Author's Note: I can't believe I'm doing this. My other computer is dead, so now I'm retyping the entire chapter. I feel like shouting a string of swears, but I'll spare you, lol.

Disclaimer: I don't own any newsies or song lyrics. Mika/Michaela, Eric, Catherine, Floyd, Pansy, Adora, Suzy, and the woman behind the counter at the Maynard Art Gallery belong to me, though. WOO HOO, I'M FRICKIN' RICH!!

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"Reality is a crutch for people who can't handle drugs."

-Lily Tomlin (irrelevant, yes, but I thought it was funny…)

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I stood back, camera swinging from my neck, and examined the painting I was about to photograph. I had done it the other day, but I was unsure of whether I should include it in my portfolio for the Maynard Art Gallery.

It was an oil painting of a dark-haired boy sitting at what had ended up looking kind of like my old, stained kitchen table. It was pretty close up -- the lowest you could really see was his upper chest -- and he was reaching into a jar of pickles. His hair was sopping wet, hanging in his eyes as though he had just gotten out of the swimming pool or something, and he was grinning.

Underneath the painting was the title -- After The Walk In The Hurricane.

No, it wasn't Bumlets. How could you ever suggest that I would be so blatant as to paint the man with whom I was infatuated? Honestly!

Toulouse brushed my leg. "What do you think?" I asked him, squinting my eyes and tilting my head to the side. "Do you think I should enter it?"

He looked dully up at me, raising an eyebrow. I glared back at him. "You want me to figure it out myself, don't you?"

He blinked and then meandered away down the hall. "I'm entering it!" I called after him. "As if you care," I added as an afterthought, and then I took my camera and snapped a picture of the painting.

My portfolio was finally coming together, and I must say I was rather excited. I had taken photographs of about twelve of my paintings and attached them to me résumé, and I was going to deliver everything to the gallery later that evening. They should be contacting me in a few days, maybe with interest in my work. Or maybe not.

"But first," I said, "I shall shower."

And I did.

"JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEEEEEND!" I sang happily as I shampooed my hair. "JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEEEEEEEEND! I LOOK ONCE MORE! JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEND, BEYOND THE SHOOOOOORE! WHERE THE GULLS FLY FREE, DON'T KNOW WHAT FOOOOOR! WHY DO ALL MY DREAMS EXTEND JUST AROUND THE RIVERBEEEEEEEEEEND?"

The shower was one of the only places where y dogs didn't join me in my activities, and it was a bit of a relief to be able to sing Pocahontas without Toulouse giving me the evil eye and Manet trying to knock me over. Either I had a terrible singing voice, or else they were racist against Native Americans -- in any case, they had a tendency to attack e when I sang that particular song. Go figure.

I climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my waist, shaking my head like a dog to dry out my hair. Little rivulets of water slid down over the curves of my chest and stomach and disappeared under my towel. What to wear to an art gallery, that was the problem as I headed back into my room. It went without saying that I had never really done anything like this before -- I mean, I had done some unofficial selling when I had been in Paris with my brother, but other than that I'd spent the last few years pretty much unemployed.

I opened my closet and almost laughed at what I saw. It looked like something you would see in a TV show. I owned about a million copies of pretty much the same outfit -- loose blue jeans, plaid button down shirts, and a few sweatshirts. The only differences were that the plaid varied in color from shirt to shirt and the sweatshirts all had "The Boston Red Sox" printed in different colors across the chest.

Scrunching up my nose in thought, I picked out what I thought to be the least ratty shirt, the nicest pair of jeans, and a clean pair of underwear and pulled them on -- not in that order. I wished I owned a different pair of shoes besides my grungy black sneakers, but the only other pair of shoes in the house were my old ballet slippers from the class I used to take ten years ago. And Manet had chewed holes in them, so they were no good.

I glanced out the window. It had been a while since I had left the house -- weeks, really, since I'd been living off of old sour pickles. I couldn't be sure that my neighbors knew I existed anymore.

Not that anyone cared. I was sure they were all kind of scared of me. One time I went outside to photograph the sunset so that I could paint it later, and the Jacobs' ten-year-old kid, Les, went screaming back inside. I screamed too, thinking there was some sort of rotting corpse pushing its way out of the ground or something, but I soon realized that it had been me that had terrified the poor guy. Old Thomas Jenkins coming out to be all weird and artistic on his front lawn. Oh horrors.

The entire thing had amused my two dogs greatly.

I put on my glasses and ran both my hands through my still dripping hair, willing it to lie flat for just one hour. It did for a second, and then it started to mess back up again in slow motion. "Aw, screw it all," I muttered and left my room in a huff.

