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.

MQM marches forward...

 

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

-----

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

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

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

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

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

Simon had nodded, feeling completely idiotic. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

“Haven’t seen you here, before.” 

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

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

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

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

Simon just nodded. 

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seems dangerous. Uncomfortable.” 

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

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

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

“Is there anyplace they could?” 

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

“So maybe lock the door?” said Alain. 

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

He leaned Simon back against the table and kissed him.

Not sure what to make of this...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anf the final part of this chapter...

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

-----

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

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

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

“He did far more than that.” 

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

“I’ve made no threats, your honor.” 

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

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

“Which is the same thing!” Manville snapped. 

“Hardly.” 

“Then why would you ask it?” 

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

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

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

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

“No,” Simon said. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

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

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

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

He returned to his table... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re going to punish me.” 

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

“And all I can do is trust you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Thank you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.

Taco Tuesday on Cinco de Mayo

Despite a break for work and tacos, I still fiddled more with Simon's trial...

-----

Falwell frowned at them and asked, “Is Dr. Aristian ready to testify?” 

“Yes, your honor,” Walsted said, half-absently, and motioned to the witness chair. 

Aristian hesitated then took the stand and swore his oath, and described what he had seen. A normal-looking, circumcised penis with a neatly detailed dragon done in red and black ink, looking like it was crawling halfway along the top of Simon’s shaft. 

“Was it easy to notice?” Walstead asked. 

“When flaccid. My feeling is, it would be less noticeable when erect.” 

Simon made a note of that comment. 

“How do you mean?” Walstead asked. 

“Well, it’s my understanding they were under a streetlamp. With a strong light shining down from above. When erect, the design would be elongated so could easily have been washed out and seemed like part of his skin.” 

Simon wrote, Just describe what he saw? Asshole. He compared notes with Paley’s testimony. The bastard. His hand gripped the pen in barely controlled anger. 

“Dr. Aristian, could this tattoo have been a false tattoo? Something temporarily applied?” 

The witness seemed a bit taken aback at that question but answered, “Possibly. I don’t know that I’d have been able to tell during such a brief, non-physical inspection.” 

“Thank you, doctor,” said Walstead. “No further questions.” 

Aristian had started to get up when Simon asked, “Your honor, am I not allowed to cross-examine the witness?” 

Falwell eyed him, almost condescendingly. “Can you do so with politeness and respect?” 

Simon deliberately frowned and asked, “Sir, when have I not behaved in a gentleman-like manner?” 

That made Falwell blink. “Well, you...um...” 

Simon calmly continued with, “I have never raised my voice, nor have I used any foul language during my interactions with the prosecution or this proceeding. My questions have been pointed, most assuredly, but no more-so than Mr. Walstead’s.” 

He rose to his feet, continuing with, “Dr. Aristian is a third party to this case. Here to, as he put it, only describe what he saw. I have questions regarding that.” 

The Judge all but rolled his eyes then snapped, “What questions do you have for the witness?” 

Simon smiled, looked the man and asked, “Dr. Aristian, do you have any training in dermatology?”

The doctor smiled to himself and said, “Well, no.” 

“Did you run any experiment to see what would happen when a bright light was shone on my genitals?” 

“We, uh, well, we went to a window for a stronger light...” 

“Was the sun shining in?” 

“No, it was just a brighter form of...of ambient light. Um, which did seem to cause the dragon’s color to grow softer.” 

“Could you still see it?” 

“Yes, but a street lamp would be much brighter and...and would have more of an affect.” 

“Is that your opinion?” 

The man hesitated then said, “Yes.”

“Not something you actually observed but something you think is possible?” 

Now Aristian was growing uncertain. “...Yes.” 

Simon nodded. “How tall was the street lamp?” 

“Um...I...I don’t know. Fifteen feet?” 

“Haven’t you been to the site to observe?” 

“...No.” 

“I see. You're testifying to an area you've not been to regarding actions you never saw. Interesting. One last question, doctor. Does the committee that bestowed your doctorate upon you know you use it in this fashion?” 

