by Damon Suede
Trip shut the door. Beyond it, a decrepit hallway led back to the garden and narrow, uneven stairs climbed up to the world of the living. No thanks.
For God knows how long, he sat studying the life-sized Scratch in the corner. Jilly must’ve swiped one before the con. Across the top, a smoldering logo: “SCRATCH”—and at the bottom, the comic’s tagline: “Got an itch?” The pale, gleaming muscle of Scratch himself filled the rest of the vertical rectangle. The wicked eyes, the marble-hard skin of his torso where the smoky wings fell back, and the hand reaching toward the viewer… just provocative enough without being pornographic.
An ad campaign for an audience of one. A poster no one would ever see. A story he’d never share. Thrill and guilt at the same time. Not a bang, but a whimper.
At the very least, it could hang over his bed. He’d still created it. And Scratch’s book could wait; there was no reason why he couldn’t wait for Silas to cool off, then buy him out and come back to Scratch in a couple of years when he’d had some mainstream success. This was a door opening. Right?
Yeah.
With luck, it didn’t lead into a trap or a brick wall.
Outside, the scalding streets shimmered like a griddle, the air choked with pollen. Today was a huge deal for Rina, but she and Jillian had given some ominous hints that Silas might show. Potentially ugly scene. So instead Trip sat in the basement and stared at the bones of his dead project and tried to work up the nerve to tell Jillian he was too chicken to go.
He just wanted to look at Scratch in peace. In pieces.
Even with the lavender-gray hair and little goat horns that sprouted from his brow, Trip’s painting and the character there so completely personified his superhero fantasy of Silas that for one bleak moment, Trip wanted to lean against him and beg for help. Like a child, he secretly wished the photoshopped demon would tug himself free of the vinyl and stride across the studio to tell Trip what he secretly wanted, as if he didn’t know himself.
“I just about peed myself first time I saw him.” Jillian’s voice startled him from the doorway. “I mean, who wouldn’t sell their soul?”
She held up two tumblers that smelled like bourbon.
Shit. If Jillian had poured daytime booze, he must look worse than he realized.
“Can you tell?” Trip jutted his chin toward the poster. “That it’s him.”
Jillian snorted and bulged her eyes at him as though they’d both escaped from a mental hospital. “Kiddo, there’s so much Silas in that thing I can taste his precum.” She handed the drink to him.
Why do I feel guilty? “He said I could use it.” He shrugged, chest painfully tight. “Silas. I mean. He signed a release and… everything.” He stopped talking.
“Duh. He’s not stupid. If anybody ever painted me that gorgeous, I’d handcuff ’em to my bed so they kept on doing it.”
“Snazzy though, right?”
“Better than. Like you mighta loved him a little.” She perched on the edge of the table and studied the display, squinted at it critically. “Or more than a little.” She bent. “Rina called.”
“I can’t go.”
“I figured. Big crowd, anyhow. She’ll get it.”
“I don’t—” He wiped his nose and frowned at the alcohol. “Everything feels too loud and too bright. Sharp edges and screaming. I can hardly stand up.” He pursed his lips waspishly. Some selfish part of him wished she’d go back upstairs, and yet he didn’t think he could be down here alone. He tapped a taped box. “Why do you have a case of candles?”
Jillian blew a raspberry. “Two years ago I forgot to grab the right ones at the store, and we had to use birthday candles. Max didn’t care, but I felt like such a failure. I wanted him to have an authentic experience and… birthday candles?”
“Good thinking.”
She patted the package. “Hanukkah in a box. My son gets the Jewish experience, and I’m not using sizzling birthday candles that snuff themselves out.”
He picked up something pale from the top of a large plastic storage drum: a half mask with horns. This was one of the silicone forehead pieces designed for the theoretical booth babes he’d never hired. “Prosthetic.”
“There were about eight of them in with the cases. Max helped unpack them, so he musta been play….” She rubbed her palms on her legs.
“’S’fine. I’m glad someone’s using it. I feel guilty storing it in your basement, but I just—”
“We have room, booger.” She smiled with her mouth, but not her eyes. “There’s no rush. God made time, but man made haste.”
