Falsettos one shots

Art class

Whizzer moved in, reluctantly of course. I’m not sure whether he was actually grateful or not, it made my life both easier and harder. I was no longer as anxious about Trina rooting through my stuff, Whizzer’s things were bound to get mixed up with mine now that we lived together, but there were a couple of close calls. Trina using her keys, that I gave her to keep up appearances that we weren’t grinding to a sudden halt and coming in unannounced just after we had finished fucking, sometimes half dressed, sometimes Whizzer almost announcing that he was satisfied for a change as he got out of the shower.

It wasn’t long until I found out the real reason she forced me to join her at that fucking art class to try and reconnect.

Photographs.

I refused to change a thing about my apartment, no matter how much Whizzer begged, which was a lot. But the one thing I let him do was bring his work home, turns out being a college art teacher is much more work than I thought. Our floor (note how it’s singular) was stacked now with portfolios and equipment, most of the black objects alien to me. Sometimes I would come home after one of my writing benders and his head would bolt around to see me, sitting in a web of photographs, his eyes wide, sleep deprived and dark, the pitch-black apartment around him making him look like he was in a horror movie.

He would hang up photographs soaked in gamsol and other solvents, onto strings he had hooked across the room, and I would have to duck to wade through them, following his very specific rules as I tried to find him in the maze, and then one day.

One day it was all gone as though it had disappeared, just when I had got used to it.

In it’s place, covering the walls were photographs much better than what previously subsided. Black and White photographs that were sensual and thought provoking, male figures, almost all naked.

I reached out to touch the wall as I saw a figure I recognised. my own. My back was facing the camera, a perfect slit of light cascading over the muscle, a perfect stopping point where the cover met my ass.

All the photographs strategically taken so they weren’t exposing a person’s face or genitals, the occasional image of someone awake, them being the ones who you could see their whole face or body. I guess it had something to do with consent.

I ripped the photo of me off of the wall, my eyes narrowing as I stared at it.

“hey babe-“ I spun around, seeing Whizzer with his sunglasses over his eyes and a bright pink Starbucks in his hand, gripping a black portfolio in his other, a different one to what I had seen his students use when I would sometimes write in his class. I found it nice, easy concentrating when I could hear his melodic voice talking passionately about photography. I would sit in the dark room, just able to hear it through the heavy door.

We would have sex after class. It was hot. A student walked in on us once.

“oh-“ his voice cracked as he saw me holding the photo.

“what the fuck Whizzer.” I exclaimed, the photograph scrunching into a ball as I saw red, “you took photographs of me? Who are these people!?”

He put down the portfolio carefully on the table, a cautious but bright smile on his face, “I didn’t want to tell anyone until it was certain, but I got a show at this big gallery.”

“a show? You took photographs of me without my fucking permission, if Trina saw these she would… she would…”

“okay just stop. No one can even tell it’s you!” his smile had dropped faster than his pants when we had sex, “can’t you just be fucking happy for me for a change. My dreams are finally coming true, there’s meant to be a huge donor coming, and, and people who want to actually buy my art!”

“I am happy for you, just keep my fucking face out of it.”

Whizzer laughed coldly, “your face isn’t in it!” he took off his sunglasses and stormed up to me, prising the photo of me out of my hands, “ do you even care about how big this is for me, do you even want to know what I’m showing?”

“I’m guessing that!” I yelled pointing at the wall.

He smoothed out the photograph as best as he could, a pained look overcoming his face.

We had painful sex that afternoon, good the way he liked, but emotionally draining. My stomach hurt afterwards when he instantly put on a pair of jeans, not even bothering with boxers, a sweater and left, not saying a word.

I don’t want to be just another body on your wall. I want to be the only one.

Left me laying on the bed, exposed.

We didn’t really talk for almost a month, our paths hardly ever crossing, our interactions awkward and quiet, filled with silence. Then one day, I got an envelope in the mail, my name beautifully hand scripted on the front.

An invitation, me and a plus one to one of the most exclusive galleries in the city.

He still invited me.

Of course I ended up taking Trina, and for a change, I wore something I knew he’d like. A tuxedo I rented, slick and tight, the bowtie taking several attempts before I managed to actually tie it. I took the L to Trina’s parent’s house, waited outside for her, a cigarette dangling between my lips.

A habit he seemed to have left with me.

As soon as she saw me, she rolled her eyes, strutting up to me in her heels that made her taller than me, and instantly ripped it out of my mouth, throwing it on the floor, grinding it harshly beneath her feet.

“you look beautiful tonight.” I said as I put out my arm for her. She linked hers in mine, leaning on me as we walked.

I lied. Well, almost.