That made the man perk up. “What do you mean?” 

Walstead burst to his feet. “Your honor, Dr. Aristian’s degree has nothing to do with his testimony.” 

Even Falwell was irritated at the question. “Mr. Halloran, why are you asking that quesion?” 

Simon kept his focus on Aristian. “Because despite his professed intention to merely describe what he saw, Dr. Aristian has offered opinions that only a well-practiced dermatologist might offer, and then only after a thorough examination, not a quick look.”

Falwell eyed Simon. "If you didn't want that testimony on the record, Mr. Halloran, you should have objected."

"I don't mind that it's in the record, your Honor. I merely want it clarified that Dr. Aristian is not offering facts but opinion, in collusion with the..."

"Collusion!?" Walstead snarled. He was all but spitting from fury.

Simon calmly shifted his focus to the man and said, "Yes."

Third bit...

 Continuing from yesterday, with Simon on his own against the legal system:

-----

He went to the defendants’ table and pulled out his laptop, notes, and folders then checked his phone. Still no response from ReShawn. If one ever would come. Well...there was no more waiting time so...

Walstead and Manville settled in at their table, with Aristian in the gallery, right behind them. A few other attorneys had entered the chamber, probably with afternoon trials scheduled.

One of them, Simon had spoken to when he was looking for a lawyer to help him. Back before he realized they were either afraid of the DA's office or just didn't give a damn about helping an old faggot fight back.

The man seemed truly surprised to see Simon and was about to speak when the bailiff called, “All rise...” 

And all the rest of that blithering nonsense the man spewed to massage the judge's ego. 

Falwell came floating in, as full of himself as before, and took his chair. He glanced between the prosecution and defense and said, “Are we now ready to continue?” 

Walstead rose and said, “Well, your honor, we have Dr. Aristian here ready to view the defendant’s claim and testify to it, for the record. We’re awaiting agreement from Mr. Halloran.” 

Mister Halloran. In here he could manage his manners. 

Simon had to shake his head to keep from snarling as he said, “Let’s go. In your chambers?” 

Falwell frowned and said, “No. Bailiff will show you to a jury room and wait outside the door. Then he will bring you back in.” 

Simon nodded. Did not even think of looking at any of them, just kept his focus straight ahead and followed the bailiff through a side door down a short hallway and into a room that looked like it was straight out of Twelve Angry Men.

He felt an odd moment of déjà vu as he walked the length of the room, but ticked it off as having seen the movie so many times. Long table. Lots of chairs. Two windows with blinds looking out on a parking lot. It even had a wall-mounted revolving fan in a corner. 

He kept his focus on the fan until he heard the door close then turned to see Aristian standing at the other end of the table, eyeing him. 

“Did you really expect me to be a physician?” he asked, almost chuckling. “Are you one of those people who think that’s the only thing a doctor can be?” 

Simon took in a deep breath and asked, “How do you want to do this?” 

The man blinked. “Well...Dillon tells me you claim to have a tattoo on the top of your penis. Which I need to see. So...if you could lower your pants and show me...” 

Simon undid his trousers and let them drift down to his knees. Then he pulled his briefs down in front to let the elastic of the briefs catch behind his penis and testicles. Finally, he held the tail of his shirt up so there was a clear view of everything, and the little red dragon gleefully revealed itself as it whispered up half his shaft into his hair.

Aristian blinked and said, “May I take a look, by the window?” 

Simon pulled his trousers up and made his way to the closest one, then he let them drop, again. Aristian drew close and almost touched him, as if he wanted to hold it for closer examination.

“This must have been very painful. How did you manage? Does it look so detailed when you’re erect?” 

Simon just looked at him. Did not even try to reply. 

Aristian  straightened up. “I’m not your enemy, Mr. Halloran,” he sighed. “I’m only here to describe what I’ve seen.” 

“Have you seen enough?” Simon asked, his voice calm.

The man nodded. “What I needed to. Unless you can become erect...” 