“Thanks.” Trip scowled at his own stupidity and impatience. He’d never told Silas how beautiful he looked as Scratch. With all the other bullshit at the con, he’d forgotten to confess how eerie it had felt to see a character he’d created walking among mortals.
The Scratch pictures taken by fans had gone viral within minutes, and they didn’t even know the character’s name. In the past few weeks, thousands of people had written to Trip and the other panelists to ask about the gorgeous pale demon in their midst. Facebook and the comic forums had gone berserk with speculation. Of course, only he and Silas knew the truth, and they weren’t telling. Trip glanced up.
Jillian was still watching him.
A car horn blared outside, and a screech of tires drew her eyes to the tiny window high in the basement wall. She patted his thigh, and for once it didn’t make him uncomfortable. “You ever play chess?”
“Whaddayamean, chess?” He wiped his nose.
She shrugged. “Benefits of a liberal arts education.”
“You don’t play chess. Who the hell plays chess?”
“Listen, during the Cold War, all Soviets taught their kids to play chess.”
“Okay….” His eyes still felt raw, but nothing in the air hassled his allergies. In my head. He hadn’t used an inhaler in ages. He’d breathed for months like a normal person, so long as Silas lay beside him.
Jillian spoke in the singsongy voice of a children’s-theater milkmaid. “When the Russkis were still being all Soviet and rushing around trying to win gold medals and get to the moon so they could do ballet and gymnastics in peace, they wanted all their kids to learn how to play chess.”
“The Communists, we’re talking about. What does that have to do with comics? I don’t get it.”
“The thing with playing chess is that you have to make a decision, see? Always.”
Trip grimaced in exasperation and shook his head. “So?”
“No skipping. No coping mechanism. Each turn you have to choose, no matter what. You can’t not move. Your only choice is to choose.” She snapped her fingers. “The USSR liked kids learning that they couldn’t sit on their asses and wait for anything, that they always had to take a step, even if it was painful. Workers of the world and whatever Karl Marx Brothers shit you can imagine.”
He exhaled with almost-laughter and fell silent. “That sucks.”
“Um, yeah. And it’s true.” She nodded as if she’d shown her math to him. “I mean, it’s harsh and all, but the Communists won a whole bunch of gold medals for eighty years because those poor little bastards learned to make fucking choices every time it was their turn. Brutal, but real. And even though they’re Russian again and broke, and nobody is forcing them to play chess, it’s a different way of getting through a life.”
Trip turned his back on Silas’s hungry eyes peering out of his demon’s face. “Kurt would agree with you.”
Jillian raised her hands in frustration. “Who the hell is Kurt?”
“We never met.” Trip pointed at Scratch and therefore Silas. “Friend of his. Game designer. Kind of a prick, but a smart, successful prick.” It dawned on him again that he had built a wall between their lives. Another point for Mr. Goolsby. “He produces the OutRun zombie events. Fan of Rina’s, actually.”
“Well, then obviously he’s a genius.” Jillian rolled her eyes and got back to the point. “No matter what, you’re gonna pay, so
you better fucking play, Trip. The trick with mistakes is that you should run to them, not away from them.” She shrugged. “You have to do something with them, make them something. I mean, everything in life is fun or educational.”
“Silas…” Again, he felt stupid and rude. Had he really said all that passive-aggressive shit to the best man he’d ever dated… hell, ever known? “…discombobulates me.”
“Okay.” Jillian squatted next to him in front of Scratch and hugged her knees. “Know something? Every goddamn night, I run from the bathroom and jump into bed because I still think Freddy Krueger is hiding underneath with his finger knives. Poor Benjy. Seriously. If I’m first under the covers, it’s no big, but if it’s the middle of the night and I have to pee, I will run and jump and scare the ever-loving crap out of my husband.”
“Why?”
“Because a grown woman lands on top of him in the pitch dark. That’s scary.”
“No… why do you jump on him?”
“Because in my head, it’s the 1980s and I live on Elm Street and some deep-fried pervo janitor wants to kill me for kicks.”
