Trying for an opening...

And I'm trying out a new opening for MQM...which may be too gentle or uninteresting...

----

Silence is one of the most complex words in the English language. Or any language. It can mean peace. Acceptance. Anger. Understanding. Acquiescence. Disapproval. Separation. Refusal. Hate. Love. Disregard. Thought. Concentration. Punishment. And even cruelty.

To be silent in a judicial sense, for example, is said to mean consent. Which is far too simplistic a definition, even when restricting it to the law. The cause could also be fear of retribution or a lack of understanding regarding what the person had just seen. 

There was also simple disregard for the perpetrator's victim, since some people just plain did not care about others. So while Silence equals consent made for a catchy phrase used to disparage inaction, to be sure, it was also limited and incomplete.

As for silence in a relationship? That is often seen as evidence the bond between two individuals is broken. Though it could also show two individuals had become so comfortable, together, they had no need for speech.

There was also the notion that someone might be focusing very hard on a project or a book, to the extent that all other forms of communication were filtered out.

The latter is the definition Simon preferred. Silence as a gentle blanket enveloping him in peace and safety. He had always sought it, but of late had learned the easiest way to achieve it was to let it come to him. Usually, while reading late in the evening and lazing in his overstuffed recliner with a glass of wine.

He had also found it at the end of a furious thunderstorm, which would initially declare its presence for all the world to see but now was whispering like a lazy feline in need of a light caress. He would sit on his back balcony, under an awning that still dripped from the rain, the moisture remaining thick in the air as he sipped a cup of hot tea and soaked in the joy the world seemed to feel. 

Then there were occasions where he could achieve that level of Zen, for lack of a better word, while listening to music. Easy tones drifting melodiously. No words. Nothing brash or demanding. Liquid Mind. Deuter. New Age in a classical style. 

During those moments, he cared nothing for the world and its billions of issues. His eyes would close and in the darkness everything would be reborn...would renew...would regain its meaning. His mind would not drift beyond the immediate sense of quiet he felt as life realigned itself within him.

A funny thing to learn in your seventy-third year.

Totally fucked up...

For some reason, I wasn't sleepy, last night. So I stayed up. Putzed around. Fiddled with some emails. Posted on Xitter and Facebook. And watched cat, dog and other animal videos until I finally grew weary about 9am. Took a 2 hour nap and spent the day prepping for my next trip to Hong Kong. 

The nap was a mistake. It threw me even more off center. Grumpy. Sad. Not wanting to do anything. And it's only gotten worse as the day went on. Meals were off. I'm hungry for tamales but the only place that makes decent ones is 10 miles away and I did not want to drive.

I have an appointment to get my stomach and bladder scanned, tomorrow morning. I have to fast, starting at midnight, and just know I'm going to be in even more of a mood before we're done.

What makes this especially rough is wallowing in this type of emotional space opens up the floodgates that hold back my You really fucked up your life thoughts. And that lets loose my masochistic need to beat myself up. I'm doing a great job of it, right now. Can't write a coherent story and Your grammar's basic Strunk & White and all that shit.

Of course, it's also the first of the month...when I balance out my checkbook and take stock of my finances and compare myself to how everything was a year ago...even six months ago...and kick myself for not having everything under full control.

Then I guilt myself by pointing out my brother was diagnosed with cancer not quite six months ago and going back and forth to San Antonio and staying there and paying for things that were needed is the reason I'm financially shaky, now.

Which makes me depressed...so I make pity-me posts like this, embarrassing myself further. At which point I finally snap This is fucking ridiculous and start to work my way out of it.

Shit...I'm a walking cliché of artistic self-indulgence. I need a cat to sit on my desk and judge me.

I think I just wrote the ending...

The part I've added to Simon's memory of Fabian dying, where his body is found, has wrapped the story up in such a so that I may not need to write anything further, to end it. I'll still need to shift back to the rest of the book to make everything fit. But that said, and with the understanding I could shift back to a more extensive ending chapter...this ending works.

Well, in my head it works. Simon's body is located by ReShawn, who calls the state police in to investigate. He was buried in a state-owned park. The intention was to make it seem he had skipped bail when faced with potential accusations of having and distributing kiddie porn, and hurt his claim of innocence against Officer Paley.

But Simon had an airpod in his backpack and ReShawn's cell phone because his own had been damaged. When ReShawn cannot contact him, he follows the airpod signal to the grave. The State's Attorney General comes in with the state coroner and head of the state troopers, and a lid is kept on it all...as tight as they can.

Of course, people notice and rumors swirl, and Frahnkly Frank's earlier podcast adds to the gossip, but it's how they figure out who committed the murder. Right now, the chapter ends with them about to go after the cops and DA's office...and I wonder if I really need to detail that.

