|
Sometimes
I start to think that maybe Brian is through surprising me. Sometimes I
feel so connected to him, so tuned in to every thought, every word,
every expression that crosses his face, and I'll think this is it. This
is the moment when the smoke and mirrors disappear, and the bag of
tricks is empty, and there's nothing left but Brian. Stark, naked, and
clear.
It's like one of those stupid old Magic Eye posters. If you stare at the
dots long enough, a cuddly puppy will suddenly appear. Or maybe a sad
clown, or an ugly landscape. Sometimes, Brian will pop out at me like
that- order out of chaos, sense out of nonsense, and a thousand times
more beautiful than any poster in the world- and I'll start to believe
that I truly see him. That I truly understand him.
And then he'll do something so completely unexpected, so seemingly
inexplicable, so fucking *bizarre*, and the picture will scramble again.
Total confusion.
I should be able to predict it by now. Sometimes the surprise is
incredibly good, and sometimes it's incredibly bad, but it always comes
eventually. Never trust the cuddly puppy. I oughtta get a tattoo or
something.
We were having one of those times, one of the clear, understanding,
almost psychically connected times, when he decided to run away.
It was early June, almost three months since he'd lost his job, and I
could tell he was starting to get antsy. We still had that
us-against-the-world vibe going, and I think he was happy, but worried.
There wasn't any money, and there wasn't any furniture, and he'd sold
half his wardrobe on E-Bay to pay off the last of his debt, and I guess
the victory high was starting to wear down to a dull buzz - maybe even a
hangover. I'd find him pacing the empty floors at night, pacing and
drinking, drinking and pacing. Smoking. Rubbing his face over and over.
He started looking at maps around the time that Michael brought the car
back. Returned with two door dings and a scratch on the hood that we'll
all be hearing about till the end of time.
He'd spread the atlases over his desk, like he used to spread his work,
trace paths in orange highlighter, log onto Mapquest, and when I asked
him about it he muttered something about "research" in that
tone that means he'll only discuss something when he's good and ready.
Which sometimes turns out to be never, and sometimes that's okay. I've
learned to leave him some space. A few secrets. As long as they're not
too huge. As long as they're not too important.
But maps...maps made me nervous. They made me very nervous, and when the
phone rang one night and it was some irate sounding queen on the other
end, calling from someplace noisy and crowded and asking for
"Mister Kinney", I knew right away that this was it. I got
that weird stomach feeling that always comes with the scarier, bigger
shifts in the Brian picture. The bottom falling out feeling. Like
driving down a hill way too fast.
I told the guy that Brian was out, that I didn't know when he'd be back,
and he gave me a fake sounding name and a fake sounding number and then
he gave me a reason for my pre-cognitive hysteria- he told me he was
going to take the loft. He wanted Mister Kinney to know. He wanted
Mister Kinney to call him with the first available move-in date.
I wrote the message in my sketchbook, trying to keep my fucking hand
from going spastic all over the paper like it still does when I'm upset,
and when he finally stopped talking I threw the phone as hard as I
could. It landed on Brian's bed with a gentle, completely unsatisfying
thump, so I turned around and kicked the wall. Which hurt my foot.
It was all very frustrating. And pointless, I decided.
There was no use having a fit like some pathetic little bitch. What I
needed was a plan. Figuring out a plan might keep me from crying, and
that was very important.
So I started packing. And planning.
I still had some of my shit at Daphne's. Maybe she'd take me back. I
could work double shifts at the diner to give her a full month's rent up
front.
About an hour after I'd packed my last bag, Brian came stumbling through
the door, well into stage two of drunkenness. Stage one is his everyday,
more-or-less functional level of inebriation. At stage two he's walking
a little funny, talking too much and too loud, usually looking for more
to drink. By stage three he's nearly incoherent, and can veer wildly
between suffocating affection and shocking, sudden belligerence. I don't
think I've ever seen stage four, but Michael says it's absolutely
terrifying.
"Honey, I'm home," he slurred, tossing his keys on the kitchen
counter and moving towards me with arms outstretched. He didn't seem to
notice the pile of suitcases around me or the infuriated look I must've
had on my face.
By then I'd torn the message out of my book, and it was clutched in my
fist in a crumpled ball. I threw it at him before he got too close to
me, and it bounced off his chest and onto the floor.
"You got a message, honey," I snarled at him. Well, I was
trying to snarl, but usually that doesn't work for me so, it probably
sounded more like a whine or a whimper.