Simon huffed a hollow breath, anger shimmering inside him. He did not even attempt to hold back his disdain when he asked, “Do you want to suck on it? See if it tastes like soy sauce?” 

Arisitan stiffened and glared at him. “No. We’re done.” 

Simon tucked himself back in order and opened the door. The bailiff was right there. He was led back into the courtroom, where he went to his table and sat in the chair. Anger still bounced through him.

At the same time, the doctor stopped by the prosecution’s table, where they spoke in soft voices.

Probably getting their story in order, Simon thought. Meaning Walstead would not be withdrawing the charges, even in the face of this.

It was going to be a fight to the death.

Continued from yesterday...

I've been jumping all over the place in this story, updating it to fit the new parameters, but this will be pretty much the same, now.

------

Walstead saw Simon and beckoned him over, saying, “Simon, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Aristian.” The tone of his voice was far too deliberately cheerful in its casual dismissal of manners.

Simon focused on him and softly said, “Since you insist on referring to me by my first name, shall I refer to you by yours? Do you prefer Charles or Dillon?” 

Walstead’s fake expression of camaraderie froze. 

Manville huffed and said, “I think your manners are...” 

Simon cut her off by simply turning to the man and saying, “I am Mr. Halloran, Dr. Aristian. I understand you’ll be doing a physical examination on me.” 

Walstead jumped in to say, “Just a visual. A look to verify your claim. That’s all.” 

Simon hated games like this, obvious and childish. But since they insisted...he said, “I’m exposing myself to a physician I’ve just met, so that is a serious consideration...” 

“Mr. Halloran,” Aristian said, quickly. “I’m a PhD, not a physician.” 

Simon eyed him and asked, still in a very soft voice, “Do you have any medical training?” 

He shook his head and shrugged. “Rudimentary things. CPR. Immediate aid.” 

Simon’s heart beat faster as his breath grew shallow. He cast a cool glare at Walstead abut his voice remained calm when he asked, “Is this a joke? Are you mocking me?” 

“I never said he was a physician.” Spoken in that same vile overly-sincere tone that was close to condescending. “Did you really think I could get hold of a medical professional this fast?” 

Manville broke in, fighting a smirk as she said, “Simon, it doesn’t matter who does the...” 

This time, Simon raised his hand to cut her off. “You will address me as Mister Halloran or you and I will have no further communication.” 

She drew in a hissing breath, ready for battle, but Walstead stepped between them to say, “Your choice is simple, Mister Halloran. Dr. Aristian takes a look at this tattoo and describes it into the record, and we continue on. Or we get a continuance and have a physician contracted to do the exam, which you would be liable to pay for. Choice is yours.” 

Simon almost sighed. “I’m not the one demanding this.” 

“Those are your choices. Which one is it?” 

“You know what my choice is.” 

Walstead’s voice and manner were growing tight and ready for a fight. “Not acceptable. The judge has said so.” 

Deep within, Simon was so angry at this casual abuse he had to close his eyes and step back. It was like that day Alain had found him in the book shop, and had tried to act like they were old friends while suggesting Simon was a bad person for vanishing on him. 

Vanishing. All he'd done is cut off contact. What did they call that, now? Ghosting? 

He was also upset that ReShawn wasn’t here to do battle against this blatant attack on common decency. He’d have known the legal precedents to push Walstead back. 

“So which is it, Simon? Courtroom’s open, now, so...” 

Simon. 

From Manville’s voice. 

She had deliberately called him Simon. In direct violation of simple manners. The little bitch. 

Simon opened his eyes and saw a smug expression on her face, so said nothing. No words came to mind, so no need to fight back any explosion. He simply walked around them all to enter the courtroom. 

In silence.

Here we go...

I worked on this part of MQM, today. It's during Simon Halloran's trial over claims of indecent exposure within six-hundred feet of a school. He was able to get the arresting officer to admit that even though he said Simon exposed himself under a street lamp, erect, the man could not describe the penis.

Simon points out he has a very obvious tattoo of a dragon on it, showing the cop is lying. That's when Walstead, the ADA, demands a Dr. Aristian examine Simon's dick and describe it. Simon reluctantly agrees. They break for lunch to give the doctor time to arrive.

