Chapter Two Something Concrete 3 страница

“You poor soul,” Gerard uttered, shaking his head and sighing. “Do you do anything to help your creative output? Anything at all? And standing at a liquor store doesn’t count, by the way.”

“Umm…” I said, searching my memory for the last time I was creative. I hadn’t drawn or painted anything since elementary school and I didn’t really have an urge to start again. Although looking around Gerard’s apartment made me realize how beautiful some art was, I never thought I could be as good as that, so there was no point in trying. I searched for something else creative I did. I wrote stuff down sometimes when I was really bored and I felt like my head was going to explode but I doubted that was anything. I told him it, regardless and it was able to stir a response out of him.

“That’s wonderful!” he practically shouted, raising his arms in the air. “Write more. Even if it’s pure drivel. Most poets are pure drivels anyway.” He smiled at his own remark. “I should know.”

I scrunched my face up at his suggestion. What I was writing was poetry? It didn’t rhyme and it wasn’t beautiful. I was just being an angsty teenager. But a poet? That was a little fruity for me. The only poets I could think of were Shakespeare and though I didn’t mind his plays, I was not touching his poems with a ten foot pole. They were so flowery and romantic. Drivel, like Gerard said. Not something that I would write at all. When I wrote it was blunt and straight forward and it often didn’t make sense. It couldn’t just stand on its own. It had to have something that went with it. Then it hit me like a pound of bricks.

“Oh!” I uttered, immediately grasping Gerard’s attention like he had mine. “I used to play guitar when I was younger.”

“That’s even better!” the older man smiled, baring his really small and yellowed teeth. He reached his arms out and over the table, trying to hug the air in front of us.

“I haven’t played in forever, though,” I kept talking, my memories coming back to me like a flood. My dad had played guitar when he was in college, but gave it up when he had to drop out and get a job. He still had his guitar because he refused to get rid of it. It was a chunk of wooden nostalgia that he kept to remind himself of what he could have been. He had always told himself that he would get back to it, when he had more money and time. But then he had me. And that sort of ruined everything. I couldn’t help but feel halfway responsible for it all, especially as he presented me with the worn out acoustic guitar on my thirteenth birthday. His voice had been dull and somber, warning me to not get too attached but to have something to do instead of getting into trouble all the time. Sam and I had been really misbehaving, staying out all night and stealing shit from little stores. My dad had given me the guitar instead of punishment, but really it was punishment enough with the guilty feeling I got every time I looked at the instrument. I had made my father give up his dreams that now he was going to try and make me save. So I started to play, learning what I could off magazines that Sam stole for me. I was pretty good, playing stuff like Sweet Home Alabama and easy chords on the guitar, but by the time I hit high school and especially after Sam and I met Travis, the guitar got buried in the corner under a pile of clothing and broken promises. Eventually, my dad stopped asking me about it and I stopped pretending to act like I was playing. And finally, we both gave up on our dreams and settled for mundane lives.

Apparently though, mundane was never good enough for Gerard. The light that went off in his eyes as soon as I mentioned I owned a guitar was phenomenal.

“I want you to go home tonight and play it,” he informed me like it was not an option. And instead of debating about it for ages like I had when I was with my father, I found myself nodding my head right along. I even felt my fingers start to dance on the top of the table, getting ready and warmed up for the strings they had not touched in years. It was so weird, the sensation running through my body. The excitement, motivation and hope, even. I didn’t get it. But I wrote it off as the one gulp of wine I had had. The stuff was different than what I was used to. It was obviously impairing my senses.

And I didn’t mind at all.

“I am so glad you have music, Frank,” he told me matter-of-factly. We had calmed down from our initial hoop-la about finding a creative measure, and were both leaning back comfortably on our chairs. Before I could even ask him why he was excited for me, he answered. “Music and art are so alike. You make songs, chords and melodies that people can hear and follow, but also interpret. I make pictures, drawings and sculptures that people can see and feel, but interpret as well. We’re alike, Frank,” he told me, nodding his head. “We’re a lot alike. And I hope you come by more often.”

