More of chapter 13...

At home, now that the paintings were done Simon spent the week prior to the trial sorting through all of his documents, images, and notes on the arrest to put everything in order. 

The Barrington Police Department continued to ignore his requests for Jansen’s arrest record, and the only way past that was with a court order. Which he would have to return to Barrington to get in time. As expected. So he shrugged that off as unneeded. 

Then the Thursday before the trial, he received a call from ReShawn Greene at Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene to talk about the case. There was no chit-chat; just straight into the situation. 

“This doesn’t make much sense to me,” he said in a smooth voice. “Teesha’s notes from your interview were very precise and that helps a lot, but could you do facetime to show me what more evidence you have?” 

Simon said, “Hold on,” then opened it up on his phone. He spread the documents on his dining table and scanned them with his phone. 

ReShawn asked for a closer look or a return to one or two, but overall was pleased with that he saw. “Good work,” He said after a moment. “It’s definitely outside the school’s safety zone...” 

“Which did not come up till I was being booked,” Simon said. 

“Okay...I see the trial is set for next Tuesday. Have you spoken with the Prosecutor’s office?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you let Walstead know the street lamp was moved?” 

“Yes, but that made no difference to him or the judge. They claimed a surveyor’s report contradicted my claim, but the city planning office knows nothing of one. Or says they don’t.” 

“How did you contact them?” 

“Email and telephone call.” 

“It’s best to get things like that in person. It happened fairly recently so it may not have filtered through the system, yet.” 

“It’s been a few years...” 

“I know, but...” He sighed. “When do you plan to come down?” 

“Monday.” 

“Could you make it a day earlier? Meet with me on Monday? Two o’clock? We’ll go over your evidence, together. I’m surprised Walstead hasn’t already agreed this is a waste of time and resources.” 

“They certainly seem to think it’s important...” 

“It’s just a misdemeanor. Going through a trial for something this minimal? I doubt Breusch would go for that.” 

“Breusch?” 

“County Prosecutor. Very pragmatic.” 

Simon grimaced. He’d forgotten about that man, for a moment. Then he said, “But Walstead has a one-hundred percent conviction rate before Judge Falwell.” 

“Of cases he takes before him. He’s not averse to refusing to take a case all the way if he doesn’t think he’ll win it.” 

“He seems convinced he will with this one. Same for that woman who’s with him. Manville.” 

“I dunno,” he’d said. “Chris and Elissa are pretty easy-going. I’ve dealt with them in other cases. And Breusch makes it a point for his office not to try and force a conviction in anything trivial.” 

“Me being arrested is hardly...” 

“To them, something trivial. Misdemeanor, first offense? Without the school in range of your arrest, there’s no enhancement. And first offense usually means no jail time. Small fine. It costs more to try it than they’d get in return.” 

“That sounds like a business proposition.” 

“That’s today’s system of justice.” 

It made sense and Simon would like to have believed him, but something in his gut was telling him this was not a mere misdemeanor charge, anymore. It was more like a challenge of some kind, as if neither Walstead nor Manville could allow the possibility that a gay man might be innocent. The way they’d been so tense around him...stiff and formal, in contrast to how ReShawn described them. 

“Let’s say the trial does proceed,” Simon murmured, “and I’m found guilty. Would you be willing to handle my appeal? I’d pay you a retainer, up front...” 

The man sighed, saying, “You’d be giving me money for nothing.” 

“I hope so.” 

“You’re not a positive-thinking person, are you?” 

“Just a realist.” He almost added, Who learned to trust his gut in situations like this. But that might have led to more protestations and eventual rejection by ReShawn. 

“Let’s talk more, on Monday...” 

Simon sighed. “All right. I’ll see you then.” 

The call ended...and a sense of cold whispered through Simon. So even offering to pay his fee up front wasn’t enough to get an attorney in Barrington completely on his side.

Motivation deficit...

It took me hours to get the interest up to work on MQM, but then I went back to the beginning of chapter thirteen and intensified the creative emotion behind it...and...

