First Year
October
Justin was walking down the hallway on the third floor of PIFA’s Painting and Sculpture wing when he heard his name. Looking up, he saw Ethan by the door of his tiny studio.
“Ethan?”
“I heard that you’ve been invited to show in some gallery in New York. I just wanted to tell you that I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks…was there anything else?”
“Have you had lunch yet?”
He put his paint box inside his room. “No, I was headed down, you want to join me?”
“Yeah, if it’s OK with you.”
Justin shrugged. “Sure, fine.” They hadn’t seen much of each other in the last year or so. They would pass in the hall or one would see the other’s name on a flyer for this or that, but they hadn’t had a real conversation. Well, so much for just being friends.
They made their way down to the cafeteria, went through the line and found a table. Ethan looked at Justin’s ring. “That working out for you?”
He nodded. “It’s good.” He took a drink from his soda. “Are you with anyone now?”
“I was—but no.” He started on his salad. “I saw you two walking down Liberty the other day. You looked happy.”
“We are happy.” He ate a couple of fries. “Look, Ethan, did you want something?”
“I thought that we could still be friends.”
Justin looked out the window to the parking lot. “You said that a year ago and it sounded thin then, I don’t think that’s what you want. Brian and I are married and it’s working out for us. You might as well just accept that.”
The look on Ethan’s face told the story. He still wanted Justin and they both knew it. “Did he tell you that he made some calls and pulled strings to get you in that New York gallery?”
Justin’s eyes made a quick shift to Ethan’s face. “Bullshit. I talked to the gallery owner myself. He told me how they found my stuff.”
“I was in the Dean’s office last week about my scholarship and heard them talking. They said that Brian—actually they said Mr. Kinney—called his friend the gallery owner, called in a favor and uploaded your slides himself to the guy. The only reason the school let it go through was that they called the owner and he told them that your work was good enough no matter how he found out about it.”
“That’s crap. Brian wouldn’t do that, and even if he had he would have told me about it.”
Ethan stood, picking up his tray. “You might want to have a talk with the hub. I’ll see you around.”
Justin sat there for a couple of minutes. Brian wouldn’t do that. Brian was always completely honest with him, never lied or any of the shit you got with most people. He believed that you made it on your own; you didn’t use people, that the only thing worth celebrating was genuine accomplishment. They had celebrated this, they’d had dinner and champagne and he’d never said a word about knowing this Gormley at the gallery.
Shit.
He took out his cel, glanced at the wall clock. Brian would probably be in that lunch meeting he had mentioned this morning.
Shit.
He had English in twenty minutes. Fuck it. He got his backpack, walked out to the bus stop. It would take at least half an hour to get to Brian’s office, by then he’d probably be done with the clients.
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“Hi Justin. I didn’t know you were coming in today.”
“Hey, Cynthia. Is he here?”
“He’s still at lunch. Would you like to wait in his office? He won’t mind.”
“Will he be long?”
“Maybe another half hour or so.”
“Yeah, I’m just going to get a soda first.” Ten minutes later he was sitting in Brian’s office. It had been a while since he’d spent any time there and a couple of memories took root and wouldn’t leave—Brian firing his ass for screwing up when he’d been interning and the reunion when he’d finally, as Brian told him to do, grown some balls and walked in, asking for both his job and his lover back. Well, it looked like today might add to his diary of Tales from Vanguard.
He was sitting at Brian’s desk, just sort of idly looking at things, waiting. There were the expected files and papers and storyboards and paste-ups around. His laptop was set up but not on. There was a picture of the three of them, Brian and Gus and Justin at the park about six months ago. It had been a bright sunny day and the snap was one Linds took while they were sitting on a bench eating ice cream, Gus on Brian’s lap and Justin holding one the child’s hands. They were all smiling and happy in the picture. It had been a good day.
Most people never saw that side of Brian, the side that would do any fucking thing in the world for the people he loved. He’d give them money or encouragement or himself or push them off a fucking cliff if that was what they needed.
Or make a phone call and pull in some favors from his friend the gallery owner.
Shit.
The door opened. Brian.
“Cynthia said you were here. Is something wrong?” Justin almost never showed up at the office, it was too weird. Everyone stared at them. Brian came around the desk to kiss him, but Justin turned away so all he got was his ear.
“Why the fuck did you do it? And were you ever going to tell me that Fred Gormley is some old friend of yours?”
Brian straightened back up. “I sent him the slides, but he wouldn’t have accepted you if the work wasn’t up to his standards. All he agreed to do was look at them. The offer came from him.”
“That is such complete bullshit. What did you do? Offer to handle the ads for his gallery this year for free or something?”
“I didn’t offer him anything. I told him that I knew a young artist who might be of interest to him. When he asked, I uploaded some samples of your work.”
“Right. And what else did you do? Did you offer to blow him if he gave me the fifth slot in the show?”
“No and you don’t have to either. All I did was exactly what I told you.”
“You fucker—poor stupid Justin can’t do anything on his own. Brian has to hold his gimp hand and smooth the road and make the phone calls and see to it that everyone is nice and no Goddamned hint of realty sneaks it’s way in. Fuck you.”