When I wrote Bobby Carapisi, it was initially in two books...one mainly about Bobby and the other about Eric coming to terms with how he inadvertently helped cause Bobby's suicide. The end of book 2 was him deciding to go after the men who'd raped them both. But I felt the need for more so wrote the third book to explain Allen, the man held responsible. Which led to Eric finding closure.

I was told by a couple of readers they felt that was unnecessary...but to me it was, and still is, what made the story complete. It was the same for Jean Renoir's La Grande Illusion (1937) with the section after the prison break, with the German farmer's widow. A professor of mine said it was redundant, but I argued it was what made the film true poetry.

I don't think I'll have the same feeling at the end of this one...still, you never know.

Morre movement forward...

This image should give you an idea of what Fabian (once Demian and before that, Alain, grrr...any more name changes and I'm taking him out of the story altogether) looks like. Not a pen and ink sketch of him but one of Simon's graphic artworks.

Today was connecting Simon's attempt to return home and being arrested, again, with the part where he remembers the death of Fabian. The two parts together is 10,000 words and still being worked over. Added to.

There's a local podcaster named Frahnkly Frank who may have inadvertently let the police know where Simon was staying...thanks to a podcast. I'm at that point, now, and trying to figure out which way to go with it.

I'm also debating whether or not I should treat this like a murder mystery, after all, with someone like ReShawn investigating. Putting the pieces together. It might make the story more interesting. Compelling. I don't know.

I'm hesitant because that adds another layer of separation from Simon's story. I also think it lessens the impact of some moments...and makes him a character instead of a person. I have several moments of him just being Simon...sitting on his porch during a downpour, in a sense of calm...doing a work of art he's especially proud of...and, in fact, his whole memory of Fabina's last days.

I think that is what will keep this following him instead of an investigator...until the third part of the book. After he's dead and ReShawn is not only trying to figure out what happened but navigate the minefield being laid down by the DA's office and the Barrington Police Department.

So much left to do. I won't be done, this year.

Driving me nuts...

God, the characters in my head make me think I'm completely gone. Out of touch with reality. Demian doesn't like being named Demian. He wants to be Fabian, which I do not like. But he's being a real dick about it.

See what I mean by being completely gone?

There's also Simon suggesting he actually did ask that cop to join him in his hotel room. And things escalated from there. It's my understanding that even if he'd raised the possibility of paying Paley to join him, he would first have to have handed the money over to show he meant to go through with it. But Paley jumps the gun...and tries to cover it by claiming Simon exposed himself, which he never would do.

From that point, it becomes lost in the gray area between legal and illegal activity, and Dillon's prosecution grows more and more zealous.

He claims Simon was arrested within six-hundred feet of a school, and never mind it was at midnight. But Simon actually measures the distance to show the school is 609 feet from where he was arrested. Which Dillon fights as inaccurate without presenting evidence to the contrary.

There's also Paley being unable to describe Simon's penis after claiming he got a good look at it, and Dillon Walstead bringing in a PHd to do a physical examination without mentioning the man is not an MD...which becomes explosive.

There's even two more cops brought in to back up Paley's version of events, which tips the judge to finding Simon guilty. Something ReShawn witnesses in the courtroom and decides to help Simon with his appeal.

An appeal that cannot happen unless the defense can show misconduct by the prosecution. Which puts ReShawn in the crosshairs of Dillon's anger because he now believes there was.

So...a lot still left to do.

And meanwhile, a secondary character is whining about his name. Ugh.

And finally...

Here's the end of this chapter. Longish, but done and I know what to follow it with, now...

-------

After his outburst, Demian grew quiet. Just lay in his bed, gazing out the window and saying nothing, for hours. Unmoving except to make use of the bedpan...which soon became unnecessary because he stopped eating or drinking. He had surrendered to the inevitable and now just awaited its arrival. Sometimes he would still weep, but that had no effect on Simon. 

That was when he brought in his sketchbook, something he hadn’t touched since escaping Demian, and worked up lightly detailed images of the man. Cheeks sunken in more. Eyes more intense and wide. Skin drawn tight. Hands merely bones. Lips unable to meet. Each sketch capturing exactly what he looked like, though pen and ink. 

Once, Demian had shifted to look at him, seen the pad and his pen at work, and sighed before returning his gaze to the window. 

Simon just kept sketching. 

He took his vacation time so he could be there constantly, and he kept in contact with Yolanda. He would need her for the final part. 

Which came a week before Thanksgiving. That morning, Demian did not open his eyes. His breathing was ragged. His hands trembled as his fingers stretched out to grasp at nothing. Simon called Yolanda and she came to stay with him while he dropped by the store to let them know he would return a few days early. They were happy to hear it; the mall was already busy with Christmas shoppers. 

Then when he arrived home, Yolanda greeted him with, “He be gone before two days. Maybe tomorrow.” 

Simon nodded. “I’ll be up all night with him.” 

