to check on me?”
“I did.”
“I find that suspiciously considerate of you.”
“Well, regardless, Daniel would be here if he had it in him; he'd be sitting right here.”
“I should call him,” Harper said wistfully, sitting down on her bed. The thin ivory sheets looked ghostly; the abandoned wrappings of a mummy perhaps. “I don't want you to call him,” you said, leaning forward, “He's not himself right now.”
“That's why you're here,” she said, and when you nodded, she finished her thought, “I'm worried about the wrong person.”
*********************
BRIAN’S POV
when the walls
come tumblin', tumblin'
crumblin', tumblin'
down
You knew you could probably seduce Justin out of his well, but you wanted him to come out on his own. The whirlwind of the last few days was beginning to alter your perspective...
Although Justin had been ‘gone’ for six years, your reunion-for the most part-felt like slipping back into your favorite pair of jeans that had fallen down-almost forgotten--in the back of your closet. But once you put them back on and started to move around in them, you realized how old they really were, saw that the holes in them were bigger than you remembered, and that there was a bunch of shit in the pockets you’d forgotten all about.
Something had just shaken out of one of those pockets and was lying in between you on the sheets, and nobody wanted to claim it.
Justin’s jaw was set firm, but it was all for show, you could tell. His anger was a cloak around something else. “I just said something that really pissed you off, right?” He nodded his head. “Gonna tell me what it was?”
……
……
It took him awhile because apparently his mouth was sewn shut. “The last thing you said,” he finally released.
“The last thing I said?” He nodded again. You thought for a second, “That I married an artist? That pissed you off?”
“Yes."
“Why? You don’t like that ring on your finger?”
……
(His impending reaction to your remark, well, it reminded you of those tops you used to play with on the kitchen floor when you were little, the ones where you’d yank the wire, let go, and then watch it spin like mad bumping into the dishwasher, the cabinets, the refrigerator, over and over again until the string was back inside. Sometimes you’d corner it, pull the string, and then put your finger on the very top just to feel the wicked vibration as it spun wildly in place burning your skin. Justin was starting to spin like that, and his string was a lot longer than you ever imagined…)
“Fuck the ring. You don’t know what the fuck you married,” he spat out.
“I don’t?”
What came next, his answer to your stupid question, came at you hard, his words like one of those rogue tidal waves that supposedly explains the Bermuda Triangle, “No, you don’t. You don’t know shit about anything--except that your life is perfect with your millions of dollars and huge house and robots and businesses and minions and me to fuck every night-“
Whoa.
“I passed out cold yesterday and smacked my head on the fucking sidewalk. What’s perfect about that?” you asked him.
“You’ll have that fixed in three days, tops-just like always.”
“Oh yeah, right; I forgot because I’m also a magician.”
“And probably God,” he shot back.
“Okay, fine, I’m the be all end all, so then who the fuck are you?” you asked him, and that really pissed him off, and he kicked a pillow toward your face. You caught it and threw it on the floor.
“Fuck you, Brian.”
“Answer me.”
……
……
He stared at you, his eyes so dark they looked like two gun barrels pointed at your face.
……
You didn’t look away.
……
……
And then he pulled the trigger, and as you suspected, his bullets were blanks…
……
“I’m an idiot,” he said, and the anger was bleeding out of his voice, and you really didn’t like the ache that was taking its place, “A total…fucking…idiot.”
He’d spun out, completely.
…...
“Why are you an idiot?” you asked him, your voice softening in response to the look on his face.
“It’s really complicated,” he answered, almost disgusted by it.
“I know I’m not the genius that you are, but try me, I might understand it.” He made a face at you, and you made one back, and then the stiff silence returned, but you felt safe enough to reach out and touch him, so you put your hand on his thigh. He looked down at it. You squeezed and right then a tear fell and landed on the back of your hand. “Don’t,” you said, reaching up and wiping away the next one that was ready to fall. Your request made no difference, so you tugged on his hand, pulling him back down in the sheets. He pressed his face against your chest as if that was going to hold everything else inside him. He’d been an emotional basket case for days, but this was different. Those meltdowns were more about you or the friction between the two of you; this one was about him. You could feel the difference; you could feel how physically tired he was and what it took for him to get to that moment with you in the room. So you let him lie there and you thought about the nights after he got hurt when he wouldn’t let you touch him, and you realized that although you’d broken through that barrier a decade ago, you’d missed the mark by a country mile. You were standing in front of the wrong fucking wall the whole fucking time.
“Just tell me,” you said, and he wrapped his arms around you and said nothing. “Are you straight? Is that it?” you tried. You could feel him laughing, just a little. “No, you dumb ass.” (According to the New England Journal of Medicine, verbal marital affection wanes in the morning hours.)
“Pregnant?”
“I was, but it was Zeek’s, so I had an abortion.” (Talk about a perfect recipe for a dumb blond.) You reached beneath the covers and pinched his ass. “Ow, damn.” And again the room got quiet again, so you threw out your last idea, “So what? You don’t want to bottom anymore?” And that’s when he looked at you, and it was, in retrospect, one of the scariest ten seconds of your life, but then he finally started getting real with you…
Part 2