"Queer Identities" -- Chapter 61 "I Will Not Be Broken"
Justin -- back in Pittsburgh.
This is Chapter 61 in the "Queer Realities" series.
The narrator is Justin Taylor, and features Ethan Gold, Jennifer Taylor, Michael Novotny, Hunter.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Justin gives advice -- among other things. Pittsburgh, September/October 2003.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit.
Earlier "QI" chapters online and on the LJ are here:
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaelmcgear/Gaedhalficpage.html
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaedhal/
Most recent "QI" chapters on the LJ are here:
Ch. 58 "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410497.html
Ch. 59 "How Soon Is Now?"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/411025.html
Ch. 60 "Incognito"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/412670.html
By Gaedhal
"That was then, this is now,
Found my way back here somehow.
Knew you'd have to let me go,
Told you once I told you so.
Take me down,
You can hold me but you
Can't hold what's within.
Pull me 'round,
Push me to the limit,
Maybe I may bend,
But I know where I'm not going,
I will not be broken.
I will not be broken.
I will not be...
Someone other than who I am,
I will fight to make my stand,
'Cause what is livin' if I can't live free?
What is freedom if I can't be me?
Take me down,
You can hold me but you
Can't hold what's within.
Pull me 'round,
Push me to the limit,
Maybe I may bend,
But I know where I'm not going,
I will not be broken.
I will not be broken.
I will not be..."
***
Why is Dorian calling me?
Does he think I know where Brian is? Does he think I have him in my back pocket, hidden away?
Well, I don't. I don't have him. And I don't know where the hell he is. And I tell Dorian that.
"If you don't know, Justin, then who does?" he says in exasperation.
"Brian is Brian," I reply. "When he wants to talk to you, he'll call you. You know that as well as I do. And until then... you're fucked."
"But... We're beginning pre-production on 'Red Shirt" very soon! I need Brian and I need his finished screenplay!"
That's all Dorian gives a damn about -- his movie.
"Goodbye." And I click him off and toss the phone on the floor.
"Who was that guy?"
It's late and E. doesn't like to be disturbed. A genius needs his rest, after all.
"Someone looking for Brian."
"Oh." And he rolls over. Brian doesn't interest him. Brian is a phantom as far as Ethan is concerned. He's clueless as to why I'm still connected to him -- if I still am.
I think about that long winter after Brian had gone to Los Angeles. The phone calls in the middle of the night. His weird breathing. Never saying anything. That was so fucking Brian-like. Totally batshit crazy.
That's it, really. Brian is fucking nuts. He's always been fucking nuts and he always will be.
But then I look at myself and wonder who else is nuts?
Yeah, I am.
Brian is teaching me a lesson. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but he is.
Be a fucking man, Justin. That's what it's all about.
I remember when Brian told me that I should never depend on anyone but myself. That was after my father attacked him and I left home and moved in with him the first time. I was so excited to be in the loft. So excited to be sleeping next to Brian every night. Living with him. Eating with him. Like we were in a real relationship.
Ha! That's so funny now. A relationship. The beginning of a roller coaster ride is more likely.
Don't depend on anyone. Ever. You only have yourself. You'll always only have yourself.
Now I'm understanding what it was all about.
Brian was warning me. He never lies to me, that much is certain. Never. What he says, he means. So when he told me that he loved me, I believed it. And when he told me never to count on anyone but myself, I believed that, too.
I still believe it all.
Come on, Brian, don't fuck up. Don't.
"Huh? What?"
"Nothing. I'm just mumbling to myself."
I get up to go to the bathroom. It's rank in there and the toilet is filthy. There's also a litter box under the sink that E. never cleans out. It's filled with clumps of piss and shit. The whole place is covered with cat hair. I use the toilet and wash my hands compulsively. Then I sneeze. And sneeze again. I go out and gather up my clothes.
"Where are you going, J.?"
"I can't sleep here. I have to go home."
