MQM emergence...

(Kelly Boesch)

This is coming out slowly...which is good, I guess. I had a segue into a memory that really did not belong in this part so cut it. 250 words. As a side note: Simon has severe scarring from his childhood, hidden by clothing.

And this is continuing from yesterday.

--------

It hadn’t been a slow decision. Nor contemplative. No weighing the pros and cons, or taking weeks or days to consider all the ramifications. It was simply a case of...one day Simon could not leave; the next day, he could not stay. As if a switch had been flicked in his brain from off to on, turning on a light to show him just how much he had been tolerating. 

How he’d been allowing Demian the right to use his scars as a tool of control. 

 The hit was so deep and sudden, he almost vomited from it. In the middle of the newsstand. Just froze as he was adding copies of A Hundred Years of Solitude to the rack. He honestly believed the only reason he was able to hold back was he would never let something so crass ruin a book. 

Of course, he couldn’t depart too fast or sudden. Leave by just walking away without a plan. That was not Simon’s way. He did require a bit of time to let this new belief permeate through him to the point where no matter what he did, he knew he would be all right. 

So he took Sunday through Tuesday off from the newsstand, rented a car and drove to Houston. He knew he needed a larger world in which to disappear so he could find a new path for his life. Though one still familiar enough that he wouldn’t have to learn a whole new way of dealing with the world. 

It was a massive city, Houston. Exploding skyward. Not only downtown but at a medical center and sections along freeways and around a high-end mall called the Galleria. Malls always had book stores, back then, so that was his first stop. 

He didn’t have much money, and since he was going to abandon his lease he wanted a job and living space already arranged. He found a position, straight off. Not well-paid but enough to live on. To start the following Monday. 

Now came finding a new apartment. He drove down Westheimer to the Montrose area, since he’d heard it was the gay part of town and wanted to be amongst his own kind. Not to become as one with them, but have them as a de facto buffer against the hatefulness of the world. 

Of course, he knew nothing could really keep that away from him, but being surrounded by other gay men and women was better than being out on your own with no backup. 

He found one close to a Kroger, and saw the bus was right there. He could move in straightaway. So on Tuesday he set up his utilities and phone and drove home. It was only a four hour journey.

He had to tolerate Demian using him as his whore, one more time. Doing what the man wanted and receiving nothing in return. This time it was not easy keeping his composure. This time he noticed how Demian thought it was funny that Simon did not like having friends join them in bed. This time he did not stay the night but went home after everyone was finished.

He quit his job on Friday. Gave half his furniture away to people in the complex. Put what he could in a small U-Haul truck, and mid-afternoon, Saturday, left his key on the kitchen counter and drove away. 

He told no one where he was going. Put in no forwarding address at the post office, since he had never received much mail. He did have to change banks, since this was before Texas allowed branch banking, but kept that to as minimal as possible. Made sure he emphasized no one was to know what he had done. 

He could smile at how today's word for what he had done was ghosting. Back then, it was just escaping. 

He also went celibate. Masturbating to his fantasies was more that satisfying enough. He made a few acquaintances. Neighbors. People at work. Around the mall. Found a couple of movie theaters to attend and an amazing video store from which to rent. Decided empanadas were just as good as enchiladas. And settled into an easy, simple existence. He also started drawing, again.

Just for himself, at first, but it kept him occupied...and he started to write, again.

Character detente...

Simon has held off on leaving so as to give me some background...

----------

How long had it taken Simon to get to the point where he was brave enough to publish the sketches he had done as Demian lay dying? It was more than thirty years after his death. And even then he self-published the book rather than submit it for consideration by a publisher of any kind.

He made certain everyone knew it was a very adult coloring book, not meant for children, to give it an even safer veneer. Toned down the images...making them cartoonish, almost. Not on the level of Manga or Bara or Yaoi but plain and simple and easy to color in. 

He knew he was merely a practiced artist, not a talented one. But also knew no one else would have faced the true horror of dying from AIDs in a way that was meant to denigrate the disease into something ludicrous. And approachable. And a bit obscene. 

Had he succeeded? He had no idea. He just knew that finally...finally he had been freed from the horror of that time. 

And from the hate he’d felt for Demian. 