My initial relaxed state around Gerard suddenly changed with the mention of his last line. I felt my breathing quicken. I must have heard him wrong, I told myself over and over again as I played with the fabric on my jeans. I could not have heard him right. There was no way he invited me over all the time. What would a middle age man want with a teenager? The thought made my palms start to sweat, but my emotions collide. I couldn’t tell anything apart anymore. All I knew was that I had to say something, fast before he asked me again. He was looking at me still, his eyes deep and projecting into me.

“So, uh, like…” I started, tripping over my words as usual. I rubbed my hands harder on my pants, causing a slight burn feeling and making my thoughts concentrate on one tangent. “Are you one of those starving artists?”

He laughed at my remark or at the fact that I had diverged his attention in such a feeble matter. Maybe both. But he suddenly decided to humor me, leaning back in his chair on two legs and patting his black clothed belly. “Not so starving.” He scrunched up his face and nodded, grabbing and shaking his girth a bit. And if I had not been so tense, I would have laughed. His action was actually kind of funny and cute. But instead, he continued to answer my question.

“Yes, in a way,” he continued, leaning forward again and probing me with his dark eyes. “My sole form of a ‘job’ is my painting. I paint, draw, sculpt if I get the chance. Pretty much anything. I sometimes have shows, or people hire me out to paint. I have gone months with no work, but then again I’ve sold five pictures in one day. It depends. I survive, pretty much. Just doing what I love.” He smiled again, baring his tiny teeth. For someone who essentially didn’t know if they would make the bills the next month, he was so fucking happy and always smiling. I couldn’t quite begin to understand that kind of happiness. It was a different form that what my parents possessed. My parents possessed that happiness that came with security. They knew they weren’t going to get thrown out of the house and that we were going to have water to bathe in. But what Gerard had was something better; he was doing what he loved to do and that was making him happy. He didn’t have security, but he did have happiness. And then I realized the two were not the same at all. All my parents knew is that they were going to survive, whether they wanted to or not was the bigger question, something that I couldn’t answer – not even for myself. There was assurance that my parents would get up every morning and go on living, they had security in that. Whether they had something to live for was entirely different.

But Gerard, fuck, I could see it in his eyes how much he wanted to survive. He wanted to get up in the morning just so he could paint. He wanted to live anywhere he could so he could keep on living. The whole process boggled my mind and I wondered if I could ever live that way. I didn’t have that much happiness before hand and I had no security whatsoever. My parents took care of things; there was nothing for me to take care of. Only school and my friends. And both of those were lacking; not enough to kick me out but enough to make me pissed off a lot of the time. I wondered then that if I started to play guitar like Gerard told me to, if I would achieve the same happiness he had. I never knew why I got out of my bed in the morning; I just thought I had to. Looking at Gerard just then, the way his baby-like teeth smiled at me all the time and the way his eyes lit up when I mentioned music or art, it made me wonder, just wonder about what I would do now. Would I still get up in the morning now that I knew I didn’t have to? Would I find something to fill that void? Would I pick up the guitar and like it? I didn’t know, but I wanted to find out. I wanted to capture the happiness the man oozed and bottle it; keep it for purposes when I felt so fucking alone that I thought I would cave in on myself. I wanted to keep this, somehow. And it seemed possible with Gerard. Everything seemed possible with him.

“So, all in all,” Gerard finally concluded, breaking the silence and snapping me out of another one of my mind melding. “I don’t make a lot of money, but I get by.”

“Cool,” I nodded my head quickly. It was a complete underestimation, but I didn’t know what else to say. My thoughts had veered once again and one of his words totally unrelated to the subject at hand caught my mind. Money. He didn’t have a lot and I was taking up some of it by drinking his wine. Or half drinking it. I had maybe taken two more sips during the duration of our conversation. It was growing on me, but not fast. And I felt bad for taking what little he had.

