Simon

The familiar stench of the city made me reel. It wasn’t the smells, it was what they brought with them. Everything suddenly came flooding back to me, things I had long forgotten. There was a calmness to it though, somethin’ I never experienced with these memories, like someone wrapped me in a big hug. It didn’t last as another one of Arthur’s memories played out in front of me. 

I crept through a mostly empty studio. There wasn’t a TV or a couch, just a twin air mattress on the floor with some neatly made-up sheets. Candles in jars lit a small table in the dining area, and even though the place looked a bit run-down, it had Art’s charm. He always kept everything neat no matter where he was. Everything was meticulously placed, folded, vacuumed, dusted, and smelling fresh. 

Before we met, I never did care that much about neatness. I came crashing into his sterilized world like an out of control dump truck. After this was over, I was gonna start caring a lot more. I understood these visions. Art must’ve found the ferals, and they were giving us a test. Never knew whether this was their doing or if the magic they used was sentient. I did remember some pretty strict rules about who could use it and when, and I wasn’t too keen on going through this ritual again considering what it did to me last time.  

A little rainbow-colored cupcake sat in the middle of a saucer with one unlit candle in it. A plastic bag crinkling from the kitchen caught my ear as I watched Art pour boxed wine into a red Solo cup. It may have been cheap, but I always did like the taste of that stuff. Hell, I used to carry those around with huge bendy straws sticking out of ‘em.

He put the box back into a mostly empty fridge and stepped over to the table, setting the wine next to the cupcake before sitting. 

“Was this the right move?” he asked himself while grabbing a lighter from his pocket. He was wearin’ his bar uniform, and I looked at the time on the microwave which read a quarter to four in the afternoon. “Nowhere ever feels like home.” 

His eyes were red, and his lashes were damp. I took my place behind him, laying my hands on his shoulders. He didn’t acknowledge me, but I could actually feel him in this vision. I could even smell him. Art always made me feel like I was home, and I’d have given anything to make him feel the same way at that moment. It was just a vision though, and I had to let it play out, no matter what happened.

He lit the candle and closed his eyes. 

“This is stupid.” With that, he blew out the candle, dipping his finger into the icing before licking it off. He looked over at his cell phone and sighed. “It’s just another day, I guess.”

“Yer an incredible kid,” I said to him, sitting on the only other chair in the room. “Workin’ full-time while goin’ to school. I’d have given up before I even started, but here you are.”

He ate half the cupcake before taking the remainder into the kitchen, wrapping it in cellophane. I looked down at his phone, so I could see the date. June the tenth, five years ago. He never told me when his birthday was, but I also never asked. We were both swept up in desperation for a few months. I needed to secure him as a kuu mate before anyone else got a whiff of what he was, and he needed someone to feed him and help him through this tough phase of his new life. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, but things felt different now. 

The room exploded in fast beats and lights, drunk gay men singing off-key into the microphone while everyone else either danced or talked over the music. Art zoomed from table-to-table, taking orders while dropping off food and drinks. He did an impressive job keeping up with everything, but every five minutes, he’d step into the back and shake off some anxiety while taking deep breaths.

“Art?” A full-figured drag queen stepped into the back. He was wearin’ a comically huge blonde wig in the shape of a bouffant, a pair of white gloves, red kitten heels, and a tight red dress with sequins. I couldn’t tell how old he was under all that makeup, but he looked on the younger side. “Are you okay?”

“Had too much caffeine.”

“I’ve told you to go easier on those energy drinks.”

“I’ve gotta get through the night without passing out,” Art replied, looking over the guy’s outfit. “That looks good on you.”

“Of course it does. I make all my clothes custom to fit every lump, nook and cranny.”

“When you’re up on stage, how do you stay so relaxed and fun?”

“A little booze, and a lot of not giving a fuck what people think.” He brushed a lock of stray hair from Art’s face with his fingers. “I was young and shy like you, but one day I put on a dress and some makeup and pretended to be someone else for one night. I did it for a while, and as long as I was wearing a veneer of makeup, I could be anyone I wanted to be. But then one day I realized I wasn’t being someone else, I was just being me without all the guard rails. All those friends I made as the classy Lanja Ray were the same friends who liked me when I was Robert McKenny.”

