Bad Idea

by Damon Suede

  “Pfft. Every time I open my fucking mouth, Speck. We’re more alike than you think.”

  “This project isn’t just mine. I mean, he’s everywhere in it. Silas.”

  “I noticed.” Kurt closed the briefcase deliberately. “Maybe you can convince him that Team Scratch needs a good creature designer. We’re gonna need models, composites… hell, makeup for the street teams.”

  No. Trip started to object and thought better of it. Pressure. “What am I s’posedta do?”

  “You’re an artist. Get creative.”

  Trip blinked. “There’s not exactly a straight line between point A and point B, here.”

  “He’s a guy. If you can’t appeal to his heart, appeal to his vanity.”

  “Y’know….” Trip glanced at Kurt. Much as it pained him, he could see their similarities. And just as quickly, he fought the urge to judge himself and Kurt and everyone else, swinging the fucking gavel down just ’cause it felt good in his hand. “I may have to stop hating the idea of you. I could use a good enemy.”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll always be Drip to me.” But somehow the way he said it wasn’t an insult.

  A tickling wisp of anticipation made Trip shiver. Why not? Maybe he could tear the package open and get on with his goddamned life.

  “So… wanna come out and play?” Kurt steepled his fingers under his beard. “Unless you got a better idea.”

  “I need to think about it.” Trip petted the portfolio as if he expected it to wake up and maul him. “Can I keep this?”

  “It’s already yours. He just let me deliver it. I’ll have contracts drawn up.”

  “Fat chance.” Trip choke-chuckled in resignation.

  “Well, you won’t know until you talk to him.” Kurt flicked the Unbored card onto the table and picked up the now-empty Gucci briefcase. “Horrible. I don’t know which of you is worse.”

  Reaching for the little rectangle of cardboard, Trip shrugged and took it. “I do.”

  24

  AFTER three days of binging on Teen Wolf and Little Debbies, Trip ended up in the Monster Hospital supervising amputations and transplants at Chez Stone.

  At the absolute last minute, Jillian agreed to brunch with a few actor chums who’d flown in for a wedding to which she wasn’t invited. She called Trip in a panic because they could only meet this particular Saturday, and Selene, the dyspeptic babysitter, had gone to Guatemala to build latrines… leaving Trip in the shit.

  As it happened, on this particular Saturday, June 15, Trip had sworn he was not going to leave his apartment for fear of doing something idiotic. Today was the Undercover Lovers wrap out at Silvercup, and a squishy, treacherous corner of him wanted to give in to his worst stalking impulses.

  He was already enough of a schmuck. He’d spent seventy-two hours mulling Kurt’s offer but hadn’t worked up the cojones to call Silas. Having ingested every molecule of hydrogenated, freezer-burned, shrink-wrapped carbo yum-yums in his apartment, he agreed to babysit so he wouldn’t jump any guns.

  Trip rang the bell again. On the other side of the door, feet thumped down the stairs.

  “Mom. Jeez.” Max’s high whine said plenty about the morning they’d had, and when he opened the door, he broadcast his annoyance through a pair of safety goggles.

  Jillian lay across the hall with her tongue stuck out.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Trip waved hello to Max and winked at Jillian. “I see your mom died again.”

  Max shrugged, stepped over her legs, and led the way back to the kitchen.

  Behind him, Trip heard Jillian clamber to her feet and curse.

  The Stones’ kitchen was painted a chocolatey brown and lined with stainless cabinets and appliances. As much as Jillian loved cooking, Ben hated it, but he knew exactly where his bread was buttered. After hosting that many shabbos dinners, Ben had gone all out with the upgrades, and rumor had it Jillian had fucked him almost senseless out of gratitude.

  Max adjusted his goggles and seated himself at the round table in the breakfast nook. Pieces of action figures lay out on newspaper. Apparently, he had some kind of terrifying craft project underway.

  Trip went to the fridge and poured himself a tall glass of seltzer with a splash of cranberry. He took a cold swig and then went to check on the boy wonder. He almost choked.

  Max had needle-nose pliers, a selection of files and awls, and several X-Acto blades arranged in careful rows. He’d plugged in a soldering iron and a hot glue gun, and they rested on an old plate that showed scorches from previous operations.

