A Professional of Love
A Friday night is not a night of leisure for all the men crowding Liberty Avenue. The dimming daylight is also a sign of the rapidly nearing time to begin their job. On one particular Friday night, one of these men found his job quite challenging.
It was a typical Friday night. He had taken off to the streets quite early so that he could have a little time for himself before he started his hunt. He had eaten at Liberty Diner with some friends, then he had sat for a while in a little cafe a couple of blocks away from Liberty Avenue. But now it was time to start the night.
Liberty Avenue was bathed in bright street lights as he stepped into the darkness of Woody's, the place in which he knew he most likely would find his clients. The stale air that welcomed him to the place was the same every night. The cacophony of sounds was familiar as well. The drunken faces he saw there were the same, too, every night. Nothing ever changed. He felt the familiar bang of anxiety; it was all so hopeless. He hoped that one day he could just stop coming, but tonight he had no choice. He had to do this.
He took a look at the patrons. His experienced eyes found and discarded the couples in the secluded booths. Those people he was not interested in. Around the pool tables there were groups of men that seemed to have a good time among themselves. His services would not be appreciated by them either. The tables in the center of the room had more potential to hold the men that were in the kind of mood that he was looking for in a man. But not this night. Nobody there seemed to be in need of his services. He turned to the most likely direction, the counter.
There he found his first potential client that night. He knew the man; he had seen him in this place very often. The potential client was a handsome man, well clothed and well groomed. Normally he would not have even thought of closing in on the man, but that was not the case this time. The man was sitting alone, which was an unordinary event, and the morose demeanor of the man was likely to keep the other men away. As popular as the man was, he was also known for his volatile temper. In addition, the man was steadily drinking himself into oblivion, and his temper was even more volatile when he was drunk. The seat beside the moody man was conspicuously empty.
"Such a gloomy face isn't becoming on you," he opened, taking the empty seat beside the man.
"Who cares?" The man didn't even look in his direction.
"I care. I much prefer your beautiful smile."
"Get lost. I'm not in the mood." Still no look.
"You never know. I've changed moods before." He wasn't going to give up.
"My mood is no concern of yours." Good. That was a reaction. A mild one, but a reaction. Definitely.
"I could help you feel better."
"I don't need help from your kind!" Well, he had known that those dark eyes would hold a storm.
"My kind of help would be just right for you." Yes. Keep him talking.
"Stop pestering my patrons." Damn, the bartender was starting to get annoyed.
"Oh, he should go with you. He could teach you a couple of new tricks. Then you might be of some use to us." Great. Now the other drunks were interfering with his business, too. This could be trickier than he had thought.
"Come on. You deserve better than what this watering hole can offer. Come with me." Finally the man gave him his undivided attention. It was not a comfortable feeling.
"And what can you offer? A well stretched hole and a talented mouth? Should I be interested? What do you think, guys, can he offer anything worth my trouble?" This was promising. The man was involved enough to give an insult.
"His mouth should be quite skilled, as much as he uses it. Actually, he could put it in his resume that he has been educated in the use of his mouth." A smart ass on his other side was making his contribution to the discussion.
"The school I went to might have provided me with a skilled mouth, but yours must have been an excellent place to learn to use and cultivate your ass. You fill the seat to its fullest, and I bet you have no difficulties in sitting on your ass for hours without a break. Your ass is so voluminous. I would be envious, but since I haven't got the back muscles to carry an ass like that around, I better be happy with what I've got." In this place it was not a good idea to let the insults go, even if you were not really insulted. Insults like these were old friends. As long as he was mocked with these familiar lines, he knew that he could handle the situation. The smart ass shut his mouth as the others by the counter burst out laughing. He turned back to his more and more likely client.
"Come with me. You have sampled everything this place has to offer. There is nothing new to expect here. You'll just drink more and will feel miserable the whole day tomorrow. If you come with me at least tomorrow morning will be easier for you."
"Steve. Pour me more of this poison! My glass is empty. What are you playing at, man? The glass has a rim, fill it to it!"
Well, that was not his intention, but the bartender wasn't co-operating with him. In no time his might-be-client had another drink and gulped down a half of it.
"You've got enough already. You'll fall off of your seat if you don't slow down." The man really had beautiful storms for eyes. Such flashes.
"I can hold my liquor, thank you very much." The man didn't appreciate his criticism, but he was still talking.
"You'll test the hardness of the floor very soon, my friend." The smart ass had recovered from his previous humiliation and was spreading more troubles onto his field. "And that hardness won't do you any good!" So funny.
"And what hardness would do me good? Yours? Hardly. From what I remember, yours isn't too impressive. And in any case; I don't do repeats." This was not good. The man was supposed to concentrate on him, not on the smart ass.
"Unless it is a certain blond twi..."
The smart ass was sprawled on the floor. How did he get there? Oh, and the stormy eyed man was not on his other side any longer. Where did he go? Oh, no! There he was, with the smart ass, and his right fist was rapidly landing on the smart ass' face. He flew out of his seat, but it was too late. The fist landed.
"Enough, Brian!" A security guard got a hold of the riled drunk's flailing hand. The man struggled against the guard's grip; he still wanted his hands on the smart ass. "Give me a hand, Steve! It's time for Mr. Kinney to head home."
Oops. Not good. He had to act swiftly.
He followed the men out. Some half hearted quips were directed at him, "Don't want to give up on your prey?", "You must be really desperate to go after him": such tired things. He didn't bother to look back.
Outside the bartender and the guard still had to restrain Mr. Kinney, who was determined to go back in and get some more strikes in on his adversary. A stubborn man.