“So all I have to do is get drunk and put on a dress.”

“Well, since you’re not twenty-one yet, you’ll just have to settle for the dress.”

“I’ll settle for these embarrassing daisy dukes for now.” Art gave Rob a sideways glance. “None of the other people working here has to wear this uniform. Why do I?”

“You’re the only one that actually wore it.” Rob let out a laugh. “I just give these out to my hottest employees. You’re the only one that’s actually come to work dressed like this.”

“Oh my God.”

“Hey, you keep them coming back. Speaking of…” He cracked open the door while pointing to a handsome man in a leisure suit. “That guy was asking about you.”

“That guy? You’re joking.”

“Not your type?”

“I’m not in his league, Rob,” Arthur said, grabbing the door to close it. 

“You’re single, you’re young, you’re hot…and you’re hung. You’re in everyone’s league. Go talk to him.”

“How do you know—”

“Honey, everyone knows.” I grinned as Rob pointed to the bulge in Art’s shorts. “Why do you think you get so many tips?”

“I can’t do this while I’m working.” 

“Then get his number.” Rob reached for a pen and his order pad, shoving them into Art’s chest. “Do it, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“I have a show in thirty minutes.” He leaned in closer. “And Lanja Ray needs a new assistant.”

“This is harassment!”

“Take it up with HR,” he said, tossing a tiny red handbag over his shoulder. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Todo. Stop acting like you’re still in the closet.”

“Fine, I’ll get his number.”

“I’ll be watching.” Rob tripped over his feet as he stumbled through the door. “These damn heels.” 

“Yeah. The heels,” Art muttered. “The tequila shots had nothing to do with it.”

Rob smiled and clopped back into the bar. “Get his number, I mean it.” He pushed the door closed behind him.

Art hesitated, fumbling with the pen and pad while gritting his teeth. After pushing open the door, he grabbed a tray of drinks from the counter and headed past a few people walking by, slower this time. Never seen the guy so pale as he fumbled with the order before taking it to the table next to the man eying him. 

“Hey,” he said, grabbing Art’s attention. “When you’re done, you mind if I buy you a drink?”

It looked like the poor guy was gonna fall over, and he let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle. It was kinda cute seeing Art like this. 

“Sure!” His excitement soon faded as he caught himself. “I mean, no. I can’t. I’m not old enough.”

The man’s expression took on a creepier vibe. 

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

His eyes widened. “What’s your name?” 

“Art, yours?”

“Michael.” He reached out his hand to shake, but Art immediately caught sight of the gold band around his finger. 

“Oh…” He stopped and pulled his hand back. “I didn’t know you were—”

“It’s an open marriage,” he interrupted. “We’ve been looking for a younger third.”

“A third?”

“You know. Nothing serious, just some fun in the bedroom.” He grabbed his phone. “I have a picture of my husband if you’re interested.”

Arthur gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Sorry, no. I’m looking for something more serious.”

“You shouldn’t be settling down. You should be hooking up.” He grabbed Art’s arm and stood almost a half a foot taller. He was pretty well-built, probably in his late twenties. “I know how guys like you work.”

“Guys like me?”

He looked down at Art’s outfit. “You’re the smoking hot twink that loves attention from the right kinds of guys.” He pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket. “Good dick also comes with benefits.”

Oof. That shouldn’t have been the first interaction with a guy interested in him, and I wasn’t sure how I would have reacted. Eh, fuck it. I knew exactly what I’d do because I was a huge, desperate slut back in my human days. Art though…he didn’t look so good, and I could tell by the rosy shade of his cheeks he was mortified. 

“Excuse me.” Art turned away and walked by the bar, waving at Rob. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Art—” Rob called out, but he was already out the back door, running to the bus stop with me followin’ close behind. 

“No more talking to hot guys in bars,” Art said to himself while sitting on the bench just as the bus rounded the corner. The poor guy looked like he was about to throw up.

The vision shifted to him sitting at home on his air mattress, scrolling through a dating app on his phone. Each time he’d go to swipe right on someone he found attractive, he’d freeze and give the picture more scrutiny. Then he’d click on the profile and read every word.

