Late morning Saturday confusion at the Novotny-Bruckners - Ben dashing for the ringing phone, Mel and Michael gathering Jenny’s things, Hunter yawning his way into the bathroom, “Phone’s ringing,” as he slammed the door.

Michael lifted a diaper bag, watched Mel hike the baby to her shoulder.  “Why don’t I take Jenny, and you take this.”

“It’s okay.  I’ve got her,” Mel asserted, missed Michael’s disappointment as she reached for the bag with her free hand. “Thanks for everything.  You AND Ben.”

Michael kept the bag.  “I’m on my way to the store so I’ll walk you out and help you get Jenny in the car seat.”  He called, “See you later,” to Ben on the phone and scribbling a note, then he ushered Mel out.

“That’s great,” Ben said to the caller as he waved to departing Michael, turned aside to block the toilet flush from the opening bathroom door.  “Thank you.”

Hunter stepped out, saw Ben hang up with a big smile.  “Secret lover?”

“Wordsmith Book Store,” Ben offered his note, “And it just so happens they need a stock clerk.”

Hunter flattened, “Friend of yours?” and took the paper.

“I know you’re looking for a job.  And it’s not a favor to me.  They really do need someone.”  Seeing Hunter’s apathy, Ben backed off, lightly added,  “If you’re interested, just call that number.  Or stop by.  It might be a good backup until you find something better.”  Don’t push, don’t batter.

“Yeah,” Hunter eyed the note, “Maybe I’ll do that,” shoved it into his pocket and swaggered to the door.  A fucking BOOK STORE?  On the other hand, he didn’t say I hafta take it…more than my bitch Mother would’ve done.  “Hey.  Need anything while I’m out?”

“No,” Ben smiled.  “But thanks for asking.”  He watched Hunter leave, kept the smile.  You’ll do what you want, but I’ll do what I can to give you more choice.  Hm.  Really quiet around here.  

At the LA Art Studio…

Justin sat at a drafting table, tired eyes on two pages of blank rectangles.  He finally lifted one to Silberman standing beside him.  “I’d use the one eight five aspect ratio.”

“Good choice,” Silberman approved, frowned when he saw Justin sniffle and rub an eye.  “When did you get back from Pittsburgh?”

“About six hours ago.”

“Sure you’re up to this today?”

“Yeah,” Justin straightened.  “I got enough sleep on the flight.”  Well…

“Good, because they’re pitching the film Tuesday and need these key frames.  It’s a small project but so was Blair Witch.  Marco offered to help and I took him up on it.  He’s good with two and three-point perspective.”  Silberman paged through a clipboard, pulled an 8x10 and held it out.  “The Director wants Futura City to look like this.”

Justin took the black and white photo.  A close-up of a mud puddle?  Reflecting the moon?  “Like THIS?”

“That’s what he wants.  If HE knew how to build a city from that, he wouldn’t be paying US.”  He saw Marco enter, equipment in hand.  “Marco.  Thanks for coming in.”

“No problem,” Marco smiled, took the clipboard from Silberman’s hand.  “Is this the breakdown?”

“A few major scenes.  I need about twenty or thirty good frames by Monday.”

Justin froze, settled, “Then I guess I better get started.”  He watched Silberman nod and walk out then eyed the photo.  “How do I build a city based on this.”

Marco snatched it off the desk.  “Directors come in with all kinds of bullshit and end up going with what we decide anyway.  Use the breakdown.  Spells it all out.  A post-epidemic wasteland.”

“No,” Justin countered, pulled the photo back, studied it aloud. “Overdeveloped.  Keeps the detail but makes it dark.  Looks like the moon, but it’s the sun.  Shadowed…murky…

a kind of hidden beauty to it.”  Crushed diamonds on black velvet.  “A place you love despite itself, because you see something there you never noticed until you stepped outside and looked in.”

Marco watched Justin fly into action.  Panels…charcoal pencil…quick lines.  “Watch your perspective.  Where’s your horizon?”

“Don’t worry.  I can see it.”  Justin peppered short strokes in the frame, swept one solid line past the defined zone.

“Keep it in the lines.”