"Oh." He turns over again. "Don't forget to lock the door behind you."
The cat is curled up on the sofa. He lifts his head and glares at me with evil green eyes. "I'm leaving," I say to him. "Before I go into total system meltdown."
It's a beautiful night. Cool but clear, the way September should be. I put down the window of the Jeep and let the breeze flow over me. But the air stings my eyes, making them water. The air and the cat fur and... and my allergies.
Shit.
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
Never count on anyone.
Never.
Fucking never.
***
I bury myself in my classes. I have a lot of ideas for new pieces. All those photos I took in the Arizona desert are just asking to have something done with them. And I want to work more on my painting, too. My hand is better -- much better. I have more control and don't need to rely on the computer as much anymore.
I work up a new portfolio and make copies to send off to Cal Arts. Even if Dean Armstrong won't write me a recommendation, I know I can get one from Professor Minton. And I bet Professor Young in the Film Department will write me a letter, too. He loved my video project last spring. And I should call John Hamilton at the Austin Gallery -- I know he'll put in a good word for me.
That is... if I still want to go to Cal Arts.
Jesus.
I don't know what the fuck to do. But I also don't want to close down any options.
Who knows where I'll be in a year?
Or where Brian will be?
Who the hell knows?
My mom calls and invites me to dinner on Sunday. "Do you want to bring your friend, darling?" Her voice sounds so chipper and fake.
"You mean Ethan? I don't think so."
"Oh." I can't tell if she sounds relieved or disappointed. "How is... everything?"
I know she means how is Brian? And how am I here, alone, without Brian?
"Fine," I say shortly. "Everything is fine."
She sighs.
Go ahead, Mom. Sigh away.
Why do I worry about Brian fucking up? Because I'm the one who's fucked.
I love him. I can't help it. I can't.
But I need to learn to live with what he is, with what he does. Or to live without him most of the time.
Or all of the time.
Fuck you, Brian. Fuck. You.
At least think of me. At least. Like I think about you.
Because right now there's nothing else.
And then she wipes me out. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for that.
"I'll see you Sunday, honey," she says. "I'm making one of your favorites. It's Debbie's recipe."
Fuck no. Please -- no.
But she says it. "I'm making lasagna."
***
September flies away and it starts to get really chilly at night. I think about facing another long winter -- alone. This will be the third without Brian. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I still have to get through the fall first before I worry about winter.
I was hoping to be at Cal Arts by January. But it looks like that isn't going to happen. I got a nice letter from them, but nothing definite.
Nothing definite. That's my life right now.
And then Michael calls and leaves a message on the loft machine.
It's kind of out of the blue. I haven't spoken to him since the whole wedding disaster. And I haven't been spending much time on Liberty Avenue or at the diner, so I'm out of touch with the old gang. Which is just as well. I don't want to see them or listen to their questions right now.
"Justin? I... well, I have something I need help with. I know this is kind of sudden, but I'd appreciate it if you'd come over to the store. Any time is okay. Please? I'd really like to talk to you. Okay. Bye."
Typical. People who I want to call me never do, while people I don't want to hear from won't go away.
Still, I'm curious about Michael. I know he's living with Ben and that kid Ben is fostering -- Mom still gets all the dirt from Deb at their P-FLAG meetings. But I can't imagine what he wants to talk to me about.
It has to be about 'Rage.' That's all I can think of. But... I don't want to do it. Not that I don't think it's a great idea -- I always thought it was good -- but working with Michael is nothing but trouble. And right now I want to avoid trouble.
But I go over there anyway. I'm a glutton for punishment.
Red Cape is the same as always. The kid -- Hunter -- is lounging behind the counter, paging through a comic book.
"Look what the cat dragged in," he comments.
"Don't you ever have school?" I ask. This kid irritates me. I don't know why, but he does.
"It's after 3:00," he points out. "School's out."
"Whatever. Where's Michael?"
Hunter glances towards the back. "In the office. He's been expecting you."
Great. I'm expected.
