Why Not With Me?

Chapter Seven: Bubble Gum Flavor

“Lord, won't you take this pain from me

I don't wanna live, I don't wanna breathe,

See, I don't want to hug my pillow late at night no more

I'm tossin' and turnin' and thinkin' 'bout burnin' down these walls.

- Lyrics from Rain On Me, by Ashanti

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This has been such a long week. Ever since that nightmare last night, I‘m not even planning to try sleeping tonight. Maybe I can occupy myself with this Glamour Gala thing of Emmett’s.

Even nightmares about tweaked out queens in drag would be a vast improvement over the ones I’ve been having lately.

It’s already almost 9 o’clock; I’ve finished picking through my leftover Thai food and I have the paperwork that Emmett’s going to need sitting on the coffee table. I sit in the silence of the apartment, finding myself actually anticipating Emmett’s arrival. I may give him a hard time sometimes, but truth be told, I admire him, because of anyone I know, he’s one of the most honest -- with others and with himself.

“Yoo hoo, anybody home?” He’s cautiously knocking on the loft door. Emmett doesn’t come over much -- in fact, I don’t think he’s been over here in…almost two years. 

That’s a little odd, because everyone seems to drop by here unannounced, except him. 

I go and open the door. 

“Hey Brian, are you ready for the big night?” He’s grinning and yes -- actually jumping up and down.

“I guess so,” I say as he walks in.  He’s carrying a garment bag with him, and what I can only assume is a makeup bag. He sets them down on the table and looks appraisingly at the loft.

“You really do have marvelous taste in furniture,” he says, making himself comfortable on my minimalist recliner. 

“Thanks,” I say, only slightly annoyed that he seems to be burrowing in to stay a while. 

“Tonight is going to be so fabulous -- you know the doors are opening at eleven, and that great new entertainer -- Lady Liza from San Francisco? -- was in town, and I actually booked her! Her show starts at midnight, and then after that we’ll have the Miss Babylon contest…” 

He’s talking at about a mile a minute, and gesturing a lot for someone who’s practically laying down. 

“And for food, we’ve got a finger food theme and a full tea service….” 

I find myself smiling at him. I must have a little thing for enthusiasm, because Gus does the same thing to me. Every once in a while, I just get caught up in it. 

“And I trust you’ll be one of the judges, at least, for the contest?” He looks up at me hopefully.

“Guess again,” I say evenly and go to the kitchen to get us both water.

“Come on, Brian. You were smiling about something. You’re excited about tonight, you just don’t want to admit it.”  His voice is brimming with that childish “I caught you” singsong tone. 

Apparently I can’t smile without being harassed about it. 

“Yeah, I am. I’m excited about the profit we’re going to turn. From what Theodore tells me, we’ll be making double what we’ve spent. If it comes in that way, you’ll get quite a handsome tip,” I say, handing him a bottle of water. 

“It’s okay to enjoy dressing up you know,” he says matter-of-factly. He’s not being whiny like Mikey would be, or pushy, or even trying to make a point. He’s just…trying to be nice.

That’s why I like Emmett, but it’s hard to have him around too much. I don’t know how to respond to his kind of niceness. 

“I do enjoy dressing up. Would you care to see my newest suits from Dolce and Gabbana Fall?” 

He sighs and shakes his head.

“Never mind. I do need to get ready, though. Mind if I use your restroom?”

“Help yourself,” I say, gesturing in that direction. 

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When he comes out, he’s wearing a purple satin evening gown and high heeled pumps. He has on a golden wig, hair going about halfway down his back -- which is revealed, since the dress is backless. 

He’s totally made up, too. Dark shadowed eyes, eyeliner, fake eyelashes. Lipstick. Rouge.

Pearl earrings, pearl necklace.

I hope none of the neighbors see him coming from my place or figure out that he got dressed like that in here. 

“So, what do you think?” he asks, twirling around for full effect. 

“I think I’m not going tonight,” I say with a sneer. 

He’s undeterred. 

“You know I look glamorous -- and that’s just the idea of tonight. It’s fun to treat yourself once in a while; indulge in something you wouldn’t normally do. Let yourself be beautiful.”

“I couldn’t stop myself if I tried,” I say, noticing what is apparently glitter on Emmett’s face.

“Come on, Brian. Seriously. You don’t find anything fun about nights like tonight? About dressing up, being a little glitzy?” Even in his cutesy get-up I can tell he’s being serious.

“I find it fun to laugh at people,” I say, turning away from him. 

“Why?”

His voice is really close and I’m surprised to find that he followed me halfway across the loft.

Why? 

I have no idea.  I shrug. 

“Your attitude is hardly better than some homophobes, Brian,” he says, looking at me squarely. 

Like I said, I admire his honesty.

I don’t say anything at all and I find I can’t look at him. 

“Is that how you really feel or just how you act?”

-------------------------------Emmett’s Point of View -------------------

Brian’s just looking at me. Not insultingly, like he was before. I expected that; I’m well aware of his little issues with cross dressing. For a guy so open about his sexuality, he sure is repressed about gender issues, that’s for sure. 