Somehow, Trip couldn’t imagine Ben’s facial expression at the moment she pounced. As if he planned to draw it, he tried and failed to see the shout or shock or grimace or whatever. Ben must keep that part of himself hidden from his family, even from friends. He was usually so stoic about his wife’s high spirits. He loved the tornado because it took him to Oz.
She pointed a pale finger at him. “But here’s the deal: Benjy’s a mensch. We been married for eleven years because that man prefers being woken up to me dissolving into a puddle of panic in a dark bedroom.”
A couple of months ago, he would’ve mocked her, but now he knew all about shared insanity. He’d found someone who caught him when he jumped.
“Ben has gotten good at Nightmare on Elm Street detail. He knows why I jump and almost looks forward to it now. Every time he just grunts and scootches over and kisses my neck and pulls me close.” Her eyes were damp.
Trip regarded her serious angular face. “And sometimes he jumps into bed, right?”
“Well, not Freddy, per se, but he has his phobias. Spiders and breakdancing. Same diff. That’s being married. Jumping into bed onto him and he still nuzzles you.”
He took a small sip of the bourbon, moistened his lips, really.
“Trip.” She shrugged. “You can’t lose what you never had, you can’t keep what’s not yours, and you can’t hold on to something that doesn’t want to stay.”
She squeezed his hand. Marco! He squeezed back. Polo!
“I have to meet with Fox on Wednesday…. All set, y’know. Big Dog deal.”
She raised her glass, but her expression did not toast the idea.
“And then everything might be different.”
“If you say so.” Jillian narrowed her eyes. “That’s a pretty big might.”
“The Mightiest.” He wiped his face and snorted unhappily.
Scratch stared at them from the poster, which made him feel shitty. Reason number six hundred and sixty-seven why he’d stuffed this shit in the Stones’ basement.
“Just don’t close up.”
“No. I know. I’m all messed up in my head.” And Fox wasn’t even what he meant. As much as Trip needed order, Silas had this way of unleashing chaos with a smile. “You can’t plan a hurricane. Silas changed…” He squeezed the Scratch horns in his hand. “…me, I think.”
“I have to go to Rina’s signing. You can stay.”
Trip dropped the silicone piece back on the tub and pushed it back against the wall. The bottom scraped the gritty concrete floor with a satisfying finality.
Jillian glanced over his head, as if an untamed thought-balloon might spill his beans. “What are you thinking?”
“I can’t stand the idea that he’s somewhere in the city, just a mile away, thinking I suck.”
“I thought you didn’t care about him.”
“I never said that.”
“Then you do suck. ’Cause that’s how you acted. Like his feelings didn’t mean shit and you had other fish to fritter away.”
Trip admired the painting of Scratch reaching toward them with slick, scaled arms.
“Chess, kiddo.” Jillian followed his line of sight to the banner. “He’s not dead. You’re not dead. Make a move.”
“How? I made every move I can!” He rubbed his eyes.
“Have you called him? Have you confronted Cliff about his bullshit? Have you found a way to salvage all the work you did on your demon?” She tucked her black hair over one seashell ear. “You mighty-might.”
“Now? After… everything. Well, that seems like a fuck-awful plan.”
She reached out and petted his scalp. “Sometimes the worst idea in the world is the best option you’ve got.”
He nodded.
“Whatever you think you’re supposed to be doing, whatever plans the universe has got for you… you’re not finished. It’s not done. You’re not in a box. You have not completed your mission in life, comrade.” That last word came out in a Soviet accent as she stood.
“How the hell do you know?”
“Oh, honey.” Jillian and her frown looked at him for a long moment, but she didn’t touch him. “You’re alive.”
She hugged her ribs and left. Trip heard her scuff up the stairs after she closed the basement door. He sat staring at it in the cool concrete silence while he worked up the nerve to climb.
EVEN with three pornstars flying in from Budapest, Kurt didn’t bother to answer the door. Typical.
When Silas arrived for Mr. Bogusz’s birthday blowout, portfolio in hand, he had to let himself into the apartment and follow the sound of his best friend’s voice.