He would say that he had a true talent for composition, setting the images into a simplicity that could indicate far more. That even extended to his paintings. Black and white images in acrylic, using a Koda-lithic style. Very stark and shadow-riven, with no mid-tones. Just a drop of deep rich red to contrast. 

He’d done a series of them...a total of thirteen that a collector in North Carolina loved and bought, which made him a bit of a name. He made more. Of course, none were as blunt or raw as those, or even the sketches in the coloring book. 

But he still built a small catalogue of prints for purchase, which gave him the ability to buy a car and pay for insurance. Granted, it was a ten year old Honda CRV, yet it had carried his canvasses to various art festivals. Got him to Barrington and back to Afton Springs, twice. 

It was twenty years old, now, and cranky. Like him. And he knew he’d drive it until it fell apart. But that was how he was. He hated to make changes unless absolutely necessary. 

That is what had made it so hard to leave Demian. Because for all the horrible things the man had done do to him, he’d continued to feel that he was important to the son-of-a-bitch. Needed. Necessary. A part of him. 

Simon had honestly believed treating him like a king would show him how much he meant. And let him stay near him. How easy it was to fall into that delusion and hand control of himself to a man whose only importance was his own comfort and joy. 

But that was the reality of his life, at that time. Simon wasn’t afraid of what Demian would do to him. He knew he’d never take him to the point of death. Demian was too selfish for that. And too stupid to do it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. 

Nor would the pain he caused be extreme enough to be considered anything more than an acceptable punishment. On a symbolic level. For having turned out wrong. As so many in Simon’s family had let him know more than once. 

No, he finally left because a cold, clear understanding forced its way into his mind...that he was nothing but a toy, to Demian. Not human. Just something to use. For fun. Bring in a little cash, even. On the same level as a blow-up doll. It had always been Simon there for him, never the other way around. And, eventually, he would move on to someone new and exciting, and Simon would be left adrift.

Scramble brains...

Not a great flight home. Packed plane. Sketchy WiFi. Running late so barely made my connection. But made it home, dropped off my paperwork to the office and slept for 6 hours in my bed...and loved it.

That said, I've had zero focus all day, since I woke. Managed to get some paperwork done. Expenses. That sort of stuff. Found that Avis pulled a fast one and charged me for gas when I'd filled the car up...and decided i wasn't in the mood to fight with them over $20. I may change my mind, tomorrow, but we'll see.

Did some things online...but mostly just wandered through Facebook and Xitter and Instagram, with no real direction. I tried to get back to MQM, but it just wasn't happening.

I feel like Simon is walking away from me. Like he doesn't think I'll do right by him. And he may be correct. I'm not sure I even want to write, anymore. It's become something of a job...almost a chore that I have to do out of obligation, not desire.

That may be due to my usual emotional blue period when coming down off a job...even one as quick and dirty as this. But seeing those archives of a major writer like this guy...and looking at what I've done...I feel like waste.

I'm not very creative. Little of my work is original. None of it is of any importance in the world of literature or meaning, and my vision of the world is more than a little warped. 

So...let's see how this emotional downturn plays out over the next couple days. No telling where I'll wind up...if anywhere.

And home, again...

I got the job done quick and easy so changed my flight home to tonight instead of tomorrow. Actually saved me money since I'd bought the Business Select seat. 

It's just, I did not like the hotel I was in, which was sad. I've stayed there, before, but this time it was not comfortable. No water pressure in the shower. A toilet that needed encouragement to flush. Parking that was non-existent. I was booked for two nights but just the one was enough.

In reality, I'm just not all that crazy about San Francisco. I've been here often enough to see all the sights I wanted. Even did a Vertigo tour on my own. But it never has been my favorite city. Too tight and self-satisfied, for my taste.

I feel somewhat the same way about Seattle. And all of this was brought home because my flight here transited through Los Angeles...and as we landed, there, I grew so damned homesick. 

LA is my home. Yeah, I was born in San Diego so I am a California native...but I love LA and all the issues she has. If I could afford it, I'd move there in a heartbeat.

TBH, though, I feel the same way about London. Not as intensely as about LA, but close. I think some of it has to do with me understanding how those two cities work. I can get around in London, albeit not quickly unless using the Underground. City streets are insanely packed.