  “Oy!” Trip gestured at the hardware. “This looks like Build-a-Bear for mental patients.”

  Max tapped the table. “I’m doing surgery.” And he was, transplanting appendages with ruthless efficiency. “What?”

  “I’m gonna mutilate myself.”

  “So don’t touch anything. It’s fine.” He bent to plug in a small grinder.

  Trip ventured closer. “See, you are a doctor.”

  As he watched, Max stuck the Alien head and parts of a plastic octopus onto a gargoyle’s body, which resembled the many-limbed lovechild of Conan and Cthulhu.

  “Yeesh.” Max hissed and shook his hand. He blew on his fingers.

  Trip forehead furrowed. “Is that safe?”

  “Duh. That’s why you’re here.” Max analyzed an orange leg that wouldn’t do what he wanted. “I cut anything off, you bring it to the ER.”

  “Hurrah.” Trip sat down at the table with his glass. “Although, I can promise that I’m more likely to get hurt than you are, cutting up dolls.”

  Max gave an incredulous smirk. “They’re action figures.”

  “Yeah, ‘action figure’ was what Hasbro called them because they figured boys wouldn’t play with dolls.”

  Max eyed him. “Duh.”

  Trip leaned against the chair arms. “How is it not a doll?”

  “I dunno.” Max inspected the little sinewy body. “Doll means a buncha other stuff.” A hot blob glooped onto the torso, and Max prodded it with a nail. “Why’s it matter?”

  “It….” Trip shut his mouth and opened it. “Doesn’t. I guess. It’s just a word.”

  A wet towel lay folded on the table, already streaked with dust and smears of melted plastic.

  “I’m learning how. ’S’way better than coloring.” Max hissed at something and scooped up the soldering iron and a long clamp. “My mom likes it ’cause there aren’t lines for me to follow.” Bitter black smoke sizzled up from the little body. “Almost got him.”

  “Huh.” Trip sipped his seltzer. Seeing all the pieces on the table made him anxious in a way he couldn’t rationalize. What did it matter? Max was having fun. Hell, he was making something. Trip reached out to examine a couple of the dismembered figures. “Y’know? Some of these are worth real money. Or were.”

  “H’yeah. We bought them on eBay.”

  “Digging up the graveyard. Dr. Frankenstein discovers the Internet.”

  Max held up a headless torso. “I paid almost twelve bucks for Hawkman.”

  There had to be at least four action figures torn apart on the table for their parts. Transplants ’R Us. The collector in Trip cringed. He’d always taken such obsessive care of his toys. He had kept a couple mint-on-card that were worth hundreds now. “I guess those aren’t mint anymore.”

  “I don’t collect ’em.”

  “I could never do that.” Trip fiddled with a tiny leg.

  “Whaddayamean?”

  “Put pieces together like that.”

  “But you draw things.” Max used some kind of tiny screwdriver and a pair of tweezers to pluck vigorously at part of the head. “Didn’t you ever fix your toys?”

  “I was too nervous I’d cut off my arm or poke out my eye.”

  “That’s why there are parents and teachers.” Max chipped at a foot. “Prob’ly a good idea someone looks out for us until we finish growing up.”

  “I don’t think that happens. Ever.” Trip fiddled with the lit
tle arm. “I think you grow up as long as you’ll let yourself.”

  “Growing-ups!” Max laughed and put the soldering iron down on the plate and shifted his goggles to the top of his head. “See? He’s mutated now.” Max wiggled the wings about a centimeter.

  “They move! How’d you—? They’re not supposed to move.”

  Max gave a lopsided little-boy shrug. “Dad helped me add two extra joints for the wings.” He leaned over the little body, his tongue trapped between his teeth as he sculpted with his tiny fingers. “I usually start out with a plan, but then it doesn’t always go that way.”

  “Happy accidents.” Trip tried to remember who had said that. Silas. He shook his head. Move the fuck on. At some point he’d have to give himself permission to stop hoping. He thought of Kurt’s Talon and the Scratch game that might have been. Mighty-might.

  “What?”

  Trip exhaled. “What-what?”

  “You made a face.”

  “No. Nothing.” He shifted his attention back to Max’s experiment. “Happy accidents are a good thing. Best things I’ve ever drawn came out of screwing up, even though it scares me.”