She was beautiful, she’s always been beautiful, but I’ve come to realise that maybe her beauty was more of a mercy for me. I was attracted to her because she was innocent, she didn’t seem like she needed intimacy from me, I judged poorly as usual, but maybe in some world we would’ve made better friends the partners.

Maybe in some world.

“you like it?” she whispered, her eyes large and sincere.

She was referring to her dress, which honestly I didn’t like. It was loose fitting, flowy and a biting red, she wore a fur throw around her shoulders, it cascaded down to her stomach, but in a staged way that confused me.

I did like the stuff she’d put on her eyes, shimmery and a beautiful silver tone that brought out the grey in her eyes.

But I bit my tongue, smiling to her, “yes.”

We took the subway to the gallery, the irony was heavily present as we stood in the crowded cart, bodies pressed up to each other, the stale smell of stranger’s breaths around us. Us in our best clothes, the world around us dressed for the apocalypse…

Somehow incredibly fitting to how oblivious I was to how far my life would fall.

Men would push up against her, and I watched how uncomfortable she was, how her jaw would tighten and if they made any comments about her, she would let out a series of non-threatening girlish giggle that weren’t believable in the slightest.

I held onto her tight and as soon as we got to times square, got off, semi running in our ballgowns and tuxedos through the throngs of crowds, tourists, people stopping at the top of escalators, people staring at their phones.

There’s something beautifully haunting about living in the greatest city in the world and most people missing the tiny moments in their hurry.

We made it to the gallery just on time, slipping in to the back of the crowd gathered around a small platform, Whizzer speaking on the the stage. I almost froze in my tracks as I saw him, his tight suit, so tight, so perfect, the ironed pleats sharp, the way he had slicked his hair back instead of letting it fall forward as he would usually.

There will always be something about him that I will never be able to forget.

His eyes met mine and he hesitated for a second.

Something so uncharacteristic for him, something that I pride myself in being able to do.

I didn’t listen to his speech, I just watched, clinging to every single word.

“hey. Marv- Marvin right?” my head swung around to see the art class teacher and her girlfriend, the one who modelled with Whizzer.

“oh hello!” I managed to get out, wracking my brain for their names. “um it’s ni-“

“Cordelia, Charlotte, it’s nice to see you.” Trina saved me in my floundering, kissing their cheeks. She seemed tense again, that happens around gay people, It’s the conservative upbringing. “charlotte your dress is to die for and Cordelia, those shoes!” I could sense she was trying to point out which was which for me and I silently nodded a thank you.

“you look lovely-“ the woman, I guess Cordelia said, before turning pointedly to me, “Whizzer invited you?”

“yes.”

They knew. They definitely knew.

“why don’t we go look at his art.” Was all Cordelia said in response. I took Trina’s arm again, following the lesbians around the gallery, seeing photos I recognised, seeing photos that I hadn’t paid much attention too when they were strung up around the room.

Seeing photos that he had yelled at me for accidentally touching as I tried to arrange my novel’s pages.

I had almost finished my novel, I just hadn’t decided on an ending, there were several, I just didn’t know which way to go.

“You came!” I heard Whizzer’s voice from behind me and I turned as he flung himself at Charlotte and Cordelia. Embracing them with energy I had never seen before.

“whizz! I love this so much!” I zoned out, watching them. hug’s, tears, excitement. suddenly we were offered champagne and crudités, Trina declining both.

And then he turned to me, “Marvin.”

“Whizzer.” I downed the champagne, it was good stuff, it was also all bubbles and did nothing.

He sighed, smiling brightly, thinking back on it, smiling wickedly. “I have a piece I want to show you.”

Trina shot me a confused look and I just smiled, a small shrug as we followed him. We rounded a corner and there it was.

The wall of photos, of naked men. The wall that caused our fight. The title below read, ‘to all the men I’ve ever slept with.’ This time I recognised the sheer volume of images, larger than were on our apartment wall by a long shot.

“like it Marvin?” He asked me maliciously. I turned to him, biting the inside of my cheeks, afraid that Trina would notice my reaction and ask about it.

“Marvin?” In my attempts to hide my anger I hadn’t noticed Trina getting suspiciously close to the wall. “is this you?”

My heart stopped, “of course not.” I said, staring at Whizzer still. I languished in the iciness of his eyes, the hatred, I tried to stay calm, somehow they helped.

“no, Marvin this is definitely you.”

“Trina, how many times do I—”

It wasn’t the photo I had crumpled up; it wasn’t a barely recognisable silhouette of me. Instead it was me from the last time we fucked, I hadn’t even remembered him taking it.

It was me, nude, seated on the bed, our bed, and him on his knees, sitting up to meet me in a kiss. Right in the centre. Malicious and staged. The one coloured photo, taken to create contrast, taken to make it stand out. A brilliant red shade, taken as though the lights were luminescent. Our bodies making a heart shaped silhouette.