She sighed. “I let coroner know to look for your call. Here is number.” 

“Not a funeral home?” 

“You know one to accept him?” He shook his head. She put a hand to his arm. “They will come for him. Do what it is they do for men like him...” 

“Cremate him?” 

“No, that you arrange. Does he have money?” 

Simon chuckled. “I’ll pay for it.” And almost added, It will be worth it. 

She nodded. “You are good man, Mr. Halloran.” 

“No, I’m not,” was his instant reply. And he still believed that, even today. 

Not that he had ever really been bad. He had just...had just kept himself separate from the world and its dangers. He’d wanted no chance of a repeat with another Demian. 

The one positive aspect of the man’s suffering was, it actually did help Simon with those he tended to, afterwards. Other men who were slowly dying. Men who hadn’t been selfish monsters or sadistic beasts. Who had sought love...given love...and now were being destroyed by that love. His empathy went deep with them. Men whose families had cut them off. Like his own had. The very people who should have supported them. 

He came to believe such families were cowards. Filthy, hateful people who thought more of their position in their tiny community than those who needed them most. Who chose to believe lies. Who gladly fell in with assholes who called this a divine punishment, and conveniently ignored how it was merely a venereal disease, like syphilis or gonorrhea. 

Both of which had also once been fatal. 

He tended to these men as gently as a mother might. Listened to their regrets. To the dreams they once had. The lives they’d expected. The men they’d loved. Or hated. Or both. What cut into him the deepest was how...no matter what they said, no matter what their condition or situation, they seemed to have lived lives far richer than he had ever allowed himself to. Been far more decent and human than he. Been who they wanted to be and built new families and made friends, despite the hate cast their way. Friends who were now showing up for them and helping them in any way they could. 

 These men had lived as human beings out in the open instead of just existing in the shadows, licking their wounds like a cat or dog after a fight. They could tell Simon anything and know he would keep their secrets. And if needed, know he would be willing to go to their homes, once they were in hospice, and saint their rooms so the family that had rejected them wouldn’t be too horrified at what they found. He brought cookies and cupcakes and light salads made of fruit or carrots or macaroni, along with old movies to watch on VHS. He also talked them through depressions and...and on two occasions, remained silent when they confided they could handle the pain and heartache no longer. 

He was able to do all of this without judgement, thanks to having survived Demian’s hatefulness. With them, he felt a gentle coil of soft understanding make him part of each one. Until the day came where the disease was minimized in its horror and its death toll collapsed. When the world could accept it was nothing more than a chronic illness and begin to provide for them as it moved on to its next target of disapproval. 

And when Demian had finally drifted into a stillness that almost seemed unreal, it was so simple and easy it took Simon a few minutes to understand he was gone.

Now he’d thought he could relax. And had. And all had been fine. So long as he’d been in his own little world. But the second he stepped away from it... 

The second he’d come to this goddamned town. 

Simon looked around the bathroom, which would have been considered out of date in the Eighties. So cold and uncaring. No character to it, unlike his bathroom at home. A home he never should have left. 

He sighed...then drained much of the now cool water and refilled the tub with hot. He wasn’t ready to leave the tender feeling of lying there. Wasn’t willing to turn away from the thoughts that came to him. Questions he had. 

Why had he photographed that bastard cop? Why let his guard down? It’s not like he needed the photo; he had plenty from his online searches, any of them good to work with...to paint. 

True, Paley’s face was nice and he was well-built, but Simon had hundred...thousands of images of men who were better looking. Granted, the picture he’d made, posing under that street lamp...it had been truly elegant. And he could now acknowledge the man carried a vague resemblance to Demian. Very vague, Simon told himself, because Paley was far more muscular. And all of it was in proportion. And he’d sensed no warning signals. Had he been fool enough to think he could move freely in the world, now? 

No...it had been that cold, cruel flash of condescension and disdain in the man's eyes when he’d noticed Simon looking at him. Like he was thinking, I know what you want, faggot. Make me an offer. 

Which had caught Simon’s full attention...to the point he actually considered doing it just to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off the man’s face. He had cash with him, back at the hotel, and wouldn't mind feeling a man, again. And money always had a voice in negotiations with his type. 

At least that was what he’d always thought. 

But now he had to admit that hate could be just as great a motivator. That bastard's actions had proven it.

And Simon was self-aware enough to admit he had also proven that...with Demian.

He chuckled in the bath. 

Perhaps this was karma from it, coming back on him.

More honesty...

I don't know if this hits as hard as I want it to, but....

------

It took Demian a moment to say, “You really hate me that much?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why? We had some good times!” 

“You had some good times.” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“What I said.” 

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous. I...I was gorgeous. Best lookin’ guy in the whole fuckin’ state. Country. I could fuck anybody I wanted. Any man, no matter how straight he said he was.” 