The office is a cluttered mess, with boxes and stacks of comics and papers everywhere. Michael sits in the middle of it all, a puzzled expression on his face. Come to think of it, Michael always looks puzzled. Like he has no idea what to do next. No wonder he depended on Brian to make decisions for him for all those years. Then he had Dr. Dave to do it. And now Ben.
That's my fear. To become like Michael. Having someone else always telling me what to do because I can't make a single fucking decision on my own.
I won't let it happen to me. I fucking won't!
"Justin." He smiles. He's actually glad to see me.
"What's up?" I look for a place to sit. Michael jumps up and clears some junk off a chair and I slide into it. "Looks like things are busy."
"Yeah," he says. "Busy."
"Before you say anything else, I want to be clear about something. I love 'Rage' but I have a ton of things I'm doing right now and I don't have time to work on it with you. Not that it isn't something I'd consider in the future, but right now it isn't an option."
To my surprise, Michael nods. "I know. I know you're busy with school and everything. But this isn't about 'Rage.' That's not why I asked you here."
"It isn't?" Now I'm really confused. "What is this about?"
And Michael gets up and closes the door of the office. Then he goes over to an old safe. It's like something from an old movie -- a battered metal cube with a dial on the front. He fiddles with the dial and opens the safe. There are some envelopes inside. I assume this is where he keeps his money. Or whatever he thinks is valuable. I guess Michael doesn't trust the banks.
He takes out a thin manila envelope.
"I need your advice," he says. "About this." And he hands me the envelope.
I open it gingerly. I have no idea what's going on. Inside is a comic book in a plastic sleeve. It looks old. I stare at it. "What the fuck, Michael? What is this all about?"
"Do you know what that is?" he asks.
Okay, I'll bite. "A comic book."
He rubs his eyes. "Yes, a comic book. Look at it again."
I shrug. "Batman. So what? Just cut to the chase, Michael." No wonder Brian used to get so frustrated with him!
"Not just Batman," he says. "This is 'Detective Comics Number 27'! The first appearance of Batman anywhere. It was in a consignment I bought from a guy whose uncle died. It's in mint condition."
I'm no expert on comic books, but I'm not an idiot. The light is beginning to dawn on me. "This is some kind of really rare comic, right?"
"Yes!" Michael almost shouts. "The only one rarer is the first Superman. Do you know what the last 'Detective Number 27' sold for, Justin?"
Fuck if I know! "A lot?"
Michael smirks. "How much do you think?"
Now I'm getting a headache. I try to think of how much some nerd would pay for a comic book. And then I quadruple it. "$50,000?" I guess.
Michael looks pained. His constipated face. "More."
I swallow and stare at the flimsy paper. It's just a fucking comic book! "$100,000?" I say, although it seems impossible.
"$250,000," he states. And then he lets it sink in. "And this one is as close to mint as you'll ever get with a 60 year old book. This could be worth double that!"
"No fucking way!" But I can tell by Michael's face that he's telling the truth. "For a comic book?"
"Collectors will pay anything for a rare book," he says. "And this is rare. Really, really rare. Remember that Captain Astro book Brian got me for my 30th birthday?"
"How could I forget?" Jesus! That was another disaster!
"You know what he paid for that?"
"Brian didn't share that information with me at the time."
"Almost $9,000," says Michael. "And when we resold it on eBay we were able to get $10,000 for it. That money bought me this store."
I wince at the thought Brian paid so much for a comic book. Or for a birthday present for Michael. It feels... wrong. Something twists inside of me. Jealousy, I suppose. Yes, jealousy.
"And this thing is really worth that much more?" I turn the comic book over in my hands. It seems impossible.
"Yes." Michael reaches out and takes the comic book back. "I didn't tell David about it. And I haven't told Ben about it. At least not yet."
Michael is such a baby! "What the fuck are you waiting for?"