-----

Simon tried to distance himself from a growing sense of futility by focusing on the commissioned artwork he’d been working on: Laurence Gantham pressed against a wall, looking away as his lover, Rene, tried to kiss him. Laurence’s open shirt with his pumped up chest and left nipple exposed had been the focus of the painting...but any connection to it eluded him...

Until a new meaning enveloped Simon. This piece was no longer hinting at a breakup but instead was of a man allowing himself to be worshipped while withholding his emotions. 

Or approval. 

So to put the red bit of paint on him was wrong. It lessened his hardness in the image. Instead, Simon added more shadow to Rene’s shirt to emphasize his own taut body, and shifted Laurence’s eyes to be focused on nothing. Then he put the red daub at the bottom of a shadow along the lobe of Rene’s ear...and hesitated.

Let it sit before him, for a while. 

It was right...but not right...yet right. And the more he looked at it, the more certain he was that it was wrong but was in the best spot possible. That anywhere else in the painting would be worse...until he added a red droplet to the top of Rene’s collar. 

Two bits of red against the stark black and white provided the balance it needed. Even after taking a photograph and inspecting it as fully as possible in a different medium, he knew he was right. 

He let it dry over three days then varnished it. Let that dry for another three days then wrapped it in glassine paper before setting it into an art shipper to send off, overnight via FedEx. Pricey...but he’d worked that cost into his fee. 

What surprised him was how much he hated parting with that painting. As if he was removing some part of his body...his soul...by releasing it. Even when the remainder of his fee came through with a note of praise and thanks, he’d felt like he had lost something irreplaceable. 

To counter it, he used the truck stop lad crouched before the cold drinks cooler to set a new work. But in this one, he used every layer of color he could in ways that were almost loving. Tender. Building an intimate vision of a young man crouched before a happily blazing campfire. 

That cut-off shirt, ragged jeans and rough boots made him seem vulnerable as black towering trees caught hints of the flames and lifted the eye up to a sky where pinpoints of light glimmered behind a pair of soft clouds and half a moon, providing gentle highlights to the lad’s back. 

On this, red dots touched his hair, almost like a reflection from the fire but not quite...nearly hiding within the image while giving him a vague form of grace. 

Once he’d reached the point where he knew if he added one more daub of paint to the picture it would be ruined, he stepped back and gazed upon it for close to an hour. Actually pleased with himself. Which, for Simon, was highly unusual. 

He wished he’d thought to find out who that young trucker was so he could send him a photo of the piece he’d inspired. That would have been the perfect bookend to it. Perhaps he could check back with that truck stop, to see if they knew. 

After this, he could not touch his brushes for several days. When he finally did, it was to work up a severe black and white image from Jansen’s photo under the streetlamp. This one was on a cured board, and he chuckled as he adjusted the image in such a way as to emphasize the slutty streetwalker aspect of it. He minimized the points where Jansen’s puffy chest threw the balance off and used the lightest of touches to add smoke from his cigarette as a sort of noose around his neck. On this, the red paint dripped from his fingers. 

He took a photo of it, uploaded it to his laptop, polished it in Adobe PS, arranged it in postcard format...4x6”...and added a small ditty in white lettering on black around it as a sort of frame. 

Big bad boy Jansen decided to gloat

That he couldn’t help but see how Chris would dote

On how good he looked, so he whispered a quote,

“You know, it’s not sex if I cum down your throat.”

He saved it as a high-res PDF and took it to a local print shop to make 100 cards. He paid for a rush because he wanted them before returning to Barrington. He had no idea why; it was just an impulse he gave into.

Simon alone...

Simon's just had a phone call with ReShawn and sees the man does not appreciate the seriousness of the situation...so goes onto his balcony to watch an approaching storm.

-----

The wind picked up and he noticed a thick wall of rain was fast approaching. It was going to come down hard...and that was why he stayed on the balcony. To watch. 

The wind gusted from the left, so he moved to that corner for a hint of protection. Moments later, sheets of rain crashed down and soaked the area to his right, for several minutes. Growling. Thundering. Almost joyous in its insistence, smothering the road and trees...