------

Simon managed to force a dry cheeseburger and overcooked fries down his throat, with packets of ketchup and mustard, followed by a Dr Pepper Zero from the vending machine. The café in that building was overpriced and his mother’s non-cooking had been far superior, but he did not want to have to deal with Security to get back into the building. He promised himself a better dinner...so long as this wasn’t to be his last meal. 

He ate at a table in a corner as other people clattered around him and children ran about, screaming. He used his hotspot to search online for this Dr. Aristian. He knew he wouldn’t have time to interview the man, but he could still do as much as possible to prepare, only he found nothing. The closest match was an attorney named Carter Aristian, who had a PhD...and was in an office a few blocks away, going by Google maps.

He felt that usual breathless nervousness build behind his heart as he read through the man’s credentials. Ohio State for pre-law then Harvard Law. Clerked for one of the most conservative justices on the Supreme Court, which indicated not only his level of ability but also his political leanings. His doctorate was in the misapplication of the law by Henry VIII during his breakaway from the Catholic Church and how it had become a witch hunt comparable to the HUAC hearings. It seemed a bit simplistic and too easy of a comparison, but it was sufficient to make him a Doctor of Jurisprudence.

Achieved by a man who, if the photo he used on his site were current, was very attractive and not yet forty.

Which tugged at Simon’s quiet self-loathing. He had always felt he'd effectively done nothing with his life except find a silent space in which to live. He felt no jealousy or envy or disparagement against the man. It was more his simple understanding that he had never even really tried to better himself. In any way. And here was someone who'd fulfilled his promise, completely.

It hurt his heart.

He texted ReShawn, again, but received no reply. In a follow-up text, he filled him in on Walstead’s new ploy. It was delivered, but not seen. ReShawn had said his meeting was at ten and it was now approaching two, so he was feeling more and more like he had been blown off. That ReShawn was simply not interested in providing legal assistance.

Simon packed his laptop and folder with his notes into his backpack then headed downstairs. As he turned into the corridor that led to the courtroom, he saw Walstead and Manville by the doors, talking to a dark, trim, attractive man in his thirties. His hair and beard were cropped close, a thick wedding band was on his left hand, and his suit...well, while it was nice it was nowhere near as sharp or tailored as Walstead’s. 

And Simon almost forgot to breathe. 

Even from down the hall he could tell it was the man in the photograph. His profile sharp and well-formed. And that he was not a physician but a Phd. They'd led him to think Aristian was a medical professional when in reality they were pulling a trick on him. A chill passed from his fingers up his arms and through his body.

This was unacceptable.

Thoughts?

I'm not sure where this came from or what the intent is, but I sat down at my laptop and this is what came out...possibly the opening to The Murder of a Quiet Man. A story I sort of started a while back and got shifted off of.

------

Silence is, perhaps, the most complex word in the English language. Or any language. It can mean peace. Acceptance. Anger. Understanding. Acquiescence. Disapproval. Separation. Refusal. Hate. Love. And even cruelty. 

To be silent in a judicial sense is seen to mean consent. Which is too simplistic a definition, even when restricting it to the law. Silence in a relationship is often seen as evidence the bond between two individuals is over...or has become comfortable enough to quiet the need for speech. 

For Simon, silence was a gentle blanket enveloping him in peace and safety. He had always sought it, but he had found the easiest way to achieve silence was to let it come to him. Usually, while reading late in the evening. 

Another would be at the end of a thunderstorm that had declared 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 in the air as he sipped a cup of hot tea and soaked in the joy the world seemed to feel.

Sometimes he even achieved that level of Zen, for lack of a better word, while listening to music. Easy tones drifting melodiously. No words. Nothing brash or demanding. Just New Age in a classical style. During those moments, he cared nothing for the world and its billions of issues. He would not think beyond the immediate. His eyes would close and in the darkness everything would be reborn...would renew...would regain its meaning. And life would realign itself within him.

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