“Thanks for the wine,” I said too quickly, my words stumbling over the other. “But let me pay you for it or something. I don’t want to be rude.” I stood up slightly, so I could dig my hands through my pockets and find the wadded up five dollar bill I threw in there in the morning. Gerard stood up as well, but waved his hands in the air and shook his head.

“No,” he insisted. He walked over to me and grabbed my arm, taking my hand out of my pocket. He stood there with his grip still around my small forearm as he stared at me in the eyes. It was not menacing or sexual in any way, just friendly and deeply concerning. “You’re not paying me anything.”

“But I want to,” I only half lied. I usually paid the people who got us liquor at the store, so it was common procedure to pay him as well. I could feel his body heat next to me and I receded a bit backwards. He followed, still invading my person space while I finished my thought out loud. “I feel guilty.”

“Guilt is a useless emotion,” he shot back, his face becoming more serious.

“Still…” I trialed off, taking my gaze away from him. I tried to move back again, and finally, this time he caught the point. He took his hand away from my arm, leaving it colder than before.

“Okay,” he started, making it seem like I had won that battle. “You don’t have to pay me – I have no use for money.” That was the understatement of the year, I thought before he continued. “But I do have a use for good conversation. And for someone to clean my paint brushes. I keep having to buy new ones because I’m stubborn and lazy and end up leaving them out too long, and they harden.”

I nodded, following his tangent of thought perfectly but not wanting to answer yet, just in case I was wrong. He affirmed my validity with his next words.

“If I give you more wine, do you want to come and clean up my paint supplies?”

I bit my lip and nodded, unsure of what else I could say. I really wanted to pay him; it seemed a lot less personal and invasive. And less dangerous. Its not that I didn’t feel safe with Gerard, but the idea of what I was doing had a bitter aftertaste of danger to it. But if me cleaning his brushes was what he wanted in the form of a deal, then it seemed okay. He said he wanted good conversation and honestly so did I. I had never talked so expressively with Sam or Travis before, unless we were angry. When Sam and I talked with this much passion, we were yelling at each other at the top of our lungs, usually for some stupid and foolish thing. Feelings would come to the surface and be dealt with immediately. But those sorts of conversations aren’t good; they’re draining. This was the opposite of draining. It was fucking uplifting being here. But I still felt awkward, mostly because of what I knew people would say about all of this. I was going to be helping the forty-year-old fag artist with his work? That didn’t sound good at all. At least he was giving me free liquor in a sense, but still…my stomach still felt a tad weak.

I concluded right then and there that no one was going to know about this at all. My life, sanity and stomach contents depended on it.

“Sure,” I agreed, nodding my head with more strength to make it final.

“Excellent!” Gerard hissed. He threw his hands in the air once again, out and open and walked towards me. Before I knew what was happening, my face was in his neck and he was hugging me, squeezing me and all I could smell was his aftershave and cigarettes. He hugged me for a few seconds, before letting me go and walking back over to his fridge, getting out more wine. I stood in the same spot, his warm sensation all around me. It had been ages since someone had given me a hug. And those who had, were family and did it quick and meaningless. Gerard’s hugs weren’t meaningless. He pressed into me, blending into my body like we were one person. He didn’t just do it because we were supposed to hug, he had wanted to hug me; he was glad we had made a deal and he wanted to show that happiness. And it felt good. His words came back to me from only moments earlier.

We’re alike, Frank. We’re a lot alike.

Maybe we were.

He got out more wine for himself and as I tried to finish what was left of mine, I got a glance at the clock. It was almost five and I needed to be home soon. Gerard seemed a little down, his face falling slightly, but he was nice and walked me to the door. He even offered to give me a drive back or at least walk me out of the apartment, but I declined. I needed to do something thinking and I needed the walk for that. Before I left however, I felt his strong hand on my shoulder, turning me around for one last statement.

“Come here tomorrow after school and you can get started working off your debt for today,” he teased, smiling coyly making the wrinkles around his eyes deepen.

“Yeah, sure,” I nodded, my voice sounding somewhat distant. He sighed upon hearing it, but I could tell there was some seriousness behind the lament.

