The Man Who Sold the World
Summary: In three words, Brian hates himself.
Author: Silverstar Wizard
Disclaimer: I own *nihil*
"Hello, Jerry Devine, Bijou Records." Jerry leaned back in his desk chair, smoking a cigar. It was 1975, a full year after Brian Slade had staged his assassination, and the publicity that he - Devine, that is - had received as a result of the "incident," as he chose to call it, had made him even more wealthy and successful than he had been when Brian had ruled the British charts. He had a flat in London, a house in the country, apartments in San Francisco, Paris and New York, and branch offices - courtesy of the record company - in almost every major city in the world. And while Brian's popularity had fallen greatly when his death was discovered to be a fake, Jerry's own reputation as a manager had only increased. He didn't understand it, but he liked it immensely.
Jerry enjoyed success, and the leisure that success brought. He had given over the day to day running of the record company to some competent, yet uninteresting people, leaving him free to occupy himself as he wished. Which, he admitted, meant sitting about most of the day and fantasizing about beautiful women. He hadn't though much about Brian in the last few months. He had bought the album that Curt Wild and Jack Fairy had made together, and listened to it with great interest, but otherwise, he had had nothing to do with Slade since the previous year.
But then, from the other end of the phone, "Hello, Jerry. I was wondering if you would do me a favor. For old times sake?"
Jerry recognized the voice immediately. A voice from another life, someone else's life, someone else's lie. A cultured English accent. Soft-spoken voice, almost childlike in its stubborn insistence. Pouting.only one person talked like that. But it couldn't be..
"Who is this?" Jerry demanded gruffly.
"Don't you remember me?" the person who couldn't be who it must be responded, sounding hurt and betrayed. "Your own Master Demon?" He pronounced the name like it was the name of a long-dead acquaintance. And in a way, Maxwell Demon was long dead. A year is a long time, in the musical world.
Jerry was sure it was him now. He extinguished his cigar and leaned forward eagerly over the desk, picking up a pen and tapping it against his chin as he spoke.
"Brian? Is that you?"
"Yes, Jerry. It's me. Brian Slade."
"Well, well. Brian Slade, ex-glam rock idol, back from the dead to ask me a favor. I'm honored, Master Demon."
Brian's voice became even more forlorn. "Please don't laugh at me Jerry. I can't stand it. Don't laugh." He sounded as though he were holding back tears. Or a hysterical tantrum. Even the jaded Devine was abashed by his seemingly earnest plea.
"Alright, Brian, alright. Don't get upset." He couldn't help but pity Brian. He was afraid of what could happen, to make a man who had held the world on his palm, and dangled the youth of the nation from the end of a cigarette, possess such a broken spirit, undergo such a drastic loss of confidence. "What can I do for you?" There was a pause. Jerry wondered briefly if Brian had decided that he couldn't ask whatever it was that he had wanted, and had hung up.
"Brian?"
"Yes." There was a pause. "I'm here."
Jerry rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and prayed to a God he didn't believe in for patience. He really didn't have time for these games. "Well?"
Brian sighed and clicked his tongue against his teeth, as though searching for exactly the right words.
At last, "You're going to laugh at me." He was genuinely afraid.
Jerry sighed, exasperated. "I promise you, Brian, that I will not laugh at you." He heard Brian take a deep breath. Then,
"I want you to get me Curt's number." There. It was done.
"You what?" asked Jerry in disbelief.
"I'd like you to get me Curt's phone number. Please," he said, then continued hastily as Jerry started to interrupt, "Jerry, I know I left in short notice, and I don't deserve to be talking to you or anyone, but do this for me and I'll leave you alone." He waited expectantly.
"You will do this for me, won't you, Jerry?"
Jerry could feel himself falling prey to Brian's pretty-boy charm. Although he didn't know whether he had changed, if his hair or makeup was the same, he could envision Brian's face, still soft-featured and pale, lips turned downward in a mockery of childhood. Brian was much too ambitious, far too cunning and seductive to be mistaken for a boy. He knew his strengths, and knew how and when to use them.
"Now, Brian, you know I'd love to help you but I don't think at-"
"Jerry, you must!" A note of hysteria had crept into Brian's voice. "Do you want me to die, Jerry? Jerry, I swear, if you won't give me his number, I swear I'll kill myself!" Jerry's mind filled with images of Brian standing up, knocking his chair to the floor, and grabbing a knife from the desk. A gun would be too ordinary for Brian, he thought. A knife tip against his breast, held there for a second before he plunged it into his heart, would be much more dramatic. The authorities would find him face down in a pool of blood, clutching the knife in one hand, and a rose and suicide note in the other. He sighed. Brian always did have a flair for drama. "I will!"
Jerry thought about ways to calm Brian down without actually giving him what he wanted. Not that he didn't have the number; it was, in fact, neatly filed on a card in his desk. He could easily read it off to Brian and have done with the whole problem. But he tried not to make a practice of granting favors to artists who bailed on their contracts. He repeated himself, a little more firmly.
"Brian, I really don't think that a meeting would be beneficial to you at this-"
"Shut up!" screeched Brian without warning. "Fuck you! Give me the fucking number!" Jerry sat, stunned, with his mouth partly open. He shut it, then opened it again, and decided he didn't really have anything to say after all.
There was another long pause. Then,
"Alright, Master Demon. Have it your way." Jerry opened his desk drawer and looked for the card with Curt's number on it. "Do you have a pen?" he asked.
"Yes," Brian replied.
