A Room with a View (of the Brooklyn Navy Yard) - 4. iv. Islands of Fire

.

iv.

Islands of Fire

And so, it should come as no surprise to learn the book’s a hit. Critics rave about it; the bodice-ripping trash-buying public is overawed by it; and no one can get enough of it.

In fact, Rascal’s such a resounding financial success, Rizzmoola; Chaz Scribblers & Son; Elastic; Byer, Hood and Wink; Lemmon, Page and Dated – all the big firms of the printing racket realm – feel hella jealous of Patrick Forsa’s publisher making this “discovery.” Therefore, they each set about searching the Internet’s nooks and crannies for their own Pornographic Picasso; Raunchy Rembrandt; or Manky Monet.

As for Random, Reed and Sales, they did a great job with the book launch. Social Influencers pounced on the event like flies on steaming manure.

There were those who, understandably, derided the homo-haters providing food and entertainment, but lauded the open frankness of Forsa’s book. It’s about damn time, many of them suggested.

Others took Patrick’s work as far too ‘gay’ for their Queer sensibilities. They shouted that now’s not the time to promote cis sex – their phrase, meant to label and sex-shame – without burning police stations in Poughkeepsie to send a clear signal on what’s happening to out people in Uganda, or Saudi Arabia, or Iran – or Russia, or Egypt, or Alabama for that matter. They – these same-sex-loving individuals who harbor all the worst straight-concocted prejudices against ‘the gays’, and who would rather put “ask me” concerning their orientation than stand up for and with Gay people – feel Forsa’s book far too ‘entitled’ and obviously racist with its anti-socialist sentiments.

Fortunately for those directly involved, such thirsty-souled comments on Socials like Twitstir, Flapchat, and Teledrone only drive sales the higher.

Marshall Kingston’s plan to butch Patrick up had failed – that much is true – but he’d gotten much better with Ted Rector playing the writer.

The actor-cum-Fanaticsonly star has his headshot appear on the back of Patrick’s book now, and the studly Iowa boy looks great there, pearls and all. Not content with slowing down the media blitz, the publisher’s been plastering the stud’s picture everywhere – at bus stops posing with ‘his’ book, on the side of rolling taxicabs, on pop-ups before videos start on PooTube, as fake postings on Tremblr, as memes on Pacebook – you name it.

You name the place, the ersatz Patrick Forsa’s confident grin is beginning to show up there. Cereal boxes are next, Gerhard assures Kingston. “Eat your Bleaties, kids!” the porn king will soon be saying.

Meanwhile, as the weeks roll by, Ted and Patrick have hardly ever separated. Roles reversed, the Brooklynite now needs to Tea and Sympathize Ted into a proper understanding of where such mystical obscenity springs from inside of ‘him.’ Hardly separated, that is, except when Patrick’s left behind on those occasions Ted elects to go off with one of ‘their’ hot fans for some private fun.

Those occasions notwithstanding, Forsa has coached Rector on the best ways to do public readings from Rascals, how to speak about the book on TV shows, and how to sign the author’s name at bookstore promotions – but those are increasingly being banned by local law enforcement.

Face to face encounters quickly de-evolve into scream lallapaloosas, followed by mad grunting and shoving to get at Ted.

No, events now need to be held at multi-thousand seat auditoriums, with massive security down front. One upcoming reading in Saint Louis has already sold out Busch Stadium, as locals are notoriously fond of tossing off their shackles of respectability, given half the chance. Gop senator Jester Heartless has already agreed to open the filth fest with a reading from local-boy T. S. Eliot. But Jester also has one from Tennessee Williams in reserve, not knowing which book his Party will burn first.

That’s something to look forward to, but right now, our boys are exhausted.

Random, Reed and Sales, in an effort to protect their investment from burnout, booked a tax-deductible reading at a Fire Island fire station, after which, the boys could relax for a week in this sandy, Gay Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage site.

And so, permit us to rejoin our heroes, noble listeners. It’s the evening after the low-key, non-advertised reading, and Marshall and Bray have just taken Ted and Patrick to dinner at the high-priced, romantic seaside resort they’re staying at.