Simon almost snarled, Yes, I heard about that Persian pilot. Gossip was, he’d deliberately crashed his jet after Demian was done with him. 

“I’d fuck any man I wanted to,” Demian had almost whined. “Fuck anybody I wanted to.” 

“I remember.” 

“You know why I chose you? Let your skinny ass into my group?” 

“Was my ass skinny or perky? Make up your mind.” 

That confused Demian. His mind drifted as he said, “Looked good in those white disco pants. Looked like fun.” 

Simon rolled his eyes. He had never owned white disco pants, but he knew what Demian meant. “I was a toy. A party favor.” 

“What?” 

“I can see that, now.” 

“No...no...I...I liked you, lots.” 

“You liked fucking me,” Simon said, his voice still even and calm. “And me sucking you off. And rimming you. And then sharing me with your friends. Buddies. Assholes you met on the street. You cared for me about as much as you’d care for a blow-up doll. Took me a long time to accept it. And I hated myself for letting you.” 

The snarl returned to Demian’s voice. “An’ now you hate me...” 

“Yes.” A word so soft and gentle yet still a knife to the man’s heart. 

Demian leaned forward. “Fine! Fine...fine...you feel like that? Then stay the fuck away from me!” 

“No.” 

That startled Demian. “What d’you mean?” 

“I want to be here when you die.” 

“You...what?” 

“I want to know for certain you are dead.” 

“That's sick...”

Simon merely shrugged.

“I...I...I’ll make you go! I’ll get a lawyer and...and a restrainin’ order...” 

“Go ahead. See what good it does you. If you can find one who doesn’t think you’re slipping into dementia.” 

Demian was breathing hard, now, lost from the exertion of his anger. It took him several minutes to say, “You really want to...to...?” 

“Yes,” Simon murmured. “And considering how you’ve deteriorated, over the last few days, it won’t be too long, now.” 

Demian lay back, seriously confused. He was one of those people who took full pleasure in dancing with his lies, but had never been the sharpest man when it came to honest commentary. And now his left hand was grasping at air, as if he were trying to reach something...or someone. 

“We...we had some good times...” he muttered, more to himself than Simon. 

“No...you did.” His voice plain and simple, but with the hint of a snarl to it.

Demian howled and threw his still-full cup of soup at Simon. Some of it splattered over him and the cup shattered. It was still hot but only stung a little; didn’t burn. 

“You’re pathetic!” Demian screamed. 

Simon just sighed, grabbed what was left of the paper towels and began cleaning up the mess. 

As he worked, Demian continued with, “You got no balls. No backbone. No dick worth suckin’ on. Takin’ care of a man you hate ‘cause you used to love him.” 

“I never loved you,” Simon replied, surprisingly calm. “I lusted for you. Obsessed over you. Grew afraid I’d lose you. Till you went too far and I couldn’t ignore reality. But the one thing I’m glad about our time together is, it was never love.” 

“How fuckin’ sick is that? It’s weak. You can’t just walk away. You gotta sneak off. You gotta make sure I’m dead so I can’t make you want me, again. Like I did before. So many times, before. Five times you tried to break it off and each time you crawled back to me. Five fuckin’ times! Like a fuckin’ whimperin’ dog.” 

“Four times. This time doesn’t count.” 

“Oh, yeah? Yeah? Why not?” 

“Because it’s not about sex or fear. It's just a need for verification.” 

“You’re a fuckin’ monster.” Demian was close to tears. “It makes you laugh, seein’ me in pain.” 

“No. But it does make me feel good. Knowing there’s some form of justice in the world.” 

That twisted the knife.

Demian just lay back, as if in defeat. 

Simon had finished cleaning so sat back in his chair with his cup of soup, now merely warm. He knew he was treating the man inhumanely, but it was what it was. And seeing him speed closer and closer to the end...being both pleased it was coming and wanting it not to come too quickly...Simon was far too honest to not accept it all as evil within himself.

And did not care.

Blunt honesty...

I think this chapter is too long. More than 4000 words. But I can't find a natural breaking point.

So here's more of it...

-------

“Bullshit,” Demian snapped. “You loved it. Three guys. Fucking you up the ass. You loved it. Never saw you cum that much. I’ve still got the Polaroids of your ugly little dick shooting your cum. Wanna see ‘em?” 

Simon put a blanket over Demian’s lap, murmuring, “No.” 

“You got the weirdest dick. People wouldn’t believe me when I told ‘em so showed ‘em and...” 

Simon almost froze, again. “You...you showed that to people?” 

“Sure,” the man snickered. “I bet it still is...” 

He grabbed at Simon’s crotch, but his hands were smacked away. “So that’s what you liked about me.” 

“You fuckin’ kiddin’? That’s why I never...” 

“Not for sex. It’s what helped you control me.” 