"I'm going to Maynard, guys!" I called to my dogs. I got no answer. Stopping halfway up the stairs, I looked up to see Manet's rear end and Toulouse's side on the landing where they were watching Rolie Polie Olie. "I'm leaving!" I repeated, louder. Manet lifter her head and looked casually at me. "Yeah, I'll miss you too," I muttered sardonically, and I left the house, locking the door behind me.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon when I reached the Maynard Art Gallery, but the museum closed at nine, so I had plenty of time. I pulled into the garage, hurried up the steps, and was halfway through the door when I stopped and did a double take.

What I had first perceived to be a random homeless person sitting on the steps of the museum (if any homeless person would be stupid enough to hang out in MAYNARD and sit on the steps of a random MUSEUM nobody had heard of) now revealed itself to e none other than Bumlets Michener, playing his harmonica.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demanded, astonished.

He looked up, the late afternoon light darting over him through the trees. "TOok you long enough to get your ass up here," he said.

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Yes," he said, and he began to play "Home on the Range" on his harmonica.

I shook my head in disbelief, smiling despite myself. "I'll be right back, all right?"

The museum was overly air-conditioned, as museums often are, but I appreciated the coolness. I crossed the hall and got in line at the front desk behind a skinny boy with a cabbie hat and a ratty old plaid shirt to rival mine.

"Listen, fucker," the guy was saying to the alarmed woman behind the desk, "my friend put a lot of time into this work, and I personally find it extremely offending that you didn't take the goddamn time to even look at his stuff. I mean--" He opened an envelope he was holding and spilled the contents out onto the desk. "--this shit is good. Or are you guys to goddamn closed-minded to realize that?"

"Mr. Connelly--"

"Conlon," he snapped.

"Mr. Conlon, I'm sorry if we offended you by not accepting your friend's work, but I can assure you that the manager did indeed look it over--"

The guy gave a derisive snort and gathered up the contents of the envelope. Craning my neck and trying to be discreet, I saw that it was the folded up remains of a portfolio -- and the shit really was good. It looked more like surrealism than impressionism, but whoever it was must have been pretty talented.

The Conlon guy spun on his heel, narrowly avoiding crashing into me, and stormed out of the museum. "Westfordians," I murmured, noting the WESTFORD HIGH SCHOOL HOCKEY TEAM logo on the back of the jacket tied around his waist. "Where would we be without 'em?"

"What was that, sir?" asked the young woman behind the counter, obviously terrified that I was about to start cursing at her too.

"Nothing." I stepped up to the counter. "My name's Thomas Jenkins, I was hoping that, if you had any time, you could look over my portfolio." I handed her the envelope. "I've included my home address and phone number so you can contact me..."

She smiled and accepted the envelope. "Thank you, Mr. Jenkins, we'll be glad to look it over," she said graciously.

"Thanks." I smiled at her and left the building. Bumlets was still there, sitting on the steps and playing "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning". "You really do have an interesting musical repertoire," I told him.

"I know," he said and continued to play.

"Hey listen..." I sat down on the steps next to him and crammed my hands into my pockets. "I was wondering if you'd like to come over tonight -- I mean, if you're not busy. Not as a date or anything, just as -- well, like a nonromantic date. You don't have to if you don't want to, though. I know we don't know each other that well, but I just thought you seemed like a fun guy, and..." I trailed off lamely.

Bumlets slowly brought the harmonica away from his mouth and looked at me. "You talk when you're nervous, don't you?" he said.

I nodded, not trusting myself to open my mouth again.

"Sure, I'll come over, what time?"

I beamed. "You could come over now, if you want. I don't have much to make for dinner, but I could figure something out. Unless you want to take something out--"

He reached over and covered my mouth with his hand. "When we get home, I'm duct-taping your mouth closed. I don't care what we have for dinner; I'm not that hungry anyway." He stood up, grinning, and pulled me up with him. "Do do you want to get a movie, too?" he asked.

I'm sure my grin was literally covering my entire face, but I didn't much care at the moment. MOVIE WITH BUMLETS MOVIE WITH BUMLETS I was hyperventilating! I only hoped my dogs wouldn't deliberately embarrass me...

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"My favorite song's 'Mister Cellophane'. I've always had a thing for John C. Reilly," Bumlets confessed as we drove to my house with the movie "Chicago" dumped in the back seat. (I was hoping the fact that he had picked out the movie was a hint that he was gay.)

"Yeah, he's great," I agreed. "I like 'I Can't Do It Alone' better, though."

"To each his own," said Bumlets sagely. He reached up and pulled some red licorice from the Tupperware container nailed to the ceiling of my car. "But I don't care what you say; Catherine Zeta-Jones is not hot."

Ohh, he was definitely gay. Even I know that Catherine Zeta-Jones was hot, and I'd been out of the closet for almost ten years now. I smiled and started humming happily as we pulled into the driveway. "All right, don't be alarmed if my obnoxious mutt Manet tries to tackle you; she's just sick of me and loves anyone else who comes through my door," I said affectionately as I unlocked the door and we entered the house.

