by Damon Suede
His cell phone sat on the counter, silent as a cinderblock. Unable to stop himself, he glanced. He had imagined the call. First time I want a guy to call me back and he’s not gonna.
For a long stretch, the trailer fell silent except for the hiss of his airbrushes and Paul humming as he daubed.
Silas heard a sound. Barney sat staring at him. He’d forgotten the closeted actor had parked there behind his paper wall, beating time to death. Maybe he hoped Silas was horny enough to bite.
Thank you, God, for not letting me be a closet case.
Trip hadn’t called, and this asshole wouldn’t give up. Silas sighed. He frowned at his phone. Maybe Trip was trying to play it cool.
Leigh Ann murmured, face immobile as a ventriloquist. “He hassling you?”
For one unsettling moment, Silas thought she meant Trip, but she blinked at Barney’s hangdog face in the mirror. “Barney? Hush.” Silas chided her. “He’s a married man.”
With an anxious air, Barney watched them watching him, but he stayed safely tucked into the sofa behind his upside-down paper.
Leigh Ann pursed her slick damson pout and considered his unsecret admirer. “Hun, you probably said something in passing, let Pinocchio feel human for the first time in his life.” She peeked over the other shoulder. “Now he just sniffs around like you can make him into a real live boy toy.”
Silas wiped his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “Funny thing is, I don’t flirt with him. I don’t take the bait, ever. He never gives up.”
“He should know better.” Leigh Ann lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You can only fuck your way to the middle. Pamela Anderson is never gonna win an Oscar in a tearaway dress.”
He leaned close. “I love her. She’s like the happiest ho-bag.”
“Yeah, sure.” She clucked in approval. “But dig, Angelina Jolie gets just as naked and trashy, but she didn’t try to climb the ladder on her damn back.” She sighed. “And Mama’s at the Oscars every year on Brad’s arm in vintage Valentino.”
“Truth.” Silas used a sable brush to float translucent powder over her face. “Just taking the shine down a little.”
“I’m just saying….” She stole another glance at Barney, who stole his own glances. “You can do better than Teletubby over there.”
“Thanks. I have. I mean, I’m seeing somebody. A couple times, now.” Fingers crossed.
She softened. “Yeah?” Her girlish voice teetered on the edge of Is he dreamy?
“He’s an artist. Comic books.”
“Aww. Congrats.” She scanned herself in the mirror, tipping her head as his hands moved. “My guy is a scientist. Engineering. And now he’s in media research. Smart as hell, and he can write the Japanese kanji with his tongue.” She winked and the triple lashes made it look like spiders fucking. “Always bet on the nerd.”
He choked on a laugh.
“—walking in as we speak.” Francesca pulled open the door. She pressed her headset close to her ear. She nodded an unspoken question at Paul; he bowed a little and whipped the smock off Benita.
The actress stood and curtsied to Silas before she joined Francesca.
Leigh Ann pointed at her and grinned in approval.
“We’re on our way now.” Francesca covered the mic and then whispered at Paul and Silas, “Im-fucking-possible. Ten minutes? That is some rock-star shit, boys.” A big smile as she held the door for Benita to step down. Brisk air swirled into the trailer. Paul followed so he could help his wife with touch-ups under the lights. “Unreal.”
Once the coast was clear, Silas crouched beside Leigh Ann and murmured, “Tell you what, doll. I seen the call sheet. If they’re starting Benita’s setups, you and me can swipe a little extra time. Pump the body paint and place one big, beautiful cut so you still look extra-heartbreaking. Every minute on camera is more for your reel, right?” He scoffed and tested the trigger of the airbrush. Phht-pssst. “Neutron bombshell.”
“Silas, you are the fucking best.” Leigh Ann lowered her chin and batted her eyelashes at him. Her expression might have come off sultry except for the split lip he’d painted and the dramatic swelling he’d glued around her socket. Battered Aphrodite.
Secret of all showbiz success: back-scratching. He made actors gorgeous and they remembered him as a good egg, which paid off the next time they worked together, maybe. Like his dad used to say, “Plant ten seeds and the twelfth comes up.” A couple would sprout, most would fail, but any one of them might be the unicorn-jizz jackpot for his career.