It's the same for LA, though. Even now, I could get around there. Don't have to have a car. I did without one for nearly two years...20 years ago. But still...

I just love LA.

Headed West...

A last-minute job in San Francisco came through so I'm headed out tomorrow. And this one is making me bounce off walls. It's the archives of an author I really, really love. Can't say more than that, but it's on the level of when I flew to Ireland and packed John Boorman's library and items to ship to the Lily Library.

On that one, I got to hold Excalibur and was total fanboy all over the place. Armor plating. Helmet. Shields. We lucked onto a guy outside Dublin who could build a crate for it all and handle export formalities. 

He had three or four Rottweilers that were really sweet...once he'd introduced me to them. The momma Rottie was the one who made sure I was doing the business properly, once I was boxing up the last items. If I stopped and admired something for too long, I'd get a low ruff and be brought back to reality.

No writing done, today, but I will work on the flights, tomorrow. One's for 6 hours, but I got an even more space seat on the aisle and should be fine. I'm flying Southwest so hopefully everything will go well. You never know until you're there.

It has been a while since I've been actually excited about a job. I'm usually tense about handling everything correctly, with as little fuss as possible. On a job I did in Brighton, UK I way over-ordered packing materials by mistake. 

I misread the description on bags of foam peanuts, thinking they were the same size as bags of them, here...and they were twice as big and ordered in lots of 2. So 4 times as much as I needed was delivered...and freaked out the donor.

Fortunately, I was able to return the unopened ones for credit, but it was awkward. And ever since I've been intensely careful.

I'm hoping this one goes well. 

Still adjustment-ing...

When i first started writing MQM I'd been following the old rules of screenwriting -- conflict, conflict, conflict. But then I pulled back from that and aimed to make the story more honest and believable instead of melodramatic. Meaning I cut two characters that felt too set up to be used against Simon.

Now? They're back in. Paley is the cop who arrested Simon for exposing himself to the man within 600 feet of a school. Simon provides solid evidence the school is actually more than 600 feet away, so all the prosecution has is Paley's word against Simon's...and the cop's is called in question.

So Paley mentions a couple of cops were passing and saw the whole thing -- Garisov and Corelli -- and they will back him up. which means getting a continuance in order to get them scheduled to testify...and give Simon time to interview them.

Simon lives nearly 400 miles from the city so argues against it, but Judge Falwell gives the ADA, Walstead, the time. Because this is still a Class 3 misdemeanor which carries jail time of up to 60 days and a thousand dollar fine.

During the continuance, Simon convinces the owner of the store it happened outside of to give him a copy of the security tape and uses that to call the two cops' testimony into question. But Falwell sides with them and convicts Simon then sentences him to the full 60 days...and won't give him time to appeal.

Which leads to ReShawn, an attorney Simon had asked to help him, taking the case over. ReShawn had been convinced that, with Simon's evidence, Falwell would find him not guilty. He is horrified that he was wrong. 

It works a lot better, now, and still feels honest and real enough. I think. Won't know till it's done.

Adjustment-ing...

I was into avoidance mode, today. Didn't want to write or create or do much of anything. So I got myself into updating the characters list for MQM...and here they are...

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Location: Barrington, (Unnamed state in the Midwest) Population 132,500 One-time manufacturing town, now building electronic panels for cars and medical equipment, not as wealthy, older buildings unused, even when made over into condos. 

Characters:

Simon Halloran, 73, Gay, doing friend a favor when arrested. Lives in Afton Springs, suburb of unnamed town, worked at downtown newsstand during college then Borders till they closed, then at Variman’s Antiquarian Books until retiring three years earlier 

Frank Paley, 32, Cop for Barrington Township, Power builder, Straight, he says, tattoos, gym body. possible use of muscle enhancers, friends with Brian Walstead. Attitude and ego.

Olivier Deskin, 56, antiquarian book dealer in London, knowledgeable but prickly, snarky about Simon’s sexual orientation then claims he’s just joshing. Talks Simon into helping him with archiving Northridge’s library for transport to the UK.

Tanner Northridge, 72, worth millions due to manufacturing, hard to deal with, wife dead, kids gone all over the world, alone in great house, not a book person. Refers Simon to Villiers. 

