It came back from beta a little early, so...
Justin carries on. By himself.
This is Chapter 56 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Justin Taylor, and features Lindsay Peterson, Debbie Novotny, Michael Novotny, Jennifer Taylor, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Justin carries on. Pittsburgh, September 2003.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Most recent "QI" chapters here:
Ch. 53
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/398672.html Ch. 54
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/401172.html Ch. 55
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/403894.html By Gaedhal
"It's not that easy being green;
Having to spend each day the color of the leaves.
When I think it could be nicer being red, or
yellow or gold-
or something much more colorful like that.
It's not easy being green.
It seems you blend in with so many other ordinary things.
And people tend to pass you over 'cause you're
not standing out like flashy sparkles in the water-
or stars in the sky..."
***
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Brian.
Again.
I stare at the name on my screen and I almost -- almost! -- take the call. But then I don't. I can't.
Not yet.
I'm not ready to deal with him. Especially not here...
"Justin, would you like a piece of cake?"
Lindsay is full of fake smiles today. They all are. It's Gus's birthday and that's the way it has to be. It's all about Gus today. His presents, his cake, his party.
Fun fun fun.
"No, thanks," I tell Lindsay. "Maybe later."
"Have you talked to Brian?" she asks, oh so casually. She's wants to know stuff that is none of her fucking business.
"Sure," I say, sticking my chin out defiantly. "Brian and I talk all the time. Why wouldn't we?"
She puts her hand on my shoulder and pats it. "If you want to talk, Justin, I'm always available."
She's so fucking condescending. They all are. Poor Little Sunshine. Little Lost Boy! Well, fuck that!
"Right. Whatever the fuck."
And then I walk away before I say something I'll be sorry for.
"Hey! You come back here!" she calls after me.
Bitch.
I should leave. But I came here for Gus. Came here because no matter what else happens, I'll always have a connection to Gus.
After all, I named him. He was born the night Brian and I...
Fuck. That's ancient history.
Who cares about the night they lost their virginity? Who gives a crap? I'm sure Brian can't remember the night he lost his. So what does it matter?
What does anything matter?
Brian called me from the boat the day before Labor Day. He was obviously drunk. He tried to pretend he wasn't, but I know Brian too well. He's a good actor, but not about that.
So I said to him, "Brian, cut the crap. What's going on?"
And he got all defensive. "Nothing. Why should anything be wrong?" And then he said he had to go and cut off the call. Yeah, he had to go. He was on the fucking boat! Where was he going to go?
The next day -- Labor Day -- he called to apologize. But what was that worth? Because he was high. It was so fucking annoying. And, what's worse, he wasn't alone. I could hear someone giggling and talking in the background. Brian kept trying to shut him up. I don't know why he bothered.
I knew it was Jimmy. Jimmy fucking Hardy!
It would have been bad enough if he'd picked up some random trick, but to be screwing around with Jimmy the minute he got back to L.A. -- that did something to my head.
"Forget it, Brian," I said. "I know what's going on. I told you that this would happen if you went back to California without me. So now what?"
So he got all defensive. "What the fuck do you mean? You're paranoid, Sunshine."
Right. Tell me I'm paranoid.
"At least tell me the truth, Brian."
"I am telling you the truth!" Now he was shouting at me.
And lying to me.
"I know you're lying, Brian. Why are you lying to me? Why?"
There was a long silence.
And then: "I don't know. I... Justin... fuck!"
"So that's it, huh, Brian? 'I don't know'? You're an addict. And the minute you leave here, the minute you get back to L.A., you go right back to doing all the stuff you know you shouldn't be doing."
"I'm not doing anything!" he blasted back. "So I had a couple of beers and a joint? So fucking sue me! I can handle it."
"You can handle it? That's all you can say to me?"
"What do you want me to say, Justin? What? You tell me."
But I couldn't answer him. So I hung up the phone. And I haven't taken his calls since then.
I mean, what's the point? What am I doing to myself? And what are we doing to each other?
I love Brian more than anything in my life. I love him so much it hurts. But if this is the way it's always going to be... I can't take it. I... I just can't.
