Prettyboy

23: I Was Looking for a Change

(A/N: I'm just going to leave this here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5gda6cH60qiY5ZZzcjJ1vC )

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"Famous photographer Frank Iero, who first emerged in the late 50's at Stable Gallery—One of the Warhol contenders—Who came first? What the fuck! People still wonder—the egg or the chicken, Warhol or Iero? What bullshit! This is bullshit! Listen to this, Frank!" 

Robert flailed his arms that day, enraged. And to think that a day had not gone by yet. Less than twenty-four hours had passed.

"After countless rumors concerning his sexual preferences, Iero allegedly married late last year the aspiring Italian model Anna Scottiano (Scotty) who seems to be the protagonist in his latest attempt to return to photography, a futile attempt to go beyond his lost days of glory. For a while, Iero wanted you fooled, judging by his. . . Oh, Jesus, Frank. But late last night, he was spotted at—"

And then came the sigh. 

"At the bar. Last night at the bar," Paul drawled, and he had the most defeated face on. As if we had lost an entire legion in a battle. "Fucking hell."

"What do I care about it," I attempted to alleviate Robert. Paul grabbed the magazine from his hands forcefully. 

"Gimme this," Paul spat, "who is going to believe this shit, c'mon. Look at this. This is such bullshit." He breathed in, then froze. "Wait, it mentions my name! Shit! I am in a gossip magazine. Such bullshit."

"Exactly," I pointed out, "it's a gossip magazine. Keyword. Everyone expects the latest lies from them. Everyone that goes into those expects fabrications. Where did you find this anyway?"

Robert yanked the curtains of his living room and let the sunshine enter, turning his back on me, a meaningless enterprise to avoid eyeing me directly. "It was sent to my door. Everything that mentions your name is on my doorstep, next moment." Sigh again. "It's how it goes, y'know."

"I didn't know." I genuinely did not.

I was so very out of it—to be absolutely candid, I did not mind it at all. So what, I had thought. Rumors were often everywhere, more or less. As soon as your name caught some of the spotlight. Robert himself read it and knew very well that the person writing it had the intentions of demeaning me and my work. 

But I could not care enough to explain it to him in detail.

Because a big change had come upon me overnight. A face. A fleeting glance. 

And I didn't give a fleeing damn about everything else, until. Until—

"What do we do?" asked Paul in urgency. "Bout Frank, I mean."

Robert stood there, looking out the window, admiring the street and the liveliness of Brooklyn. Mulling it over. It was as if I knew what he was intending to advocate. 

"Come out with it," he said, bluntly, then shook his head as if he himself could not come to terms with it. But then, he said again, firmly: "Come out with it and—who cares. Sure, you're not gonna get big names coming to where your name is mentioned anymore, but at least, we won't be having this shit to deal with."

Paul looked at me, trying so very hard to seem acquiescent, while he was aware of the changes it would bring along. Big changes for him, of course. No profits. No nothing. Meanwhile, Robert turned to eye me, where I was seated, sinking into his couch, basking in my indifference and feigned ease. Never had I ever been more uneasy; the situation could hardly be likened to a working class person losing their job. For an artist, there is no second chance.