Attitude works...

I don't know if Simon is really coming across as a 75 year old-man, in this story...because he's not taking shit off anyone and he's got a growling willingness to get mean. Not just even. Not just stand his ground. Pissy and vicious. While faking being in control of himself.

I think I'm going to use a version of a story I put in Taking Nicky to lead into it. Where he made an 8th grade bully leave him the hell alone. I don't like repeating it, really, but it works so much better for him than for being part of Garrett's background.

I may change the cause of it from two little monsters trying to blackmail him for drawing naked women for the boys to them just being assholes making fun of him drawing faces for some girls. Shorten it a bit from two occasions where he's suspended to one after he handles the situation in his own way.

But it feeds into him sneaking photos of Chris Walstead with his phone because the man is very good-looking. then he does with him what Tom of Finland once did with an amazingly beautiful man -- taking him from being your typical businessman to a leather punk. 

Though I think Simon's is going to be a lot sleazier because he is pissed about what Walstead is pulling. I haven't figured out how far he'll go, yet, but his attitude is, Don't try to hold me back. I'm too old for that shit.

And all I can say is, OK.

Some more of MQM...

Simon is back home after Walstead gets the trial continued for two weeks...

------

Simon had just entered his apartment when ReShawn called and immediately launched into, “I am so sorry for what happened. But we’ve been working this appeal for months and...” 

Simon cut him off with a cool, “Did you get my message?” 

ReShawn hesitated then sighed. “Um...well, yes. I couldn’t believe it. A continuance for a misdemeanor is highly unusual. But it is scheduled in the system so...” 

“Have you looked over the evidence?” 

ReShawn finally noticed Simon’s quiet but cold attitude. “Not yet. I’ll go over it, this evening and talk with you, tomorrow.” Then added with a hint of petulance, “If you still want me to.” 

Simon had no interest in playing that game. “Will you be able to get a copy of the surveyor’s report?” 

“Didn’t you get one while you were here?” 

“Judge Falwell told Chris Walstead to send me a copy by noon, today, but he didn’t. So Judge Falwell allowed him to tomorrow, noon. And will probably delay the requirement, again. I’d like to get it direct.” 

“...I can contact the planning office, tomorrow.” 

“Please do. And send me a copy, if one does exist.” 

He heard ReShawn take a deep breath before saying, “Simon, you seem angry about my not being here, the last couple of days.” 

“And you are being defensive.” 

“I wouldn’t say that. I just want you to understand...the case we presented before the Supreme Court is vital to...” 

“I thought as much. Which is why I am still talking to you.” 

“Oh. Well...it’s just...” 

“Please. Stop. I haven’t asked for any justification on your part. Though perhaps I should verify...are you still open to consider defending me?” 

“...Yes.” 

“Very well. Then I want you to have all of the information possible before we discuss my illegal arrest, because you are obviously still uncertain about it.” 

“Simon...” 

“Anything we say or promise or claim now is unimportant until you’ve decided whether or not you believe my story. Have you anything else to add?” 

It took ReShawn a moment to finally say, “No.” 

“Then thank you for calling. I’ll speak with you, tomorrow.” 

Simon ended the call, set the phone on his desk, took three deep breaths to dispel the growing anger within him, and stepped onto his balcony. He knew he’d been more rude than usual, but he had heard too many excuses in his life to tolerate any more. Especially when it was obvious the one making that excuse was only doing so from manners and not an understanding they had done something wrong. 

If ReShawn had asked Teesha to inform him their meeting was canceled while he was en-route, he would have been able to reduce the stress he was experiencing by trying to be there on time. 

Of course, if he had come down the night before and spent money for an extra hotel night, he’d have been truly peevish. So ReShawn was lucky he hadn’t. 

But it seemed like that’s all people had, these days, was excuses they thought made everything all right, accompanied by what Simon called non-apologies. An I’m sorry followed by a but to mitigate what they’d done and throw it back on you. And then the perpetrator would repeat the actions they’d apologized for...and apologize, again. Meaning they hadn’t meant it. 

Doyle had been a master of that and Simon had accepted it far too many times. All he cared about with ReShawn was whether or not he and his firm would provide a defense, if need be. Everything else was superfluous...and the more they delayed that discussion, the more certain he was they would not help him.

Contemplation...

