CHAPTER 13

Various things had been gathered from his walks with Marie through Central Park and his solo wanderings through New York City. He liked walking at night alone. Sometimes he would walk from his apartment at West 93^rd and Columbus down to the Bowery and back. There was such a different life that moved through New York City at night. When people looked at him, he witnessed the lost look, the look of urgency, that look of fear, resignation, sadness, death, but all stopped for just an instant if they looked into his eyes before he could cast his glance downward. He felt he was like a door that they looked through and witnessed something this world did not know. People gave him strange looks and walked away quietly. He would smile. Some would smile back. He was offered drugs, sex, attitude, abusive comments or just ignored. The night was about letting the shadows out. Sometimes he thought he would see people; well people you could see through, following people on the street and they were not aware of these ghostly people talking to them. He attributed this to an active imagination. Maybe he wants to be like Marie and maybe not; the whole spiritual thing was disturbing; plus he was still a Southern Baptist though not practicing for many years. He still could feel the finger of the Reverend pointing at him, "The failure is not in God, it's in you."

Late night walks always caused conversations from the past to hitch a ride when he was attempting to quiet the noise. One night a stranger approached him, snarled and said, "We don't want you here." This didn't make sense like most things he heard from people who talked without thinking and just reacted as if their responses were preprogrammed. And he felt the same way most times. Lately, this phrase crossed his mind and he attempted to dismiss it, "I am an eye in the machine." His defensive mental response was, "It's just one noise that rose above the other noises for a moment."

The altar was almost complete but he felt something else calling to him that needed to be added. He added fresh flowers. Every week he would place at least two or three bouquets of fresh flowers around the apartment and one bouquet on the altar. Flowers tinted the air with calmness and he also imagined they were a gift from a lover.

Matthew and Lazarus both lived in New York. Matthew was in love with someone else. Lazarus was addicted to his career. And Michael felt that the voices in his head were pulling his attention more and more from his daily life. Byron, the roommate, feigned no interest until he needed to be scratched and then he would pretend nothing ever happened the next morning.

Lately there had been an imbalance in the air in the apartment. The air was stale; his eyes tasted moments that should be forgotten; yet lingered. He felt as if the air became like a movie screen. He felt like his imagination was in overdrive, or "I'm losing my mind"; or "I'm becoming like Marie". Losing his mind seemed more appropriate. He was intoxicated on Lazarus. He needed Lazarus. Lazarus didn't need him. And Lazarus was the fix he needed. Without Lazarus, life had no sweet fragrance. The air about him was fermenting into the smell of a graveyard. There was no freshness in his movements.

Flowers, as Marie would say, were offerings to the spirits, to guides and to angels, to God and to oneself. The altar represented the inner self. The flowers were the crown that he placed upon the altar. But sometimes he thought that when you pull the flowers out of the ground, they are dying; so you are not offering a gesture of life; but an offering of death. But he would dismiss the thought and always buy fresh flowers on Friday when he would walk home from his job as an assistant in Times Square for a small advertising company that was going out of business.

He remembered how Matthew always bought him a fresh flower, a rose or a bouquet to sit by his picture of the Celestial Gatekeeper.

He sniffed the flowers and remembered.

Lazarus had left town. The status of their relationship was never resolved. Michael asked. Lazarus would only change the subject or stood in silence. After crying and clawing at the walls of his consciousness, bitterness formed around his heart.

The Rage, a gay bar in West Hollywood, wasn't very busy. Danny, the bartender, was having a good laugh with the customers. A few people were standing around in small groups conversing. There were no vacant seats at the bar. He didn't feel like supporting another wall. His eyes previewed the patrons quickly. Nothing caught his interest. Doesn't matter he said bitterly to himself as he thought about Lazarus.

"Evening Danny."

"What are you drinking?"

"A beer with a twist of lime please. Not very crowded is it?"

"It's too early still for the serious party people."

Michael liked him. He always gave him a smile and would take a moment to have a conversation.

As he was smiling at Danny while leaving a tip, he noticed a young blonde man watching him. He shivered and thought, ‘Hmm, another footprint on my grave.' He wanted to smile at the man but held back. Their eyes exchanged a mutual interest. He'll be my next lover Michael thought. There wasn't a vacant seat by him. So he casually walked around the bar not giving anyone any particular attention. Several moments later he was standing behind the young blonde man. He knew he had to sit next to this man. The man sitting next to him was seriously involved in his drink.

"This will not do. He'll have to leave." Michael placed his drink down and with a subtle thought he placed an energy field around the man until he warped in a new reality of a vacant seat with him sitting there. Then without warning, the man jumped out of his seat, grabbed his cigarettes and stuffed them into a suit pocket, left his money on the bar, grabbed his briefcase off the floor and walked quickly out the bar mumbling to himself. At least, he'll get home sober Michael thought since he saw him getting drunk. Michael took a seat next to the young blonde man. He registered no emotion nor would he look at him.

Strange why I did that Michael thought as his hand rubbed his stomach as a warm feeling flowed through. It was a full moon night. On his way over to the club, he stopped momentarily and looked up at the moon. There were tears in his eyes as he whispered of his loneliness to the moon. He reached up to touch the moon and drawn its power within him. He imagined he placed the moon where a womb would be. For a moment, he bathed in its glow as his thoughts sang of a love that he couldn't remember that seemed to be in pages of a book of life that was not opened to him. He could see himself dancing naked in the moonlight in a circle of trees. Drums were beating. There were others dancing naked around a fire. The memory faded quickly.