“Who else was gonna deal with shit like that? 'Specially a guy who looks like me. Lucky you had a perky little ass. Skinny boys with perky asses. Love ‘em. Not a lot of meat there, but...but yours. Man, I’d never seen skin so white. Still white?” 

He grabbed at Simon’s waist and pulled at his belt. Simon twisted away, took in a deep breath and turned to stripping the bed. 

Demian continued with, “Nobody liked it as much as you, since.” 

“Being raped?” How Simon kept his voice even and cool amazed him. 

Demian choked out a laugh. “Ain’t rape if you cum.” 

“Yeah. Right.” 

A plastic cover had protected the mattress so all it needed was wiping off and cleaning with Lysol and eucalyptus oil. Then fresh sheets and everything made nice. 

Throughout, Demian remained silent. Watched him. Almost malevolently. 

Simon helped him back into the bed, which now had an additional plastic pad, then set some water boiling to scald the cleaning utensils and to make some instant chicken soup for them to eat. They both liked it mixed with onion soup. 

And throughout, he refused to let himself think about anything except what he was doing, moment to moment. 

When he finally brought the steaming cups in, one for Demian, one for himself, the man cast him a vicious glare. “You hate me, don’t you?” his voice a snarl as he accepted the cup. His hands were shaking. His lips quivered. But even now, as pale as his eyes were, they held enough anger and contempt to freeze a charging rhino. 

Simon knew...intellectually knew he should feel sorry for Demian. His mind was deteriorating quickly. His emotions out of control. Facing something he probably hadn’t thought would come for him till he was old and ready for it. But Simon was beyond any sort of empathy for the man. 

Instead, as he sat in the chair, he said, “Yes.” Surprised at himself for being so honest. And calm. 

Demian seemed not to notice. “Those stupid cunts they keep sendin’. For Home Care. Fuckin’ dykes who hate men. You can feel it. They got that stupid baby talk. How’re we doin’ today? Are we hungry? Now, Demian, all you had to do was tell me you needed to do poopsies. Got a bedpan, right here. Fuckin’ thing is cold as fuckin’ ice. They don’t last long when I start on ‘em, ‘cause they don’t really give a shit. They ain’t bothered by this disease. Think it’s good for men to have it. We deserve it. Just like the fuckin’ preachers yell about. And fuckin’ politicians. Homophobic cunts.” 

Simon just sipped at his soup. He’d heard this, before...just not all at once. 

Demian’s glare went dark. “But you. No nice talk. No nothin’. Just get it done and let me wallow in my thoughts. I keep askin’ myself why you do it. You ran from me. Fuckin’ left town. Not a word an’ you were gone. That hurt.” 

“Good.” The word whispered from him like an afterthought. 

Now the man snarled like a cornered animal. “I bet I know why you’re here. Why you do it. I bet I really know. Why you take care of me. You wanna see me suffer. Wanna see me die. May even help it along...” 

Simon shook his head. “That would be too easy.” 

Which made Demian blink, in shock. As if he finally understood Simon’s meaning. “You...you do want me to suffer?” 

“Yes.” It was time for absolute honesty. And Simon was ready for it.

More of that memory...

This is taking an interesting path into Simon's capacity for hate...

---------

Simon just aimed the water over all of Demian’s body and even shot some up to his rectum until the worst of it was gone down the drain. Then he squirted some pHisoHex soap onto his hand and smoothed it over the man’s emaciated arms and back and ass, carefully brushing extra amounts on the lesions. 

Arms that had once been so powerful. 

A back that had been so broad and defined. 

An ass...well, it had never been really round but nice to look at and...and... 

Simon grimaced and focused on cleaning Demian’s chest...

Which used to be so lovely and full, hair dancing across what was now white, barren skin and bleeding lesions. And his belly...once so flat and real, curving in smooth ways with a treasure trail of beauty, now bloated and marked with bruising and scars. 

And his genitals. Remembering how he’d once worshiped the man’s dick, and felt a twinge of sadness at how wrinkled and sickly it now appeared. 

And, to his surprise, a bit of joy at how it was now ruined...considering the things that man had done to him, with it. 

He continued down his legs, once full and elegant but now mere bones, focusing on more lesions. For Demian’s face, he rubbed a bar of Dove in a washcloth and gently stroked it around his eyes and over his cheeks and forehead, going lightly over he lesion at his temple to keep it from breaking, before dabbing all of the soap away. 

Demian was now quiet. Compliant. Almost seemed to weep. That was unsettling. Simon had never seen a tear in the man’s eyes, before. Nor had he ever seen the skin so tight around them. 

Finally, he focused on cleaning the man’s feet. Still recognizable as Demian’s. Washing between his toes and ignoring the cruel changes in his nails. 

Until he heard the man say, “There’s more.” 

Simon reached up to turn his ass towards the drain... And a stream of red-tinted fluid all but shot from him. Internal bleeding. He hadn’t thought to check for that in Demian’s shit. Not that it mattered, at this late stage. 

