Prettyboy

31: Everybody Knows, The Nights Are Loaded

Looking back to it, I recall that what saves me and him the trouble, is that he never directly asked of me to do it. 

On the 30th of June, not a leaf, not a blade of grass, not a feather stirred in the sultry air; at least, that was my understanding because I failed to leave my premises. I put the blinds down and worked on achieving the medium-ideal light. Once I had looked at the photographs again, I realized I knew what I needed and I did the unthinkable: I rang a poor Oliver Key and told him to come over at once. He sounded bewildered to a great extent, the kind that has your larynx reaching those high notes. It flattered and got on my nerves, simultaneously. He was asking for explanations, stammering his words, "You mean you want me to come? What for? Did I do something right?"

I told him, Of course he did. "You're an artist. And Lord knows I'm in urgent need of one right now. Bring some of your stuff over, will ya?" No further questions concerning Gerard and his whereabouts were posed, as I wanted to leave a clinging silence between us until he had the time to breathe in. I gave him space and time to breathe in. That is what compassion-sharing people do, I think. I always forget; I should scribble it down on a post-it note and glue it on my forehead. Though I am pretty sure, even then, I would manage to forget.

It's funny, looking back now, because what winded up being the result of two very different people, that is Oliver and I, has come to be interpreted in a whole new way today. I would not have thought that back then. What we created in the time span of barely two hours, this commentary-oeuvre, is today getting featured in Gay Liberation memorials, and so on. Its legacy, which contrives most of the attention I am getting today by younger people, has been described as 'everlasting', even though all I wanted to achieve was to prove my faith to my lover. Prove to Gerard that I was willing to commit, to sacrifice my reputation, which I certainly did. It was all for him, in the end. Less about that in my biography, however. I do not want the world to know. 

The photograph of two guys kissing amidst the conundrum brought everything together. With Oliver Key's touch of realism, the result was eye-catching. When I told him to sign his painting, he went all wide-eyed and said, "Seriously?"

"You want people to know it's your work, don't ya?" I prompted. Being nice to him fed my ego.

"Well, only if you do," he said, coy smile on. How cute. But how useless. Didn't work for Gerard, did it? "I mean, it was your idea, Frank. I'm not the genius behind this here."

In a way, I think I owed it to him. I felt a moral responsibility toward him after he had opened his heart out to me about Gerard, and though he knew I'd be taking him away from him just like Gerard's past relationship did, he treated the matter with levity. I ended up telling him what had occurred between Gerard and me, very briefly and brusquely, and the lack of surprise he showed intimated he had had a hunch about it before. Anyway, I thought I would sooner shed some light on his skills, which the public was bound to see. He did some assiduous, realistic work, after all, that required God-knows-how-much but probably a hell of a lot of perseverance. I thought to myself, he'd get somewhere some day when he said, going vigilantly about his work with a very thin brush on the canvas: "Some nights  I cannot sleep if I don't get it out of my system, you know? Even when something else's nagging me on my mind." I then announced to him my intention to showcase this piece impromptu. He went pallid very quick. 

"Really?" He breathed in, trying to appear with faux-equanimity. I nodded. "Fine with me! Jesus - when? At your next show?"

"No," I announced, calmly, "right now." I looked at the result again.

At the mention of this, he subvocalized an 'Oh, God' at the back of his throat and began to take strolls around the room. And then he inquired, "Don't you think it's a bit risky?"