  Max studied the mutant figure and then Trip. “Why are you scared of a drawing?”

  “Not scared-scared. Just nervous.” Trip covered his embarrassment with a fizzy sip.

  “Dad says being scared is good for your heart.”

  “He’s probably right.” Trip smiled. “I knew I was making a mistake, but made it anyways.”

  Max got very quiet. He fidgeted with the little figure again. He frowned at the toy and then laid it down carefully, making sure he didn’t injure any of his modifications.

  “Is that what happened with your boyfriend?” He didn’t look up. “Silas?”

  Trip lowered his hands and let out a breath. Jillian must have talked to Ben, and walls had little ears. The Stones worried about him. “What do you know about that?”

  “Nothing. My mom said you were happy with him. You seemed pretty happy.”

  “I was.” Trip picked up someone’s little green PVC arm. Hulk? Martian Manhunter? What would his dad have done if he’d pulled his toys apart? “For a while there.” He felt selfish. For a moment, he envied Max his cool parents, everything ahead. For a split second, he wished he could go back and undo everything, retcon and get it right this time. From Scratch. He shrugged.

  “But now you’re all depressed.”

  “When I was growing up, kids didn’t usually talk about this stuff.”

  Max scowled at him dubiously. “You mean ’cause you like guys.” He shrugged. “Whatsa big deal?”

  “Good question.” Just a word.

  “Silas seemed nice. At the show. He sure likes you.”

  Trip dropped the green arm. “Not anymore. I did something stupid and mean.”

  Max wrinkled his nose and paused to wipe his sculpting nail on the wet towel. “Dad says people mostly act dumb when they’re scared.”

  “Maybe so. You think I get scared?”

  “Everybody gets scared sometimes.” Max shrugged. “Mom is scared of Freddy Krueger and he’s a joke.”

  “I probably get too scared sometimes. Too much imagination.”

  “Prob’ly. That’s prob’ly why you draw monsters and bad guys so good.”

  “’Cause I’m not done growing up?”

  Max unplugged the glue gun. “Prob’ly why they don’t suck. Y’know?”

  Trip snorted in agreement. No shit. “Well, you’re right. But we still get scared. Grown-ups.”

  “Duh.” Max wrapped the cord around his hand. “Like this one time I stepped on a nail at the lake, and Mom had to take it out and she was crying and trying to goof around, but she was more scared than I was. I knew. Her heart went crazy on my ear.”

  “She imagined the worst thing.”

  “But it wasn’t the worst. I didn’t even cry. Well, not much. It just felt weird ’cause I didn’t expect it. My feet were cold.”

  “Your mom loves you more than anything.” Trip remembered the nail incident. Max had been six, maybe? He could imagine how panicked Jillian had been in the moment. He remembered Ben’s gray face when Trip had taken muffins and juice to the hospital. “More than Friday the 13th even.”

  Max laughed at that. “I dunno. That’s a lot.” He put the smoking glue gun to one side.

  “She wanted to rescue you. And you wanted to rescue her.”

  “We were both scared, but we didn’t run away.” He gave a little boy nod that summed up the logic. He poked at his shoe. “I still have a mark. It was so gross.” He grinned proudly. “It, like, gooped out. Not like on shows.”

  Trip nodded.

  Max scraped his shreds of plastic and glue together into a small heap of olive and tan, all the leftover muscle and tentacles. “But if she stepped on a nail I’d run to her, not away.”

  Trip brushed the scraps of plastic into his ink-stained hand. “’Cause you’re brave.”

  Max snorted. “No, dummy. ’Cause she loves me.” He shrugged. “And I love her.”

  “I do too. Your mom and dad don’t mess around.”

  Trip had a flash of infant Max in his crib with hands the size and color of erasers. He shut his yap and nodded before he said anything mushy. He couldn’t wait to know Max as an adult, to watch him wisecracking with kids of his own. At least that was something to look forward to.

  “So….” Max squinted one eye and pursed his lip. “Why don’t you invite Silas for shabbos next Friday?”

  “Not a good idea.”

  Max rolled his eyes. “And since that’s dumb, I’m betting you’re scared, which is even dumber because Silas is nice. Scary doesn’t mean bad.”