William Villiers, 80, defense attorney, won’t consider trial, just deal. Anything else is a waste of time and effort, and just stupid. “It’s only a misdemeanor...and making a deal would avoid jail time.” 

Charles Dillon Walstead, 31, Assistant District Attorney, Very good-looking bear cub, Divorced, two kids (both boys), friends with Falwell, trying to prove self to father. 

Elissa Manville, 29, Walstead’s second chair, Rubenesque but pretty, Boyfriend is not very attentive, has little boy and mother at home to watch him. Sole income. Catholic and condescending

Vin Tran, 50, owns store where it all starts, doesn’t want to give Simon security tape, thinks will piss off cops. 

Judge Gerald Dean Falwell, 66, Criminal Court, Distinguished but right wing, Married, 5 daughters, three grandchildren. 

Alain Bergeron, deceased in 1987 at age of 37, AIDs-related, involved with Simon in mid-70s, gorgeous but cruel to him, emotionally abusive. Real name? Jonathan James. Sociopathic. 

Yolanda Sans, 29, home-care nurse, not pretty but vibrant, took care of Doyle when Simon could not be there. 

Dr. Carter Aristian, 36, PhD in Jurisprudence, Attractive and well-dressed, Married, 2 sons and a daughter. Does pro bono 1 day a week. 

Raymond Bush, 58, District Attorney, Self-satisfied, Married twice, son and daughter from first marriage don’t speak to him, no kids from second. Friends with Arlon Walstead. 

Arlon Walstead, 59, rigid, hard-nosed, powerful lawyer in town, wealthy, intelligent. Three kids, Dillon, Danvers, Dessa Jean. Let Falwell and wife be godparents to Dillon. Hints may have had sex with Falwell, used friendship to help Dillon because he thinks his son is no good on his own 

Georg Garisov, 34, Cop for Barrington, About to become sergeant, Married, three kids. From Rostov, Russia. Lived in US since 5 years old. Claims he witnessed Simon's arrest.

Angelo Corelli, 26, Cop for Barrington, Good-looking and upright-seeming, Single. Youngest of seven brothers, follower, not leader. Claims he witnessed Simon's arrest. 

ReShawn Greene, 42, Attorney with Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene, Stocky and neatly dressed, Married, three girls (Tanna, Eliza, Browen), one boy (Orran), two grandkids by Tanna and husband, Michael Otis. Parents and grandparents in town. Decent. 

Viona Wilson-Greene, 40, lovely, does IT person at local hospital, troubleshoots for other businesses, too. Has a large posse of friends who back her up and bring her gossip—who to trust, who not to, leads on work, all the dirt. 

Pino, 24, inmate at county jail, shoplifting. 

Tomač, 36, guard at country jail 

Robby, 42, guard at county jail 

Judge Collier Allendale, 74, Superior Court. Tall and stately, Married, two children, two grandchildren, one great-grandchild, level-headed. 

Benny Reacher, 23, techie, AKA: Snack Attack. He can fix any phone, computer, electronic stuff, tattoos all over, quirky smiles, saw some of Simon’s work on phone and online. “Wild shit.” 

Lara Messinal, 48, bank manager, very precise, sweet even when saying “No way in hell,” but contacts Simon’s credit union and agrees to charge WD to his ATM, even though it doesn’t work. Spins this to cops to make it sound like she was nothing but helpful, once it’s shown he’s been murdered. “Not robbery? Maybe he tried to buy the wrong man at the bus station.” 

Franklin Carbol, AKA: Frahnkly Frank News, 28, web-reporter for local crime news. Almost racist, but not quite. Just starting to get money in from podcasts. Did podcast a few years back praising MAGA crap, Calling Common Sense. Does anything to cause pushback so he can exploit it and play victim. 

Olivia Travers Carbol, 26, overweight but pretty enough, anti-gay, backs her husband. Baptist, Works in Car Parts Store as cashier.

MQM marches forward...

 

A little something to fill in Simon's life...a basis. Something to build a more-compelling moment from... 

