Bath Time

In a scene reminiscent of an old science fiction movie, Brian laid on a flat, cold slab. Clad only in a hospital gown, and a lead vest to protect his vital organs, he looked up at the large, overhead machine.

“Are we ready Mr. Kinney?” The technician’s voice called to him over the intercom.

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” Brian called back to her.

“Here we go. Hold still. Hold very, very still.” She pressed the red button on her machine.

Brian closed his eyes, and tried to forget the death ray aiming between his legs. It had been a hellish three weeks thus far. While many people are able to go on about their normal lives during radiation therapy, Dr. Sharma had warned that it would be wise for Brian to anticipate some side effects. During radiation therapy the body uses lots of energy to heal healthy surrounding cells that are inadvertently damaged during the process. Loss of appetite, nausea, diarrhea, and fatigue are not unusual. Add to that reddened, irritated skin at the target site, the stress of daily trips to the hospital, along with the mental strain of battling cancer, and Brian Kinney was literally down for the count.

The technician came out from behind her glass partition, and repositioned Brian’s legs to accommodate another angle. “One more time Mr. Kinney. Hold still…very still.” She returned to the red button.

This could not have come at a worst time. Brian’s illness had ruined The Royal Trio’s first Christmas, and New Year's together. Instead of decking the halls with holly, Brian had spent Christmas sitting on a donut cushion with sore, swollen balls, the size of lemons. New Year's Eve was equally as glamorous. The newlyweds rang in 2009 with a toast of chilled apple juice that Brian promptly puked up onto the sofa. Indeed, when he wasn’t throwing up, he was shitting. When he wasn’t shitting, he was sleeping. If that wasn’t bad enough, an early morning tryst between David and Tony, witnessed and reported to Brian by Michael had caused a breach in trust within his month old marriage.

Brian was now certain that David was looming in the background, awaiting his chance to reclaim Tony for himself. In this weakened state there was little that the bravest member of The Royal Trio could do, and Justin was certainly no match for the cunning Dr. David Cameron.

“This is the last one.” The technician once again came out from her protected area to reposition Brian’s legs.

“X marks the spot,” Brian said sarcastically, as she returned to the safety of her partition. The last time a woman had handled his balls so extensively was NEVER.

“That’s it, Mr. Kinney. We’re all done for today. You can get dressed now. Go home, get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow,” she smiled.

Brian sat up on the side of the cold slab to steady himself, before attempting to stand. “Easy for you to say,” he mumbled under his breath.

 

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Justin’s decision not to accept Sam Auerbach’s invitation to come study with him in Chicago was met with outrage. Who was this kid, and how dare he snub one of the most influential artists in the world of modern abstract art? Professor Dailey, and dean Rice were livid. Thanks to that ungrateful little shit, Justin Taylor, it was highly unlikely that another PIFA student would be afforded such a coveted opportunity. Justin could feel the animosity not only from faculty, but from his fellow classmates as well, most of whom would have given their left arm for the offer he rejected. It was going to be a long final semester. Justin concluded that it would behoove him to keep a low profile.

“Ringggggg! Ringggggg! Ringggggg!”

“Is that a cell phone interrupting my class?” Professor Dailey stopped his lecture in mid sentence.

Justin fumbled through his pockets, in search of the annoying sound. “I’m sorry sir. I thought I had it set to vibrate,” he apologized.

“Vibrate?” Professor Dailey chuckled. “Is my lecture interfering with your social life Mr. Taylor? I know an artist of your caliber doesn’t need any instruction, however there are still some students in this class who might benefit from what I have to say. For their sake, will you please turn your phone off?”

“I can’t do that, sir,” Justin attempted to explain. “My husband is sick….”

“Which one?” A voice from the other side of the room prompted a snicker from the rest of the class.

Justin ignored the joke at his expense, and started again. “My husband is sick. I need to keep my phone turned on, in case of an emergency,” he said.

“Mr. Taylor, this is an art class for serious art students. None of us are interested in your marital woes. If you want to play wet-nurse to your husbands, you’ll have to do so on your own time. Now, for the last time, turn that phone off,” Professor Dailey insisted.

“Yes sir.” Justin reluctantly complied with his instructor’s order.

To say that Brian had been irritable the past three weeks would be an understatement. Having already run away four hand selected, private duty nurses, his reputation for being an impossible patient now preceded him. Agencies were starting to refuse to send staff to have food thrown at them, and to be verbally abused by the crazy man in the loft apartments on Tremont Street. Justin feared that another brave soul may have just bitten the dust. Unfortunately, with professor Dailey on the warpath, PIFA’s former prized student didn’t dare to make an early move toward the door. Tony would have to take the call this time.