Let’s join Patrick standing at the urinal, shall we . . . .

°   °   °   °   °
 

Never among the pee-gregarious at school, the mature Forsa’s been known to require absolute quiet, and its implicit sense of safety, to let loose.

Now, standing at the vintage, unpartitioned, floor-length urinals of the fancy restaurant where his corporate bosses have fed Ted and himself, he’s too full of the glow of anticipation to get a stream of relief.

As soon as the suits beat a hasty retreat back to Midtown Manhattan, the author and his namesake’s impostor can let their hair down with a week’s worth of vacation—

The door opens.

In struts a toothpick gnashing Bray J. Gerhard.

‘Oh, great,’ thinks Forsa, ‘but there are still plenty of places the lawyer . . . . ’

Gerhard steps up to the pisser immediately to Patrick’s left.

‘Surely he won’t try to speak—’

“Great steak, eh, Forsa?”

“Yeah”—Patrick tries not to look, he swears it, but the man unzips so fast, there it was—“super.”

A moment later, the straight man releases a torrent more colorful novelists might describe as “like a horse.”

Although his eyes are now straight ahead, Patrick can feel Bray’s inspection of his profile, his leer tracking down to his increasingly shy appendage.

Bladder empty – a near-silence returned – Gerhard lingers far too long at “his shaking,” which he turns away from the porcelain and points to Patrick. He continues to hold himself lasciviously, much to the boy’s horror.

Patrick sighs, still totally exposed and stares at the wall above his urinal. ‘Go away; go away.’

Making a nasty click with his tongue, Bray decides Forsa’s a prude and finally puts himself away.

Seemingly as payback for Patrick’s frigidity, the lawyer says, “Enjoy your time with that actor, that Interwebs callboy who’s seen more pricks than a dartboard.”

No response.

Bray places his hand against the wall, leaning his sneer practically in front of the author so he has to face him.

“Ask that . . . guy, how much he’s getting for impersonating you. Go on, I dare you.” He laughs. “Hmph. I fucking dare you, cuz he’s not the one getting screwed over in this deal.”

Patrick does hold his gaze, feeling utter contempt in his heart for this man.

The restroom door opens again. Marshall Kingston, strapped down with shoulder bags, sticks his head in. “Bray, move your ass! Our helicopter’s landing: I grabbed your case, but we gotta move it if we want to get back to the city before midnight.”

With a final click of disgust for Patrick, Gerhard departs, SANS washing hands!

Rattled, the young writer needs several more minutes of solitude to complete his task.

Now at the sink, performing his ablutions, Puma thinks how profoundly skeevy the straight male mind truly is. ‘The only thing they associate with us is sex. The perverts.’

He glances at himself in the mirror, aghast to realize: ‘This is what straights think we’re all like. Just whip it out, and we’ll be overcome with lust. They’re all fucking the same. Whip it out and expect the queer to flutter to his knees—’

Patrick grows more and more justifiably angry.

‘I wish they’d keep their dirty, fucking abominable minds off of us; that’s all! Is that too much to ask!’

°   °   °   °   °

Calmed a bit, and trying to shake the heebies of being violated, Patrick returns to his window-side table, relieved to know Kingston and the pervert won’t be there.

As he approaches the back of him, the author can see Ted’s screen is lit up and showing the man’s Blindr account.

But as Forsa slips back into his seat across from him, his fetching alter ego closes the app and sets the device down – face down, to be polite.

Soft music plays in the background. “Any hot prospects?” A wry grin plays on Patrick’s mouth.

Ted picks up the dessert menu. “The chocolate soufflé for two; the twenty-year-old port – I’ve got the corporate card, so we can order anything—”

“I meant online. Any hot ‘do-ables’ lingering around here?”

“On Fire Island, in summer? More than you can shake a stick at, kid.”

“Do tell.”

“One guy just messaged me saying he wants to do a Fanaticsonly vid with me.”

“Is that right . . . ?”

Ted perceives a dark shading has tinged Patrick’s outlook since he left the table, but he can’t imagine why.

