Baby Worlds (1/1)

New York Eyes


There is, really, nothing for me here. Absolutely nothing.

My eyes scan the club, drinking in the usual sight of bodies, bands, and smoke; every day, all the time. I’m so fucking tired of it. So tired of thin, giggly things pressing up against me and smiling like horses; so tired of headaches and funky smells; so fucking sick of…fake, everywhere. Blue eyes that aren’t and hair held by glue. I want to go home really, really bad, but Chris is too drunk to notice me, not to mention drive, and my license is suspended. Oh, and lack of a car, yeah. I could bum a ride off of someone, but I knew better than to owe people like these a favor. My only option was the good ol’ CTA, either hitching a ride on a bus that never comes or a train so filthy that even hobos won’t live in. Ahh, Chicago. Good ol’ dependable.

I manage to make my way home through a train and two buses, getting lost only once and using up my bus pass (which, damnit, how am I gonna get to work tomorrow? Shit.). Once I make it to my apartment, though, things don’t get much better. In order to open my door, not only do I have to turn the key in the lock, but I have to bang on it twice, kick it once, curse at it, and bang on it again before it opens. The cursing part is imperative; once, I didn’t say “fuck” enough times and I had to get a locksmith to open it. I didn’t make that same mistake twice, though. Fucking door.

But, oh, I have my dog. My sweet, cute, dependable puppy, who loves and loves and only asks for a full bowl and a squeaky toy to dismember. And, seriously, that’s not a lot. Squeaky toys, I can do. Swapping keys and remembering to call every day…not so much.

Waddling over to the fridge, dog under one arm, my quest for food stops short at a rotting bag of spinach and a half-empty jar of peanut butter…which, how the fuck did spinach get in my fridge? Whatever. I slam the door shut and instead turn to my bedroom, plopping down, defeated, hungry, onto my not-box-spring-mattress bed. So I don’t ‘plop’ so much as, ‘thud’. And once I ‘thud’ and the ringing in my ears stop (because, ha, there’s my pillow on the floor, gutted and disemboweled, courteous of a playful 4-month-old pup. And look, there’s her ring, just under it. I’ll throw it away later. Or burn it. Or give it back, whatever) I notice the crack in my ceiling has just gotten bigger, and, JOY!, it’s leaking. On my face. And it’s not raining. Also, my alarm clock seems to be off. Meaning, my electricity’s been cut off.

Somewhere, somehow, there is something laughing at me. I just know it.

I roll over and pull myself up over the edge of my bed until the top of my head connects with the suspiciously-green carpet and I have a warped view of the underside of the mattress. Immediately, my eyes locate a red Adidas shoe box and I reach for it, pushing past some cobwebs and dirty socks (oh, there they are!) until my black-chipped fingernails hit against the cardboard and I pull back up, treasure in hand.

The box is kind of dusty and, seriously, pathetic-looking. Hemmie barely gives it a glance, and even I wince at the word “Dreams” scrawled desperately in black sharpie across the top. Still, I open the wobbly package and dig inside; postcards, maps, magazine clips, newspaper clips, internet print-outs, buttons; some faded, some slightly newer, all from the same place: New York. New York, where there’s Broadway and SoHo and Rock Horror Picture Showings and...people. Better people than here; people that live and breathe art, that are understanding and accepting; that don’t give you weird glances when you try to play Metallica over the GAP intercoms because there’s seriously nothing else to do. There’s always something to do in New York. And there are always people to do it with.
To prove my point to myself, I flip open a pamphlet that lists, in detail, the many restaurants and clubs littering the New York scene. I’ve long ago circled the best-sounding ones, imagining the times I could have there, asking people about other people instead of, “Would you like to purchase a GAP gift card?”

And, I sigh, leaning back on my bed, pamphlet still in hand, falling asleep with my mind focused on being the dreamer.

*~*~*

Chicago Thighs


I wince, teeth-clenched muscles-tightened eyes-squeezed-shut wince. SHITshitSHIT. Now what??

One eye squints open at the phone on the floor, possibly in hope that it’ll start ringing again and everything will change.

Oh, shit, it does.

Quickly, I snatch it up and flip it open. “Hello?”

“Hey, Pete-tard.”

Shit. It’s just Patrick.

I must’ve said that aloud or something because Patrick huffed into the receiver, filling my ears with obnoxious static before saying something like, “God, what’s up with you?”