As his teachers at Savini had said: If you don’t like it, go work in a fucking cubicle.
Silas angled Leigh Ann back in the chair and laid on the kind of detail he loved best. Rich teal and crimsons. Heliotrope to pick up the streaks in her hair. After twenty or thirty minutes, he stopped to take a swig of water and dig out his phone. No text. No call. Maybe he had completely misread Trip’s reaction on the stoop.
Then he noticed that Leigh Ann was peering at him, a drowsy smile on her face.
“It’s not the paint. Y’know?” She raised one sloping lid. “You make us all feel brave.”
“Bullshit.” But the praise made him proud.
“I walk out on that set, and I can fucking leap tall buildings in a single lap dance.” Leigh Ann rocked to her feet and preened in the mirror. “Voodoo.” The long lines of color turned her taller and tragic.
Silas stared at the dark, cracked screen of his phone.
“You waiting for a call?”
He shrugged, sheepishly.
“He will. You watch.”
Silas chuckled. “How do you figure that?”
“I bet you made him brave too.” She spun for his inspection, then extended her hand. “You think they’re ready for me?”
“Lady.” He gave her a fist bump. “They won’t know what hit ’em.”
AFTER Catwoman and the astonishing kiss on the stoop, Trip spent all Friday doing the comic book equivalent of doodling hearts and flowers in his binder: snacking and napping, jerking off, and drawing his demon.
Silas leaked into all his Horny Bastard sketches, and the two blurred and simmered together. Trip spent all day killing time until he got to gossip about his date with Jillian and the rest of her brood.
The Stones didn’t keep kosher, didn’t go to services, didn’t bother sending Max to Hebrew school… but after they’d started their family, Ben and Jillian had kept up the tradition of open-invite Shabbos dinner every Friday night as a way of staying in touch with their friends.
Ben and Jillian had pronounced Trip an unofficial “uncle” before Max was born, and Trip ate takeout at their house most Friday nights.
They always said having a kid was “like immigrating to Canada.” All new parents were sorta nearby, spoke English still, and they dressed the same, but you never saw them and they seemed to have this secret understanding of their new countrymen. Shabbos guaranteed that any friends who wanted to stay in touch with the Stones could invite themselves over, no questions asked.
Tonight, they’d finished eating around eight, and laughter floated down the hall. Ben and Max still dried dishes with the Rocky and Bullwinkle tea towels Trip had given the family as an ironic christening gift. Father and son gave instructions to each other in pig latin and gargling.
Jillian and Trip sat on the sofa nursing cocktails in the yellowish glow of the family room where the Stones spent most of their time. The room was a Salvation Army mishmosh of ratty chairs and kitschy ornaments found at flea markets: a fake Tiffany mushroom lamp, a basket of beaded vegetables, a bust of George Bernard Shaw.
He wanted to spill the entire date and pick it apart with Jillian, but the telling would hurt Ben if he didn’t hear and Max had no interest in his stunted love life.
In the meantime, Trip confessed his new comic idea. Horny Bastard still felt vague, but with the nine-year-old safely scrubbing plates in the other room, Trip fished out his sketchbook and showed her his rough studies.
&n
bsp; “Bullshit! You filthy pig.” Jillian squealed and wiggled her fingers like an amateur magician as she grilled him breathlessly. “A sex demon? How many issues? You think Big Dog will publish it?”
Ahem.
“Not exactly.” Trip took a burning gulp of scotch he’d regret later. “Funny thing… Cliff bought Campus Champions and gave the project away. So now I have time for this big fella.” He patted the Horny Bastard page.
“He what?” Jillian’s rage drained the blood from her face.
“’S’fine.” In truth, so much had happened since New Year’s that Trip had forgotten he’d never told her about Cliff hijacking his idea. He’d been too embarrassed when it happened and then too caught up in Silas and his sexy new project. “I’m over it now. We don’t have to talk about it.”
Jillian opened and shut her mouth. She’d always had a bias against Cliff. She wasn’t a gay guy, so she just didn’t understand the enticing closet-case tension or Trip’s willingness to hold out hope. Hell, Cliff bragged about bagging a fellow fratboy or two after a couple of gins. From her perspective, the Campus Champions fuck-over probably appeared inevitable: evil frosting on a five-tiered cock-teasing villainy cake. “Do you need me to be a nag hag right now?”