"I don't know." He sinks down in the chair behind his desk. "I guess I was hoping the time would come when I could talk to Brian about it. He always knows what to do. He could yell at me. Bitch at me. Tell me how pathetic I am. Help me."
Now I'm pissed off. "But Brian isn't here, Michael! And he's not going to be here any time soon!"
"I know," he says. "That's why I called you. You're the only other person I could think of who will tell me what to do -- no bullshit, no agenda. That's why I couldn't tell David. He would have made it all about 'us' -- about our future and all that shit. And Ben... I think he'd see it as some kind of obstacle. He's weird about... stuff. Like money and stuff."
"And what about you, Michael? How do you see it?" I ask.
"As freedom," he says, looking me straight in the eye. "As a way to finally be free to be what I want to be and to make my own decisions. I never had any money of my own. I never had anything of my own -- except my store and that's always been a shaky proposition at best. But this..." His voice trails off. "It's big, Justin. Bigger than anything I've ever had before. And it just fell into my lap like... like fate."
Fate. I know what that's like. My whole life turns on fate. Things he never expected. Things you never imagined that change your life in an instant.
"How long have you been sitting on this comic book?"
Michael bites his lip. "Months. Since June. I put it in the safe and didn't tell anyone."
"Well, now you've told me," I say. "And this is my take on the whole thing: this comic book is your nest egg, Michael. Your security. If it's as valuable as you say, then you'll never have to depend on anyone else -- ever."
"Yeah," he says. "And I can help Ma. And Uncle Vic. And..."
"Wait," I tell him. "First things first. I have a lawyer, Fred Karr, who handles my trust fund."
"Trust fund?" Michael frowns.
"My inheritance from Ron," I say. "It's a long story. But Karr deals in money and investments. We'll call him and get his advice. If you want to keep this thing, he can arrange to make sure it's safe. And if you want to sell it, he'll help you get the most money for it."
Michael's face brightens. "I knew you'd know what to do, Justin!" And he gets up and hugs me. It feels really awkward, but it's okay.
There's knock on the door of the office. It's the kid. "Dude! Ben's on the phone. He wants to talk to you."
Michael opens the door. "I'll be right there."
The kid glares at me. "What are you two doing in here? Fucking?"
"None of your business," I tell him. Fucking? Jesus! What a little twat!
"Why don't you take these boxes down to the basement?" Michael suggests.
"Sure, dude." Hunter picks up a box. And he knocks into me as he leaves the office. "Excuse me, bitch."
That tears it! "Why you little fucker..."
But Michael stops me. "Ignore him, Justin. He's got some major attitude. And a major crush on Brian. He knows you're his boyfriend."
Yeah. Boyfriend. Whatever the fuck.
Michael sees me to the door. "If you could call that guy -- the lawyer -- I'd appreciate it. I'm getting nervous keeping the comic book in my safe."
"But if no one knows it's there, what's the problem?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. But now I want to get things sorted out. Thanks for helping me."
"I'll do what I can." And I will. After all, Michael and I haven't always been at odds. There were times when we were good friends. But crazy stuff always seemed to get between us. "This will work out, Michael. You'll see."
"I hope so."
I leave and walk up towards Liberty Avenue where I parked the Jeep. Maybe Michael and I can work things out. And maybe I should think about doing 'Rage' again. Michael is right. You need things that are yours. 'Rage' is something that's mine. And Michael's. I keep thinking about that comic book and how much it might be worth.
Maybe...
Just... maybe...
I can do what I need to do. I'm not fucking down. I'm not fucking broken.
I don't need anyone. Just myself.
Do you hear that, Brian?
Myself.
And I can do this.
Fuck that!
I can do anything.
***
"I won't let you near it,
I will let my spirit fly,
Fly
High.
Oh, take me down.
Take me down,
You can hold me but you
Can't hold what's within.
Pull me 'round,
Push me to the limit,
Maybe I may bend,
But I know where I'm not going,
I will not be broken.
I will not be broken.
I will not be..."