“Ah, nah, it’s just…augh.” I’ve always been so eloquent. “I just got fired because I didn’t show up today, because my alarm clock didn’t wake me up this morning, because my electricity’s been cut, because I can’t pay it, because of my job, and, just, AUGH.” It was my turn to let out a big breath into the receiver. I hope it fills his ears with obnoxiousness, too.

“Wow, that sucks,” he sympathized, and I could practically hear him nodding through the phone. I had only known this kid for a few months, but he was pretty predictable.

“Yeah, fuck, I know.”

“So, anyway, I called because I, uh, came up with some new stuff…if you want to hear it, you know, uh, whatever.”

Aw. His insecurity was so cute. “Yeah! Of course, dude. You want me to come over?”

“Um, no. Actually, I was, um, thinking I could go over there. You know, if that’s, if that’s okay, it’s cool if, uh, whatever.”

I blinked. “Seriously?” How many times had I invited this kid to my house, and he totally refused? True, a majority of those times I might’ve been a tiny bit wasted and had particularly obvious intentions of getting into his pants, but, still. The sudden change of heart was…weird. Almost as weird as the rotting spinach in my fridge. But. Anyway.

“Um, yeah. If it’s, you know, cool with you.”

In my pause of surprise, I heard two very faint voices in the background. They sounded like they were yelling.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Of course man. Mi casa es tu casa, Tricky.”

I didn’t hear him roll his eyes at my lame attempt at comedy. I did, however, hear him sign in relief. “Cool. Cool. Okay, I’ll be there in, like, ten minutes, then?”

“Sure, yeah, see you then.”

Patrick’s busted-up Cadillac pulled up to my apartment exactly eight minutes and some-seconds after we hung up. God, was I glad to see him. I bounced down the stairs and nearly ran into him as he turned around, guitar and notebook in hand.

“Ooof! Pete!”

“Trickster!” I grinned wildly, the first time in ages. The surprised look in his crystal blue eyes was good enough to set me smiling for, oh, a good month or so.

“God, where do you come from?” he muttered, pushing up his black-rimmed glasses like a classic TV nerd.

“My pants.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A few minutes later, I was laying on my kitchen counter, eyes closed, mouth full of peanut butter. And, oh, the sound of Heaven was ricocheting off my tile walls and fucking flowing into my ears, infecting my brain, clouding my thoughts, and putting me into some sort of Holy Coma.

“Why are we in your kitchen, again?” Heaven’s voice paused mid-song to ask.

I sighed. Heaven was totally interrupting my Holy Coma with his stupid questions. “Because it has the best echo-factor in the whole apartment. Now, keep going.”

Patrick shrugged, adjusted his hat, and kept going.

“When the moonlight hits your bright eyes, I go blind.”

I let my head loll over the counter to get a better view at the body that Heaven’s Voice came from, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Hemingway’s food bowl and leaning against the fridge.

“Maybe next time, I’ll remember not to tell you something stupid like ‘I’ll never leave your side’.”

His converse-clad feet were tucked neatly under his legs, hiding under jeans that stretched nicely over his thighs. Working at the GAP for almost six months kinda taught me a thing or two about nice jeans and nice fits. And his nice jeans fit his nice thighs quite nicely.

“The oldest movie I ever saw was the one we wrote together. Said I’d hate you but I’d never change a thing…I. Could. Be. Your. John. Cusak.”

He looked up. “Um, that’s all I have so far, lyrically. I have a few more ideas for the bridge and the chorus--”

He had this mouth. Not only did Holy Things come from it, but they were nicely-shaped. The bottom one was nice. Stuck out a little. He licked it a lot; bit it too. I bet it tastes like candy.

“--if you want to hear them, I--”

“I used to work at the GAP,” I interrupted. “That’s where I just got fired from. The frikin GAP.”

“Um?”

“I hated it there. People buying too-small clothes that looked like shit on them, but I had to smile every fucking day…”

“I work at a supermarket,” Patrick offered. “I have to smile, too. And wear a vest.”

I almost-smiled. “Do you ever want to go someplace, Trick? Someplace far? Where the women are hot and the Capri-sun flows like rain? Or maybe, you know, just a place where they have really good music?”

He pushed up his glasses again, staring at my counter drawers; anywhere but where I was. “Not really. There’s music here.”