“Yup. It’s been a minute since I uploaded a new one. With the book tour and shit, my FO page’s gettin’ neglected.”

The word neglect irks Forsa. “Sure, but you don’t need to do it for the money anymore.”

“True. Patrick, are you okay? Have I done something to piss you off, little Cougar?”

Patrick needs to inhale deeply to clear his head. “Sorry. I’m just – in a funk, I guess.’

“I know. It’s been stressful, and you’ve been . . . well, you’ve been great to me. From teacher to student, I couldn’t pull off playing you without your guidance and support.”

Forsa starts to feel better. Chuckling warmly, he tells him, “You sound like Kingston with his ‘you’ve done good so far, but it’s time for a sequel’ blather.”

“Is it blather. Haven’t you started to think about a follow-up project?”

Patrick grins.

“I knew it!” Ted exclaims. “I bet it’s gonna be great, only don’t let Kingsy choose the title.”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking like a publisher myself, coming up with the most outrageously derivative titles, to be, as Marshall says, ‘Totally new!’”

Ted settles back in his seat, crossing his arms and knowing he’s going to enjoy this. “What comes to mind, oh, great Titillating Tiny Tim?”

Patrick’s hands go up, painting a black movie screen for Ted. “Picture it: jungle sounds; a peacock screeches; baboons howl; an airplane roars overhead. Suddenly the flickering title appears – Tarzan, The Legend of Cumstroke.”

Ted laughs outright, leaning back in with elbows on the table. “That’s pretty good, buddy. But for my money, I’d keep it classy. Call it Tarzan, Lord of the Gapes.”

Patrick thinks a moment. “Or, I could shake things up; do one for the lady couples. Call it The Dyke Runner . . . or, Toy Story VI – The Lesbian Edition.”

Through more laughter, his eyes sparkling, Ted adds, “Or go legit with some ‘serious’ books – say, Minces with Wolves.”

“Of Vice and Men—”

“A Night to Resuscitate—”

“King Dong?” muses Patrick. “Too obvious?”

“Yup. It’s been done. How about—”

“Rebel Without a Condom” blurts Forsa.

“Love it! You could follow it up with Some Like It Hurt.”

“Good one, a Gay classic. And staying classic, I could do A Taste of Hunty.”

“Or, dramatic music”—Ted drums the table in waltz time—“2101: A Face Odyssey.”

Now Patrick laughs openly too, feeling great. “It’s like we read each other’s mind, because you’re getting back into X-Rated territory. Our bread and butter.”

“Bread and cream, but I’ll let it pass, because you could totally do The King’s Peach.”

When Patrick glances over, he’s struck by how the table’s flickering candle catches Ted’s green eyes. And now both are enhanced by the baguette-cut peridots in the man’s ears.

Forsa smiles; he has a new favorite birthstone. “The Joy of Smashing—”

“Pride and Penicillin—”

“Moby-Dick—”

“But wait,” Ted says, puzzled. “That’s the actual name of a book.”

“I know, but have you read it? It’s total Gay smut as it is!”

They share genuine, heartfelt laughter.

“I guess you’re right,” Ted concedes. “And after you write all those books, decades from now, you can sit down and pen your autobiography: A Shaft Grows in Brooklyn.”

There is something too beautiful about Ted. Something in this man that does it.

Patrick leans in close as well, elbows on table. He replies a little too seriously, “I may need a co-author to complete that one.”

Ted stops smiling. “A ghost-writer?”

“No, a full-fledged . . . partner.”

Perhaps obviously – or reading the moment correctly, but not wanting to deal with it – Ted’s wide-eyed, holding the younger man’s gaze.

Patrick recognizes admiration in the look, and something else he can’t quite identify. “What?” He settles back in his chair.

“It’s—”

“And don’t”—Patrick chuckles—“say nothin’.”

“I was just . . . seeing it. Seeing how much you’ve changed from that first day in Marshall’s office.”

Still joking around, Patrick flexes his biceps with his best gym bunny scowl. “These guns here, you mean?”

Ted’s hopelessly giggling now. “Them guns there, yes, and more importantly, your self-confidence . . . your sense of self-worth.”