He used the shower to wash it away and cast a look of question up to him. 

“For now,” the man said. His expression a mixture of pain and sadness and embarrassment. 

Simon washed his ass and legs, again, then dried him off, spread some preparation H onto folded toilet paper and pressed it up to Demian’s anus. Finally had him step into a pair of Hanes briefs. It wasn’t easy. 

Demian muttered, “What good’ll this do?” 

“Contain some of it. Unless you want a diaper. I can ask about getting some Depends.” 

His voice was a near groan when he said, “You like treating me as if I’m a baby, don’t you?” 

“Sit on the chair. I’ll clean the bed.” 

“Just use Saran wrap. That’d keep the shit contained.” 

Simon’s heart almost stopped. 

As did his breathing. 

And he flashed back to... 

That day he had come home late. He’d closed the newsstand and was dog-tired...and found Demian was waiting for him. Used his key to get in. Had some friends with him. 

“About damn time you showed up,” Demian had snapped. 

 Then they had pounced on him. Carried him into the bedroom. Wound Saran Wrap around his torso and his knees. Trapping his legs, arms by his sides, and even used it to gag him. Left him fully dressed. 

Demian had unzipped Simon's pants and pulled out his dick to toy with then yanked down the back of his pants and briefs for access to his ass. 

And to have his fun. 

Hard and rough and mean...almost hateful... 

His friends followed. Each in turn. Until a vibrator was shoved up into him and used to force an ejaculation as one of them... 

One had pulled at... 

Simon jolted back to lying in the tub. He sloshed about to break the building chaos and covered his eyes. He all but keened in pain. That was one more nightmare memory he had long fought away from his brain. 

He thought. 

But Dillon Walstead had triggered its return. Caused many of them to come slashing into him. If he thought he had hated Demian, that was nothing compared to his loathing of that bastard little Assistant District Attorney. 

And his associate. 

They were monsters, to him. 

Evil and cruel. 

Monstrous.

He finally drained the tub a little then refreshed the water with some that was hot. Nearly scalding hot. Anything to refocus his mind. 

It didn’t work. He still drifted back to... 

Demian on that day. Barely strong enough to sit upright on the chair. So little of his skin left on his bones. 

Simon managed to whisper, “I’m never doing that, no matter how much you want it.” 

Demian managed to sneer at him. “Why not? You got off on it.” 

Simon took a long deep breath so he could respond, “Not willingly.” 

And again, the fucking memory of that fucking night filtered back. Unable to move. Completely helpless as they...as they... 

No! 

No. 

What was important about that night was how Simon had already begun planning his escape. Everything with Demian had been based on his wants, not Simon’s. He wasn’t happy unless he was forcing Simon to do something he hated doing. And the fact that he’d kept going along with it. That he couldn’t stop accepting the sadistic behavior of the man. Over and over. It still cut into him. His self-loathing. 

All he could do to stop it was slip away, silently, because he couldn’t take it, anymore. 

Because that night he’d started hoping Demian would just end him...and only knowing he had himself set up in Houston had kept him going.

Another memory...

I'm not sure where this will be positioned, yet. After the first day of the trial? Or before? Or once he's been released from jail? But Simon recalls caring for Alain, despite everything, for very selfish reasons.

NOTE: I'd changed Alain's name to Demian but forgot when I was working this up. Demian fits him, better, so in the next bit that is who he is.

-------

Drifting in the tub as hot water poured in, Simon half-floated as he drifted back to... 

A quiet day in the book store. The shelves neat. No bickering between the manager and owner. The mall just beginning to consider the mad rush to Thanksgiving and Christmas. All so lovely until... 

Yolanda called, her voice tight with fury. She was Alain's day nurse.

“I will accept much abuse from sick men, Mr. Halloran,” she gasped out, “but to have shit thrown at me? No. No. Never.”

Simon merely sighed and told her he’d be straight there. He let the manager know he needed to leave early, and she was fine with it. She understood the situation, having a nephew caught by the disease. Then he went to the hotel attached to the mall, hopped a taxi, and arrived at Alain’s duplex barely fifteen minutes after Yolanda’s call. 

She was still packing the last of her equipment in her little Plymouth wagon. “You come fast,” she said, the moment she saw him exit the taxi. “I thought I would be away.” 

“Was it just the shit?” Simon asked. 

“That was the last of the straw. It was words...evil words as I only try to clean him.” 

“Being his usual asshole self...” 

"I know his mind is not good but..." She hesitated then quietly said, “Never do I pray people die. Him? I make exception.” 

Simon actually chuckled. “He will, eventually.” 

“Not eventually enough. I am sorry, Mr. Halloran, I hate to leave him with you only, but I see why I am told he should die alone...” She bit her lip, suddenly ashamed. “I should not have told you that.” 

