Vintage Memories

Chapter Twenty-Eight "Radio Silence"

(Here's to the final arc of Vintage Memories. We are starting off with honestly the nadir, the lowest of low point and what I believe it the most intense chapter, but there is only one way to go from the bottom and that is up! Trigger Warning: This chapter contains, sexually explicit language and scenes, violence, drugs, overdosing, religious abuse, homophobic language, mild gore, and death)    

Years had passed, flittered away like papers caught in the wind's current, yanked out of one's grasp and away they went. The influence of the 1930's was a ghost now on the marge of memory, and the '40's were on their way out, making way for the new, impending decade, sprung up like a verdant sprout in the ashes of the Depression, Prohibition, and war.

The serene ricochet of jovial jazz had quickened to the rigorous tempos of rock 'n roll, signaling the budding rebellion that one laid quiescently in the chests of American youth. There was a second American civil war on the way, between the traditional and the progressive, one where the first predicting tremors could be felt in the media, music, and art.

But still the discourse was peaceful, still united a couple years later by the country's sweeping World War II victory.

With Christmas passed and New Years afoot, it seemed that every New York household was kindled with joyous festivity. Buildings were adorned in diamond necklaces of twinkling lights, and bountiful swags of bows and pine foliage draped along window sills and fascia trims in sweeping, smiling arches, hopeful for the promises of the new year.

Although, not all were prone to celebrating on this night.

A lone car, parked against a curb on a desolate street salted in light snow, rocked steadily back and forth, muffled moaning erupting from within. With all the commotion against the silent backdrop of the late night, it was just as jarring when the movement and illicit noises came to an explosive climax and then to a trenchant cease.

The silence was short lived. The back door next to the sidewalk was thrust open. The click of heels sounded in dry taps against the thin membrane of ice that settled within the cracks of the concrete.

Despite the winter wind, whipping the skin in bursts of stinging lashes, and greedily sucking the moisture from eyes and lips, the clothing Anthony wore was bordering on none at all. He donned nothing but heels and a full length girdle, the stocking clips dangling unaccompanied off the end of the cream rayon skirt. His chest, arms, legs, and upper back were left helpless to be fondled by winter's icy hands, and the skin quickly turned numb.

He leaned his body against the open car window, his cadaverous form illuminated in a lone street lamp. It was clear from the protruding features of his collarbone and ribs beneath his pale skin, as white as the snow sprinkling down from the sky, that he had lost a staggering amount of weight. Even with the attempt of heavy makeup, the sunken depression of his cheeks and eyes were still visible upon closer inspection.

The smile he bore was far from genuine contentment; more of a flirtatious vixen. White-blonde hair fell into his face, decidedly shrouding the left side of his face from view.

He peered in through the open passenger window at the scruffy looking man, up in his years, with grizzled, charcoal sideburns dusting down the sides of his tanned face, coming to a point at the end of his jutted chin in what had begun to look like an old 1800's chin curtain.

And so, Anthony had endearingly... no mockingly, graced this client with the name Curtains. Anthony had told him to keep the beard; he said he liked it. In truth and in secrecy, he just liked laughing at it. He would never tell Curtains this, but that little moment of barbed humor in seeing that ridiculous style brightened his nights a bit.