 

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Anthony Massey sat back in his executive chair, and studied the tastefully made-up face of the middle-aged woman sitting on the other side of his desk. “Why would Cosmo want to photograph me again? Especially since you said that I embarrassed you the first time around, by not disclosing that I was gay,” he asked.

Ava Flowers, the new editor & chief of the legendary Cosmopolitan Magazine sat back in her chair, and crossed her legs. “Cosmopolitan Magazine has been around since 1886. We’re published in 32 different languages, including Hebrew, Russian, and Portuguese, in more than 100 countries. Do you know that we had to go into a second printing of our bachelor of the year issue once your story leaked out? Cosmo hasn’t caused a stir like that since 1972, when we put a nude Burt Reynolds in our centerfold. It seems that everyone, men and women, gay and straight want to see, and read about the handsome millionaire, willing to risk everything for love,” she said.

Tony wasn’t impressed. “Is that why you’re still suing me?” he asked.

“Cosmo is willing to drop their lawsuit against you if you’ll agree to pose for a second time, and give them a follow-up story,” Tony’s lawyer, Kenneth Davenport interrupted.

“And we’ll pay you a substantial fee as well,” Ava added.

Tony thought for a moment, before answering. “Ms Flowers….”

“Ava, please call me Ava,” she smiled.

“Ava,” Tony began again. “Of course I would like to settle any dispute I have with Cosmo out of court, but I have to consider my family first. I don’t want our personal lives spread across the tabloids.”

“I assure you, Mr. Massey, Cosmopolitan is NOT a tabloid! My photographers aren’t known for popping out of bushes to shove cameras in your face. My writers don’t rummage through trash cans, or make annoying phone calls to family members, and friends. We go straight to the source for our information. I want to shoot you in your natural surroundings, at home, in your newly renovated loft, with your beautiful new family,” Ava said.

“It sure sounds like someone has been rummaging through my trash cans,” Tony noted.

“Surely you jest, Mr. Massey. Who doesn’t know about “Camelot on Tremont”? Every designer in the country is vying for that contract. The home you’ll be sharing with Kinnetic’s, Brian Kinney, and Justin Taylor, the young artist who turned down a chance to study with Sam Auerbach to be with you will be the showpiece of Liberty Avenue. Even in this stagnant economy, real estate values along the magnificent gay mile are already starting to climb.” Ava had done her homework.

Tony still wasn’t impressed.

“Mr. Massey, in a Proposition 14 world of cyber sex, internet hook-ups, and booty-calls, people are starving for romance. We’re not talking about couples who swing, cheating spouses, or lowlifes who hide behind religion to finagle sex from unsuspecting victims. We’re talking about three courageous, openly gay men who have decided to turn their noses up at a system that continues to deny them their civil rights. We’re talking about three gorgeous men who have decided to make a commitment to each other, and create a life together for themselves, on their own terms. Don’t you see the mass appeal in that?” Ava gave her final pitch.

“Of course I do, but I don’t know if mainstream America is ready for an in-your-face gay threesome,” Tony said.

“We’re going to make them ready,” Ava vowed.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Massey, but you have an urgent call on line two,” Tony’s assistant announced over his speaker phone.

“Please excuse me, Ms Flowers…” Tony stood up from behind his desk.

“Ava, please call me Ava,” she reminded him again.

“We’ll be in touch, Ava,” Tony promised.

 

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Predictably, and much to his dismay, the urgent call was from Brian’s nurse. The frantic woman had given Tony exactly one hour to get there, before she abandoned her duties, and left the crazy man in the loft apartments on Tremont Street to fend for himself. With lightning speed, Tony made it home within the allotted time. Before entering, he stopped and listened at the door. All sounded clear, but experience had taught him that silence wasn’t always golden. Carefully, he slid the door open…..

“I want my money, and I want it now!” The nurse rushed him.

“GET OUT!” Brian flung one of the remaining pillows from his bed at his unwelcome caretaker.

“That man needs to be put away. He’s crazy! You’d better be glad I didn’t call the police!” the nurse ranted.

“OUT!” Brian threw a water glass that shattered near Tony’s pant leg.

“I’ve been a nurse for over thirty years, and no one has ever treated me this way!” She waved her finger in Tony’s face.

Tony casually reached inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and pulled out his checkbook. “I’d like to apologize for my partner…” he began.

“I DON’T NEED YOU TO APOLOGIZE FOR ME!” Brian interrupted.

“These last few days have been very trying for all of us,” Tony continued. “This should cover your expenses.”

The nurse snatched the check from Tony’s hand, and counted the zeros.