His watch said seven, which made him an hour early for the “festivities” Kurt had thrown on his own behalf: cocktails, dinner, and some kind of late night jock pile Silas inevitably skipped. Usually he came to have a drink before things kicked off, but tonight he wanted to discuss something serious without witnesses. Under one arm, he had something he planned to show Kurt, if he could steal five real minutes.
A chef and two cater waiters clinked and swooshed in the kitchen, and the dining table gleamed with the good setting. Kurt had put on the swank for someone, and Silas did not want it to be him.
Annoyingly, Kurt gestured and nattered at high speed on the phone in his office. He waved when he noticed Silas and gestured toward the living room.
Silas glanced at his watch. No guests for another twenty minutes at least, so he had time.
Once there, he took off his jacket. He’d worn a suit because Kurt told him to look sharp. No doubt Kurt wanted to pimp him out to some corporate yahoo. His version of good friendship: tossing a big wiener on the grill.
“Grah!” A tortured moan.
Silas jumped at the low shout. Scared the bejesus outta me.
In one of the leather armchairs sat Ziggy, dapper in wool slacks and an open-necked dress shirt, but his mouth buckled with managed pain.
Silas’s heart gave a happy jerk. Had Kurt started seeing him?
“Aighh!” Ziggy took another rattling breath, eyes opened wide as if he’d been scalded and just as quickly relaxed. He pounded his right thigh a couple of times.
Silas reached toward him to help, second-guessed it, and let the hand drop. “Y’okay?”
Ziggy panted with his mouth open and winced. “I’m—” He closed his eyes hard and rolled his head before opening them again. He gulped painfully. “Bad too-day. Bad day-ay. Shouldn’ta come.”
“Likewise. I’m Silas.”
“R’member.” The programmer closed his eyes and rubbed the leg. “I was a dick.” His voice sounded as though someone had held it down and broken all its bones. “Zigg-gy.”
Silas tried to interpret the signs. Kurt had invited his handsome programmer to dinner. That’s new. Maybe Ziggy had managed to get through a few defenses. Maybe the fancy table was meant to impress him.
&nbs
p; Ziggy turned toward the window with the noble profile of a Florentine etching. His long hair was brushed into burnished waves that curled at his shoulders. The chalky blue of the dress shirt turned it auburn as an antique penny. He’d obviously made a concerted effort to spiff up for the evening. Was this his first invitation to the boss’s bachelor pad?
They sat awkwardly together as they listened to Kurt wheedle and bark in another language from across the apartment.
After a few minutes, Silas attempted conversation, because he didn’t know how not to. Like holding a door or saying sir and ma’am. “Glad you made it. I mean, I’m glad I’ll have someone to talk to tonight.”
Ziggy let out a heavy breath. “I’ll try.” He blushed, and half of his mouth pulled down. “My legs were do-iing better, theh-hen they were not.” He crossed them awkwardly. His dress shoes were so new that the soles were still glossy. Actually, all of his clothes looked new.
Silas battled a pang of sympathy and guilt. Please don’t let Kurt shit on him.
Kurt often included a couple of escorts for dinner parties. He loved to watch his real friends try to interface with juiced-up rent boys and the epic faux pas that arose as both sides attempted to play nice.
Silas grinned uncomfortably. “I got roped into the party last minute.”
“Join the cluh-ub.” Ziggy’s hand cramped, but he jerked an impatient thumb in the direction of Kurt’s yapping. “He’s a bull who carries his owwwn fuckin’ china sh-shhop around with him.”
“How many people did he invite? Any idea?”
In the office, Kurt laughed loudly, a fake guffaw that was supposed to sound hearty and encouraging.
They glanced at each other.
“Guests haven’t been deliv-rrred yet, he only ora-orderrred the sausage platter this afternoon.”
“Great.” Silas held up a warning hand. “Kurt’s parties can get a little nuts.” For Ziggy’s sake, he prayed a new leaf was on offer tonight.
“Yah.” Ziggy licked his lip. “Normal. Normal-ly I skip ’em. But he had news that couldn’t way-yait. So now, I’m holding-ng my dick out here while Mr. Jackass yells into the phone like a walking spleen.” He frowned at his feet. “Like being ouuut-side of a prinnn-cipal’s office.”