Simon shrugged. “I won’t let that happen.” 

Confusion crossed her face. “Is he so much better for you? With you?” 

He smiled and said, “I’m used to him.” 

“You are good man. I pray for you.” Then she hugged him, got in her car and all but peeled away. Which was impressive for that little Reliant. 

Simon watched her go then went inside. It stank of shit, but he was used to that. He stopped in the kitchenette for a roll of paper towels and Lysol, ran water in a pail, then carried it all into the bedroom to find... 

Alain half-sitting on his bed, shaking, his right arm outstretched and his hand dripping from a fresh explosion of the filthy stuff. 

He glared at Simon. “You took your fuckin’ time.” 

First, Simon set his things on a chair, pulled on his rubber gloves, took a length of paper towels and wiped Alain’s hand clean. Well...as clean as he could, right then. The sheets were stained from it, as were the pillows. This had been a bad one, despite the covers and pajama bottoms. 

“Get these fuckin’ things off me,” Alain snapped, pulling at the drawstring with weak fingers. 

Simon shoved the covers to the floor and pulled the bottoms off by gripping the few spots as yet untouched. Then he helped Alain rise to his feet and guided him into the bathroom. Lifted him into the tub one leg at a time. Finally leaned him against the step-stool to keep him standing and set the water to running. 

“I want to sit...” Alain growled. 

“In a moment.” 

“I told you...!” But the water was now warm and Simon was using the shower hose to spray him, which removed much of the fecal matter. And obviously felt good. Something even Alain could not complain about. The man actually seemed to sigh.

For a moment. Then he snapped, "I'm standing in shit, you son-of-a-bitch."

MQM

Oh, my God, the part of Simon's story I'm working on, right now, is so flat and boring it's putting me to sleep. Not that it takes so much for that to happen, these days. But still...

It's the beginning of the story but I feel like I'm serving up plain, non-fat yoghurt. With as much consistency. I think I'm going to dump what I have and start over, completely.

I mean, it sort of starts out okay. But so very A-B-C...

-----

Simon did not want to go. 

He had been asked to catalogue a small book collection, which he had done many times in the past for dealers and clients, but on this occasion something inside him said, Refuse the job. Do not do it. Stay home and deal with the myriad other things you have to do. So many...things. List of things. To do. Make a list to...to prove you have a list of things to do. On top of that, do not forget that every time you’ve ignored this feeling, you’ve regretted it. So do not go. 

But reality has this cold manner of dragging you, kicking and screaming, into a simple understanding...the money was needed. Simon was living on his Social Security check, and he had just repaired the brakes on his Honda CRV. That had depleted his savings below a level he was comfortable with. Of top of it, when one reaches an age where you’re considered elderly, decent employment is not easy to come by. Payment for this job would provide enough to ease his concerns. 

So he shrugged that voice off...and by the time he realized he should have listened to it, he was way past too late. 

His phone rang as he was working on a new painting...a commission for a client who'd bought two of his works. Both stark black and white acrylics on canvas, of single male figures partially dressed. The man had sent him a photograph of himself and his lover, and wanted this piece to make to join with the others in a triptych. Which Sion did...and it had turned out well enough.

Two men in an embrace, from the hips up, front three-quarter angle. One with his back to the wall. Left arm dropped to his side. His shirt open to reveal a full chest with hair. His face turned away from the other...

Whose shirt was buttoned and who was trying to kiss him. His right hand was around the man’s waist with his face lost in darkness. The shadows were sharp against the white of their shirts and bodies.

To Simon, the pose offered up an interesting tension. Want on the part of the one kissing; rejection on the part of the other. Lovely and only awaiting his signature...a dash of blood red. Like on all of his paintings.

But nowhere seemed right for it. 

If he put it on the man who was looking away, at the base of his jawline, it could look like the kissing man’s nose was bleeding. Not what he wanted. 

If he put it along his lip, it would seem as if they’d had a fight and were trying to make up. Also not his preference. 

The man against the wall had his eyes focused away from the other...and they were sad. The dash of red there would offer the same impression. Which Simon didn't think was really wanted or needed or demanded by the work.

So on his chest? No. That would be seen as a stabbing wound, and he did not want it to be linked solely to violence. 

So the call was a welcome distraction. Didn’t hurt it was Olivier Deskin, an antiquarian book dealer in London he’d known since his first year in this aspect of the book business. He had done jobs for Olivier before so it seemed an opportune way to cushion his financial situation.

But still that voice was howling, No, no, no...

The Vanishing of Owen Taylor...

 I love how this book came together. Taking a secondary character from Rape in Holding Cell 6 and making him a badass investigating the disappearance of his gay uncle. What's even more fun to me about it is...I got the name, Owen Taylor, from The Big Sleep. Because he vanished from the story.