(Kennedy/Kirkpatrick/Sims)
This is Chapter 61 in the "Queer Realities" series.
The narrator is Justin Taylor, and features Ethan Gold, Jennifer Taylor, Michael Novotny, Hunter.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Justin gives advice -- among other things. Pittsburgh, September/October 2003.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit.
Earlier "QI" chapters online and on the LJ are here:
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaelmcgear/Gaedhalficpage.html
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaedhal/
Most recent "QI" chapters on the LJ are here:
Ch. 58 "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410497.html
Ch. 59 "How Soon Is Now?"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/411025.html
Ch. 60 "Incognito"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/412670.html
By Gaedhal
"That was then, this is now,
Found my way back here somehow.
Knew you'd have to let me go,
Told you once I told you so.
Take me down,
You can hold me but you
Can't hold what's within.
Pull me 'round,
Push me to the limit,
Maybe I may bend,
But I know where I'm not going,
I will not be broken.
I will not be broken.
I will not be...
Someone other than who I am,
I will fight to make my stand,
'Cause what is livin' if I can't live free?
What is freedom if I can't be me?
Take me down,
You can hold me but you
Can't hold what's within.
Pull me 'round,
Push me to the limit,
Maybe I may bend,
But I know where I'm not going,
I will not be broken.
I will not be broken.
I will not be..."
***
Why is Dorian calling me?
Does he think I know where Brian is? Does he think I have him in my back pocket, hidden away?
Well, I don't. I don't have him. And I don't know where the hell he is. And I tell Dorian that.
"If you don't know, Justin, then who does?" he says in exasperation.
"Brian is Brian," I reply. "When he wants to talk to you, he'll call you. You know that as well as I do. And until then... you're fucked."
"But... We're beginning pre-production on 'Red Shirt" very soon! I need Brian and I need his finished screenplay!"
That's all Dorian gives a damn about -- his movie.
"Goodbye." And I click him off and toss the phone on the floor.
"Who was that guy?"
It's late and E. doesn't like to be disturbed. A genius needs his rest, after all.
"Someone looking for Brian."
"Oh." And he rolls over. Brian doesn't interest him. Brian is a phantom as far as Ethan is concerned. He's clueless as to why I'm still connected to him -- if I still am.
I think about that long winter after Brian had gone to Los Angeles. The phone calls in the middle of the night. His weird breathing. Never saying anything. That was so fucking Brian-like. Totally batshit crazy.
That's it, really. Brian is fucking nuts. He's always been fucking nuts and he always will be.
But then I look at myself and wonder who else is nuts?
Yeah, I am.
Brian is teaching me a lesson. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but he is.
Be a fucking man, Justin. That's what it's all about.
I remember when Brian told me that I should never depend on anyone but myself. That was after my father attacked him and I left home and moved in with him the first time. I was so excited to be in the loft. So excited to be sleeping next to Brian every night. Living with him. Eating with him. Like we were in a real relationship.
Ha! That's so funny now. A relationship. The beginning of a roller coaster ride is more likely.
Don't depend on anyone. Ever. You only have yourself. You'll always only have yourself.
Now I'm understanding what it was all about.
Brian was warning me. He never lies to me, that much is certain. Never. What he says, he means. So when he told me that he loved me, I believed it. And when he told me never to count on anyone but myself, I believed that, too.
I still believe it all.
Come on, Brian, don't fuck up. Don't.
"Huh? What?"
"Nothing. I'm just mumbling to myself."
I get up to go to the bathroom. It's rank in there and the toilet is filthy. There's also a litter box under the sink that E. never cleans out. It's filled with clumps of piss and shit. The whole place is covered with cat hair. I use the toilet and wash my hands compulsively. Then I sneeze. And sneeze again. I go out and gather up my clothes.
"Where are you going, J.?"
"I can't sleep here. I have to go home."
"Oh." He turns over again. "Don't forget to lock the door behind you."
