Quiet response, maximum damage...

More of Simon's memory...

------

Unfortunately, his time away also gave Kenneth and Leon the chance to expand their pack, which now included a girl who was on Simon’s school bus. Lorraine Ryan. Well-developed, already, and showing it off under carefully teased brown hair and carefully made up brown eyes. 

In the mornings, she got on the bus before he did and always sat in the back, but the Monday he returned, on the bus home, she made sure to get on after him. 

He’d already dealt with Kenneth and his pack during recess, twice. But he’d been smart enough to stay near the monitors so they couldn’t get too wild and crazy. And he’d refused to respond to them, in any way. Just locked eyes on Kenneth as he howled and spit words Simon didn’t really understand. 

Calling him homo...which, at the time, he thought meant homogenized milk, like it was a reference to how pale his skin was. And queer, which meant odd and he acknowledged he was not what was considered normal for a kid. It wasn’t till high school that he understood what was really being said. 

But Lorraine never said a word to him. Even after she got on the bus...and turned a ring with a large stone in it around under her right fingers...and smacked him in the head with it. 

He told her not to do that, but she just snickered and continued to the back seat where her friends held her place. 

This went on through the week, only on the ride home. The driver yelled at him, once, for snapping at her after she smacked him, but never interfered. 

Then on Friday, when she did it, he punched her in the stomach. It was actually a backhanded smack, but it was quick and hard. In response, she hit him, again, with that ring. 

He smacked her, again. 

She hit him, again. 

He didn’t get up. Didn’t say a word. Just smacked her in the stomach, again. 

By this point, there was a line of students behind her, watching, doing nothing as she hit him, again. 

He smacked her, again. 

She hit him, yet again. Harder. 

And this time, blood trailed down his face and startled the other kids. He felt it. Tasted it. Didn’t try to stop it. But he also did not move, in the slightest. So she continued to the back of the bus. 

He was let off at his stop, blood still coming down, as the driver just glared at him and shook his head. When he arrived home, his mother freaked and screamed, “What happened?” He shrugged and went to the bathroom to clean himself off. 

He stayed in his room. Sketched scenes of monsters tearing Kenneth and Leon and Lorraine apart. Limb from limb as cities burned around them. Worked up a couple dozen over the entire weekend. Kept his door locked...not that he needed to. No one ever really bothered him. Even when he came out for meals, no one ever asked him why he’d been bleeding. It’s like it had never happened.

Then came Monday morning...

He got on the bus. Saw Lorraine at the back in her usual seat. Ignoring him. He felt a smirk cross his lips. 

During first recess, he deliberately wandered away from the monitors. Waited for Kenneth and his pack to come roaring up. He stood stock still as they surrounded him. Said not a word as Kenneth and Leon both berated him in language he’d only heard his father use when he’d slammed his thumb with a hammer. 

Simon simply looked at them, unmoved...

Until Kenneth shoved him.

He hadn’t noticed Simon was holding a pencil in his hand.

A new Dixon Ticonderoga #2.

Freshly sharpened to a serious point. 

Simon jolted his hand up and rammed it into the underside of Kenneth’s arm. Hard. 

And it stuck in the muscle.

Memories grow...

I'm not sure where this will fit into Simon's story...but it's about some of his life as a teenage boy. I may have posted something about this, before, but it's now updated...

-------

When he was in eighth grade Simon found he could make a little money by sketching naked women and selling them to the boys at his school, for a dime. In the mid-Sixties, ten cents could buy a soda and candy bar. Couple packets of baseball player bubble gum with cards of players, inside, to trade. Another comic book. 

He used DC comics of Wonder Woman and Supergirl to copy from, and had an Encyclopedia Britannica to use for reference. He’d also found his father’s collection of Playboys and Penthouses in a ratty box up in the crawl space over the back of the garage. They provided pretty photos of nude females to verify how they looked without clothing. 

He didn’t remember what started him doing it, and he never broadcast his offerings, but word got around and he began to make some money off it. His best seller was of a woman standing, holding her hair up. He’d copied her off a Wonder Woman comic. She was full-bodied, legs spread, completely naked...and he had added big round breasts and a dark muff. He sold five copies in one week.

Then a boy he’d always tried to avoid bought one. His name was Kenneth Welchel, who was dark of hair and tan of skin to the point he looked Latino. But his eyes were clear blue, and at a school picnic Simon had overheard his parents talk about being English or Welsh or something, as he was wandering by. Some grandparent had been researching the family tree. They were adamant about not being Mexican. He'd paid little attention because he was more interested in another helping of potato salad and a third RC Cola, on ice. 

Kenneth already looked more adult than the other boys, with hair on his chest and legs, and he had this way of half-smiling that was more of a smirk but surprisingly attractive. He was also something of a rabid brat and had a pack of mongrels who followed him all over the grounds and neighborhood. 

His closest buddy was Leon Smith, who was long, lean, smooth and jokey. Brown hair. A goofy grin that made him the better-looking of the two. But he was nothing unto himself. Whatever Kenneth did, Leon shadowed him.

He’d seen those two harass kids to the point of hysteria as the yard monitors merely looked on. He’d even heard one say to another, “Well...boys will be boys.” That was why he’d avoided them and they had pretty much ignored him. 

Until Kenneth bought that sketch. 

Then he told Simon if he didn’t give him half the money he made, he would turn him into the principal. 

Simon shrugged and told him to go ahead.

He'd laughed and told him to think about it. The next day he repeated the threat, backed up by Leon.

Simon shrugged them off. So...they told the principal and gave him the sketch Kenneth had bought.

Simon was hauled before the man and berated as a pornographer. His parents were called. Everyone was horrified and could not understand how he had turned out so wicked. On and on they went.