“I’ll erase what I don’t need later.” Justin eyed the paper, picked a graphite pencil and used it sideways to lay broad shadows.

“Think you can go twenty or thirty?”

“I’ve knocked off more than that in one night for Rage,” Justin breezed confidence.  Rage.  “Fuck,” Justin smacked down his pencil.  “Forgot to call Michael.  The Comic deadline is Monday and I didn’t finish the panels yet.”

“Let ME take a crack at it,” Marco stayed cool despite Justin’s quirked brows.  “Hey.  You got plenty to do, and it’ll give me something to work on till you finish enough frames for a tech check.”

“Are you serious?”

“Been reading comics all week.  AND your website.” Marco sat on the table edge, took a blank paper, clipped it over the breakdown, snatched a pencil.  “So what’s the story?”

At Kinnetik, Brian talked into his headset as he paced behind his desk.  “Here’s the story.  Leo?  Still there?  We start phasing out the Boyd ads with a new campaign…” Called WHAT.  Brian paced to his doorway and watched his crew hustling to meet his deadlines, “…Everyday Hero,” strode back to his desk.  “New model, fresh look.  I have just the man.”  HAD, actually.  “Airline pilot who’s being laid off next week.”

Brian abruptly stopped, face rigid.  “If you’re asking if he’s gay, I’d say it’s HIS fucking business.  OUR business is to max your sales, and I’ll give you three good reasons to consider him.  He’s got your clean-cut look, he’s security cleared and less than half the price of any pop idol whose personal life puts more attention on HIM than your product.”

Brian saw Ted step in and quickly turn to leave, snapped his fingers high to freeze Ted while talking to Brown.  “Fame has its risks.  It’s obvious you’re not satisfied, so let’s move on.”  He waved Ted over, stayed with Brown.  “Good. I’ll email the specs and we’ll go from there,” Brian smiled, “Yeah.  I’ll stay in touch.”  He punched the disconnect and lost the smile.

Piecing info bits, Ted stared, “What specs?”

“The ones we’re starting on right now.  As for salary, I can go eighty more a month.  Take it or leave it.”

“A hundred,” Cynthia grinned from her hiding post outside the door.

“Make it a hundred,” Brian glared at the empty doorway.  “I’ll just offer Cynthia less.”

“Eighty’s fine,” she peeked in, disappeared.

Dazed and oblivious, Ted shook his head at the floor, eyes wandering.  “I…don’t know what to…” then looked straight at Brian.  “I wasn’t playing bid war.  And you don’t have to do that.  Especially because I already decided to stay here.  At Kinnetik,” Ted shrugged with doe-eyed sincerity.  “That’s what I came to tell you.  For who I am…what I want and where I want to be…it’s the better deal.”

Eyes met in brief understanding before Brian grabbed a legal pad off his desk.  “Keep the raise before I banish any good thoughts I ever had about you.”

“Which probably wouldn’t take long, I’m sure,” Ted nodded, back to comfy banter.

“Conference room.  Now,” Brian clipped as he strode past Ted to the door.  “We’ll have to squeeze one more campaign into the mix.”

Ted followed with a smile.  It’s good to be back.

At the construction trailer office…

Winnie flipped through files in the top cabinet drawer while Hunter stood at her desk.  “It’s good you stopped in.  I was gonna call you as soon as I found your application.”

“Yeah?”  Hunter grinned, enjoying the attention and view.

“For a second interview.” Winnie shut the drawer, opened and searched the next.  “It’s not official, but I think he wants to hire you,” she tossed a genuine smile.

“Yeah?” Hunter softened, not thinking money or status.  Her eyes were alive and real even though they stayed mostly on the file folders.

“I’ve only been here three weeks, but I think you’ll find that just about everyone is decent despite the way they talk sometimes.”  She shut the cabinet, moved toward files in an egg crate on her desk.  “It’s really just a side job till I finish college.”

“For what?  I mean…your major.”

“Nursing.  Pediatrics.  I just love kids.  You have any kids in your family?”

“Yeah,” Hunter’s smile dimmed.  “A little sister.”