No,  he’s looking at me differently now. I think I’ve caught him this time, because even he can’t think of one smart ass retort for me. 

“Is that how you really feel or just how you act?”

He still doesn’t say anything. Imagine that! Brain Kinney, speechless. 

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay you know,” I say softly.

He gives me one of those famous Brian Kinney death stares.

“Who do you think you’re talking to, Honeycutt?”

I’m not intimidated by him though. He thinks he’s some tough shit, but he doesn’t know what homophobic Southern jocks are like. 

“I’m talking to you, Brian. You never want to do anything fun, or glamorous, or explore your inner fairy.” 

He rolls his eyes at me. “I don’t have an inner fairy,” he insists, sounding pretty ridiculous.

“I’m not saying you have to become a cross dresser or anything. I’m just saying -- a little exploration couldn’t hurt.” 

“I’d have thought you’d been beaten up enough to know better than that.” 

Well, he’s right about that -- I’ve gotten my fair share of bruises and black eyes, but if he thinks I’d change myself to undo it all -- 

“That’s all been worth it,” I say, staring him down. “No compromises.”

He backs off a little. I think he likes that I have my own little rules, just like does. He actually looks a little wistful. He’s turning away from me now, opening his closet to find something totally unfabulous to wear to the Glamour Gala. 

I knew I wouldn’t get him to agree with me. I guess his silence is something. 

I try one more time, because it’s now or never.

“You know, Brian, it’s okay to be gay.”

He glares at me again, obviously a more than a little annoyed that I’m talking again. 

“I’ve had my dick up enough asses to attest that it‘s much more than okay,” he replies. 

“No. I mean -- it’s okay to be gay, not just okay to fuck men.”

He stares at me for a minute, and damned if I don’t think he’s actually listening to me.

For a minute or two I stand there totally content. I don’t think I’ve ever really gotten Brian’s attention like that before.

Then I look over and he’s just sitting on the couch, his head in his hands.

-----------------------Brian’s Point of View---------------------

I am seven years old and babysitting myself. Claire was at a friends; Jack  is at work, I think Mom is passed out in bed.

I sneak into Claire’s room and settle myself in front of her pink vanity mirror. Let’s see. I’ve seen her do this dozens of times, even though she’s always screaming at me to get out of her room…

Just a little bit of her lip gloss. Mmm, that tastes good. Bubble gum. 

I poke around a little in her little make-up bag, then look back at myself in the mirror. Hmmm. This could be sort of fun. Besides, no one will be home for a couple hours, so why not?

I take her powder foundation with it’s big, fluffy brush and pretend I’m a clown, painting my face. I giggle at the feel of its soft hairs tickling me. 

I look at myself again; I catch myself still smiling from that tickling feeling. 

I look nice; happy. 

I rummage through her stuff again, looking for something else with a little brush.

Here’s something -- another brush, with pink stuff on the end. 

I suck in my cheeks as far as they go -- just like Claire always does. I don’t know why she got mad when I called her “fish face”  that time. She really did look like one.

I push the tips of the brush in the pink stuff, then drag it swiftly across my cheeks a few times. This one doesn’t tickle so much, but it still feels good. 

Huh. Where is that stuff Claire uses that Mom says makes her eyes look like spiders? I wanna see if I can make my eyes look like spiders, too. 

Testing a few of the long tubes, I finally find what I want. Reading the label, I see it’s called “mascara.”

After a couple minutes, I’ve got it just right -- it looks like I’ve got a big, black spider on each eye!

I sit there for a minute, admiring my handiwork and making faces at myself in the mirror. 

That’s when I hear Jack’s footsteps, his heavy work boots, on the wood floor behind me.

I turn around and smile. 

“Hey, look! I’ve got spiders on my eyes!”

“What the fuck are you doing, Brian?” He pulls my chair back from the vanity and stands in front of me. 

“Oh, I guess I shouldn’t be touching Claire’s stuff. Don’t worry, I’ll put it away now before she gets home,” I say, panicked that I got caught touching Claire’s stuff again. I got hit last week for doing the same thing. That bruise is just going away, too.

 I reach for the makeup bag to start putting things back, but I before I can reach it, the chair is pulled out from under me and I land hard on the floor. 

The tears haven’t fallen yet -- I know how he hates it when I cry -- and then he’s lifting me up. He’s holding me against the wall, eye level with him. 

I swallow hard and will myself not to cry.

“What the FUCK are you doing, Brian? Turning yourself into a little girl? So you can CRY like a little girl? Are you gonna sit there and cry like a little girl, Brian?”

I shake my head no.

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to be a MAN? You’re supposed to be a boy? You’re supposed to be my SON?” His face is so red it looks like he is sunburned. 

“I am your son, Daddy.”

“NO FUCKING SON OF MINE  WEARS MAKE UP,” he screams in my face.

He’s shaking me with every syllable, sometimes knocking me against the wall. 