Five minutes later, Brian was alone in his flat. He had Curt's number on a small piece of white card, held carefully in his right hand. His left hand reached out for the telephone, then fell onto the desk below it. Brian stared at the wall, not really seeing it. Instead, he saw Curt's face superimposed on the cheap whitewash. Brian saw Curt shake his head in disgust as he looked out at the room. Brian looked behind him, even though he knew what his own flat looked like. White sheets covered what little furniture there was. The floor was bare concrete, and there were cigarette ashes everywhere. The one desk that was uncovered was the one he was sitting at, and, except for the corner that was occupied by the phone, it was covered with half eaten packets of chips, leftover cocaine residue, scrawled eyeliner notes for songs that had never been written, and lipstick smears, marred by his own tears.
He shuddered as he realized how long he had been living in that one-room flat. He had left it once.no, twice, in what? A month? Maybe three weeks. God, that was fucking solitary confinement. He liked to think of himself as a political prisoner, wrongfully held for crimes committed by someone else. He languished away in his cell (which was cleverly disguised as a West London flat) until, one day, a mysterious stranger turned up with a machine gun and held up the jailer so that he could escape. Of course, the stranger turned out to be none other than Curt Wild, who would reveal his identity in a small park three blocks away from the jail. Then the dialogue would run something like this:
Brian: [exhausted from the escape after months in a small cell, trips and falls] Wait!
Curt: [stops and turns to help him up] Hey, get up. They could still be following us. We have to keep going.
Brian: No.[struggles to catch his breath]. I have to know who you are. [reaches out to him] Let me take off your hat..
Curt: [steps back] No. You can't. Sorry. Not now. Maybe later..
Brian: [suspicious] Why? Do I know you? [Curt starts] You remind me of someone I used to know. [chokes up a bit] I haven't seen him in so long, though. Maybe I'm just going crazy. [turns away so Curt can't see him cry]
Curt: [stands behind him] [softly] I'm sorry, Brian. For everything. [Brian looks up, but Curt doesn't see. To him, Brian hasn't moved] Guess I'll.just be going, then. Bye.
Brian: [realizes Curt is about to leave] No! [Curt stops. There is a somewhat awkward pause] Let me see your face.[reaches out again. This time, Curt doesn't move away. Brian slides Curt's hat off his head. The two kiss].
A siren outside his window startled Brian out of his fantasy. He sighed. It was alright. How many times had he replayed variations of the same scene? It was stupid, he knew. What on earth would he be doing in a jail cell? And why would Curt come to rescue him? Rescue, for God's sake! The entire thing made no sense. He was a stupid fucking bastard if he thought that such a ridiculous scene could ever take place.
It was just that he couldn't come up with any better ways to bring himself and Curt back together again.
Brian stared at the phone for at least another hour before summoning up the courage to pick it up and dial the number he had received from Jerry. He had already planned out exactly what he was going to say, and how he was going to say it. He would start with a casual "Hey, Curt," but say it sort of submissively. So Curt would get the message right off that he planned on apologizing for all the times when he had been a self-centered ponce. On the other hand, he could try for sexy, let him know that he needed him physically as well as emotionally.no, that was too complex. He needed another sentence now. Oh fuck it. He would have to ad-lib.
He picked up the phone, held it between his head and shoulder. With one long, trembling finger, he spun the rotary around. When he heard the phone on the other end ringing, he nearly hung up and went to hide in his bed.
But he didn't.
Three rings, now four. What if Curt wasn't home? What if Jerry had given him the wrong number? Or, worse still, what if Jerry had somehow warned Curt that Brian would be calling, and Curt had left to avoid talking to him? A cold sweat broke out on Brian's forehead and the back of his neck. He swiped at his face nervously with the back of his hand, and pinched at the bridge of his nose to try to fight off the headache that was forming.
Five rings. Where the hell was he? Nervousness gave way to irritation.
But after the sixth ring, "'Ello? Whadda ya want?" Curt. Curt, it had to be. Quick, quick, remember your plan.
"Hey.Curt." Oh fuck, that was all wrong. He sounded shy and uncertain, not at all the semi-repentant-but-still-sexy-as-hell way Brian had planned. This was not going to go well.
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Curt.I'm.." This was not going to go well at all. All he wanted to do was apologize. I'm sorry. Two words. But they just wouldn't come out.
"What?" Brian cringed like he had been hit in the stomach. Curt didn't recognize him. He was being dismissed, like some stupid crank-caller, some social climber just aching for an interview with Curt Wild.
"I'm.Brian."
Curt snorted. "I know who you are." Brian's tears started to dry for just this hint of recognition. "Don't you mean Maxwell Demon?"
Brian started to cry again at the harsh sound of Curt's voice. "No. He's dead, Curt. I just."
"What?"
"I just called.to say.." He trailed off. He couldn't. This wasn't the way he had planned. Just an honest confession to the executioner? Curt didn't care. It wouldn't matter. But he had to say it anyway.
".I'm sorry. Really sorry. For all the shit I put us through." He paused. Curt! Say something! Say you need me, say you love me! Don't leave me waiting like this!
There was no answer.
"Curt!" Anything, please! What the hell was he doing? All it would take from his is one word, or two. It didn't matter at this point. Curt could say "fuck off, you queer," and Brian would take it as a positive sign. Anything was better than this interminable silence. Brian waited.
"Curt? Are you there?"
There was a click, then a dial tone, and Brian was left with a dead phone in his hand.
He lowered his head to the desk and sobbed, letting the phone dangle off the desk.