“I’ll bet you’re a good big brother,” she added, checked her desk files.  “It has to be here.”

While she searched, Hunter edged into Chris’s office, sifted through the desk mess, found the certificate and application.  Stared at it. Gave a silent groan, quickly folded them small, crammed them into his pocket and hurried past Winnie to the door.  “I gotta go.”

“Wait.  I need your phone number.”

“On my application,” Hunter slowed without turning.  “Think Chris put in his desk somewhere.  Nice meeting ya, Winnie.”  And he left in pain-faced turmoil. 

Later at Marco’s…

Justin rubbed his achy wrist as he trailed Marco into the living room.  “I really ought to go back to my place.”

“With the quiet, considerate stunt and grip crew?  Why do think I got my own pad?” Marco chided, set his bag beside the coffee table.

“Good point.  But don’t you hafta work tonight?”

“Called off in case we ran late. We can ride in together in the morning and finish the last half.  Besides, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I feel like it.”  Justin dropped into the couch and leaned back.  Pressed a palm to a mild throb in his right temple. “Thanks for reworking the street scene.  Low angle WAS the better way to go.  So when do I get to see your take on Rage?”

“Right now.” Marco dug a folder from his bag.  “Didn’t mean to put you off but I didn’t want Silberman walking in and thinking we spent most of his time on an unauthorized project.  Here.”

Justin rocked forward, cleared his throat, opened the folder on his lap and stared.  Shit.  Turned a page.  Awesome.  Dull pain made Justin grimace and touch his head again.

“Come on.  They’re not THAT bad.”

“They’re amazing,” Justin smiled.  “You should be doing this for a living.  It’s just…I think the stress is catching up to me.”

“You really think they’re that good?” Marco blinked.

“I know they are.”

“Then use them.”

“What?” Justin sat back confused.

“You have a deadline, and I need to know if people would like my work enough for me to think about a new direction.  We’d be helping each other out.”

No way I can draw anymore tonight, Justin mused. “I hafta check with Michael.  You got a scanner?”

Marco’s smile widened.

At Red Cape…

Michael stopped his day-end counter wiping to fish his ringing cell from his pocket.  “Hello?”

He smiled excitement, stooped to flick a printer switch, bounced up to his computer keyboard and one-hand pecked at top speed.  “I just downed the firewall so they’ll get through.  Just KNEW you wouldn’t let me down.”   He hit a key and watched his printer start, “First one’s coming over now,” grabbed the sheet and viewed it with a kid-at-Christmas gleam.  “This is great, Boy Wonder.  You really captured the cold evil in these robo-dogs!”  He quickly snatched the next.  “And this really scary one jumping right off the panel!”

Seated at Marco’s desk, Justin swiveled up a grin, “He thinks they’re great,” then back to the phone,  “They’re not mine, though.”

“They’re NOT?” Michael darkened, scanned the prints on his counter.  “Then who…”

“Another artist I work with,” Justin answered.  “I’m neck-deep into a project and he offered to help us out just for the exposure.”

“Then I can’t use these,” Michael sank as the printer whirred.

“Sure you can.”  Justin eyed a paper.  “I have a signed release and he says he’ll email you a personal note later.”

“Are you SURE?  I mean…”

“I think I know what you’re saying,” Justin softened.

“Well…” Michael balked, tensed his lips.  “Okay, if that’s what you want.”  Still listening, he reached under the counter, pulled out a clipboard with a sheet titled: Inside Cover Credits, and laid it on the drawings.  He grabbed a pencil, tapped it on Art By - “Can you spell that?” – bit his lip, crossed off Justin’s name and printed M A R C…

At the Liberty Baths, shoulder to the wall, eyes closed, head back, Brian exhaled a hot breath.  He wanted to be numb.  Not think.  Shut out all but blood pulse, erotic sizzle and stress-busting bliss of mouth on his dick and tongue up his ass.  In dense musky air with the feral grunts of –

“Brian.”

- Mikey?  Fuck.  Brian briefly side-eyed Michael dressed and standing close. “Sorry.  No vacancies.”

“Well your mouth’s not busy.  I need to talk to you about Justin.”