“YOU’VE GOT YOUR MONEY, NOW GET THE FUCK OUT!” Brian barked.

“DON’T WORRY! THERE ISN’T ENOUGH MONEY IN THE WORLD TO PUT UP WITH YOUR BULLSHIT!” she yelled back at the patient from hell, then quickly gathered up her belongings, and exited the loft in a huff.

Tony surveyed the damage. Debbie’s chicken soup, along with its bowl laid splattered in the middle of the floor, next to the shattered water glass. The convenient emesis basin that Brian used in the event he couldn’t make it to the bathroom in time was overturned onto the Egyptian cotton sheets, causing a stench of vomit that permeated through the air. Tony stepped over the war zone, and opened the living room windows. He then turned back to find Brian sitting perched in the middle of the bed, watching him.

“You look like that girl in The Exorcist,” Tony said.

Brian looked past Tony at the billowing curtains dancing in the January wind behind him. “And you look like the priest she pushed out of the window,” he hissed.

“Brian…., precious…, I know you’re not feeling well, but you can’t keep treating people this way. The nurses are here to help you,” Tony said as gently as he could.

“They’re here to milk your checkbook, just like that one just did!” Brian snapped. “Where’s Justin, why isn’t he here?”

“You know that Justin is in class. This is his final semester. He can’t drop everything, and come running whenever you decide to throw a tantrum.,” Tony said.

“You did,” Brian reminded him.

“I’m not going to anymore,” Tony warned. “Now stop this nonsense, and go take a shower. You reek. I’ll be there to help you as soon as I’m done in here.”

Brian watched Tony remove his suit jacket, and roll up his sleeves. “Don’t touch anything. The cleaning lady will be here tomorrow,” he said.

“No cleaning lady should have to deal with this.” Tony knelt down, and began picking up the broken pieces of glass.

“I SAID LEAVE IT ALONE!” Brian threw the last remaining pillow from his bed, and watched it land near the area where Tony was working.

Tony recalled how difficult it was for him after his own bypass surgery. Surely Brian must be experiencing that same kind of fear and helplessness. No doubt Brian’s particularly venomous mood swings were due to the side effects of the radiation treatments. Once the treatments were over, hopefully things would return to normal.

“I SAID LEAVE THAT ALONE, AND GET OUT” Brian hurled the comforter from his bed. The vomit stained linen sailed across the room, and landed draped over Tony’s head.

Son-of-a-bitch, Tony leapt to a standing position. Sick or not, Brian had just crossed the line. No one throws spit on Anthony Massey. Tony charged the bed, and scooped up his contemptuous partner. Amidst a barrage of verbal protests, Brian found himself being manhandled into the bathroom, and unceremoniously tossed onto the cold shower floor. “Evil bastard.” Tony turned on the water, and started to walk away. Never one to give up easily, Brian grabbed Tony’s pant leg, and pulled him down onto the shower floor with him. A fight ensued.

“GODDDAMN YOU!” Brian lashed out landing blow after vicious blow to Tony’s back, his chest, his arms. The pressure of the past few weeks had finally reached its boiling point, and spilled over.

“BRIAN…YOU CRAZY FOOL! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR GODDAMN MIND?” Tony struggled to repel the wild punches that seemed to be coming at him from everywhere. “BABY, STOP!” he called out.

The onslaught ended as quickly as it began. Exhausted, and broken, Brian collapsed into Tony arms. “Damn it…Damn it all to hell. I’m sorry. Tony, I’m so sorry. Oh, god…I’m so sick,” he wept.

“It’s alright, Brian. You’re going to be alright. We’re going to get through this, precious. I promise.” Tony hugged him tight, and gently rocked the terrified bravest member of The Royal Trio in the warm spray of the shower.

 

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Justin slid the loft door open, and sat his backpack down onto the floor. “It’s freezing in here.” He closed the window. “Hello!”

“We’re in here!” Tony responded from the bedroom.

Justin stepped over the broken glass, the comforter, the tossed pillows, and the dried up chicken soup in the middle of the floor. From the bottom of the bedroom steps he could see the pale figure of Brian, cradled in Tony’s arms. Both men lay huddled together underneath bedding that had been haphazardly thrown onto the mattress. Justin quietly approached, and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Brian...”

Tony quickly placed his index finger to his lips. “Shhh! I just got him to sleep,” he whispered.

Justin looked around at the wet towels strewn about the bedroom, the pile of wet clothing laying on the bathroom floor, and the bruises on Tony’s arms. “Jesus Christ, Tony what happened here?” he asked.

“Bath time.” Tony smiled.