-----

The first time he’d seen Alain, Simon had taken in a sharp breath. And held it for who knew how long. Tall. Broad shoulders under a fine gray suit jacket. Yves St. Laurent, he learned later. From Frost Brothers. Very high-end. Made his casual walk along an aisle of dust-ridden paperbacks even more elegant, and seemed to emphasize the perfection of his legs. Seen from behind. 

Then he'd turned to come back another aisle, showing off a soft pink shirt and flashy tie which only enhanced the exquisite features of his face. Ice blue eyes. Lips pursed in just the right way. Clean chin sculpted by the heavens. He had to be an apparition, he was so gorgeous. 

He'd stopped in the action/adventure section of titles and picked up a new copy of Arthur Hailey’s The Moneychangers. 

Without thinking, Simon had called over, “That’s a good one. He wrote Airport, too.” 

Alain had glanced at him, picked up a slightly yellowed copy of that book and held it up for Simon to see. One eyebrow perfectly raised in question. 

Simon had nodded, feeling completely idiotic. 

Alain had brought both over and said, “Haven’t seen the movie.” 

“It was on TV, last year. Maybe they’ll show it, again. Will that be all?” 

Then came a gentle nod...and Simon had noticed Alain's eyes were looking straight at him. 

“Uh, that’ll four-twenty-eight,” Simon murmured as he slipped the books into a bag. 

Alain had paid with a five, saying, “You new?” 

“What?” 

“Haven’t seen you here, before.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Just started. Part-time.” Why did he tell him that? 

Alain had nodded, accepting his change. “Still in high-school?” 

“No. No, Graduated in May. SAC. San Antonio College.” More stupid words. 

But then Alain had looked him over like a cat eyeing a mouse it’s about to have for its dinner, and smiled. “I’m familiar with it. So you work nights?” 

Simon just nodded. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

Then he licked his lips, winked, and walked out the door. 

And for the next three weeks Simon kept hoping he’d walk back in. 

Which he finally did, just before closing, dressed in a fine pullover shirt and tan slacks. It was still too warm for a jacket. He went to the adult magazines and picked through them, finally choosing a Playgirl and ignoring the glances cast his way by a couple of older men in rougher clothing who were pawing Playboy and Penthouse. 

Then ten o’clock came and Simon told him, “I’m closing, now.” 

He’d looked around, smiling. “Just you here?” 

imon nodded. “Only a few hours...a night...” 

“Seems dangerous. Uncomfortable.” 

“Nobody’s gonna rob this place. Get maybe fifty bucks.” 

“But you’re good-lookin’. They might take advantage of you.” 

Simon had no answer to that...until Alain reached over, put a finger through a belt loop in his jeans, and pulled him close. 

“Is there anyplace they could?” 

Simon still had no words, but did manage to motion to a door in the back. 

“So maybe lock the door?” said Alain. 

Simon did, and Alain took him into the back where there was a table at hip level. They used it to sort magazines. Behind it were stairs up to a cluttered office...but Alain didn’t let him go up them. 

He leaned Simon back against the table and kissed him.

Not sure what to make of this...

The more I work on The Murder of a Quiet Man, the softer the story becomes in its telling. Simon doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't curse. Doesn't threaten. No matter how he feels inside, no matter the turmoil of his inner emotions, he is always simple and steady when dealing with people. Even those who want to hurt him.

I don't think it's fear or arrogance or even fatalism that drives that in him. I say now. I may change my tune once the story is more complete. But as I go through the parts I've already written, I find myself pulling back from any histrionics that radiate from Simon; instead I internalize them, with him.

He notes his inner feelings. And people around him can still get pissed off or hysterical or accusatory at his seemingly so-what attitude, but he keeps floating along, seemingly unfazed.

Which is not like me, at all. So maybe I'm letting him show me how it's done. Maybe that's why it's taken me so long to return to the story...because I wasn't ready to be still and quiet, like him, when I'm writing.

It's hard to do. I've always been very nervous, inside. But lately...after seeing all the shit that's been going on in the world in just the last few years...I finally see there's not a goddamned thing I can do about it; all I can do is shake my head and just keep going.

Maybe that's why I'm not as freaked out as I used to be over the state of existence. Man may not survive, but the Earth will.

Anf the final part of this chapter...

 Walstead continues with his spitting rage at Simon's accusations:

-----

“Your honor, this is unacceptable and..."