"Hey, Sunshine!" Deb calls. "Where're you going?"
"I was just... leaving." I stop for a moment. But just a moment. "I have a lot of work to do. Classes started last week and I already have a million projects to work on."
"And you can't stay to have a piece of birthday cake and ice cream?" She holds up a bright red paper plate. Seeing the gooey cake and melting ice cream makes me feel ill.
"No thanks," I say shortly.
"By the way, where's Brian?"
That's her real point. That's what everyone wants to know -- where's Brian?
"He's working." And I turn and start walking away again.
"Working? Work is more important than his son's birthday?" Deb snorts. "He wasn't here last year, either!"
Something snaps in me. I spin around and face Deb. Face them all.
"Brian doesn't need to make excuses to any of you!" My voice is rising. "Because isn't he paying for this fucking party? Like he pays for everything else around here? He doesn't owe you people anything! Because you've all sucked off Brian for years! And all he gets in return is grief from everyone! Bitching and complaints! Well, I'm sick of it! Fucking sick! So take your fucking cake and shove it up your asses!"
Debbie shakes her finger in my face. "Don't you mouth off to me, Justin Taylor! Or I'll turn you over my knee and spank you!"
"Spank me?" I bark back. "Suck me!"
And I turn and run. And I mean run like something is chasing me. I feel hot and cold at the same time. And I keep seeing their shocked faces. Deb's shocked face.
I have to get away.
As far away as possible.
"Justin! Wait! Stop! I need to talk to you!"
It's Michael. He's chasing after me. And he's the last person I want to talk to. I reach the Jeep and jump in. Michael is waving his arms at me, but I gun the Jeep and tear out of there like I'm on fire.
On fire.
That's what I feel like. Like I'm on fire.
I drive and drive and drive until I'm in my old neighborhood. On my old street. I pull up in front of our old house. Someone else lives there now. I see a bicycle in the driveway. The door is painted a different color. A strange car is in the garage.
My hands grip the steering wheel. I'm shaking. Shaking and I don't know why.
I think I'm having a fucking nervous breakdown.
I put my head against the steering wheel and let the tears go.
And now I can't stop.
I just can't stop.
***
For the next few days I walk around in a daze. I work on my art projects and do the readings for my Art History class.
And I don't take any calls. Not from Brian. Not from anyone.
Michael has called about ten times, but I delete his messages. Finally, I just turn off my cell and take the loft phone off the hook so I can get some work done.
Yeah, work. Justin Taylor, suffering artist.
Actually, it's good to work. I didn't do much over the summer except take a few photographs, but now I have time to think about what I want to do with my life. What kind of art I want to make. I feel like I've just been dabbling, playing around with different forms. It's all so aimless. I need focus. I need a purpose.
I need something to take my mind off of Brian.
And my art is the only thing I have left. Or at least that's the way it feels.
My mother comes to the door and rings the bell until I finally let her in. "For heaven's sake, Justin, I've been trying to contact you for days! What's going on?"
"Nothing," I say. "Would you like some tea?"
"Sure," she says. "Ice tea?" It's hot for September.
"No." I pull out the wooden box where I keep the tea bags. "I have Sweet Dreams, Red Zinger, English Breakfast, and Lipton's."
"What are you having?"
"Sweet Dreams. It's herbal and caffeine free. I'm trying to cut down on the caffeine."
"That's fine," she sighs. "Sweet Dreams."
We sit at the counter and she watches me make the tea. I always wonder what she's thinking. Where did I come from, this person who is her son? How could our lives have changed so much in the last few years? I know my mother always expected -- and always wanted -- a very quiet and normal life. Instead, she gets this... this crazy crap that all happened the minute Brian came into our lives. And notice I say 'our lives' and not just my life. Because Brian has an impact on everyone he comes into contact with. Not only me, but Michael, Lindsay, Deb, Ted, Emmett -- everyone. I think about Ron. About Diane and Dorian. Jimmy Hardy...
Could life be any more fucking complicated?