The cat is curled up on the sofa. He lifts his head and glares at me with evil green eyes. "I'm leaving," I say to him. "Before I go into total system meltdown."
It's a beautiful night. Cool but clear, the way September should be. I put down the window of the Jeep and let the breeze flow over me. But the air stings my eyes, making them water. The air and the cat fur and... and my allergies.
Shit.
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
Never count on anyone.
Never.
Fucking never.
***
I bury myself in my classes. I have a lot of ideas for new pieces. All those photos I took in the Arizona desert are just asking to have something done with them. And I want to work more on my painting, too. My hand is better -- much better. I have more control and don't need to rely on the computer as much anymore.
I work up a new portfolio and make copies to send off to Cal Arts. Even if Dean Armstrong won't write me a recommendation, I know I can get one from Professor Minton. And I bet Professor Young in the Film Department will write me a letter, too. He loved my video project last spring. And I should call John Hamilton at the Austin Gallery -- I know he'll put in a good word for me.
That is... if I still want to go to Cal Arts.
Jesus.
I don't know what the fuck to do. But I also don't want to close down any options.
Who knows where I'll be in a year?
Or where Brian will be?
Who the hell knows?
My mom calls and invites me to dinner on Sunday. "Do you want to bring your friend, darling?" Her voice sounds so chipper and fake.
"You mean Ethan? I don't think so."
"Oh." I can't tell if she sounds relieved or disappointed. "How is... everything?"
I know she means how is Brian? And how am I here, alone, without Brian?
"Fine," I say shortly. "Everything is fine."
She sighs.
Go ahead, Mom. Sigh away.
Why do I worry about Brian fucking up? Because I'm the one who's fucked.
I love him. I can't help it. I can't.
But I need to learn to live with what he is, with what he does. Or to live without him most of the time.
Or all of the time.
Fuck you, Brian. Fuck. You.
At least think of me. At least. Like I think about you.
Because right now there's nothing else.
And then she wipes me out. Thanks, Mom. Thanks for that.
"I'll see you Sunday, honey," she says. "I'm making one of your favorites. It's Debbie's recipe."
Fuck no. Please -- no.
But she says it. "I'm making lasagna."
***
September flies away and it starts to get really chilly at night. I think about facing another long winter -- alone. This will be the third without Brian. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I still have to get through the fall first before I worry about winter.
I was hoping to be at Cal Arts by January. But it looks like that isn't going to happen. I got a nice letter from them, but nothing definite.
Nothing definite. That's my life right now.
And then Michael calls and leaves a message on the loft machine.
It's kind of out of the blue. I haven't spoken to him since the whole wedding disaster. And I haven't been spending much time on Liberty Avenue or at the diner, so I'm out of touch with the old gang. Which is just as well. I don't want to see them or listen to their questions right now.
"Justin? I... well, I have something I need help with. I know this is kind of sudden, but I'd appreciate it if you'd come over to the store. Any time is okay. Please? I'd really like to talk to you. Okay. Bye."
Typical. People who I want to call me never do, while people I don't want to hear from won't go away.
Still, I'm curious about Michael. I know he's living with Ben and that kid Ben is fostering -- Mom still gets all the dirt from Deb at their P-FLAG meetings. But I can't imagine what he wants to talk to me about.
It has to be about 'Rage.' That's all I can think of. But... I don't want to do it. Not that I don't think it's a great idea -- I always thought it was good -- but working with Michael is nothing but trouble. And right now I want to avoid trouble.
But I go over there anyway. I'm a glutton for punishment.
Red Cape is the same as always. The kid -- Hunter -- is lounging behind the counter, paging through a comic book.
"Look what the cat dragged in," he comments.
"Don't you ever have school?" I ask. This kid irritates me. I don't know why, but he does.
"It's after 3:00," he points out. "School's out."
"Whatever. Where's Michael?"
Hunter glances towards the back. "In the office. He's been expecting you."
Great. I'm expected.