Simon turned to the judge. “Unacceptable that I want to know how his committee might feel about him being presented to the defense in a way that makes him seem like a physician? And him offering an opinion meant only to benefit them?” 

Walstead was almost frothing at the mouth, he was so upset. “That’s nonsense! We only asked for him to describe what he saw!” 

“He did far more than that.” 

Manville chimed in with, “But, you honor, the defense is threatening Dr. Aristian!” 

“I’ve made no threats, your honor.” 

Falwell leaned closer to Simon, glaring as he said, “Saying you’ll take this to his committee and...” 

“I said nothing of the sort,” Simon replied. Then he turned to Aristian to add, “I merely asked how they would feel if they found out.” 

“Which is the same thing!” Manville snapped. 

“Hardly.” 

“Then why would you ask it?” 

Simon had grown even calmer, not only on the outside but also within. He smiled at Aristian and said, “I just wanted to know what you thought about what you were doing...and you told me.” 

Walstead snapped, “He didn’t say anything along those lines.” 

“He didn’t need to. Dr. Aristian knows what he did is quasi-legal, and he’s afraid if his committee finds out they will revoke his doctorate.” 

“Are you going to tell them?” Aristian asked, glaring at me. 

“No,” Simon said. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

“I’ll swear it right here and now. I promise before the court I will not approach your doctoral committee, nor will I seek them out or contact them.” 

“You expect us to just take you at your word?” Manville snarled. 

“Do or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.” Then with more than a little disdain he sneered, “I’m done with this witness.” 

He returned to his table... 

And realized ReShawn was seated at the back of the gallery, a look of disbelief on his face. When had he slipped in? He locked eyes with Simon as if to ask, What the fuck is going on? 

Simon merely smiled to him. Then he noticed Paley glaring at him and couldn’t help but blow a kiss, in return. Childish, true, but rather satisfactory. 

He sat down just as Dr. Aristian was passing. The man stopped, still angry. “I told you, I’m not your enemy.” 

Simon calmly looked up at him and pointed to Walstead and Manville, saying, “You’re helping those two put me in prison.” 

“This is just a misdemeanor. No jail time required.” 

“Stick around for the verdict. See just how much of an enemy you’ve become, to me.” 

“So you’re going to punish me.” 

“I told I would not approach your committee...” 

“And all I can do is trust you.” 

“What a stupid man, you are.” That made Aristian blink. Before he could answer, Simon continued with, “An intelligent one would know this will eventually get back to that committee, so would tell them himself. That way he could control the narrative. Coach it in as positive a light as possible. Find out if they actually would care, one way or the other, about the tricks he pulled in service to the DA’s office. They might not. But you haven’t got the balls to find out.” 

Aristian huffed and puffed, and finally said, “You really are an asshole.” 

For the first time during the trial, Simon felt chipper enough to say, “Pot calls kettle black. News at eleven.” One of Alain’s favorite phrases. 

Walstead and Manville looked like they were about to come over, but Aristian walked away. 

That is when Judge Falwell asked, “Mr. Walstead, do you have anything further?” 

Simon looked up at his honor. Saw concern in his eyes, all of it directed at Walstead. The judge knew this had caused serious damage to the prosecution’s case and was hoping for something more to use for what was probably his pre-planned verdict. 

But Walstead said, “No, your honor. The people rest.” 

That made Falwell sit back, not at all pleased. He turned to Simon. “Are you ready with your defense, Mr. Halloran?” 

Since he had already entered his evidence into the record, hoping Walstead would be smart enough to back down, all Simon could say was, “The defense rests, your honor.” 

That made Falwell blink. “You have nothing further?” 

“No. Thank you.” 

“Are...are you ready with your summation?” 

Simon took in a deep breath, banished his concerns and said, “Yes.” 

He noticed Walstead grimacing and giving a sharp shake of his head. Apparently, he’d thought he’d have a bit more time to work up his closing argument. 

So Falwell sighed, nodded, and then said, “The court will take a fifteen minute recess, after which we will hear both summations.” He clapped his gavel, rose and whisked out. 

Simon sank into his chair, for the first time thinking maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to make this go his way. 

Maybe.