Until the wind died and the rain continued straight down. Heavy and strong. Like it had in Rashomon, at the temple as three men took shelter. And spoke about the impossibility of truth even in the face of evidence. 

The gentle hiss of droplets hitting the pavement was something Simon always found to be cleansing. Add in the aroma of it, he could usually grow calm and think...and his mind would settle. But this time it was being elusive.

He slowly slid to the floor, keeping to the corner, letting hints of the splashing water drift over to him from the railing. It dampened the lower part of his trousers. He was wearing socks, so removed them and pulled his pants legs up to let the tiny puffs dance over his naked toes and ankles. Even as a child, that had been his favorite part of a storm. 

Doyle had thought him mad, the first time he saw Simon do this. They had moved into a Spanish style duplex off Broadway. Downstairs unit. Decent yard. A wide park area across from them was only grass and a few trees, where people let their dogs run free. That day, the rain made the houses on the other side nearly invisible.

Simon had sat cross-legged on the tile floor under the section that was covered. He’d had on shorts, a cut-off tee-shirt and flip-flops when Doyle drove up in that god-awful Matador he'd thought was so cool. Then he’d scurried up from parking on the street. Dressed as perfectly as ever, but now soaked. 

“What the hell, Simon? Couldn’t you have met me with an umbrella?” 

He could have, but it hadn’t occurred to him. 

“You goin’ out to dance in it, next?” Doyle had sneered, shaking the rain off. “Get yourself hit by lightning, next?”

Simon had just shaken his head. The silence was too nice, at that moment. He didn’t even need to get up and let him in; the door was open. So Doyle had headed inside, dripping wet. 

That was the only time he’d ever left Simon alone with it. After that, at such moments there was always something Doyle needed from him or needed him to do, so Simon had grown to where he would get up whenever he saw the man coming. 

And have an umbrella handy. 

Like a well-trained dog. 

After Doyle died, Simon had made it a near ritual to just sit and watch the rain. Almost like an act of defiance. Or a declaration that he needed no one to be whole and complete. 

Being alone is considered a failure in so many people’s minds. Like if you can’t accept not wanting to be bothered by someone who’s invading their space...or if you can't be happy without a relationship to help them through life...or you needed a husband or wife or lover or a man in the sky looking down on you with benevolence, for support...you weren't human. 

To cap it off, if you still were not of the same belief as them, you had to have something wrong with you. They could not accept the idea you could be strong enough to just live on your own. It was too frightening to them. 

He had finally understood, after many years, that was something Doyle had been scared of. Being alone. Not having control. Of himself, mainly, but also needing to believe he was strong enough to control another. 

And Simon had supported that nonsense for far too long.

Lazy slob...

This was one of those days where I was so down and tired it was a fight to get anything done. Started with me realizing I'd forgotten to get quarters for laundry so had to go to a laundromat to do it. I'm morally opposed to just going in to get change so I put my whole 2 loads in the car and went to one...that was super busy.

So I went to another that was pretty open and got $20 in quarters...and paid $12 to wash and dry my 2 loads when the machines in my building would have cost me $5. Thing is, I couldn't not do laundry; I don't have that many clothes.

Then I got some groceries...nothing serious, just milk, DPZ, Icy Hot, Advil, laundry soap, and a couple other things...and it was fucking $116!

That's on top of learning my Aetna premium is increasing by 50% and my copays are going up. I'll need to look into alternatives...if available.

So I got all mopey. Tried to get out of it by adding another shelf of books to my list...this group pretty much all for Dair's Window. Poetry and books on stained glass as art and such...and it made things worse. I started work on that story back in 2008, when I took a writing course at the IFC...well, Film LA or whatever they're calling it, now.

Did make some notes for The Murder of a Quiet Man. Changed a couple points. Turned out ReShawn wasn't able to meet with Simon due to something that came up so Simon's on his own when he confronts Walstead and Manville before Judge Falwell.

But overall...it was a shit day. And tomorrow is the dentist. God...

FWIW, I had my third shot of Ozempic, last night. Maybe that's part of it.

Back to the plan...

