Prettyboy

29: June 1969

The year 1969 was a strange time to be alive.

For New York, it was the preliminary steps for a new era to come that were subconsciously baffling everyone. And the people were aware of it, letting themselves be wafted by the turbulence of the societal waves, finding themselves washed off at the shores of a new world with a new order. It was a big year for film, that is indisputable, but also for music, as things were beginning to convert, following the uprising of rock 'n' roll, something greater was yet to come. The song 'The Times Are A-Changing' by Bob Dylan had seen so many variations during that year, maybe because it was the end of the decade, but maybe also because people were able to foresee the change that was going to sweep like a tidal wave over them and leave remnants of memories and an insatiable hunger for more behind.

The point is, every part of the world, every aspect, was bracing itself for a change.

And Gerard was reaching out to play a part in the big escapade. So, how could I be absent from the scene?

"I'm going to be there tonight. I wasn't, yesterday," he said, and took a deep breath as he inclined his head, making a promise to himself. Never mind his plans, his eyes were divulging weariness. His hair was unkempt, yet looked as perfect and as done-on-purpose as always. A half-giggle he couldn't seem to hold back escaped him, while his hand came up to massage the back of his neck. Something in him radiated that he was exultant and full of life, although tired. "You know, I was so lucky to have been so busy. I was still at the office in the morning when it happened—you know those late working nights. So, I began calling people so hurriedly, I dialed the numbers in a hit-or-miss way."

I knew it was just sketchy that he had been at work in the morning, instead of being at home, in bed, with the person he was in an actual, open, so-called happy relationship with. But then again, it didn't bother me that he wasn't; I would be rather perturbed to hear that the opposite was the case.

"How did the celebration go?" I reminded myself and, soon I realized, I had reminded him as well.

Gerard looked at me with a frown and a simultaneous smile. His eyes proceeded to dart around the café. 

"How did the burglary go?" he digressed, mischief in his eyes, and I made the terrible mistake of lying to him. But how could I turn to him and say, 'Yeah, my past friend, Ray—you remember Ray—proceeded to accuse me of pedophilia and whatnot, and kept referring to you as my victim. Also, you might want to call your brother because he was the reason this whole ordeal went down.' Even though I wanted to vent my anger and say a hundred million things about the mess that had been made out of nothing, my answer turned out to be quick and simple; complications arose and I left, with the letters in hand. Gerard merely nodded.

"Your brother has been trying to get in touch with you, apparently. Ray wanted me to run this by you," I shared with him, and saw the look on his face transform. 

It went through several slapdash phases of confusion, surprise, befuddlement, and lastly, feigned indifference. I knew the indifference was put-on and not genuine at all; it was something I had learned to distinguish in him by then. It concealed a pained expression behind layers of resignation.

"I'm busy right now, he should know that," was all he said and, quite honestly, I was beginning to wonder what had found the time to occur between them so that Gerard was forced to draw a line in their relationship. But he was not in the mood for explaining. "Any other antics on your road trip? You were gone for two days or so."

I nodded, proudly. "I visited a cemetery in Texas." He looked at me expectantly, waiting for articulation. I had planned none.

"How was it?" he prodded.