“No. I’m punishing myself plenty. Rina forced me to come up with a kind of career plan.” He indicated the sketchbook.
“Oh, kiddo. Thank fuck you came for Shabbos.” Jillian pressed her hand to her forehead and stared at him balefully, but thankfully did not push further. “Forget Staplegun.” She crossed her legs on the seat. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to, y’know, go out with someone nice.”
“Funny you mention it…. In other news—” Trip smiled. “—my date was awesome.” He glanced at the kitchen knowing Ben would want to hear this.
“F’real!” She applauded and scooted closer. “The zombie?”
“Well, last night he was a barbarian.” Trip leaned sideways and pretended to confess a dirty secret. “He dressed up as He-Man for the movies. It was with this crazy fan group.” How to explain the Nerd Herd and Catwoman to straight people? “A comic book thing.”
“He’s a dork!” Jillian shouted it, the way a soap opera nurse might cry “It’s a boy!”
“Apparently.”
She squeezed his hand. Marco. He squeezed back. Polo.
Silas felt more impossible with each day that passed. Still, the memory of that slow-motion warmness kept Trip from freaking out too much. “He’s sexy and he does creature makeup. We saw Catwoman.”
“Interesting. A filmed entertainment of trashy genius.” Jillian stroked her imaginary supervillain beard with slow fingers. “Is he a sheygitz?”
Non-Jewish guy, she meant. The word could mean any gentile who had the sturdy blond outsider-ness Jews found endlessly fascinating, seductive, and a little insulting.
“I don’t care about that shit.” Frankly, Trip never thought of himself as Jewish. “Hell, you’re only Jewish by marriage.” Consequently, Jillian had a soft spot for Jews losing their hearts to gorgeous outsiders.
“Amaze-balls.” She lowered her lashes suggestively. “He’s some big strapping buck who can bench-press a car and goes shark fishing in a thong. Good. You need someone who isn’t a neurotic Jew.”
Ben and Trip had been a dynamic Jew duo since middle school: Trip the skinny queer with inkblot knuckles and Ben the swarthy jock who always went to the right parties and took the smart shortcuts. After college they’d gotten a lot closer when they’d moved into Manhattan as roomies with no money between them.
Trip had stood as best man at the wedding, and Jillian became one of his closest gal-pals after he airbrushed reptile scales onto her for a high school reunion that ended with them drinking Midori out of the bottle in the women’s powder room and dressing Max up as a miniature Hellboy for his first Halloween.
The floorboards creaked as someone came down the hall from the kitchen and into the cluttered living room. Ben leaned against the doorframe and wiped his hands on his jeans.
Jillian tapped her nose and pointed at Trip emphatically. “Zombie date.” She poured a few more fingers of amber perfection into Trip’s tumbler. “We’ll discuss after bedtime.”
Max came down the hall, spattered with dishwater but jolly.
Jillian raised her hand as her boy wonder passed by. “What’s shakin’, bacon?”
Max gave her five. “Not much, eggs.” He walked the loop of the living room, then headed for the hall again.
Trip smiled at his godson. Hard to believe he’d ever been small enough to hold in one hand. “Where y’going?”
“Room.” Max shrugged. “I gotta do homework. And sleep.”
“If you say so.” Ben regarded his son with proud detachment.
Jillian frowned and went to Max. “What homework? You’re in fourth grade!”
Ben countered calmly, “He has a project. Extra credit.”
“But Trip is here and he’d like to see you.” One perfect eyebrow floated up. Jillian could maim bystanders with her eyebrows.
Max pivoted to Trip and bugged his eyes out, and Trip bugged back. “There! He saw me. And I saw him. And we saw each other seeing each other. May I be excused?”
“No problem.” Trip high-fived him. He tried to remember being that small and believing your parents knew everything. When did I grow up? As a little boy, he’d wanted to escape his father’s boring suburban friends so he could run upstairs to read Sandman or Vampirella.
“Homework?” Jillian sulked. “Don’t you wanna watch Hellraiser?”