Okay...added two shelves of books to my list, now getting into those dealing with Dair's Window and some general fiction. And feeling happy with myself. Which I shouldn't but...

I also shifted a meeting between Simon and ReShawn, a lawyer who might take on his case, to before he returns to Barrington for the trial. Initially, it's facetime so ReShawn can see all the evidence Simon's gathered to counteract Walstead's claims. ReShawn is surprised that the Prosecutor's office hasn't just rejected trying the case so thinks it will go well for Simon.

But that voice inside of Simon is telling him it won't...mainly due to the chumminess between Judge Falwell and Christ Walstead. So he tries to retain ReShawn to handle the appeal...but the man is reluctant. Thinks it's a waste of money.

Thing is, if Simon is able to get the enhancement removed from the charges against him, that makes filing an appeal a hundred times harder. He has to show misconduct on the part of the prosecution or judge, and even then only if Superior Court goes along with it.

But this is where Simon's willingness to go to the mat when being wronged comes into play. He knows exactly how to handle that...and knows when he does it will wreck the careers of the judge and Walstead, both. Even if it's a lie.

But sometimes in order to end the bad practices of others...you have to be as rotten as they are. Something Democrats seem unwilling to accept when dealing with the MAGAt Cult.

Taking Nicky is published...

Finished it. Set Taking Nicky up on D2D. Because it's gay erotica, it'll only be available through Smashwords, and even they may freak out once they really look into it; they are still in the process of setting it up and the Puritans are on the march.

But now I have officially published a novel this year. A bit of a cheat, and yet not. This was all more of a rewrite and polish...but still, I added another actual book to my resume. Even if I did post it for free on GayDemon at the beginning of the year. This is what counts.

The book wound up being just over 57,000 words. I'd inadvertently uploaded a chapter twice when I was linking everything together. So it's s good length for an ebook.

The MC, Rett, gets into a lot of good and bad trouble throughout, but always winds up on top. Partly because he is an amoral little shit...who has standards. And is smart enough to realize he can't always do everything on his own.

He gets a couple of cute sk8ter boys to help him, Ben and Liam, even though they may be double-crossing him to help another more powerful man gain control of him.

But Rett's snarky, vicious, contradictory and is no holds barred. That's why he's successful as a screenwriter...everything I am not. Dammit. I could never get myself to do some of the shit Rett does. And even if I tried, I'd fuck it up. Like I have so many things in my life. But that's why I write...to rework my past and present...

Anyway, this is not a night for maudling self-hate. I'm getting a nice meal, tomorrow, to celebrate...then back onto MQM.

Forward...ever forward...

Even if baby steps. Did two chapters of TN and reworked Simon's murder in MQM to where it happens at the beginning of a light snowfall that replaces a drizzle.

It's funny, but doing that added a layer of peacefulness to a horrible scene. Simon knows when he's arrested en route to the bus station that they intend to kill him.

His hands are cuffed behind his back so he maneuvers the seatbelt strap around his right wrist, and when they try to drag him from the car it tears at him and actually cuts into his skin and dislocates the bones. This way, they won't be able to fake him committing suicide.

That sounds a bit on the crazy side, but throughout the part of the story that I've written, so far, Simon shows he has a streak of cold-blooded stubbornness and will not back down even in the face of being hurt.

So they wind up burying his body and spreading the story he jumped bail to keep from facing new charges of child molestation...based on a claim where the assailant is only described as old and thin.

Not sure how this story is going to come together...and I may change this, again. I never know until it's done and published...and even then I might make adjustments.

I'm doing that with Taking Nicky. Finding typos and missing words to fix, of course, but also moments to clarify what's going on. It was posted in parts on GayDemon back when I was caught in dealing with Kelly's sickness and eventual death, so I'm not surprised I made mistakes.

Now I'm combining the 22 chapters into one file to offer through D2D as an ebook, for $0.99. Hope it does okay.

What schedule?

Threw mine off, today. Not a in a bad way. I wound up working through 3 chapters of Taking Nicky and 2 chapters of MQM...and did not even try to list more of the books I have on my XLS. Instead, got a request for a quote to pack a difficult job in Oxford, UK and I really want to go. I've never been to Oxford.