Broke the spell and grabbed full attention.  Of all the worry-looks Brian could read, this ranked high.  “What about Justin?”

“Can you join me at the Store for a few minutes?”

“I’ll meet you there.” Brian watched Michael nod and leave, tapped Cocksman on the head, reached back and patted Assman’s shoulder. “At ease.  Something else just came up.”  He left his fretting bookends, snatched his towel off the TV rack and headed for the showers without response to any admirers. 

Red Cape.  Closed.  Through the glass door, Brian saw Michael seriously staring at a handful of papers.  Tried the knob.  Open.  So he strolled in.  “You should lock your door when you’re closed.  Anybody can walk right in.”

“Shit.  Forgot,” Michael grumbled, handed Brian the drawings on his pass to the door.  “Take a look at these and tell me what you think.”

Brian raised a brow that soon brushed low as he eyed each page.  Hard, active…“They’re good.  But they’re not Justin’s work.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael set the lock, thudded back and took the drawings.  “If it WAS, half the panels would be Rage fucking JT in positions I won’t even ASK how he knows are possible.  Not to mention no space for dialogue bubbles.  These were done by some guy named Marco Sanchez.”

NOW I’m concerned.  Brian snatched the papers, “Yeah, Justin mentioned him,” lips tight.  “What does a breeder want with Rage?”

“Well THAT explains the one sex scene in the shadows,” Michael grumbled.

“Does Justin know he did this?”

“That’s why I have to talk to you,” Michael rolled up serious eyes.  “Marco didn’t ask me to use these. Justin did.”

Brian’s jaw slackened.  “What about the drawings he did yesterday?”

“He never left them with ME so he must’ve gotten side-tracked.”

Brian looked off, shut his eyes and breathed out.  Fuck.  “He was.”

“And that’s NOT what I meant.  If anything, being with you keeps him connected to Rage.”  Michael picked up two last papers, “There’s more,” and handed them to Brian.  “Got this email right before you came in.”  He watched Brian skim and frown.  “Marco says the Studio thinks Justin’s phenomenal and plans to throw more work his way.  Marco wants to do Rage if Justin gives it up.  Says all I have to do is tell him exactly what I want, and he’ll do it.”

Brian dropped the sheets on the counter, grinned, “Tell him you want forty panels of Rage fucking JT in vivid detail.”

“That’s not the problem,” Michael stared dead-on.  “Brian…did Justin mention quitting Rage?”  Getting only an ambiguous blink, he stressed, “Because you know how fast he works.  But he didn’t get it done THIS time…so what happens NEXT deadline?”  Michael lifted and viewed Marco’s work.  “I can go with these for now.”

“Die Hard – literally - in Sex-Starved Gayopolis?”

“All I know is Justin just handed this artist to me, and it may be a while before I find anybody half as good or interested…if Justin gives it up.”

“You’d hire a breeder to work on a gay comic?  Have you no scruples?”

“And if he tells me who he fucks is HIS fucking business?”

Zonk.  Pow.  Splat.  Fuck.

Michael softened, “So what do you think I should do?”

“That’s between you and Justin,” Brian said low, “And the only one suggesting that Justin may quit seems to be...” Brian picked up the email, set it on the drawings then turned and walked out.

Brian took long, heavy strides to his car, stopped and pulled his cell.  Tapped it on his hand.  Snapped it open, dialed a number, raised it to his ear…and slapped it shut.  He slid into the driver seat, slammed the door hard, gripped the wheel and fired the ignition.  Whatever the fuck is going on, I have to accept that you’re doing what you think is best.   

Justin dreamt he heard his cell.  But it must have been a dream because when he cracked his eyes open, the soft trill had stopped.  Leaving only Marco’s subdued voice at the door ten feet from his head.

“Patti, I told you before, you’re not supposed to come here.”

“They said you were ill.  I thought…”  She sounded older.  Concerned.

“No, it was a friend of mine.  I let him sack out on my couch.  Come on.  I’ll walk you down.”