Even then, all he did was listen, and would only shrug whenever they stopped wailing long enough to ask him a question. 

He was suspended for two weeks and told if he was ever caught selling sketches like that, again, he’d be expelled. This was supposed to be a punishment, but in truth Simon hated that school. Hated the kids in their packs and the teachers who let the favored ones get away with anything they did. Hated that his art instructor criticized his work in class by sniping it's not on the level of a professional artist. Picking it apart and giving him Bs and B-minuses for any imperfection. Staying home gave him a respite. 

It also gave him time to focus on tearing Kenneth apart, in pencil and pen in a sketchbook he hid under his bed. Drawings of the little bastard being beaten or hanged or beheaded or sacrificed on an Aztec altar. Usually naked. 

Simon made the sketches look as much like Kenneth as possible. He had seen his full body in the showers after gym class. The dent in his left side from having his appendix removed. No foreskin. Light scars on his back from what were probably belts. His parents weren’t known for their even tempers. Not that such knowledge concerned Simon. It only made him happier to torture him, even more.

And sense that he was, possibly, falling in love with him. Which made no sense. Only girls fell in love with boys...

Didn't they?

A sort of cleansing...

This bit reads more like an outline for a chapter...but may also refer to another chapter that is in more detail. Or might just be a slight memory during a point in the trial where Simon flashes back to it, for a moment...

-----

Those sketches and poems saved him from despair. Selling the pamphlets under a pseudonym made him feel wickedly dangerous. Willing to gamble with his new life. And that led to him doing art work for the cover of a fellow clerk's graphic novel. Which helped him regained his destiny and center. Thanks to this, he could face the world at large.

Then Demian had found him in the mall, seven years later, and thought he could start things up, again. Simon had refused to even acknowledge him, which angered the man. He'd grabbed at Simon in the store. Tried to force him to talk with him right then and there, but the only response he had received was a ballpoint pen jabbed into his cheek. 

Well...and a warning that the next one would go into his eye, if he was seen, again. 

Demian had been with two young men, both vaguely similar to Simon in look, and they had led him away, casting hateful glares back at him.

He’d even heard one say, “Was that the asshole you told us about?” 

“Yeah,” Demian had growled. 

“What a dick.” 

“He always was.” 

The poem and sketch Simon did that night were his most violent and cruel. Under the image of a finely built young man half lying off a bed in a pose of death, boldly colored markers making the blood streaming from a wound in his chest bright and terrifying. And under it he'd written... 

Blood is coming.

Hear it flow

Close and cruel.

Unstoppable.

As furies laugh

And beg me cry.

I cannot.

It was long ago.

No midnight shrouds it

In false love.

No careful step

To soften echoes.

No prayer nor dream

To stay its spread.

The pool of crimson

Will be met

By life of one

So filled with dread.

The silence

Deep with screams

Lies where it fell

And all one knows

Is three cold words

That softly echoes

In your head...

It is done.

 

He burned it for being far too intense. Even for his anger. But at least that’s when he knew he was on the road to recovery. 

Two years later, Demian was dying. AIDs. Probably spread it to those guys, because they were no longer around and nothing was said about them. They may have already been dead, for all Simon knew. 

Or cared. 

That was something else he had to acknowledge about himself. That he was no longer willing to compromise with anyone, or care, now he had control, again. He didn’t blame people for getting AIDs, but did think it was more through abject stupidity on their part than anything else. 

Which was a harsh, unforgiving attitude, and he now was rather ashamed of it. But once it was known about that disease...to keep going out and doing what you’d always done...which not only got men infected but also helped them spread it to others...that was unconscionable.

He’d heard from one caregiver, after Demian had grown ill, that he had brought a young man who looked like Simon home, and she’d found them in bed, the next morning. And when she told the guy Demian was positive, he’d shrugged and replied, “We’re all gonna get it.” Then left. 

That may have been why Simon made certain he was there to watch Demian die. To make certain he couldn’t spread the disease any further. He don’t know. He'd just known that when the day came that Demian was no longer of this world, he would feel relief.

And he had.

Peace...maybe...

This section of MQM I've been writing got a bit scrambled as I went along. I need to go through it a few times to work on the flow of Simon's thoughts and memories. What he might want to do with himself now that he's in Houston.

He's suggested he wants to make pamphlets with his wicked poems and put them up for sale in shops and adult bookstores around the Montrose area. Do some line drawings to illustrate them. Print them on 8.5x14" paper, fold them in half and staple them. Just $1 each. Almost like a newsletter.

He may be getting the idea from TWIT...This Week In Texas...a gay weekly in that covered the gay scene in Houston, Austin, San Antonio and Dallas. Gossip. Info. Horoscope. Semi-naked lads. The works. I seem to recall it was a freebie paid for by the ads in it. Maybe a couple of his less intense poems are printed in it...

So him wanting the ability to do it himself led me to locate a tutorial for Photoshop 1.0.7, which got going in 1990. He's been in Houston a couple years, by then, and could have seen how TWIT was pulled together. Meaning he'd need to buy a Mac II with a color monitor and a scanner. That would establish his abilities and start to build him a bit of a reputation for his work.

This all gets muddled when Demian shows up with KS, thanks to HIV, and Simon is sidetracked in caring for him. Not because he loves the man or feels sorry for him, but because he wants to watch him die. Make sure he's dead.

Once that happens, he'll leave Houston. I'm not sure why he'll wind up in the Northeastern part of the US, but once there he settles in till he retires.

Sort of like me...though I came up here for work. And have myself set up so it's hard for me to go anywhere else.

Sigh.

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.