What if I'd been straight? I know she wonders that. We'd probably still be living in our old house. She and Dad would probably still be married and she wouldn't have to work her ass off selling real estate. And I'd probably be entering my Junior Year at Dartmouth. I'd probably have a girlfriend. Be in some fraternity. Then I'd get my MBA and start at Taylor Electronics. Get married. Have a couple of kids. Live in some suburb of the Pitts. Maybe I'd go to see a movie starring Brian Kinney once in a while. Or maybe not. Maybe I don't care for faggot actors. I'd rather see a movie with Simone Merle or Angelina Jolie. Or Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson shooting people.
But I'm not straight. I'm a queer. And that's changed all of our lives. Changed Mom and changed Dad and probably even changed Molly in ways we'll never completely understand.
The water starts to boil and I take the kettle off the stove. I pour it into the pot and steep the tea bags.
"Do you hate me?" I suddenly ask her.
That startles her. "What did you say?"
"I want to know if you hate me. Maybe not hate... but... with everything that's happened. It's all been my fault. Dad... and everything."
"Of course I don't hate you!" she answers. "You're my son. I love you."
"Oh." I don't believe her, of course. I pour the tea into two cups and take out the sugar bowl.
"Justin, what's going on? Debbie called me after Gus's birthday party. Did you really tell her to..." Mom winces. "Suck it?"
"Actually, I told her to 'suck me.' Then I booked out of there." The tea is hot and soothing. I put another spoonful of sugar into the cup. I don't like things as sweet as Brian, but I need a little more sweetness. Just a little more.
"What's wrong?" she asks gently.
"Nothing." I keep my face bland. "Why would anything be wrong?"
"You know you can talk to me about anything, sweetheart." She sips her tea slowly. "And I mean that."
"I know." But I can't talk to her about... everything. Especially about Brian. Because I know how much she still blames him for me coming out, for me being bashed, for so many things. For me being what I am.
"Justin, I know it's not easy for you." She reaches out and takes my hand. Squeezes it. "You're so young, honey. I only wish your life was... simpler."
"But it's not simple, Mom. Nothing is simple. And I don't see it getting easier any time soon."
"I know," she says. "But don't get angry at the world when things get rough. I know. I often get angry, especially at your father, but I have other people to think of. You and Molly, mainly, but also Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt June. And simply living day to day. I can't let things get to me. Or else I'd be overwhelmed."
"I know."
She squeezes my hand again. "Is there a problem between you and Brian?"
I pull my hand away. "No."
I turn away. Shut down.
I don't want to talk about it. Not to my mother. Not to anyone.
At. All.
***
I want a drink, but I don't want to go to Woody's. Emmett might be there. Or even Michael, who's been leaving me messages all week. I don't know what he wants, but I don't care. I don't feel like talking to any of them.
So I try something new.
I go to Pistol.
Pistol is a little more upscale than Woody's, which mainly means it's more expensive and the guys wear more trendy designer clothes. I still remember that guy I talked to the very first night I came to Liberty Avenue. He told me Pistol was full of conceited assholes who thought they were better than anyone else.
Strange that Brian never went there. Or at least he never has since I've known him.
Pistol is farther down Liberty Avenue, on the fringes of the gay ghetto. There are a lot of straight bars in the area, so I'm a little more wary of who is around me. Drunk straight guys aren't what I need to deal with tonight. I just want to get a drink and relax. Maybe talk to someone new. Maybe...
Fuck. Who am I kidding? I need to get laid. Short and sweet. I don't want to know the guy, I just want to get my rocks off. Period.
And Pistol seems like the perfect place to do it.
Inside it looks like a straight bar. Western theme. Cow horns and big posters of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood on the wall. That makes me laugh. I want to stop someone and say, "I know Clint! I spent the summer with him!" But I don't, of course. I'm not a complete idiot.
I walk towards the bar, but then I stop short. Because sitting there, tossing down shots, is Dylan Burke. In the very real and very hot flesh.
I almost turn around and walk out. But... why should I? Anything between me and Dylan is water under the bridge. So I sit down. Right next to him.
"Wonderful," he mumbles as he glances at me. "Just what I need tonight."
"Can I have a beer?" I ask the bartender, who is wearing a red flannel cowboy shirt and black plastic cowboy hat. "Old Pitt. And one for my friend here."