“The only men who wear makeup are FAIRIES. Gay little faggot fairies. Weak sons of bitches -- prancing around in their cute little OUTFITS and their goddamned MAKEUP,” I feel his hands pulling me away from the wall. His eyes are wide and flashing with anger.

“No goddamned son of mine is going to act like a FUCKING GAY FAIRY,” he says as he releases me with a push of his arms. 

I hit the ground hard and slid along the polished floors, my head finally hitting the metal frame of Claire’s bed.

I can’t help it; I’m crying now, tears making the mascara run down my cheeks and sting my eyes.

 I hear my father leave the room. I hear him going down the stairs. I hear him slam the front door. 

I reach up, rubbing my throbbing head. When I look at them, my fingers are covered with blood. 

“Brian?”

Huh?

“Brian, are you okay?” Emmett’s voice. Emmet’s voice?

 I shut my eyes again and open them quickly. 

“Brian, are you alright? Earth to Brian…” 

----------------------------Emmett’s Point of View ------------

Okay, I’m getting pretty freaked out here. I mean, the Glamour Gala is in…half an hour, and Brian is… Well, I mean, he’s not hurt. It’s not like, “Man down!” or anything, but something is definitely…off. 

He hasn’t responded to anything I’ve said for a couple minutes now. 

“Brian? Are you okay? Did you take something?” My mind is racing back to some of the rough patches. I’ve never known Brian to misjudge his drug use, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. 

He still just has his head in his hands, covering his eyes. 

“Brian! Answer me, say anything,” I say. 

Finally I see him stirring.  He lifts up his head suddenly and looks around like he doesn’t know where he is.  Then, after a few seconds, I can almost see the light go on in those gorgeous hazel eyes of his. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head a little.  I knit my brow. 

“You don’t seem fine, Brian. What happened?” I think I see tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Nothing, nothing. Just tired, that’s all.”

“Did you take something? I heard there was a bad batch of E out a couple weeks back --” 

“God no, Emmett, you know I never use Angelo,” he grumbles. “Everyone knows what an unreliable cunt he is.”

Well, it looks like Brian’s back.

-----------------------------Brian’s Point of View --------------

After that little incident, you can bet I went over the cover charge policies quickly. Luckily, time was ticking down before Cinderella had to be at the Ball, so Emmett didn’t stay. 

“I understand if you’re not well enough to make it tonight, Brian,” he says as he leaves. “And I do hope you’re feeling better. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know who wins the contest.”

I nod.  My head is still pounding; I still feel sweaty. And I don’t want to close my eyes.

“Thanks Em. I’m sure it’ll be a great.” 

At least he’s understanding enough to realize I’m not well and not expect me to sacrifice for his Gala. 

I like Emmett. 

--------------------- Mikey’s Point of View --------

“Hey Emmett - great outfit,” I say, pulling my skirt down where it’s riding up in the back. 

“You too, honey. I’m so glad you and Ben could make it tonight.”  He flashes us a big grin and we clink our margarita glasses.

“Say, is everything okay with Brian?” Emmett asks, taking a long sip. 

“Yeah, I think so, why?” I say. 

“Well, I was over at the loft tonight and he…well, he sorta freaked out.”

“Yeah, well, if his neighbors saw you go into his apartment in that dress, I’ll bet he did,” I reply. 

“What do you mean?” Ben asks, head bent with concern. 

“Oh, you know, it was weird. One minute we’re there, bickering with each other. The next thing I know, he’s just sitting there, sorta holding his head, and he didn’t answer me for a few minutes.” 

Ben suddenly zapped to attention.

“You mean -- he seemed sort of weird? Like he was sick?”

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“He did the same thing the other night, at Hunter’s party,” Ben says.  Huh?  He did?

“What are you guys talking about?” I ask, wondering why Ben didn’t tell me about this already. “When was this? He seemed fine at the party to me.”

Ben shakes his head. 

“No, while you guys were playing with the laptop, he was in the bathroom. When he came out, he looked terrible. He said he felt sick.”

Well gee, thanks for letting me know.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Emmett asks, leaning against the bar.

“Well, I guess so but it is pretty weird,” Ben says.

“What’s weird?”

“Lindsey! What are you doing here?” I ask, hugging her. 

“Just thought I’d use this as an excuse to get out of the house for a little while, and show my support to your event, Emmett! It looks like a big success.”

“Almost 400 people,” Emmett squeals delightedly.

“Wow. That’s wonderful… What were you saying is weird?” she asks.

“I guess Brian was sick the other day or something,” I say, still not sure I’m understanding what the big deal is. 

“And then tonight, he like blanked out for a few minutes. It was kinda creepy,” Emmett adds.

“You mean like he was there, but looking somewhere else? He did that for maybe like thirty seconds or a minute at dinner with us the other night.”

Emmett sets down his swizzle stick dramatically.

“Well, what are we gonna do? Should I go over to the house?” I ask. 

“There’s only one person who will get to the bottom of this,” Emmett says knowingly.

“Who?” I ask, hurt that I am apparently not their top choice. 

“Justin,” they all answer in harmony.