“Look, Frank,” he started slowly, looking at me with trepidation. “It’s obvious that I want you here. But if you don’t want to come tomorrow or at all, then let me know. I’ll understand.” He looked at me with those deep eyes, so deep I would fucking drown in them, but I still didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.

“So,” he broke the ice again, probing me for answers. “Will I be expecting you tomorrow?”

I stood there for the longest time thinking of something to say. I knew my answer but it was so strong it couldn’t be summed up with a yes or a no. For once, I was coming across a gray area that I hated. Or maybe it wasn’t so gray; rather really black or really white. I wasn’t sure, but all I knew is that I could not say it with a single word. Then his own expression hit me dead centre in my chest.

“Some questions don’t have answers.”

He smiled, his ego bulging to the fact that I quoted him and swelling with pride because he was able to understand my answer. Gerard understood me then, and it wasn’t the first time. We were a lot alike.

“And some questions don’t need answers,” he added slyly before he shut the door, sending me on my way home.

Chapter Four
Suffocation

I heard the distinct clank of the silverware against the ceramic dishes. I heard my mother sigh and my father clear his throat, fist pressed to his face sternly. I heard the food being sucked in their mouths, chewed softly between properly closed lips and then swallowed, consumed by the actions of consumption. I heard everything, and that was all I could do; hear. I kept my eyes staring down at my uneaten plate of green beans, sliced glazed ham and rice. It looked awful and it tasted just as bad as it looked. There was an unopened can of pop next to the dish that I hadn’t even bothered to crack open. Usually, the moment I’m in the door and it’s dinner time, I grab a can of pop and sometimes even finishing it before my mom sets our food down in front of us. Not this time. I wasn’t even that hungry. And I didn’t want to wash away the strong remnants of the wine that I had consumed at Gerard’s place earlier that day. I could still feel the weird tingling taste of the bitter juice on my tongue as I rolled it around in my mouth trying to see if I could taste any different sensations. I had once hated the tang of the drink he had served me, but now I found it growing on me. Sort of like Gerard was doing.

It was clearly obvious to both of us as we stood in the doorway, my feet poised in the dark light of the hall that I was going to be coming back again tomorrow. When Gerard had first suggested it, briefly in conversation, I had been so nervous. I didn’t know if I really wanted to go to an artist’s house to help him clean while I drank his fancy wine. It just didn’t sit right with me. But when he had taken the option away, saying that it was all up to me, I found myself faltering even more. Before he had somewhat demanded that I come by again. It was a declarative statement that gave me no choice; that was what had made me nervous. I needed to be in charge, at least somewhat. I needed to know what was going to go on and I didn’t get that when Gerard had just insisted upon the act. When he told me I didn’t have to go however, I found my heart leaping out of my chest. It wanted to stay. My heart felt like it belonged in that dingy paint filled apartment. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it, until it was taken away. And I was in charge now. I could make the decision to go if I wanted to. And I did want to. But even if I was in control now, I still had no idea what was going to happen.

Going to Gerard’s house tomorrow scared the shit out of me. I had no idea why exactly but anytime I thought about it, I felt my hands getting sweaty, my blood pound in my veins and my head spin. I was worried over something, but I couldn’t quite grasp it and pull it away from all of the other spiraling images in my mind. I knew I was afraid of anyone finding out; that was a major concern right there. If anyone – especially my friends knew that I was going to be going to this fag artist’s house then I knew that I would immediately be labeled as gay. It was not the first time something like that had happened, but I didn’t want to rehash old memories again. I thought elementary school and the awkwardness of puberty was over at this point. I was seventeen and didn’t need to get made fun of for popping a random boner in an all-boy gym class anymore. I was beyond that, but not everyone else was. Just the fact that I was talking to a gay person, an older one too, was bad enough. I suddenly started to wonder if anyone had seen us sitting together and talking at the park. But unless someone skipped school like I had and followed me directly, it was impossible. I was safe; for now.