“What is FWB?” He opened up his browser and typed in the acronym before letting out a heavy sigh. He swiped left and started reading another guy’s profile. “What the hell is a service top? Into bears and chubs? Like teddy bears?” He typed that in and squinted. “Fucking hell. I’m gonna need to bring the urban dictionary out on every date, aren’t I?”

He swiped left again. “Ooo, he looks promising.” Art read through more of the profile. “A lawyer, loves dogs, twenty-five, monogamous…this guy’s perfect.” His eyes narrowed as he continued reading. “Too perfect. Versatile—at least I know what that means.” His shoulders slumped forward as he got to the last part. “He has a kid. Welp…” He swiped left and turned off the screen before laying back onto his pillow. 

“Maybe my parents were right.” Art stared up at the ceiling as the air conditioning kicked on. “Thirds, open relationships, hookups. This wasn’t what I imagined dating would be like.”

The phone made a chirping noise, but he ignored it.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

The studio apartment changed to something a lot more familiar, and instead of an air mattress, he had a real mattress on a wooden frame. The dining room table was the same, but now he had a flat screen TV and a beanbag chair in front of it. Art shuffled through a stack of papers as he sat at the table, pushing some to the side while throwing others into a small garbage bin. 

“Well these internships are out,” he muttered, tossing another small stack into the trash. “Maybe I can get in on the ground floor of a company doing something else.” He held up another sheet of paper. “A start-up would be fun, but that’s risky.”

His phone buzzed against the table, his face turning an off-shade of pale when he read the unnamed number. He pressed the side button to silence it, his focus shifting from the paperwork to the voicemail alert that soon followed. 

Art picked up the phone, swiping away the home screen while looking like he was struggling with something. He eventually navigated the menu to the voicemail. 

“Hey Arthur, this is Aunt Sandy. Your father died a few days ago from meningitis. I won’t speak ill of the dead, but this was a wake-up call for your mom. Anyway, I know you’ve cut ties with this place, and I’m not saying you should come to his funeral, but if you want to come visit me, I’d love to hear all the wonderful things happening in your life. I love you. You’re my favorite nephew, you know.”

He pressed the callback button and held the phone to his ear. The dial tone clicked and an excited ‘hello’ in a woman’s voice called through the speaker.

“So what finally did the psycho in?”

“Meningitis.”

“I guess brain bacteria was a little too complicated for Jesus. I’m assuming he didn’t go to the hospital.”

“No, he died at home.”

“Well, if there is a hell, hopefully he’s got beach-side accommodations near the lake of fire.” Art’s tone was ice cold as he picked up another paper. “I don’t mind speaking ill of the dead when they were horrible people in life. Speaking of horrible people, how’s mother?”

“This really shook her faith, and I think she’s coming around to leaving the church. She’s not horrible, Art. She got swept up in all of this by a handsome, smooth-talking charlatan.”

“She chose that life, and she chose to be a horrible mother to me. She’ll be lucky if I ever talk to her again.”

“Will you come visit me?”

Art went quiet for a moment, dropping a paper before rubbing his forehead. “As long as I’m not pressured to give a eulogy, because no one wants that.”

“You don’t even have to go to the funeral if you don’t want to.” 

“No, I want to make sure the man is actually dead.” At paused. “If Mom’s had this huge awakening, why didn’t she call me?”

“You changed your number and told me not to give it to anyone, remember?”

“Oh yeah. See this is why you’re my favorite aunt.”

“I’m your only aunt,” the woman added. “I’ll buy the plane tickets for next week and get the guest room ready. We have a lot to catch up on, and I want to hear everything. Do you have a boyfriend yet?”

Art cringed. 

“Uh, no. I’m more interested in a career than guys.”

“You’re still in your shell, aren’t you?”

“Aunt Sandy—”

“Dating is hard for everyone, not just gay men. Ask any woman over forty. You’ve always been kind of a golden child, despite what your parents said. You’re smart, handsome, driven, but you’re too damn judgmental.”

“I’m not—”

“Arthur, the way you always talked about others borderlines being a cynical asshole, and you’re gonna hate me for saying this, but that’s your father’s way of thinking.”