Justin heard the door bump closed, latch click.  Opened his eyes.  From his side position he saw Marco’s furnishings in the dim light of rainy late-day skies through the patio doors across the room.  I didn’t hear anything, he decided, raised his head to straighten his pillow.  Fuck this headache. 

In a white tee and briefs, he slowly rose and shuffled to the bathroom, flicked on the light and stared at his drained face in the cabinet mirror above the sink.  Look like this tomorrow and you’re back to waiting tables.  He ran water for a light wash, opened the cabinet to hunt up a non-aspirin and squinted.  Zoloft.  Prozac.  Zanax.  Labeled Patti Delaney.

Shit. Not my business.  Justin quickly shut the cabinet door.  Saw a figure flash across the mirror and eased the door back until it reflected Marco standing in the doorway.  Half smile on a stone face with drilling dark eyes.  Feeling defensive, Justin kept it light. “I was just looking for an ibuprofen.”

Marco stepped next to Justin, reached into the cabinet, grabbed and handed him an over-counter,  “Here you go,” and shut the mirror door.

In static tension, Justin focused on shaking out a pill. “Think I’ll head home.  No sense holding up your plans for a Saturday night.”

“Okay by me,” Marco shrugged with the same stiff half smile, watched Justin fill a cup, kill the faucet and down the med.  “I’ll ride you back.”  And he walked out.

“You don’t hafta go out of your way,” Justin followed, grabbed his pants off the couch arm and dressed fast.

Marco pulled a windbreaker from his coat closet, “It’s pouring rain out,” then tossed a more genuine smile. “I was thinking of crashing Grable’s cocktail hour anyway.”

That cut the thick for Justin’s warmer, “I can’t make it, so have one for me while you’re there.”  As far as I’m concerned, I didn’t see anything that’s my business.

Home in night darkness, Michael sat at his desk, face grim in computer-monitor light as he leaned back staring at his Rage screensaver.

Tying his robe, Ben shuffled from the bedroom, stopped beside him.  “All your loud thinking is keeping me awake.”

“Sorry.  I can’t sleep.  Never realized how much Justin makes Rage who he is.  Without him, I don’t know if Rage’ll be the same gay hero our readers have come to know and, despite himself, love.”

“Before you bid any farewells, I think you should talk to Justin.  It’s still early on the Coast.”

“You’re right.” Michael dropped eyes to Garth’s invitation perched on his keyboard, “I had to call him anyway,” glanced up,  “Now go back to bed?”

“If you’ll do the same soon.”  Ben kissed Michael’s head and traipsed to the bedroom.

Michael snatched Garth’s card and studied it, set the card aside, picked up Marco’s email.  Should I really do this now.

In slow traffic on the rainy Boulevard, Justin touched his temple to confirm that the pounding had dulled.

“Any better?” Marco eyed him between traffic and mirrors.

“Think so.”  Justin felt heavy, a little hungry.  Pictured what might be in the fridge.  Beer.  Maybe some cold cuts.  Leftover chow mein.  Beer.

Marco watched Justin’s tense and silent face. “I didn’t steal them. The meds.”

“Did I say that?” Justin countered, “I was on meds for awhile myself after…an accident a few years ago,” and absently added, “But other people’s prescription drugs aren’t something to fool around with.”

“You never took a hit or shot up at a club or party?”

“I get mellow sometimes. Heats up the sex.”  He saw Marco look away, reminded himself he was in mixed company despite Marco’s zeal to draw anything.

But Marco fluffed it off.  “Me, I don’t need to get wasted.  Just get the edge off working for a big break…handling the rejection.  Patti understands.  We help each other out.” 

“Doesn’t SHE need them?”

“Yeah.  Gets her through the day.  That’s what happens to a lotta glamour gals who got old before they got smart.  You wouldn’t know it to look at her.  Plastic surgery’s common as smog.  But it costs.  And when the good roles stop, your contacts desert you and you’re caught without a life…” he did a matter-of-fact head tilt.  “Youth is hope. Even when you fake it.”

Brought a thought of Brian.  No.  I’m sure he’s over that.  “Did you meet her at a party?”