There was a whole other aspect to the gay issue that I hadn’t quite touched upon in my own mind yet, however. I knew subconsciously that if I was hanging out with Gerard, people would automatically assume that we were doing stuff together. Or that he was taking advantage of me. It was the classic case of pedophilia. He was in his forties and scoping out a high school student to ‘tend to his supplies’ after school? When I repeated that line in my head over and over again, it didn’t sound right at all. And it even made me squirm in my seat a little, especially when I thought about Gerard drawing and staring at the little children from the day care. This could get mighty bad mighty fast. But even if the situation looked bad in words, I knew that deep down Gerard wasn’t like that. I had only known the man for two days and in the first five minutes of meeting him he had coated me and my friends with paint, but despite conflicting words, his emotions and mannerisms did not match a pedophile.

In the park that day, he had not been studying the kids to get his jollies and jack off to them later; he was studying them to study them. He wanted to know the kids and when he did, he may have even saved one. I thought of Billy and the way he threw his arms around, like he was trying to fight off an invisible force. Gerard drew him again, in the real light and gave it to the supervisor. Maybe Billy was being rescued at this moment and they had the supposed pedophile to thank. This man had also let me into his home. He barely knew me, but he offered me a place inside. For all he knew I could have been some juvenile delinquent ready to steal his money. He had only seen me prior hanging out in front of a liquor store. That’s not the best first impression, but he didn’t care. He let me in and I saw where he lived. He lived in a multi-coloured world of feelings, interpretations and beauty. I was only just beginning to see this man in the real light that other people would probably never give him a chance in. And really, he actually seemed like a decent guy. A little full of himself in some areas, really fruity as far as the whole art thing was concerned but over all, just a really friendly guy. And he was offering me a chance of a lifetime; an escape.

Granted, my escape was cleaning and bad tasting wine, but it was something. And I was secretly hoping that deep down inside, he would teach me how to paint.

After walking home from his apartment, I had gone straight to my room. My mom had feigned a distant ‘hello’ and told me when dinner was going to be ready, but I had barely heard her. I wanted and needed to get to my room and find that fucking guitar that I had hated for so long. I dug through my closet, tossing old school clothing, my unwashed (and probably fungal) gym bag out of the way until I saw it, resting on its side, the golden orange hue of the now dull wood staring up at me. I grabbed it too roughly, hearing the guitar strings twang all out of tune as I did and dragged it to my bed. But that’s where the action all stopped. I sat on my unmade bed for what seemed like ages, just holding the neck of the guitar in my hands and occasionally running my fingertips over the strings. They vibrated, emitting an odd sound that sort of hurt my ears. My guitar hadn’t been played in years and it clearly showed it. Everything was out of tune and some of the strings were off and bunched up to the side. The once shiny wood now had a worn appearance and looked fragile to the touch. I had to keep reminding myself that this thing was old; my dad’s from when he was in high school. But somehow, my memories of being thirteen and strumming the chords aimlessly when Sam wasn’t around to hang out with, were so much brighter in my mind.

The guitar didn’t look the same; it looked fucking sick. And besides, I realized right then that I didn’t know how to play anything anymore. I put my fingers on the chords (the ones that were still attached) and strummed once. The sound that came out made my insides jump around. It didn’t sound that bad, but it wasn’t something I recognized. The fear of the unknown took over me, and I had to put the instrument down. I wasn’t done with it; there was still something that intrigued me about the whole thing, but I just couldn’t do it right then.