  And every idea is scary at first. Trip stopped breathing for a moment.

  Max pulled off his goggles.

  “Sh-eesh.” Trip sat back and crossed his arms loosely. “When did you get to be such a player?”

  “I dunno.” Max seemed confused by the word.

  “It’s a compliment. ‘Player’ just means you’re good at the game. Life. I been trying to figure this out for a month, and you did it in about ten seconds.”

  Max’s gap-toothed grin lit up his face. “Oh. Cool.”

  “While you were mutilating dolls, even.”

  “Action figures.” Max brandished his plastic chimera.

  “’S’just a word, though.” Trip held up the handful of chips and slivers. “Y’know, you’re pretty sneaky for a superhero. No one’s gonna see through your secret disguise.”

  “What disguise?”

  Trip crossed his eyes. “A snaggletoothed, cowlicked dwarf.”

  “Shut up!”

  “With a booger ranch and a soap allergy.”

  “You suck.” Max shoved him.

  Trip looked down at the plastic shrapnel. “You want me to throw these in the garbage?”

  Max groaned. “No way. They’re not garbage.”

  “Sorry! Sheesh.”

  “I’m doing Poison Ivy next.” Max opened a coffee can so Trip could scrape the plastic flotsam inside.

  “If you say so.”

  “These are my…” Max rattled the can with his pudgy hands. “…happy accidents.”

  Trip stopped moving. A bitter bubble of laughter burst out of him. “That’s good.”

  Max held up his little melted-together monster. “I think he looks better like this.”

  Trip considered the messy creation in Max’s palm. No such thing as a grown-up. “I agree.” He grinned. “What happens to him now?”

  Max snorted in exaggerated patience. “I play with him.”

  “Oh.” Trip felt like a dolt. No packaging to worry about, was there? He laughed out loud, startling himself. “Lollipops and rainbows.”

  “That’s what my mom says all the time. She’s nuts.”

  “She seems that way, but only if you don’t know her. And that… would be a mistake.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You just reminded me of a jok
e.” Trip drained his glass and held it up. “Who discovered water?”

  “What?”

  “Old Jewish riddle.” Trip crossed his arms. “‘Who discovered water?’ You know that one?”

  “Gimme a sec.” Max scowled at the floor, plucking at his lip. “I dunno.”

  “That’s the answer.” Trip winked. He opened his arms and did a great impression of Max’s mom in Fiddler on the Roof. “Who discovered water? I dunno, but it wasn’t a fish.”

  Max didn’t react. He waved his little boy hand at the tools on the table. “So when you have Silas back—”

  “I don’t have anyone. Silas may only wanna be a friend. Or not even.”

  The tiny homunculus stood on the table between them, ugly and serene.

  “Sure.” Max sighed melodramatically. “So… now will you draw me with a chunk of my head missing?” Blink, blink.

  “Deal.” The kid had probably calculated his charm assault, but Trip didn’t mind.

  “Something really gross I can take to school.” Max folded his crumpled, crusty newspapers and threw them away.

  “Duh!”

  “And don’t tell Dad.” He punched Trip’s knuckles with a goblin’s smile. “I want it to be a surprise.” He scurried out the door into the hallway.

  Trip wondered if Silas would go early to the OutRun on Pride Sunday, if it was an awful idea to crash, and just as quickly decided he didn’t care if it was awful because it was the growing-up thing to do.

  “Max?” Trip paused at the table. “Thanks for being smart enough for both of us.” He wanted to make sure Max had heard him, but by the time he reached the hall, his godson had already scrambled upstairs to his room to save the galaxy with the glued-together hero he’d built out of monsters.

  “CAN you fix my skull?”

  A muscle-bound drag-waitress held out a fuzzy wet piece of brain to Trip.

  “Makeup’s right there.” Trip pointed toward the long tent he’d watched for an hour from his chilly predawn perch in Central Park. The butch waitress mumbled thankfully and clacked in that direction.

  After 5:00 a.m. on Gay Pride Sunday, the lightening sky showed a giant bowed banner that read “OUTRUN: WALKIN’ CLOSET.” The tents and temporary buildings rose suddenly around him and spat out zombies in a steady stream, the apocalypse in reverse.