Damn, that even hurt me to hear it, but I was likin’ this Aunt Sandy. Wonder if Art’ll ever go visit her and let me tag along.

“Ouch,” Art muttered, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment.

“You hold yourself and others to impossible standards, and that’s only going to make you miserable the older you get. I know a lot of this falls on bad parenting, but you’re an adult now. It’s up to you to decide how to live your life, and if you’re not happy, only you have the ability to change it.”

“It’s hard,” Art said, leaning back in his chair. “I keep trying to put myself out there, but then Dad’s voice shuts it down. I don’t want to be a fucking stereotype.”

“Then don’t be. There’s no right or wrong way to be gay, but don’t let that state of mind stop you from letting yourself have fun, even if you end up being a stereotype. Whatever that means. You should probably start with changing that attitude as well.”

“Damn. You’re spicy today.”

“Well, I’ve been on the phone with your hysterical mother for a few hours, trying to drum up some sympathy, so I’m a little wound up.” She paused. “So, I’ll see you next week.”

“See you next week.”

“Oh, Arthur?”

“Hmm?”

“Happy twentieth birthday.”

His studio faded away until the ceiling turned to blue sky as far as the eye could see. The sun here was brutal, and I watched the scene unfold, the funeral playing out the way funerals often did with one exception: Art’s resentful face. He stood in the back wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, dressed in a bright salmon shirt and white basketball shorts. 

A preacher led everyone in prayer as the casket was lowered, and Art took that moment to slink away toward the line of cars parked along the winding cemetery road. He opened the door of a small red sedan and slid into the passenger seat while scrolling through his phone. 

The car felt hot to the touch, and I realized I could interact with it, so I opened the door and crammed myself into the small back seat. I had to leave the door open as half my body wouldn’t fit.

A blond woman in her early forties climbed into the driver’s seat. She was heavy-set, wearin’ a plain black dress and a little bit of makeup. 

“Well, you made your statement.”

Art set his phone in his lap. “This town is just as depressing as I remember.”

“You haven’t said anything to your mother yet.”

“I’m not going to say anything to her. If she wants to talk, she can be the one to start with an apology.” He turned to his aunt. “Just being here reminds me how bad they fucked me up. Whenever I’m alone, I’m depressed. Whenever I’m around people, I panic. Whenever I even think of dating a man, I can’t shake away years of indoctrination.” 

“Have you considered therapy?” 

“Therapy takes years, and I can’t afford it.” Art let out an angry sigh. “It seems you can move all the way across the country, but your problems follow like a shadow.”

Another woman in her forties made her way to the car, also wearing black. She was thinner with dark brown hair like Art’s pulled back into a straight ponytail. She wasn’t wearing makeup or jewelry, and her eyes were bloodshot from crying. 

“Great,” Art muttered as the woman approached the open door. 

“You could have worn something a little more respectful.” 

“That would require me to have an iota of respect. What do you want?”

“Your father died and this is the way you—”

“My father was a piece of shit and so are you.” Art cleared his throat, shaking out words that seemed to stick them both like knives. “If you were in that coffin as well, I’d be just as indifferent.”

Hearin’ someone say that to their mother made me sick. There was no way I’d understand what she did that would make a son hate his mother so much, and this was a side of Art I’d never seen before. This was someone in so much pain he was lashin’ out. I could see in his face that saying those words hurt him too.

“Arthur,” his aunt snapped. “That’s crossing a line.”

“The line was crossed when they almost let me die of pneumonia, or when they constantly beat the shit out of me and called it an exorcism.” He turned back to his mom. “You never should have been my mother.”

The woman broke as tears filled her eyes, but Art maintained his composure. 

“‘The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.’ If I ever have any real power one day, I’ll burn this place to the ground.” He slammed the door and fastened his seatbelt. “I’ll get my stuff ready to go back home.”

His mother slowly walked away, back toward the gravesite, and Art started to cry for the first time. The car disappeared leaving him sitting on the floor of a black room, holding his head in his hands. 

“I’m a terrible person,” he whispered. “I’m a hateful, judgmental piece of shit. I still hate them.”