He quirked an eyebrow at me and reached down to uncrumple the paper. My
heart was racing and my palms were sweating and I just knew this was
going to be the Worst Confrontation Ever, but when he read the note he
said, "Oh, this is fucking great!", and continued lunging in
my direction for a hug. Like I was supposed to celebrate with him or
something.
"Why the fuck didn't you tell me, you prick?" I demanded.
Loudly. Angrily. Still, not a flicker of acknowledgment.
"Get dressed," he said, wrapping his arm around my waist.
"We're going to dinner."
"I can't get dressed, you asshole! I packed all my fucking
clothes!"
He laughed and nuzzled his face into the side of my neck, seeming to
understand that I was saying words, but maybe not too clear on what they
were.
"You're so clever," he murmured against my ear. "How'd
you figure it out?"
"The guy calling to say he's taking the apartment was a big fucking
clue. And the maps, and..."
He cut me off with a kiss, and for the first time in...probably ever, I
pushed him away, wriggled out of his grasp. Refusing amorous advances.
That finally got his attention.
"What is this, my goodbye fuck?"
His brows furrowed together, and he looked genuinely puzzled.
"No," he said, and grabbed for me again, pulled me to him by
the front of my shirt and leaned his forehead against mine. "It's
ours."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means..." Another kiss under my ear, his hands on my hips,
a drunken sway. "That I'm sick of watching you mope around here
since you got thrown out of school. You're working too much at that
goddamn grease pit of a diner, and the art you've been producing lately
is for fucking shit."
I was on the verge of tears at this point- distressed, angry, getting
hornier and more confused by the second- and now he was insulting me on
top of everything?
"So this is your solution to my problems?" I asked shakily.
"Ditching me?"
He rolled his eyes and made a groaning noise, moved his hands up to my
neck like he was gonna strangle me, but instead ran his thumbs gently up
and down my Adam's Apple.
"No, you idiot," he said. "That's why I'm taking you out
of this hell pit. You need inspiring. And so do I."
I just stared at him for a minute, feeling the opposite of the bottom
falling out in my stomach. Feeling the tingle and thrill of soaring
uphill that accompanies the really, really good Brian surprises. And
feeling like a fucking jackass, too.
"You...you're taking me with you?" I asked, stupidly, and he
gave me the "duh" look I so deserved.
"Of course, dumbfuck. I'm renting out the loft for the summer, and
we're going to homosexual Jerusalem."
He pulled me over to the desk, and stood behind me as I looked through
the maps with new, happier eyes. He'd drawn us a path across the
country, through cities and back roads and lots and lots of nothingness,
leading from Pittsburgh all the way to San Francisco.
"It's the ultimate road trip," he said, wrapping his arms
around my waist and peering over my shoulder. "Every young lad
should have a chance to explore the world on his summer vacation."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Didn't know if I could get enough money for this place," he
said. "And I wanted to surprise you."
Have I mentioned yet how completely stupid I was feeling? Cause I was.
Seriously.
"I'm surprised. Really...really surprised."
I turned towards him and threw my arms around his neck, giddiness
overcoming my guilty feelings. Then I started jumping up and down, and
the rest is just really embarrassing. I blithered something about
"the best boyfriend ever" and how sorry I was for doubting
him, and eventually he pushed me away with a sour look on his face.
Which was completely understandable.
"Okay, okay, just...no more pictures of emaciated kitties with red
ribbons," he said, pointing his finger at me. "If you draw one
more fucking sickly looking animal, I'm sending you home to your
mother."
I don't even wanna explain the emaciated kitties. Let's just call it my
blue period and leave it at that. I promised him to cut it out, and
hugged him again, and jumped some more, and this time he laughed and
hugged me back.
"When are we leaving?" I asked him.
"Well, if I can get the cash from this guy I s'pose we could leave
tonight. Since you're already packed...."
"Tonight? Really?" I was starting to get whiplash at this
point. "I-I've gotta call my mom. And Daphne. Oh, and I need
to tell Deb so she can fill my shifts, and..."
"Do it from the road," he said.
"How come?"
"Cause, there's no time for you to call all those people *and* suck
me off, now is there?"
It was too much at once. There were questions I should've been asking,
things I should've been thinking about. Things like money, and why Brian
wanted to spend his summer doing this instead of looking for a job, but
I was overwhelmed. I was itchy with anticipation. I didn't really want
to talk anymore. So I tackled him to the floor of our very empty living
room, and we were on our way.
|