Brian, with some effort, kept his temper. “Fuck you. All I did was to open a door for you. If your work sucked, it would have ended right there and we wouldn’t be going to New York tomorrow. You got into the show on your own merit and you fucking know that.”
“Like Hell.”
“How the fuck did you find out about it anyway?”
“What difference does it make? The point is that I found out and you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie, you asshole. Networking is what I fucking do for a living. I’ve known Fred since I was in college and I did him a Goddamned favor as much as I did you one. He needs to have the top new talent to maintain his own reputation for shit’s sake. Now who was the elf who’s been filling your ears with bullshit?”
Reluctantly Justin ‘fessed up. “I had lunch with Ethan.”
“…Why the fuck would you listen to him?” Brian was getting pissed off. “You know what a lying fuck he is.”
“He’s not a …”
“You really want me to get into this?”
Shit.
Brian was right—again. Ethan was a shit and he’d listened to him. He knew better. He should have fucking known better.
Justin stood up, went to Brian, his arms going around him. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
Brian held him back. “It’s alright.” He kissed the smaller man’s forehead. “You know I wouldn’t jerk you around like that. You got that show on your own. The fact that I know Fred isn’t important.”
“…Brian, is that the truth? You didn’t pull any strings to get me accepted?”
“It’s the truth, twat.”
They were still embracing when Vance knocked once and walked in. They both looked over at him.
“Yes, quite. Forgive my interrupting, but might you earn your exorbitant salary, Brian? The people from Hartz Mountain are in the main conference room if you would so good as to join us. Nice to see you again, Justin.”
“Hello, Mr. Vance.”
“I’ll be right there, Gardner.” Vance was gone.
Another kiss. “Later.”
“Later.”
They left for New York early the next morning, just waiting long enough to miss rush hour. The drive was uneventful and they crossed the George Washington Bridge around four thirty, heading to midtown and the gallery to unload. Fred was waiting, directing them to the loading dock and there were a couple of people to help them carry the paintings inside. Justin was shown his wall space and offered any help he might need.
It was suggested that, given the hour and the fact that they had just finished a long drive, they might want to deal with this in the morning, check into their hotel, get some dinner, rest or whatever they’d like and come back around ten the next morning to setup. Since they only had eight paintings to deal with, they could all be up in a few hours, the opening itself—and the reception—would take place the next evening.
Needing little encouragement and feeling tired, hungry and dirty, they agreed. The car was left in a secure garage and the three-block walk to their hotel was a nice break after being cooped up all day.
They were shown their room, tipped the bellboy, Justin laughing as the door closed. “This is a lot like the room in Chelsea.”
“You think?”
“I think.”
They proceeded to prove it—on the bed, in the shower and back on the bed.
The temptation to sleep in the next morning was great, but they really couldn’t. A quick room service breakfast and they had to go. Justin excited by it all—his first New York show, his first real trip to New York with Brian, his first real shot at making a dent in the art world, flip flopped between almost giggling excitement and paralyzing fear. Brian, trying to be supportive, was about to kill him.
The paintings went up without a problem and by three everything was ready for the opening at seven. Fred told all of the young artists, drawn from RISD, Kansas City Art Institute, Parsons and FIT, as well as Justin, that he was as excited about this group as he’d ever been and that he knew this show would be memorable, that the critics would rave and that they all had brilliant futures ahead of them
They all knew it was bullshit, but enjoyed hearing it anyway. As they were all headed to hotels or apartments to get showered, fed and changed. Fred took Brian’s arm.
“So did you want to get dinner before the show? It would give us a chance to catch up—besides, I have something I’d like to talk with Justin about.”
They agreed to meet at a small Japanese place Fred knew over on 57th at five.
Justin, so wound up that Brian was forced to make a conscious effort not to strangle him, was slightly helped by the shower sex and more bed sex, but not nearly enough. Brian’s patience was being tested as they walked to the restaurant.
“How did you two meet?”
“Fred used to be an art director at Ryder when I first started there. He’s the one who taught me what’s really important in an ad—not what the schools teach you. He was also the only other gay there at the time, at least who I was aware of. He’s smart and funny and we’ve been friends since my first day there.”
“Did you ever fuck him?”
“Fred? God, no.” He stopped. “This is the place.” Going in, Fred was already waiting. Over the tempura and the teriyaki they told Justin stories about young Brian getting his first accounts, setting himself apart from the pack of new hires and recent grads, impressing the clients first with his looks and then with his intelligence and ideas.
Justin had wondered about young Brian, how he had dealt with being the new kid, the new hire. He had always assumed that he’d just sailed through like he usually did.
Fred was the one who set him straight. “Remember that asshole, Brian—the ad exec who always took credit for everyone else’s ideas? Well one day he tried to rip off some campaign Brian had busted his balls over, really a knock your socks off kind of thing and was trying to cut Brian out if the loop, take the bonus and all that sort of shit.”