The office is a cluttered mess, with boxes and stacks of comics and papers everywhere. Michael sits in the middle of it all, a puzzled expression on his face. Come to think of it, Michael always looks puzzled. Like he has no idea what to do next. No wonder he depended on Brian to make decisions for him for all those years. Then he had Dr. Dave to do it. And now Ben.
That's my fear. To become like Michael. Having someone else always telling me what to do because I can't make a single fucking decision on my own.
I won't let it happen to me. I fucking won't!
"Justin." He smiles. He's actually glad to see me.
"What's up?" I look for a place to sit. Michael jumps up and clears some junk off a chair and I slide into it. "Looks like things are busy."
"Yeah," he says. "Busy."
"Before you say anything else, I want to be clear about something. I love 'Rage' but I have a ton of things I'm doing right now and I don't have time to work on it with you. Not that it isn't something I'd consider in the future, but right now it isn't an option."
To my surprise, Michael nods. "I know. I know you're busy with school and everything. But this isn't about 'Rage.' That's not why I asked you here."
"It isn't?" Now I'm really confused. "What is this about?"
And Michael gets up and closes the door of the office. Then he goes over to an old safe. It's like something from an old movie -- a battered metal cube with a dial on the front. He fiddles with the dial and opens the safe. There are some envelopes inside. I assume this is where he keeps his money. Or whatever he thinks is valuable. I guess Michael doesn't trust the banks.
He takes out a thin manila envelope.
"I need your advice," he says. "About this." And he hands me the envelope.
I open it gingerly. I have no idea what's going on. Inside is a comic book in a plastic sleeve. It looks old. I stare at it. "What the fuck, Michael? What is this all about?"
"Do you know what that is?" he asks.
Okay, I'll bite. "A comic book."
He rubs his eyes. "Yes, a comic book. Look at it again."
I shrug. "Batman. So what? Just cut to the chase, Michael." No wonder Brian used to get so frustrated with him!
"Not just Batman," he says. "This is 'Detective Comics Number 27'! The first appearance of Batman anywhere. It was in a consignment I bought from a guy whose uncle died. It's in mint condition."
I'm no expert on comic books, but I'm not an idiot. The light is beginning to dawn on me. "This is some kind of really rare comic, right?"
"Yes!" Michael almost shouts. "The only one rarer is the first Superman. Do you know what the last 'Detective Number 27' sold for, Justin?"
Fuck if I know! "A lot?"
Michael smirks. "How much do you think?"
Now I'm getting a headache. I try to think of how much some nerd would pay for a comic book. And then I quadruple it. "$50,000?" I guess.
Michael looks pained. His constipated face. "More."
I swallow and stare at the flimsy paper. It's just a fucking comic book! "$100,000?" I say, although it seems impossible.
"$250,000," he states. And then he lets it sink in. "And this one is as close to mint as you'll ever get with a 60 year old book. This could be worth double that!"
"No fucking way!" But I can tell by Michael's face that he's telling the truth. "For a comic book?"
"Collectors will pay anything for a rare book," he says. "And this is rare. Really, really rare. Remember that Captain Astro book Brian got me for my 30th birthday?"
"How could I forget?" Jesus! That was another disaster!
"You know what he paid for that?"
"Brian didn't share that information with me at the time."
"Almost $9,000," says Michael. "And when we resold it on eBay we were able to get $10,000 for it. That money bought me this store."
I wince at the thought Brian paid so much for a comic book. Or for a birthday present for Michael. It feels... wrong. Something twists inside of me. Jealousy, I suppose. Yes, jealousy.
"And this thing is really worth that much more?" I turn the comic book over in my hands. It seems impossible.
"Yes." Michael reaches out and takes the comic book back. "I didn't tell David about it. And I haven't told Ben about it. At least not yet."
Michael is such a baby! "What the fuck are you waiting for?"
"I don't know." He sinks down in the chair behind his desk. "I guess I was hoping the time would come when I could talk to Brian about it. He always knows what to do. He could yell at me. Bitch at me. Tell me how pathetic I am. Help me."