“My night job.  Escort Service.”  He saw Justin’s raised brows and hardened,  “I’m not a hustler or a gigolo.  I help single tourists or a babe who needs a beau for a party, or women like Patti who miss the attention.  And yeah, sex happens.  But only on my own time and terms.  It’s a decent job.  Better tips than waiting tables and you get to know who they know.

“I wasn’t judging,” Justin eased.  “Just thought you might be acting on the side.”

“I’ve been asked,” Marco darkened.  “Latin is the flavor of the month.  But I’m an artist.  I can turn their words into pictures they’d never get from any camera.  And I expect to be around a long time.  Start with Grable…try Pixar… maybe Dreamworks.”

“I thought Grable only took Union artists.”

Marco grinned, worked out his wallet and flipped it open.  “Local seven-ninety.  Only about a hundred and sixty members.  Tough to get in, but they make sure they get the lion’s share of the best films.  The difference between steady work and waiting tables for weeks between jobs.”

Justin caught only a glimpse before Marco snatched it back, quickly looked away.  He’d seen that Union card before.  On Marco’s desk.  Now no doubt a technically flawless fake.  But…Michael couldn’t make the Writers Guild without established credit.  Rage.  Shit.  I need to get away.  Just fucking out of here.

“Am I boring you?” Marco answered the long silence.

“No.  It’s…interesting.” 

Justin’s cell rang.  He gratefully jerked it from his pocket and answered, “Hello?” Relaxed with a smile. “Hey.  What?  When?”  His smile flattened.  “THAT snooty fucker?  No way.”  Justin leaned back, closed his eyes and exhaled. Then his eyes popped open, shot at Marco and back.  “No.  I didn’t know that.”  He rubbed his forehead, leaned forward.  “This isn’t a good time.  When’s that party again?  Give me a couple days to work out the details.  Call you later,” he faded, shut the phone and jammed it away.  Stared at the dash.

Marco shot a look.  “So where’s the party?”

“Pull over.”

“We’re only about a block -”

“Just pull over.”

Marco turned a corner onto a side street, swung onto the apron of a loading dock, stopped the car and slouched sideways.  “What’s the deal?”

Justin glared, “Did you send Michael an email saying I might be quitting Rage?”

Marco chuckled, shook his head.  “All I said was that I’d be willing to take it on in case you gave it up.  And face it, you’re getting hot buzz right now.  You need the time here.”

Not buying.  “That was a shitty thing to do.”

“I asked for the opportunity…you gave it…I took it.”

“What?” Justin seethed, “I never offered to let you cheat me out of Rage.”

Marco leveled, “You know the difference between good and great?  It’s how far you’re willing to go.  That’s not cheating.  It’s called ambition.”

“Do you ever see an image without someone handing you the specs first?  It’s called creativity.  And if you tried it more often, maybe you wouldn’t need to go that far.”

“You so don’t get it, Justin, because you got lucky,” Marco coolly smiled.  “It’s not the means that matter.  It’s reaching the goal.”

I’m talking to a fucking wall.  Justin pulled the latch, flung the door open and growled, “Tomorrow, if I need any fucking help, I’ll read the book.” He shot outside and was about to shut the door when Marco leaned across the seat, stopped the move with an outstretched arm and smiled up.

“Don’t take it personal.  That’s how it’s done out here.”

“Feed your ambition off somebody else.”

“So why DIDN’T you finish those drawings.”

“Fuck you,” Justin hissed, watched Marco retreat then slammed the door. 

He hiked up the street without feeling the drizzle, heard the Vette peel out in the opposite direction.  Fuck you.  Probably got enough mood-meds in you to blissfully enjoy being burned alive.  Shit. Why didn’t I finish them.  Because the villains were mindless, mechanical and limited.  You brought them alive with dimension and changing the angles of perspective.  Eventually, I would’ve figured that out.  Probably in a lot less time than it’ll take YOU to figure out how to draw a face that feels.    

Justin storms pained and angry along the walk.  Michael taps the email on his desk, unsure of Justin’s intent.  In the deserted drive-in movie lot, Brian leans against his car and debates over courses of action.

Song: “Visible Noise” by Hybrid

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