Patrick, lowering his arms, blinks.

“I guess,” he says dejectedly, “I was pretty pathetic before. Someone no guy would glance twice at.”

“That’s not what I meant, Puma.”

“Then what?”

Ted beckons Patrick to lean back in again. “I mean, everyone out here – we – we could always perceive your talent, your gift, your skill. We could always tell.” He gently taps the boy’s forehead. “And now, in here, you can see it too.”

Ted pulls back his hand.

Patrick’s lower lip goes slack. Connection’s the only thing he craves in life.

However, just at that moment, Ted Rector’s phone susurrates the particular engine revving sound Patrick knows to be a ‘Smash’ from the man’s Blindr account.

Ted glances at his screen, making a quick, disapproving smirk, and sets it back again, face down.

But the moment is over.

Eventually, Ted asks, “I know I’ve questioned you on this before, and maybe there’s no answer, but what made you write Rascals in the first place?”

Patrick, tired of playing it cool, says, “Because my sister died.”

Ted, taken aback, mumbles, “What? I mean, I’m sorry to hear— I didn’t even know—”

“No. How would you. It’s not something I talk about much. But, you see, I’m just starting to feel like myself again.”

“What happened?”

“Right around the time I got accepted to Yale, Marcia, my only sibling two years older than me, got her cancer diagnosis.” Patrick smiles. “She was my rock growing up. As first generation Americans, we shared laughs at our parents’ ‘lost in translation’ moments, but we were never mean-spirited about it. There was nothing mean about Marcia.”

Ted’s silent, letting Patrick gather his thoughts.

The writer continues after a sigh. “So, I gave up thoughts of college, stayed in Brooklyn, doing odd jobs to support the folks.

“When Marcia passed eighteen months ago, it was pretty devastating. Nothing was right; nothing mattered anymore. Losing her was like the sun setting and not reappearing. But I forced my sun to rise again, helping my parents ‘cope’ during the day, but writing and re-writing at night to help find my way out of depression.”

“Well, it worked, buddy. You’ve composed a masterpiece.”

Patrick grins. “Maybe my dad’s been right all along; my bedroom’s view of the Brooklyn Navy Yard stirred my dirty imagination.”

“Hell, who knows? Could be.”

Patrick sees his opportunity, so he takes it. “Now, can I ask you a question?”

“What you want to know, little Cougar? I’m an open book.”

Despite the reassurances, Patrick knows this is going to hurt Ted to talk about. “You ran away when you were eighteen, but what exactly happened? What became of Monroe?”

Ted sighs and looks around the room for a moment of distraction. He returns his gaze and holds Patrick’s.

“You want to know what happened, okay, here it is. Monroe Newberry and I had been in love and partnered with each other since we were fourteen – starting in the eighth grade, to be precise. But Piedmont, Iowa, is not the place to walk down the street holding hands. They got snitch laws there – forcing schools to out kids to their rents; the whole oppression deal. So then at sixteen, one of our ‘conflicted’ classmates told Mony’s folks, and they immediately shipped him off to ‘straight camp,’ until he was eighteen, un-diplomaed, and then forced him to sign up with the Marines.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s what his parents felt was suitable punishment for an H-word disappointment like Monroe Newberry.”

“Oh, my God, Ted, it’s awful—”

“I loved him, Patrick, so very much. And I have such guilt – he suffered this because of me. Because maybe his African American rents, above and beyond the two guys in love thing, looked at me and thought, no. Not him, not me, for their son. It’s like my ‘privilege’ had ‘turned’ their Black son this way.”

Quietly, Patrick takes Ted’s hand. “Believe me, man, I get the guilt – I can relate – but their son being Gay has nothing to do with you or your race – other than you making him happy for the years you were together.”

Ted pulls his hand away, sniffles and leans back.

“Did you have any way to contact him?” Patrick asks.

“Believe me, I had fantasies of a shining-armor rescue from Mony’s concentration camp imprisonment. But no one knew which other Red State he’d been incarcerated in, and places like that deny inmates all access to phones and the Web.”