The young blonde man ordered a Long Island Ice Tea. He was a chain smoker. He seemed uncomfortable with the surrounding. He is taller than Lazarus. Michael noticed he had a nice built. Michael probed this man though he wouldn't look at him directly. His health is fine. He sensed no mental or drug problems or diseases. Yet, something troubled this man; maybe some deep dark secret was piloting his life. Michael felt he should be careful, because this could be a problem. Fifteen minutes passed. Neither one said a word. They both discreetly passed surveying glances.

Maybe this is a waste of time. I should be home watching my Saturday lineup of situation comedies. Drift off to sleep and call it another night. There was this cute sci-fi movie. Wonder what time it is. "Excuse me, what time do you have."

"Seven-thirty," the man replied. Thinking. That's the only line he can come up with. This is really going to be a boring evening. He's the cliché type. He's probably a bar queen.

Still in his own thoughts: Well, the movie starts at eight. Since I'm around the corner, I live on Larrabee, I can down another beer in fifteen minutes."

Let's see what other clever cliché he'll come up with. Probably something like, ‘So do you come here often.'

Maybe I should say something else. I hate having to be clever with starting a conversation. You want a person to think you have substance instead of being a 100 proof of liquor in a walking container.

"So how are you on this fine Saturday night?"

"Fine." He must be really hard up. He's definitely got a short attention span.

"So do you come here often," Michael asked?

I knew it, a bore. I always meet bores he thought. "I just moved to LA."

"Oh, I see, so you're not tainted yet."

"Tainted?"

"This is the land of illusions. Substance is condemned to the outskirts of existence to places like the Midwest?"

"I'm from Ohio."

"I'm from Illinois. I've been imprisoned here for ten years."

"Is it that bad?"

"Let's say, it's the longest set of stairs I have climbed."

His smile can be disarming they both thought.

"So what brings you to tinsel town...decadence!"

"I'm a singer. I moved here to further my career as a cabaret singer. I originally planned to go to New York but decide this might be a better choice."

"I've always wanted to live in New York. But I got picked up by this white tornado and this is where I was dropped. I sing also. I sing a lot of original compositions."

"I sang at the Rose Tattoo the other night. Some people brought me here for a drink afterwards."

"What kind of music do you like?"

"I prefer Standards. I have no desires to do Rock Music. Top Forty music doesn't have the feel or style of standards. There are very few good songwriters nowadays."

"Well, I sing some jazz, blues, adult contemporary, some Broadway, light rock, no rap, no heavy metal, and some standards."

There was a momentary silence between. The silence didn't last long though, one word led to another, and another, and another and then they were both in his bedroom.

They were drinking beer and listening to music.

Should I make a move Michael thought? No, I think this time I'll sing a different tune, have a few beers and say goodnight. He's probably not that interested anyway.

"What times is it," Matthew asked.

"I'm six beers to your seven."

"Guess I should be going soon."

"Glad you came by."

"Like your music."

"It's not the best but it is what it is considering the recording session. Screaming and yelling is not conducive to singing."

"You have a good voice."

Michael delivered an awkward smile.

"You should hear me sing sometimes," Matthew continued.

"Let me know."

Cat and mouse conversation flashed in Michael's mind.

"Guess I've had enough beer. Where's the restroom?"

Michael pointed. "Follow the bouncing ball."

Matthew looked puzzled.

"It's a joke."

As Matthew was draining the vein in the bathroom, Michael had a mental rant. What do I think of this situation Michael wondered? He's not Lazarus. No one could be. No one should be. It's over with Lazarus anyway. He's left me. Moved to Washington, D.C. without a moment's notice and never asked me to go with him. Didn't even say wait; I want you back or go to hell and leave me alone. Why do I think of Lazarus's touch? He'll never touch me again? We'll never love again. We can't hold each other ever again. I love him so much but I am so afraid of opening up. He'll leave me. But he's left me. My true feelings will make me seem foolish. I believe too much in a storybook romance. I've always let myself stand two steps behind him. Why can't I hate him when I love him so much? Am I just a convenience to a young mind looking for experience? Was I only just to be an experience recounted to drinking buddies? Now he wants to write the end in the book of our love. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I would even wait even if he had to fuck every Tom, Dick and Harry just as long as he came back. "You graduated from college. You got a job in the real world. Then you graduated from me. Where do I graduate to?" Michael chugged a beer to silence his mental rants. He laid across his mattress which was on the floor. Matthew seemed like a nice guy. I don't feel sparks though. Maybe I'm too drunk. Perhaps I don't give a flying fuck. Oh my, a bad word. I don't care. Caring only hurts. My heart should be stone. Then I wouldn't be a bleeder for a sob story. With my luck, I'd probably be a stone that is crying. Wish I could just look at someone and turn them to stone. They've done it to me. Why not them? Justice would then be served.

"Feels like I drank my share and yours," Matthew said entering the room.

Michael said nothing.

Matthew walked over, sat down on the bed, took the beer from Michael and kissed him passionately.

Is this what we really want Michael thought or is this expected?

Will he play safe? Should I play safe? Does it even matter? No one abides by rules with me anyway. I don't give a shit about Lazarus, he screamed inside as he found himself flying deeper and deeper into Matthew's kisses.

"I play safe," he mumbled to Matthew as his body brought him something he feared, a name he wouldn't call."

"Help me, God," he heard himself say as he wrapped them both in a blanket of white light to push away the name he wouldn't call.

Within several weeks, they were lovers.

He always kept the flowers fresh. There were times he leaned toward particular colors, yellow and white.