I fell into a meandering little rabbit hole, today. Not sure why...but suddenly I was trying to remember the reason I shifted from art to film. I honestly don't know. It's like there was minimal thought behind it beyond the old this might be interesting concept.

I know I shifted to writing screenplays and then books because it was cheaper than making movies. It certainly wasn't an overwhelming drive or need or passion or anything along those lines. Nor was I ever exceptional at it. 

So the only thing I come back at the beginning to is how I happened onto Truffaut's book about Alfred Hitchcock and it included samples of his storyboards in the back...and I thought that was cool.

I found it in the basement of a book store/newsstand across the street from Frost Brothers, where I was working in the shipping department. They had their adult books tucked away in a partially enclosed corner and right next to it was a full shelf of books on film. I noticed it when I was about to sneak into the adult section.

This was in 1971, before I shifted to the display department. I was familiar with Hitchcock and liked finding out how he directed the film through his storyboards. After that, seemed it was up to his actors and crew to make it happen.

I'm fairly certain that's when I first started thinking about making movies could be a form of art. Of course, I knew nothing about the reality of the business; it all looked so easy.

And that could be the real reason I shifted...I was looking for the laziest way into it and thought I could make movies as my creative outlet.

God, I was so foolish, back then.

This should be fun...

I am now at a point where I have to come up with an entire chapter that deals with Simon learning more about the connection between Judge Falwell and the Walstead family, an apology call from ReShawn for not meeting with him, an article about his arrest in the Barrington Neighborhood Report, including reaction to an ad he placed, and him mailing a bunch of postcards...to whom...I have no idea.

To be honest, I'm not so sure about that last bit. It's something Simon came up with and I don't know why, yet. So this section is going to take a bit of time.

I also finalized prep for another roundabout trip, next month. Flying into Burbank for a packing job in Encino then hopping up to Seattle to handle move-out for our clients at the Seattle Antiquarian Book Fair, then home...

While in Seattle, I'm staying an extra day to check out some things for Dair's Window. I'm also spending an extra day in LA and would like to see some friends, if they're available.

Yesterday, I worked up the costing for a potential job in the UK, just outside London. I'm hoping it will happen before Thanksgiving. If it comes through. We have one last question that needs answering before the estimate is settled. I think I'll know next week.

After that is yet another trip to Hong Kong, first week of December.

I'm tired just thinking about it...but happy...

Simon's a doodler...

They're in the courtroom and other cases are going before the judge before Simon's is called, so he's sketching. It helps him concentrate. Another attorney sees him doing it and praises his work.

He also notices Simon does not back down in the slightest when called forward. The prosecution winds up delaying for more time because they tried a trick on him and he called their bluff.

MQM has begun to lead me deeper into the story and characters in ways I find fascinating, now. I love it when this happens...and hope it's not another wrong start.

I'm trying to keep this as close to reality as possible, so I can't go off on tangents just because they might fit the structure. Which is simplifying the story in many ways.

It's at 66,400 words, now, and may stay around that, because I know I'll be cutting some stuff later. For example, the bit where Dr. Aristian comes in to examine Simon, even though he's a Ph.D. and not an MD. That was too borderline TV-ish.

I'm listening to some light piano pieces on Spotify as white noise while I write. It's helping me continue with the forward movement. For a while, I needed complete silence to get my stories input...and sometimes I still do...but right now this works best.

Though I may start back to making sketches of my own...

Up to chapter 16...

Okay, I've gone through the first 15 chapters of MQM and am now at the point where the courtroom is open. Simon has accepted he's not getting help from anyone and that he is going to be tried for something he did not do, and has gone in to wait his turn like a lamb to slaughter.

I feel like the story is coming together in threads, similar to this work by Jeffrey Earp. Little bits at first that weave into the general design.

That's despite me being stupid about my own sleep/waking schedule. I didn't go to bed till 7:30 this morning...well, almost 8. I wasn't tired until then. Slept till 1pm and then a nap from 5 to 6.

At least I got all my books and DVDs listed on an XLS. Doesn't count the ones that are in boxes in my closet, no pun intended. I have three closets packed with boxes of paperwork I really should go through and recycle, like I've done, before. 

Copies of screenplays written in programs I can no longer access. Notes for things I'm never going to write. Ancient financial records. It's not like I'm ever going to be the level of writer where anyone wants my archives.

Jesus, all the sleeping I did and I'm still tired. One of the joys of getting old...

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.