“So what did you do?” Justin directed that at Brian, Fred answered.
“Right in front of Ryder and the clients, Brain asked Stan, the asshole, where he’d gotten his research for the copy—it was some esoteric shit that Brian had spent weeks looking up and getting right—Stan tried to bullshit his way through, but pretty much stepped in it. Ryder fired him that afternoon and after that Brian had the rep and no one tried to screw with him.”
“They still don’t.” Justin kissed his cheek.
“I hear you two really got married, hmm? I never thought anyone would get to this one here—when I heard that, I knew I had to meet you.”
“Fuck you, Fred.”
“Bite me, Brian. You know, Justin, if your stuff sucked, even if it was Brian who brought you in, it would still be in Pittsburgh. In case you were wondering.”
“I was, but Brian told me pretty much the same thing.”
“He’s right. I may be a nice guy, but it’s still a business and I’ve got a rep to protect. Your shit is good, that’s why I’d like you to think about letting me be your agent here in New York. I think there’s a market for your work. I have the gallery to show your paintings and we’d both make out well.”
“…Thanks.”
“Don’t give me an answer now. Talk it over with Brian and we’ll get back to it tomorrow or so. You two done? We should head over.”
Justin held Brian’s hand. Jesus, he felt like Dorothy about to walk into Oz.
The gallery was set for the opening. The caterers had been there and the flowers were in place. The work lights were off, the picture lighting was on and the crowd was starting to arrive. Justin started out glued to Brian, but as the evening wore on and the invited guests approached him to offer compliments he began to loosen up enough to start to enjoy himself.
He spent a good half hour talking to some guy in jeans and a turtleneck—black, of course, before being pulled away by some woman in a classic 50’s Dior New Look gown. From her he was passed on to the usual groupies and parents of the other artists and began to thoroughly have fun.
The crowd had spilled out to the sidewalk and after a couple of hours he found Brian there having a cigarette, chatting with some man who seemed to be hitting on him. Going over, he put his arm around Brian’s waist, pulling him down for a kiss, staking his claim.
“Justin, this is Larry Scheck. He’s been wanting to meet you. He’s the editor of Art News.”
Shaking hands, Larry was saying how impressed he was and would Justin agree to an interview in the morning before they left to go home? He’d like to feature Justin’s paintings and touch on the fact that he’d come back from the bashing, if he wouldn’t mind.
“If it’s alright with you, Mr. Scheck, I’d rather not dwell on that. It would seem like I’m going for sympathy and I’d like my work to stand on it’s own merit.”
“Well—I can do that, too, it you’d prefer.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult or anything, but it’s simply not relevant at this point.”
“Fine. Tomorrow at ten. Is here at the gallery good? We’d like to get pictures of you with some of the paintings.”
“I’ll be here. Thank you, Mr. Scheck, thank you so much.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I need another glass of wine.” He went back inside.
“God, Brian, this is so fantastic! I had no idea that it would be so much fun and everyone is so incredibly nice. I mean, I know they’re blowing smoke up my ass, but it sounds so fucking good!”
Fred touched his arm. “Justin, if you could come inside, two of your paintings just sold and the new owners would like to meet you.”
That big sunshine smile broke out. “Brian—shit.”
The next morning Brian had the New York Times brought up to the room on the breakfast tray. There was an article about the opening, Justin was the breakout star.
They made it back down to the gallery by nine thirty, bringing coffee and bagels for everyone and accepting congratulations. He saw the red dots on six of his eight paintings. Six sold the first night for from seven hundred to three thousand dollars. His personal take was just under seven thousand dollars.
“God, Brian, this is amazing.” He couldn’t stop grinning.
Larry Scheck showed up with a photographer, asked questions for about an hour, spent thirty minutes taking pictures, thanked them all and left. Fred told them that he was as well received as any young artist he had ever seen. In fact, the Times critic had asked Fred when he was scheduled for a one-man show. At first Fred had taken it as just an over the top comment, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea—would April be too soon to get enough pieces ready?
Justin threw his arms around Fred, causing him to burst out laughing. “Watch that shit. Brian will whip my ass.”
“Fred, we have to get on the road. This had been terrific.”
Justin went to shake his hand but was pulled into a bear hug.
“Are you shitting me? I now have the new hot artist—I do get to rep you, right? Hell, Brian can look over the contract. I’ll send it when I cut your check for the sales.”
Justin, for once speechless, just nodded.
They arrived back at the loft around eight that night. The drive was smooth enough, but they’d stopped for dinner and gas and had taken their time. Justin hadn’t stopped talking the entire time and Brian was ready to kill him.
They opened the door to the loft, ready to collapse. As they put the bags in the bedroom and began stripping to shower, Brian hit the blinking answering machine.
Most of the messages were boring or telemarketers. The seventh one was different.
“Hey, Justin? It’s Ethan. I know I shouldn’t be calling you at home, but I was hoping that when you get back from New York we could hook up and talk. OK? I’d like to talk about—well, I’ll tell you when I see you. OK? Give me a call. You know the number.”
Goddamnit.