Now I'm pissed off. "But Brian isn't here, Michael! And he's not going to be here any time soon!"
"I know," he says. "That's why I called you. You're the only other person I could think of who will tell me what to do -- no bullshit, no agenda. That's why I couldn't tell David. He would have made it all about 'us' -- about our future and all that shit. And Ben... I think he'd see it as some kind of obstacle. He's weird about... stuff. Like money and stuff."
"And what about you, Michael? How do you see it?" I ask.
"As freedom," he says, looking me straight in the eye. "As a way to finally be free to be what I want to be and to make my own decisions. I never had any money of my own. I never had anything of my own -- except my store and that's always been a shaky proposition at best. But this..." His voice trails off. "It's big, Justin. Bigger than anything I've ever had before. And it just fell into my lap like... like fate."
Fate. I know what that's like. My whole life turns on fate. Things he never expected. Things you never imagined that change your life in an instant.
"How long have you been sitting on this comic book?"
Michael bites his lip. "Months. Since June. I put it in the safe and didn't tell anyone."
"Well, now you've told me," I say. "And this is my take on the whole thing: this comic book is your nest egg, Michael. Your security. If it's as valuable as you say, then you'll never have to depend on anyone else -- ever."
"Yeah," he says. "And I can help Ma. And Uncle Vic. And..."
"Wait," I tell him. "First things first. I have a lawyer, Fred Karr, who handles my trust fund."
"Trust fund?" Michael frowns.
"My inheritance from Ron," I say. "It's a long story. But Karr deals in money and investments. We'll call him and get his advice. If you want to keep this thing, he can arrange to make sure it's safe. And if you want to sell it, he'll help you get the most money for it."
Michael's face brightens. "I knew you'd know what to do, Justin!" And he gets up and hugs me. It feels really awkward, but it's okay.
There's knock on the door of the office. It's the kid. "Dude! Ben's on the phone. He wants to talk to you."
Michael opens the door. "I'll be right there."
The kid glares at me. "What are you two doing in here? Fucking?"
"None of your business," I tell him. Fucking? Jesus! What a little twat!
"Why don't you take these boxes down to the basement?" Michael suggests.
"Sure, dude." Hunter picks up a box. And he knocks into me as he leaves the office. "Excuse me, bitch."
That tears it! "Why you little fucker..."
But Michael stops me. "Ignore him, Justin. He's got some major attitude. And a major crush on Brian. He knows you're his boyfriend."
Yeah. Boyfriend. Whatever the fuck.
Michael sees me to the door. "If you could call that guy -- the lawyer -- I'd appreciate it. I'm getting nervous keeping the comic book in my safe."
"But if no one knows it's there, what's the problem?"
He shrugs. "I don't know. But now I want to get things sorted out. Thanks for helping me."
"I'll do what I can." And I will. After all, Michael and I haven't always been at odds. There were times when we were good friends. But crazy stuff always seemed to get between us. "This will work out, Michael. You'll see."
"I hope so."
I leave and walk up towards Liberty Avenue where I parked the Jeep. Maybe Michael and I can work things out. And maybe I should think about doing 'Rage' again. Michael is right. You need things that are yours. 'Rage' is something that's mine. And Michael's. I keep thinking about that comic book and how much it might be worth.
Maybe...
Just... maybe...
I can do what I need to do. I'm not fucking down. I'm not fucking broken.
I don't need anyone. Just myself.
Do you hear that, Brian?
Myself.
And I can do this.
Fuck that!
I can do anything.
***
"I won't let you near it,
I will let my spirit fly,
Fly
High.
Oh, take me down.
Take me down,
You can hold me but you
Can't hold what's within.
Pull me 'round,
Push me to the limit,
Maybe I may bend,
But I know where I'm not going,
I will not be broken.
I will not be broken.
I will not be..."
(Kennedy/Kirkpatrick/Sims)