“Where is he today?”

“Not that he ever wrote to me or anything, but he’s back in Piedmont. An Internet search told me that; married to a woman; two kids; deacon in his parents’ church.”

“That’s – that’s just sad, Ted.”

“Yes. I mean, I’d help him in any way I could, but you can’t help someone who won’t even lift a finger to help themselves.”

“So you were both outed at sixteen, but why didn’t your folks ship you off to straight camp too?”

“Ah, there you don’t understand their looney ‘church’ mentality. They couldn’t be seen in the pews as punishing me, unlike my boyfriend’s Calvinistic rents, because, after all, we were both just kids at the time.”

“That’s why you waited till you were eighteen?”

“Yup. I was in mourning, a wrecked teen from sixteen to eighteen, but my people were not inactive concerning their only child’s ‘condition.’ Later on, the same Queer classmate who’d ruined my life, told me my parents had arranged with other ‘church’ assholes – a judge, a sheriff, and a psychiatrist – to have me committed as an adult to a psych hospital.”

“I don’t know what to say. Your parents are fucking awful.”

“Thank you. That’s exactly how I feel. Imagine, locking me away as an adult was their best idea of retribution. Declare me ‘sick,’ and poof – outta sight, outta mind. They’d get all the sympathy at church.”

Devastating words to Patrick, and yet here’s Ted, saying them with a noblesse oblige irony to mask his true level of hurt.

Patrick replies with the best thing he can think of. “Thank you for sharing this with me. It means a lot. We walk around all day long with painful stories like these in us, and yet often feel too scared to share.”

Ted sighs again, letting go of some of the tension. “You’re right. Like usual, you’re totally right.”

Patrick tries to chuckle. “Just be careful trying to get your friendly, neighborhood author to open up.”

Ted nibbles the bait. “Why’s that?”

“As Paul Verlaine said, and mind you, I only ever quote Queer people:

Writers are full of worlds.

Lord help the fool who

Helps excavate.’”

“Yeah, I get that one. At least now I do.”

“Well, unfortunately,” says Patrick, “in this day of Socials and A.I., people’s genuine stories are getting pushed deeper and deeper into themselves.”

Ted glances over his shoulder. “You wanna move this to the bar? I could do with a shot right about now.”

“One min. Let me show you something funny first.” Patrick pulls out his phone. “Speaking of Socials, have you seen this one channel devoted to you? Well, to Patrick Forsa – which they think is you.”

“Which site?”

“Wait. Here, look.” He hands his phone over so Ted can scroll.

“What am I looking at?” inquires the actor.

“Fanart. Or, to be specific, ‘Social Shipping.’ Pictures of you with famous guys to see what you’d look like as a couple.”

Ted chuckles. “Here’s me – you, really – with Richard Simmons.”

“The fitness guru? Didn’t realize he’s still around. Sorry, Richie.”

“Oh, here’s me and Alex Bertie.”

“That shot’s cute, right?”

“Yup, totally hot.”

The marketing bots at Random, Reed and Sales have also been busy, and the boys’ go back and forth for a few minutes looking them over. The clever advertising ploy had used only ‘appropriate’ men, so Ted’s favs are of him standing next to Dumbledore at a quidditch match; with Don Lemon browsing the Chelsea Flea. And the one that really gets the boys to laugh: Ted having a romantic dinner date with Squarepants Spongebob at the Krabby Krust restaurant under the sea.

But after this, Ted slowly grows quiet. Whatever he’s seeing on the screen, it’s affecting him. He sets the phone face down. “I’ve— I’ve— I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“What?”

Ted feels overexposed. He lashes out against this experiencing of vulnerability by standing and pulling up his Blindr account. He trolls for the guy from earlier.

“I’m gonna go with him, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Patrick watches in disbelief as Ted makes his way to the bar, meets up with his Smash, and exits the restaurant with him.

After that, it takes Forsa a full minute to remember his phone. When he turns it, he sees Ted had stumbled on a picture of himself sitting on the beach in nothing but swim trunks. But right next to him, shipped in a romantic embrace, sits Patrick.

_