Thing is, it's mostly one-sheets in mylar so would need to be shipped flat, not rolled, and I need to figure out how to do that using a packing materials company in the UK that thinks it's Uline but is nowhere near as capable. I futzed around with it a bit, today, but shoved it off till tomorrow.

Instead, I'm watching Harry Wild, on Acorn. That streaming group has been pretty hit and miss. For example, I disliked their adaptation of Witness for the Prosecution, hated the update they did of Towards Zero, and recently tried the first episode of The Assassin and was so sick of its stupidity I stopped 40 minutes in.

Which I don't usually do. But that one was like someone fed 100 action/comedy screenplays into ChatGPT and it spit out a script with every idiotic cliche in the book, including poor characterization, flat humor, and no connection to any form of reality, not even its own.

But...I did like Murder Before Evensong, they have the full Midsomer Murders series, Agatha Raisin and My Life is Murder, and Harry Wild is very enjoyable. Probably because Jane Seymour doesn't mind playing a true bitch...with a heart. And what they did with And Then There Were None was truly elegant.

Besides, Harry Wild is set in Dublin and I'm enjoying that, too.

Still this new chaotic mindset has brought out some ideas for MQM...like when Simon is killed. It was going to be during a rainstorm, all meaningful and dramatic. Lightning! Thunder! Heavy clouds! So fucking obvious.

But getting disgusted with The Assassin helped me see I was sort of doing the same thing. So I got the idea that maybe it happening during a gentle snowfall would be better. First snowfall of the year. None on the ground, just gentle flakes drifting down like bits of stars from above, comforting Simon as he drifts into another world.

I kind of like that...

(BTW, no clue was to why I can't upload an image to my blog, this time...)

Working it...

Simon is contacted by a gay semi-weekly paper and meets the reporter at a coffee shop:

--------

He noticed a sweet-looking young man with skin the color of his tea and shaved head enter the shop. Slim and a bit curved like he was trying not to seem as tall as he probably was. He looked around with a pair of the most beautiful eyes Simon had ever seen on a man, as well as the gentlest smile, and Simon rose to his feet. 

The young man saw him and approached, saying, “Simon Halloran?” 

He nodded and motioned to a chair. 

“I’m glad to meet you,” he continued. “I’m Zakariah Oldman, editor and writer for the Barrington Neighborhood Report. Zack. It’s great you had time for us to get together.” 

“Happy to,” Simon said as they sat across from each other. “You’re not getting something...?” 

“Oh, they know me. You’re having tea...” 

Simon nodded. “I never was able to get into coffee.” 

“God, I run on it.” An a moment later a barista brought over a latte and a biscotti. Zack signed the receipt and that was that. “Monthly tab,” he said. 

“You do interviews here, a lot?” 

He nodded. “Five this month, so far. Mind if I record this?” Simon shook his head so Zack set his phone on the table, a small mic plugged into it. “Mind saying that it’s okay?” 

With a light chuckle, Simon said, “You may record...if I may take a photo of you.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, I like your face. I’m an artist and I might want to incorporate it into something I’m working on.” 

“Wow. Sure. Sounds great.” Simon did portrait shots from three angles as Zack continued, “We heard that you were arrested, last week, by Ivan Jansen.” 

Simon nodded and sneered, “Public indecency. Solicitation. Resisting arrest for asking him why he was doing it.” 

“The local news says it happened near a school.” 

“It was outside the safety zone.” 

“That was Lincoln Primary, right?” Simon shrugged. “And the arrest happened at Tran’s Shop and Save?” 

At that, Simon nodded. “By the lamp post. Corner of Lincoln and Hughey.” 

“And it was a physical arrest, not just a summons?” 

“No, no summons.” Then Simon told him everything about the arrest and his meeting with Chris and Elissa. 

“This doesn’t make sense,” said Zack, finally. “If the school wasn’t within a thousand feet, it’s just a misdemeanor. Why are they pushing it so hard? Because you’re from out of town?” 