"Brian? Is he worth it?" He took the risk of Mr. Kinney turning his anger on him. It was worth it. There still was a chance.
"Justin is worth it. And much more," came through gritted teeth. Such determination was frightening.
"Sure. But I thought that the man in the bar was not worth your anger." Well, that was the right thing to say. Mr. Kinney turned to him a thoughtful expression on his face. He also stopped struggling against the other two men, who soon let him go. For a little while it was quiet.
"You're right. He's not. I'm not. Worth it." Such sadness in those unsettled waters of his eyes.
"Come with me, Brian. You don't need to talk to me. You don't need to listen to me talk to you. I just don't want you to be alone tonight. Come, Brian."
Brian Kinney didn't say a word, just nodded his head, "yes", and followed him to his car. They drove in silence towards the suburbs. Brian stared out of the side window; he was completely still. He seemed to be surrounded by miles of empty silence.
"We are here." He had stopped the car, stepped out of the vehicle, and walked around to Brian's side. Even his opening the door had not roused Brian's attention. His words didn't have an effect either. He touched the man's shoulder. "Brian, we're here." Slowly those eyes focused on him, slowly the man came back from where he had wandered. Sadness lingered. "Come."
Brian did. His every step was slow, not reluctant, but energy just was lacking from his steps. There seemed to be much more than Brian Kinney's own skinny frame to move on those legs. He led the man to the door. Brian stopped a few steps from it and stared at the sight in front of him.
"You should change your door. Something brighter for the lost souls that enter your shelter."
He looked at the door; the dark brown of the wood the door was made of seemed a black hole in the darkness of the night.
"You're right. I've never thought about that."
"I guess I've learned something living with an artist. Colors have power."
He opened the door, and warm light spread to the steps. A path of light to follow. They entered the house.
"Would you like some coffee?" He led the way to the kitchen.
"Coffee would be nice, thanks." Brian looked around him and settled at the little table by the dark window. "What's your name?"
"Oh, sorry, I guess I got a bit excited out there. I'm Russell, Russell Sears. You can call me Russ."
"Is Tom here tonight, Russ?"
Huh?
"Tom? Why, I don't know. I could check."
"Please, do."
That was a surprise. How did Brian Kinney know Tom? Well, Tom was more experienced, so maybe it would be better if he handled Mr. Kinney after all. He went to check, and Tom was there. Tom seemed quite surprised to hear Russ' request. He followed Russ to the kitchen right away.
"Brian. You turn up when I least expect. What brings you to our kitchen tonight?"
"Hello, good Reverend! Your young friend Russ, there, brought me here. He even promised me some coffee." Russ had never seen as infectious a smirk as adorned Brian's face. He smirked himself and turned to put on the coffee machine. Tom then told him to get back to Liberty Avenue. His night was not over yet. There were more lost souls to save. Russ left.
"I'm glad to see you, Brian, but there must be something bothering you. Russ wouldn't have picked you up if there hadn't been a reason." Tom was concerned.
"Oh, so he picked me up. Normally it's me doing the up-picking." Brian's walls were coming up again.
"Yes, I'm well aware of that. Stop that, Brian. What's happened?"
"Tom, Russ also gave me his promise that I wouldn't have to talk." Brian looked at Tom from the corner of his eye. A sharp look. A warning look.
"Okay. You don't need to. But it would do you good if you did."
"Russ also promised me that I would not need to listen to him talk. Can you promise me the same?" Tom took that as it was, a challenge and a demand.
"You just want to sit there, without speaking and without listening, and you want me as company. Is that it?" Tom's voice was very dry.
"Sounds rather stupid, put like that." Brian's smile was crooked.
"Doesn't it."
"Let me rephrase. I don't want to talk about my problems. I don't want you to try to open me up. I want to talk with you about something else. Something that takes my attention away from my problems for a couple of hours. Will you give me that, Tom?" Tom could see a sharp pain in Brian's normally tightly guarded facial expression.
"If that is what you need." Brian's tortured yes confirmed his need. "Yes. I'll give you that. What would you want to talk about? I guess God and your mom are out of the question."
"They sure are." Brian showed Tom another of his crooked smiles.
"And I don't want to talk about tricks or tricking. And I know nothing about advertising." Tom grinned slightly.
"Well, there is always the coffee machine." Brian's eyes were suddenly filled with mischief.
"The what?"
"Your coffee machine is the same model I have in my loft. Do you know how the thing works?"
"You are something." Tom could but laugh. "No, I have no clue. If Russ wasn't around we would never get coffee around here."
"Yeah, the machine is a monster. I don't understand what made me buy the fucking thing. Seemed like a good idea, I guess."
"Language, Brian. This is a house of the Lord. But, yes, a monster. You know what the definition of a monster is, something man made?"
"Man made? How so? That thing sure is a monster, and it sure is a man made thing, so your definition deserves some credit, but still, it sounds odd."
"It is not my definition: I read it somewhere. Anyway, the idea was that everything which is natural, things that nature produces, is just that, natural. Then monsters were declared to be those things that are not natural. And in that structure of thought, everything a man makes is a monster, since it is not a product of nature."
"There has to be some fault with that line of thought. My Armani and Dolce & Gabbana suits are not monsters."
For some nightly hours the discussion continued, as it had begun, randomly jumping from one topic to another. Eventually the two men even got to exploring the secrets of the coffee machine, and their efforts were successful on that front.
The next morning, again back in his loft, for the first time Brian Kinney himself was able to get out of the monster a nice pot of his favorite special coffee.
Love works in mysterious ways.
THE END
This story was inspired by Juice Leskinen's song Rakkauden ammattilainen (the title of the song translates into: A Professional of Love)