I lay down on my bed instead, the guitar to my side, neck of the instrument just touching my own, the spokes that stuck out hitting my shoulders. My mind wandered as I laid there, over to the paints and pastels that I had seen at Gerard’s place. I relived the vivid images in my mind over and over again and was still blown away every time. The amount of creativity, imagination and feeling that were on those walls astounded me. I couldn’t believe that Gerard could just let himself bleed through a paint brush and have it spattered all over the wall for everyone to see. I could never do that; the painting or sharing my emotions in such a complex way. I was too scared to just crack myself open and let everyone go inside. I couldn’t do it for myself. I didn’t want to pick apart my feelings, taking what I loved or destroying what I hated and put them on paper. The fact that people would see it scared the shit out of me. And if I had done the work, carefully picking those feelings, it would be as if I wanted them to see that side of me. When really, I didn’t. Those poems or ranting or drivel as Gerard was saying that I wrote – that was only for me. I didn’t write or do anything, to please other people. I didn’t even do it to please myself. The thought of anyone reading that shit scared the crap out of me. I had never been one to be afraid of much in my life, coming from Jersey you learn to suppress fear, but God. That was like my worse nightmare right there. I didn’t want people to know how I was thinking. How come they would be allowed, if I didn’t even know half the time?

The fact that Gerard could do that though, and do it with a fucking smile on his face amazed me. And the fact that he could make something so beautiful out of a pencil and paper also flabbergasted me. But it was that part of him that I wanted to be like. I wanted to draw things and paint things – real life objects, none of this abstract feeling shit. People and solid objects were okay. I wanted to be able to do something that beautiful. And maybe Gerard could help me. We were having good conversations, maybe I could branch it off into that one day. And most likely, if I showed an interest in anything he was doing, he’d probably teach me in a second. He wanted to share his love of art. He wanted to share his feelings. He wanted to share and be happy. He wanted so many things and really, so did I. But I was only ready for the art aspect. And that’s all I was going to take.

As I listened to the clanking and clearing of dishes and mouths at the table, I realized why my stomach had nearly folded in on itself when I had strummed the guitar. I had made noise. I rarely ever made noise when I was in my room. If I wanted music, I put on my headphones, shutting out the world. But when I played the guitar, even if only for that split second when the chords hit my ears, I had reversed the situation. Before I had the music beating into my ears, locking myself away and shutting out the others. When I played the guitar, I was beating the music into other people’s ears, making them listen and shutting them in my world. And though it was only for a split second that occurred, I became aware of its side effects. My mother had called to me then, asking what I was doing. She became aware of the noise, the sound, the change I was making. And suddenly at the table, instead of being afraid of the noise I was making, I liked it. I liked the power it had. It made people pay attention, even if it was to me and the noise was nothing that could be considered music. I suddenly liked the power surge I got when I did that. It still scared the shit out of me because I felt like I was still exposed, but at least they weren’t reading my rants. I was not going to put lyrics to anything. It would just be me and my guitar. It would just be fucking noise. But they would pay attention, and fuck they would listen. Finally.

“I want to take a music course,” I said suddenly in the middle of the non-existent dinner conversation. Despite being the happy family and sitting at the table together for every dinner we shared, our conversation was lack-luster. There would be the forced ‘how was your day’s and the occasional mentioning of something that had some importance, but other than that all that was present were those fucking clanking noises of the silver wear against empty plates. I didn’t want to listen to those noises anymore; I wanted to make my own.

My mother nearly choked on her water, her eyes shooting open during the process of drinking. I didn’t know if it was the sudden start of actual statements that caught her off guard (she was always a fan of quiet times) or the actual words I had uttered themselves that had rendered her in such a way. But my inquiries were answered when my father piped up, coughing slightly.

“Where on earth did that come from?” he belted out, his deep booming voice taking over the room. My father’s Italian and his voice could occupy a room in itself. He’s a tall man but not too heavy, mostly weighed down but his pure muscles and thick strong stubbornness. In his later years he had acquired something of a beer belly, but he kept it well concealed under layers of shirts and buttons. From the way his voice always sounds, the way it echoes and seems to swallow you whole, everything he says sounds like an insult. And really, it wasn’t far off from the truth.

“I want to take a music course,” I stated again, trying to keep my casual strong demander. Most people feel intimidated by my father, including my mother on most days. I usually fit into that category as well, but I needed to stand up for this. And I had a feeling I knew a weak spot I could poke at. “I want to learn guitar again.”

I saw my father’s hardened expression flinch, but it was in a blink of an eye. He was back to normal Anthony Iero Hardass Stance in no time.