"I don't need you to buy me a beer," Dylan sneers. "Why don't you piss off?"
Same old charming Dylan. "Having a bad day?"
"I hurt my knee, if you must know," he says. "I might have to have an operation on it. That might mean the end of my baseball career -- and my scholarship. Not that you give a fuck."
"I'm sorry about everything that happened, Dylan," I tell him. "But you brought it all on yourself. And giving me the clap wasn't the greatest experience in my life."
He makes a snorting sound. "With Brian Kinney as your boyfriend I'm surprised you don't have a regular appointment with the Dick Doctor to get your shots."
I should be insulted and get all in Dylan's face about that crack about Brian, but I'm not in the mood tonight. The bartender brings the beers and Dylan takes one.
"Thanks." He rolls the bottle around in his hands and begins picking nervously at the label. "If I lose my baseball scholarship, I'm fucked. I won't be able to afford to stay at Carnegie Mellon. I'll be lucky to go to Allegheny Community!" He looks at me. "Sorry for what I said about Kinney. He's not that bad, I guess. You know he didn't get me tossed from the team last spring. He could have. But the coach gave me another chance. He said Kinney spoke up for me and that's why he did it. He said he knew it must be tough being a gay athlete and all that shit. But it's been better since then. And I'm out to everyone now -- even my family."
"That's great, Dylan. I mean that." And I do. Dylan is a jerk and we were more than a little fucked up sexually, but... I liked him. I admit that. I was attracted to him. Was. Past tense. Because it would be easy to hook up with Dylan Burke again. And it would be a real fuck-you to Brian for screwing around with Jimmy.
But...
I can't do it.
"Hey."
Dylan and I both turn as another guy comes up to the bar.
"Swell!" Dylan rolls his eyes. "This is my lucky night! What the hell do you want? Didn't I tell you to quit bothering me?"
"Yes, you did." The guy's dark eyes are hard and jaded. "By the way, you left your cellphone at my place last night. You must have forgotten it when you were over there making sure I didn't bother you."
"Oh." Dylan sheepishly takes the phone and shoves it in his pocket.
The guy glares at me. "Justin Taylor. Don't tell me you're fucking Dylan again? I thought you had bigger fish to fry -- like Brian Kinney? By the way, I'm Ethan Gold, in case you didn't know."
"Sure. I remember you," I say. Not only was Ethan Gold one of the many guys Dylan was fucking while I thought we were having a relationship, but Ethan is the guy I was with in Fiona's vision. The guy I might have left Brian for in another, weirder life. He's also at PIFA, in the Music Department. He's supposedly an amazing violinist. Which means he should be able to find someone a lot better than Dylan Burke. I wonder if Dylan gave Ethan the clap, too? Probably. But that doesn't mean they aren't still fucking. Obviously.
"I have to get out of here," says Dylan, hopping off his bar stool. "One of you is bad enough, but I can't deal with two. Adios." And he limps off while we both watch.
"What happened to his knee?" I ask Ethan.
"He got mad and kicked something," Ethan says. "Dylan's temper will ruin him in the end. Which is too bad. He's very talented."
"I know." I finish my beer while Ethan stands there, watching me. "I hear you are, too. On the violin, I mean."
He's kind of cute, although he really needs to wash his hair. And he's like the complete opposite of Brian. And Dylan. The complete opposite of every guy I've ever been attracted to. Maybe that's what I need. The complete opposite of everything.
"Want to get out of here?" I ask.
He hesitates. But then he nods. "Why not?"
Yeah, why not?
After all, it's not easy being different. It's not easy being alone. And it's not easy trying to be your own person, especially against all the odds. Against the expectations of your parents. Of the gang. And against Brian Kinney.
It's not easy at all.
Which is why I have to do it.
Right now. Before it's too late.
***
"But green's the color of spring.
And green can be cool and friendly-like.
And green can be big like an ocean, or important
like a mountain, or tall like a tree.
When green is all there is to be,
It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?
Wonder, I am green and it'll do fine,
it's beautiful!
And I think it's what I want to be."
(Joe Raposo)