“I don’t see how he’d have known that. You said Jansen harassed other gay people, here?” 

“Yeah. Some drag queens. A trans woman for using the wrong toilet when she it was the gender neutral. Some older men from out of town. Stupid crap. He’s probably gay and in the closet.”

“My gaydar didn’t go off on him,” said Simon, frowning. “I think he’s just your basic bully and homophobe. People like that hate backing down. You said he’s arrested other older gay men?” 

“Yeah, for the same reasons. Solicitation. One fought it. Said he wasn’t gay. Still wound up in jail, a few years ago.” 

“No one’s fought back, since?” 

“Word got around. Don’t bother.” 

“That’s sad.” 

“How?” 

“Men like Jansen hate to be confronted and usually back down when you do. Like regular bullies.” 

“Didn't that time.” 

Simon shrugged. “The only way to stop that is to keep fighting back. Make it too much trouble for them to continue. They can’t be making much money out of this, so I doubt it would take a lot of pushback to make them stop.” 

“Is that what you’re doing?” 

Simon nodded. “I won’t give in just to make everyone happy.” 

Zach sighed. “Cool. But have you considered...I mean, you’re not just an artist. You’re also a writer.” 

Simon smiled. “Done research on me?” 

“Yeah, I...I did. Title that showed up most was How to Make a Straight Man Gay.” 

Simon had to chuckle. “My first book...years ago. It’s been banned a couple of times.” 

“Don’t you think this will play into your trial? Could it be the prosecutor’s office thinks it’s a how-to book and are going after you for that, using the arrest as an excuse?” 

That brought a laugh from Simon. “They'd have to know who I am and that I was in town.” 

“But your arrest happened near a school, and a book like that...it sounds like you’re suggesting all men can be turned and...” 

Simon looked at Zack, for a long moment, then quietly said, “It’s the story of a straight man being talked into letting himself be serviced by a gay man and finding he prefers his blow-jobs to sex with his fiancé. Which continues even after he’s married. Until it’s exposed and all hell breaks loose. No kids involved. All adults. You should read it...” 

“Oh, I...I couldn’t order that for delivery, not here...” 

“I’ll send you a coupon for the ebook.” 

Zack seemed to wilt before Simon’s gaze. He took in a deep breath then said, “Me raising that’s got you angry, doesn’t it?” 

“No,” Simon said, not meaning it. “It’s just typical. The prosecution has already tried that nonsense with me and it fell flat with them, as well.” 

“Threatened you with the title? That’s not scary?” 

“Whose name is on the book? On all of my books? I don’t hide who and what I am. That tends to surprise people.”

Multi-tasking...

Omar Chaves Vitero, artist

Doing three projects at one time qualifies for that, doesn't it? If not, it does now.

Project One -- The Murder of a Quiet Man. I worked through chapters 8, 9 and 10. which used to be two chapters but worked better being rearranged. Now 8 is 11 pages, 9 is 12 pages, and 10 is 6 pages with room to grow. This all happened today.

Project Two -- making a list of all my books, working shelf by shelf. I've done 7 and have 8-9 more to go. I'm breaking them down by fiction or nonfiction books on Ireland, general fiction or nonfiction, graphic novels and art, and my mm adult novels.

Project Three -- turned out to be making a story I posted on GayDemon into an ebook. It's titled Taking Nicky and I wrote it while dealing with my brother dying. It follows a gay screenwriter named Garrett who becomes obsessed with a skater-boi named Nicky (who's in his thirties) and how it leads him in and out of trouble.

I worked on most of it while sitting in his hospital room as he slept. Kept me grounded. And I posted it in snippets. Now I've pulled all 22 chapters together and am going through to proof it because I really didn't, at the time.

What's even better is how it's reminded me I wrote a full novel at the beginning of this year, with TN. 59,000 words. I was feeling like I'd accomplished nothing till I reminded myself of that. Publishing it will feel good, even if it is only for adults into MM general sex and non-con.

Now I need to be careful. I'm getting happy with myself and that usually means I'll fuck up somewhere somehow to remind myself of how fucked up I am.