Chapter Four: Problems 

---------Justin's Point of View---------------

If I laugh just a little bit 

Maybe I can forget the chance

That I didn’t have

 to know you 

And live in peace, in peace. 

------------

I haven’t been painting so much lately. I guess I’ve been busy with work. I haven’t been tricking so much either -- 

I don’t know what I’ve been doing. I’ve been here for almost six months. I do the same things every day but the magic of this city is gone… I guess our honeymoon period is over.

I should be calling Brian. I hear he’s fine, but no one will give me details. They claim not to know; they say they don’t see him much. I’m left to wonder what’s going on there. I wish someone would tell me. 

I guess Brian would if I picked up the fucking phone. But I’m afraid of the words that would come out of my mouth. 

Words like, “I can’t do this.” Or, “You were wrong.” Or, “Fuck art.” 

I don’t think he’d like this weakness in me. He wants me out here, Big Strong Homosexual Artist in the Big City Art World. 

And I don’t have the strength to lie to him. 

He’s in my fucking head all the time with his words about being your own person, and not taking shit from people, and living your own life, and judging yourself. 

I love him and I think he’s right……kind of. 

Brian-in-My-Head tells me to stick it out. He tells me to hang in there, that I’ll make it. He tells me to paint through the pain, and I try to. The paintings aren’t half bad, as long as I try to tell myself that the New York visit will end like the other one. With Brian coming to New York and fucking me in some fancy hotel bed.

--------------------Brian's Point of View---------------

If I laugh just a little bit 

Maybe I can forget the plans 

That I didn’t use

 to get you at home, 

With me, alone 

If I can laugh just a little bit 

Maybe I can recall the way 

That I used to be, before you. 

Drinking, tricking, taking hits. 

It’s practically a bore. 

I think I’ve fucked every goddamned fuckable ass in this city, and in the last six months, a fair number from the goddamned  suburbs. 

Every night is more or less the same. Come home late from Kinnetik with a blackened-chicken salad and a pineapple smoothie.

Put on the hottest clothes I have. Go to Babylon. Drink Beam. Chase it with a hit of E. Fuck for a while. 

Ask the gang at the bar what’s going on with them. Pretend to listen to their fucking bullshit. Wait to hear Justin’s name. 

Tonight I run into Ted. He mentions that I haven’t been over in a while. That’s true I guess.  I told him I’d come back when he had decent furniture or some art to look at. 

Dumbasses at Babylon who knew Justin from -- from who knows where? The diner, or from Rage, or from the goddamned King of Babylon contest -- have started coming up to me and fucking ASKING me about him. 

Tonight one guy asked me about Justin after I fucked him. 

That fucking pissed me the fuck off, because it ruined my fantasy that he was Justin. 

Fuck.

Some nights I go home and I lay on my bed and I let myself think about Justin. I use a  razor to cut myself a little. Then, sometimes, I can cry.