“baby I—”

Beneath the wall there was a note. ‘to all the men I’ve ever slept with, and the only one I loved.’ 

“no.” she put her hand out to silence me and I instantly shut my mouth. “no you can’t be gay- I need you.”

“I’m not gay, it was a one-time thing, I was curious and-“

“because I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

It suddenly made sense.

We all stared at her, her loose-fitting clothes, the way she had be extra touchy, the way she had been careful around food and drink.

The way she tried to find that spark a couple of months ago, tried to coax the kindling to light one final time.

She flung herself at me, her hands gripping my back, an ecstatic smile on her face and I couldn’t do anything, except for stare at Whizzer without hugging her back, my heart snapping and breaking, my arms dangling helplessly.

Seeing the hurt look in his eyes, seeing him bring a hand up to his face and wipe the tears away, shaking silently. Seeing Charlotte take his hand, seeing Cordelia shake her head viciously at me.

“he loved you.” She whispered after she stole a moment with me, “you’re the only person he’s ever loved, and you screwed it up.” She had a shaking anger following her in her wake as she flew after Whizzer.

I never saw Whizzer Brown again, but he was everywhere.

I still think of him, I still think of the way his hair fell forward over his face, how his eyes crinkled and disappeared when he laughed. How everything was a game to him, how some of the happiest moments of my life were spent with him, our finger’s intertwined as we lay in bed, laughing and convincing ourselves we could stay there forever.

I finished my novel. It was easy in the end, a metaphor for my closeted life. The painter ends up alone, confined only by his paints and the walls around him.

He shoots himself in the head only for his work to become worth millions after his death.

That’s the irony about artists, they’re worth much more dead.

I saw his face on a billboard in time’s square years later advertising an art show when I was taking my son to the natural history museum, it must’ve been ten or so years, but he hadn’t changed.

We took a detour, instead going to the gallery, and that was where I was met with the painful truth, the monster that watches over you as you sleep. The photo in the lobby, the one of us, blown up so it was almost life sized.

Beneath it were two dates, a birthday and a death date.

And the description.

‘Whizzer Brown and unknown man from his series, ‘to all the men I’ve slept with’. The only photograph he ever took of himself.

Numb. “I’m sorry, what happened?” I asked the women as I bought my son and I a ticket.

She chewed her gum in a bored fashion. Disrespectful. “are you sure this is the right exhibit to show your son?” she asked, her New York accent thick and loud, her vowels trumpeting and her gum making loud chewing sounds.

“he’s my son.” I spat spitefully, “ what happened to the artist?”

She tapped her long acrylic nails on the desk. “ AIDs. He read ‘an artist’s rouse’ and decided suicide was the poetic way to go.” She tried to speed me along, but I couldn’t feel anything, “he has a whole section of his work dedicated to the book, he called it ‘the irony about artists’”

She handed me a flyer. His suicide note printed onto the cheap shiny paper, my eyes glimpsing familiar words that I had sculpted for hours and hours to make sure they were perfect ‘to go out without care, my head high in the air.’ Ones written in my first draft, but discarded later, ones no one else could’ve seen. But him.

“What are you writing about?” He asked me and I blushed. I don’t know why I blushed; I just did. I hadn’t told anyone what I was writing about, especially not Trina, it was a sensitive subject.

“I really don’t want anyone reading until I finish.” 

He dragged a finger from my chest up to my chin, taking it with his thumb, “I read a page.”  

I closed the gap between us slightly, looking down to his lips, ”you did?”

“Uh huh.” He leant in so close I could feel his breath on me, smelling the mint gum which he obviously used to get rid of the cigarettes that clung to his aura. My breath failed me, shaking at his closeness, anticipation waiting for his next move.

I felt the tears prickle in my eye, but I swallowed them, my larynx rising, “he shot himself?” I whispered.

“you know the book?”

I shook my head, taking Jason’s hand and I led him into the large gallery.

“why did you lie to the woman?” He asked quietly. “you wrote it.”

Because son, that man was the only person I have truly loved, that man was the reason I stayed in New York, just for the chance that I could see him again. I broke him, and I never made amends, I am the unknown man, I am in the only portrait he ever took of himself, and I am the reason he is dead. Because son, the truth acts like a knife and once you admit it to yourself, the guilt will kill you before anything else.

I didn’t answer.

The irony about artists is that they are worth much more dead than alive.

The irony about humans, is that the memories they leave behind, are worth much more than their life. We view them with excessive sentimentality, forgetting their flaws.

If I am to die, I would like my flaws to be remembered because flaws are the things that make us human.

Because even Whizzer Brown, the person I saw as perfect, had flaws.