I sat next to him, pulling him into my lap while keeping my arms wrapped around his chest. 

“Listen to me babe. We can’t change what happened to us. Good or bad, it becomes a part of who we are.”

“I hate this world. I never belonged here.”

“You belong in my arms,” I said, holding his back against my chest while kissing his head. “You’ve shut yerself away for too long, but the world ain’t all bad. Yer the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’m glad I found ya. You made me a better person, you got Austin to open up to you, and you saved him and Adam. What kind of a terrible person does that?”

“I’m always nagging you, and I treated Adam horribly. He reminded me of everything I hated about myself.”

“Adam knows you don’t hate him, and you nagging me got me on the right track. You could’ve turned into a real psycho like yer dad, but you broke that cycle. Yer responsible and you care. You say you hate yer mother, but I didn’t feel that. You said the opposite of what you felt because you was hurtin’. Yer gonna be one hell of a good leader one day, and yer gonna be successful. I’ll be right there with ya, picking you up when you fall, making you laugh when yer sad, and I’ll keep makin’ you good food. I make the best meals for people that mean the most.”

Art turned and looked me in the eye, a sad smile inching up his face. 

“Thank you, Simon.”

He shattered into a million pieces before disappearing, and the black room brighted to a blue sky with beautiful green hills. Art stood in the middle of it, and we both ran to one another. 

“Simon?” Art asked, throwing his arms around me. “Is this really you?”

“Yup,” I replied. “Looks like we passed.”

“You know about the ritual?”

“Yeah. I remember doin’ something like this when I joined the ferals long ago. You got me my memories back.” I held him tight as we stood in the middle of the warm field together. “One hundred and seven.”

“Huh?”

“That’s how old I am. I was born in rural Arkansas on December 21st, 1916. My dad died when I was about seven, so I don’t remember much about the guy other than what mama told me. He was a Sardinian immigrant. He did teach me a little Italian, though. All these years the memories were never really gone, just fuzzy.”

“Did you mean what you said?” Art asked. “Will you keep making me delicious food?”

“You bet I will. You and I will sit together on that ugly couch and eat it while watchin’ old movies.” The last thing Art said to my vision rang through my head, and I smiled. “You said I was the most wonderful person you ever met. No one’s ever said that to me before.”

“I meant it. No one comes close.”

“Damn,” I said. I could feel myself about to choke up, and I held him tighter. Even though we was so far in age, I couldn’t picture myself holdin’ anyone else. “Yer makin’ me gross.”

“Too late. You were gross before we met.” We both laughed, but Art looked worried.

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t imagine what Adam’s looking at right now.”

“It’s gotta happen, though. The only one who’s gonna break him out is the one who put him there.”

“The elder told me what would happen if they don’t make it. I don’t want to lose my memories.”

“They’ll be fine. There’s more to Adam than he lets us see, and Austin’s got a lot to work through. It’s gonna take time, so let’s enjoy all this. It’s pretty here.”

“It’s like a thousand pounds has been lifted,” Art said, walking alongside me. “I really do think you should become a chef.”

Gettin’ my memories back meant remembering all those meals I cooked for my friends in the camps. They used to be painful, but they ain’t anymore. My old friends aren’t broken, dirty, or miserable. They’re smiling while enjoying the meals I made. 

“I like the people in Norwich, and I can make food for people I like.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, Art cracked a smile while starin’ at me. 

“I love you—r cooking,” he said, studying my reaction. 

“And I love…yer voice. We should sing together more.”

They weren’t quite the words we meant, but deep down we understood each other a lot better than most. It wasn’t the right time, and I wasn’t sure when it would be. There were some things from the past that didn’t heal, and the last time I said those words, I lost everything. If something were to ever happen to Art—

“We can sing together while you’re teaching me to cook.”

“We can sing that Aqua song you love so much. Roses Are Red.” 

“I swear I will intentionally burn the house down if you put me through that again.”

“You got no taste. Nineties Europop was the best.”

“How about I meet you halfway with Beautiful Life by Ace of Base?”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. His past may have made him cold in some ways, but he didn’t become that person who hated the world. He had every right to feel that way, but he was pushing through even before we met. 

“Perfect.” 

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