“Yeah, but….” I let my arms flop over my head, fingers curled towards Patrick’s hat. There was a monkey on it, and I wanted to poke it. “But somewhere else. Somewhere better.”

“Pete.” Patrick frowned, leaning back. No way was he letting me touch his monkey hat. “You act like we don’t live in one of the biggest cities in the country. There’s tons of shit to do here.”

He didn’t lean back quick enough, though. My fingers grazed the soft part of his ears, sliding into his cheeks before he was out of my reach. God. Like clouds.

“Not enough. Not like New York.”

He wrinkled his nose (which, I just noticed, was sprinkled with these little freckles, ones you couldn’t really notice from far away. They were all over his nose though, and spilled over a little onto his cheeks. Like splattered paint. Only, prettier) and leaned his head against my fridge. “Ew. It’s all dirty over there. And crime is, like, insane.”

“So? I’d live in SoHo and eat vegan food. I’d meet artsy people who have galleries and clubs and I’d drink more coffee than I’d breathe air.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “And that’s something to aspire too?”

“Better than here.”

Patrick adjusted his hat again, unnecessarily. “There’s stuff like that here, too. Have you ever been to Pilsen? That whole fuckin neighborhood is just galleries and cafes.” His hand had slipped from the neck of the guitar and was now on his thigh, resting.

“Or Hyde Park. That place has more thrift stores…than….” No, now it was moving. Rubbing. God.

“…than you have hats?” I offered, not taking my gaze off his hand.

He blinked. “Sure.” That was a grin.

Since when was Patrick’s skin such a milky white? I bet the rest of him was, too. I bet he tastes like vanilla.

“Chicago has artsy, Pete. You just have to fucking look.” The hand moved, returned to the neck, and pressed.

“Alright then, Chicago,” I reached my arms out again, this time achieving success and prodding the monkey in its face. Patrick made a small squeak. It was awesome. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

*~*~*

Pushed up the window to kiss you off…


Chicago, apparently, has quite a lot to offer.

“No, don’t.” Patrick had made to move off the bed, but my outreached arm stopped that. My tan fingers were a stark comparison to his milky elbow--seriously, since when was it this milky?--and I couldn’t help but pause at that, stare. I looked up and met his crystal blues, looking down on me.

“Pete, it’s…late. I gotta…my mom….” He shook my hand off and swung his legs over the bed in search of his shirt. He bent over to grab it, and, oh, his back. If there was any sort of evidence at all that God existed, it was Patrick’s back. Oh, and his voice, but, that wasn’t really bathed in golden sunset light right now.

“Stay, come on,” I pleaded. My legs slid across the bed, settling around his waist. I felt the cool of his back pressed against my stomach, heavenly, and I wrapped my hands around his wrists. The shirt in his hands fell, forgotten.

“I’ll call her, ask her if you can stay over--” my plea was cut short by an over-the-shoulder glance.

“Pete…” feeble protests were subsided by my lips against his neck. I leaned back, taking him with me. I was determined to envelop ourselves back into blankets and sunsets. But. He wasn’t having that.

“I really need to go.” He slipped away from me, my warmth. I felt his coolness linger on my skin. I was afraid that if I moved, I would loose it. And I had decided right then that I wanted the feel of him on me forever.

Wordlessly, he put his shirt back on. I watched him move from the room to the kitchen, gathering his things. I watched him as he made his way to my door. His hand hovered over the handle, and he stopped. Paused. Then turned and looked at me.

I looked right back.

“Um. Is it okay if I…come back tomorrow?”

Tomorrow, next week, forever, again, always.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Okay.” He shuffled his feet. You couldn’t make this kid up, I swear. “See you, then.”

“…yeah.”

He left. I heard his footsteps echo away from me, and I felt his cool on my skin give way to my own body heat. How far away was tomorrow?

Too fucking far.

I jumped, suddenly, from my steady position on the bed. This isn’t right, no, wait, I need to….

With some effort, I pushed up the window. It was old, creaking, and I probably won’t be able to close it all the way later, but. Whatever.

“PATRICK!” I shouted. Two floors down, the monkey hat turned and shielded his crystal eyes from the dull rays of the setting sun. His keys were in his hands. He was about to drive away, ready to leave.

“WHAT?!” He shouted back. 


I smiled, pressed my fingers to my lips and kissed him off.















~fin~