This scene is the closest we get to seeing or knowing Owen, in the movie. He kills a man who's misusing a girl he's got a crush on, and this is his way of protecting her...but it gets him killed immediately after. We never see his body; just his feet running down some stairs.

I felt that was a disservice to him. Just a crazy kid in love with the wrong woman. So when I started thinking about my book and making it into a murder mystery, his name fit it so perfectly it's like he was calling to me. And it made the title almost evocative. 

I did not know what the story was going to be when I began writing, aside from Jake having to travel to Palm Springs to find his missing uncle. It just...it fell together in ways I'm still very proud of. And what's even better, the politics and legal aspects of the book...where a shadowy anti-gay group called PSALMS is undermining the gay community...still fit today.

I use this to remind me that if I trust the story it will come together. I'm fighting to keep from falling into my old habit of thinking what I'm doing is stupid and makes no sense, with MQM. But VoT is a very complicated mystery that does everything right and I had not planned it out the way it went.

I threw out lots of pages that went nowhere...and just need to remember that's going to happen, again, with MQM until it all falls into place. Just trust the process...

Even as you whine.,

MQM moves forward in bits...

The last of this chapter....

-------

Kenneth screamed like a little girl and danced away. His pack swirled around, shocked and confused and bleating like startled sheep. The monitors roared over to find blood spewing and the pencil wiggling in Kenneth’s bicep and saw Leon pointing at Simon, crying, “He did it! He did it!” 

Simon made himself look as shocked as he could and said, “He pushed me and my arm jerked.” 

Which carried no weight with anyone. He was hustled off to the principal as Kenneth was gently guided to the nurse, crying and wailing and certain that he was going to die. 

The principal berated Simon, viciously. Obviously, this was attempted murder and that was simply not acceptable. His parents were called in. Kenneth’s parents were called in. The police were called in. All of them milling about in the man’s already tight and tiny office, snarling and smoking and threatening a life of misery on the boy. 

Who sat impassively in the middle of it all, saying over and over, “He pushed me and my arm jerked.” 

Kenneth’s mother finally took him to a nearby hospital to be tended to as his father continued to threaten Simon with assault charges. He was close to being hauled off to juvenile detention...

Until Leon finally yelled at him, “Shut up, dumbell, he didn’t push you that hard!” 

In front of the cops. 

Who looked at him, warily, then began to question not only him but the rest of Kenneth’s pack... 

Who stupidly acknowledged they’d been ganging up on Simon by sneering about how he had refused to fight back. 

One officer rode over to the ER and questioned Kenneth. Who whined that he’d only given the little bastard (his very words) a light nudge. Effectively verifying Leon’s claim. 

And Simon’s. 

The policemen now viewed Simon’s actions as more like an accident...though one sent a sly thumbs-up to him, as if acknowledging he had acted in self-defense. Now boys being boys was giving him cover. So no charges were filed. 

Kenneth’s father howled at that decision and unbuckled his thick belt, snarling he was going to teach this little queer not to attack his son. Both cops put a harsh, loud end to that. The principal mollified the man by agreeing to suspend Simon for another two weeks. That was the most they could do. 

Again, that was not a punishment. Simon had already elected to attend an inner city school, next year, where he knew no one. So let them do their worst. 

What was even better? While he was gone, Kenneth came back with his arm bandaged like a war wound. Still king of his beasts. And he led them into taking their frustrations out on little Charles. Right under the noses of the monitors, who continued on with their boys will be boys nonsense. 

Until the kid was driven into hysterics and ran off the school grounds, headed for a nearby junkyard. 

The monitors tried to catch him but couldn’t. Nor could they find him. They had to call in the police and his parents. Everyone searched for hours. It was only his mother’s voice that made Charles come out of hiding, then he was taken home by her. 

His father stayed behind, tall, cool and well-contained as he took the principal aside. He was a lawyer and knew exactly what legal threats to make...and all very quietly.

Kenneth and his pack were shifted to a school for juvenile offenders. Problem kids. Where the teachers kept a sharp eye on them and did not hesitate to whip out a nice thick paddle to emphasize their orders. 

Including on Lorraine. 

So Simon received his first real lesson in life –- that no matter how big and strong and mean they think they are, if you sit quietly and let them yammer on they will give you a way to stop them. 

As had happened with Dillon. He thought he was the big boy. Cajoling with his pathetic deal offers and backing up his demands with threats of imprisonment. Simon remaining calm and cool and gentle with his words, refusing to let himself lose control, drove the man crazy. And gave him his counter-attack.

That Dillon had managed to talk the judge into a continuance to give him time to review the situation only proved him to be weak. And gave Simon another avenue to attack them both.

Let them spin and hiss and spit all they wanted. Simon was not willing to be bullied. 

Question was, how long would they keep going before they realized he would never back down? And to what degree would it escalate?

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.

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...

-----

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.