Prettyboy

25: New Jersey (Pt. II)

Gerard's apartment back then used to be twenty minutes by foot, in the center of The Village. Just in the corner of it used to stand a, hear hear, very known queer bar. One, in fact, that I had visited so many times and did its job of concealing its purpose mostly well. I could always, from now and on, curse myself for stopping by the bar so many times without having seen Gerard. And to think he had been only steps away, goddamn me. While his apartment from the outside looked like a minimalist juxtaposition to the ones it was squeezed between, from the inside it seemed to be pretty good for one's first time in New York City. I hankered back at the times when, at nineteen, I used to sleep in a literal walking closet because I could not find a better apartment with the money I was earning.

"This is impressive," I told him, earnestly. The smell of coffee and old books reached me when I walked through the doorway. It somehow made sense that his place would smell like that. And when we passed the hallway and got into the living room with a shabby, unmade couch which was connected to a small kitchen, the afternoon sun extended its rays into the rooms—it's hard to find a place to rent that isn't veiled by a big skyscraper. Such things do not come cheap, either, and as my informer had told me, Gerard was working a nine-to-five job.

"It's Camden's—guy I live with," he made known, a bit late, because I had already spotted the mail on the couch that read another recipient's name. "Cat's his, too. I sorta hate the cat. I mean, his name is Jerry Lee Lewis, for God's sake."

A Siamese gawked at us from the doorway to, presumably, the bedroom. I wondered if they slept in different bedrooms, guy and Gerard. But then again, they could not be living in a house with one bedroom, as they would get evicted after getting discovered and ratted on. That, for being homosexual. That was a thing back then; it happened very often to about everyone apart from people like me.

"Who names a cat after a living person?" I commented, bitterly. Obviously, this Camden person did not appeal to me.

"Some people do."

"Yeah. But that does not make it less freaky. Also, It's Jerry Lee Lewis. He was probably a pedophile."

"What would you rather it'd be named, then? Frank Iero?"

"Now, that's something," I joked, "I like that name. Frank Iero."

He shook his head and I noticed the corners of his mouth that were struggling to be kept in a straight line. It was starting to show, that his anger was ebbing away. He evidently wanted to stay mad at me. "Your ego-problem has gotten worse since the last time I saw you."

"All complaints to The Maker. And your friend, who is extremely ungainly in his effort to be flattering."

He led the way to the kitchen table and motioned me to sit down.

"Who, Oliver?" I nodded. "Yeah, he's a bit excessive with his infatuation. But he's a good kid, really." I was almost going to tell him, right then, but I held my tongue back. Maybe it was for the best. He went on to tell me, "But don't put on airs just yet—he does this to every somewhat-known artist he meets."

I smirked. "Are you implying I am a 'somewhat-known'?"

"God, you're more uppity than I thought." He stood up. "Coffee?"

I didn't refuse. And as he was making us two cups, my eyes darted around for every telltale sign I could find. A hole in their playing house; a hint of disdain or desperation. My scheme was, I could point at it, as if to prove to him he didn't need anybody else now that I was back in his life. But, despite myself, all in all, their apartment was very comfortable and warm, which, more or less, put me in the difficult situation of feeling hopeless.