“No, Mom. I need to get to bed early.”
“Let’m go, Jilly. ’S’totally normal. We’re grown-ups and he’s bored.” Ben nodded with his son as if this was something they’d debated at length.
Jillian crossed her arms and hmmphed. “Okay. I’m just trying to be your mom.” She crouched so she and her little boy were face to face. “Honey, don’t you want a tattoo?” She seemed serious.
“Gross. No.” Max glanced at his dad. “I wanna be a doctor.” He held up some book with a bright photo of a tree frog on its cover. “A doctor has t’know science.”
Seemed logical to Trip, but he wasn’t a parent or Jillian.
“That’s so unfun. I want you to have fun.” Her forehead wrinkled and she touched his hair.
“Science is fun.” Max looked at his dad again. “To me, science is fun.” Ben blinked at him in Dad-code; apparently there had been some kind of pep talkage before Trip arrived. Max snuck a look-see at Trip, and Trip smiled supportively although he’d rather have a back-alley colostomy in Siberia than study a periodic table.
“Just remember. You cannot go to medical school until you have been arrested at least twice.” Jillian kept hoping Max would cave in and become a rock star or join a circus, but nothing doing. His diligence unsettled her. Her panic mounted as he won spelling bees and turned in his straight-A assignments on time… early even.
When Trip brought home his first comic to show his parents, his mother had twisted her Kleenex into yarn while he flipped the pages. His father had sighed and asked when he was going to find a real job. “Something steady, like advertising.” He would’ve given anything to have folks who wanted him to take risks, while Max would probably love Trip’s fussy parental robots.
No grass is greener.
Max stacked a pile of books on the coffee table into a careful pyramid that reached his chest. “You’re supposed to tell me I can do anything if I’m gonna end up… normal.”
“You’ll end up dead under some doughnut truck.” Jillian favored her son with a pitying smile. “Or in a cubicle.”
Max scowled. “I will not. Parents are s’posedta support my dreams.” As soon as he said the word, he blushed and shut his mouth, blinking rapidly.
“Ugh! Dreams?” Jillian froze, and her face drained. Her eyes blazed like a horror heroine. “Gross. Says who?”
Trip glanced at Ben.
Ben shook his head and started at the ceiling. “J
illy—”
She braced herself against the sofa and wall in revulsion. “Max Stone, have you been watching television again?” Her disdain made the word a synonym for “vomit cupcakes.”
Max looked miserable. “Dr. Phil.” He stared at the floor.
“Who isn’t even a real doctor.” Jillian scowled and pointed a short maroon nail at him. “And where are you watching shyster talk shows, anyways? I’m gonna have to call Arnel’s dad. Besides, Dr. Phil’s never been arrested, and would you want to marry him?” She shuddered. “Pleat-front khakis. Lima beans.”
“No, Mom.” Max leaned against his dad’s knee. “You watch. I’m gonna go to prison, and then I’m gonna be a….” He took a little boy breath. “Lawyer.”
Jillian’s eyes twitched.
Ben whispered to his giggling son, who slid the knife in…. “A tax one.”
“Auggh!” Jillian clutched her heart, and her eyes protruded as she pretended to die a rattling death as she pitched forward over the arm of the sofa. “Urrrrgggkk….” Her arms flapped and her face contorted.
Max bragged about his mother’s stage deaths even more than her singing, which was saying something. She slid to the carpet to moan and thrash on the rug. She fell completely still.
“Mom. Mom?”
She flinched and drooled.
Max rolled his eyes. “Fine. Prison first, but with cable.”
Jillian’s eyelids popped open on the floor. “Maximum security.” She paused for the groan. “Or just do something really crazy.”
Max sighed. “Yeah. No.”
Jillian sat up. “It’s for your own good, mister. You gotta color outside the lines.”
Trip tried to broker a truce. “Or draw them.”
She wasn’t having it. “It’s important you learn how to improvise… well, think on your feet and make stuff up. Your dad agrees with me on this.”
Ben glanced at Trip but kept his yap shut, wisely.
Max straightened his ziggurat of books. “I know what ‘improvise’ is.”
Ben shrugged at his son. “Them’s the rules, kiddo. Maybe you can become a televangelist.”