"It's all right, I love dogs," said Bumlets, chewing contentedly on his licorice.

"I'm home!" I called as we pulled off our sneakers. "Manny? Toulouse? You guys up there?"

It was quite comical, the way both their heads poked out from the top of the stairs at the exact same time. "Oh, it's just you two," they seemed to think, and they went back to their Rolie Polie Olie marathon. Manet barely even glanced at Bumlets.

I looked back at him, bewildered. "I give up," I said, throwing my hands into the air. "I don't understand dogs any more than I understand women -- I should just stick to men."

Ahhh, foot in mouth, foot in mouth, I did NOT just say that... I looked slowly back at Bumlets, but he was smiling at me. "A wise decision, if you ask me," he said softly.

Ahhh, take foot out of mouth, take foot out of mouth, I am SO GLAD I said that!! I carefully hid the triumphant grin that was trying to spread across my face and lead him into the kitchen. "So do you want to eat?" I asked him, opening the fridge. "I mean, I can't make much, but we could probably figure something out."

Bumlets looked in over my shoulder. "I can make egg and ketchup sandwiches," he volunteered.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Sounds delicious."

"No, it's actually surprisingly good," he laughed. "Here, if you don't like it, I'll…"

Let me paint you nude? "Here, don't bother, I'll try it anyway," I assured him. "It'll be worth it just to see you cook."

And it was. I don't believe I've ever seen anything sexier in my life. "This is the only thing I've ever been able to make," he said as he put the fried egg onto one of the pieces of toast. "I'm not particularly good in the kitchen... One time I melted the spatula into a little puddle of plastic because I left it on the stove and forgot to turn it off. Pass me the ketchup?"

I cracked up and did as he requested. "My younger sister has always been the cook of the family, though, so I never had to worry about it until I got out of college," he continued. He concentrated and drew a happy face with the ketchup on the flat surface of the egg. "Now I've just been relying on take-out."

"Yeah, same here," I said. I guessed I wasn't marrying this man after all -- we'd starve. "What did you major in in college?"

"Literature. I'm an aspiring writer. ...Et voilia!" said Bumlets, passing me the plate. I saw him cross his fingers and held back a smile as I took a bite. "Like it?"

"Yes," I said, astonished. "This is actually really good."

Bumlets beamed. Ahh, that smile! "So. Should we start the movie?"

"Aren't you gonna eat?"

"Nah, I'm not hungry."

"Anorexic." I poked him in the ribs.

"Weight-training, rather."

"Really?"

"Nah, just a fast metabolism."

"Aha!"

The pair of us made our way into the living room. Bumlets flung himself down onto the sagging, faded couch, and I went to the TV to get the DVD going. Pretty soon Catherine Zeta-Jones was singing "All That Jazz" and I sat down next to Bumlets on the couch. He was mouthing along with her. Ahh he knew the word she was so gay I was in love.

"So how did the thing at the Art Gallery go?" he asked me after a little while.

"Not bad," I replied. "I had to wait behind some kid from Westford yelling at the lady behind the counter for a couple of minutes, but that was rather entertaining so I didn't mind."

He chuckled. "What was his problem?

"He was pissed that they hadn't accepted his friend's work or something. I was surprised they hadn't; it wasn't bad."

"Yeah, they've got serious issues over in Maynard," he said, grinning. "They're going for a certain feeling at that museum, and if you don't have it, they toss your stuff out."

"Well that's good to know."

He winked at me. "So which pieces did you submit? Can I see them?"

"Sure," I sad, and then I remembered the painting I had done of him. "I mean -- no. No!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because."

"Oh, that's mature."

"I don't like showing people my work; it makes me feel awkward," I said quickly. This was a downright lie. I had always liked showing off my art because I knew it was good, and I wanted more praise. Who doesn't like a good compliment every now and then? But the painting of Bumlets was the last one I had photographed, and it was lying on my desk in plain view.

Bumlets shrugged and turned back to the screen. We didn't talk again until Queen Latifah was singing "If You're Good To Mama" and I said honestly, "You know, for the longest time I thought she was the queen of some obscure South American islan called Latifah."

Bumlets laughed sleepily and the phone rang in the other room. "Be right back," I muttered, getting up and trudging into the kitchen. I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Tom? It's your brother, Eric."

I made a face at the phone. "Oh hey, Eric. What's going on?"

He cleared his throat in a very businesslike way. I hated how he always talked to me like he was making a proposal to a client. "As you know, my family and I are taking a trip to Jamaica next week."

"You are?"

"Tom, I told you just the other day," he groaned.

"Oh, right," I said, not remembering it at all.

"Anyway, it would be extremely helpful if you would take care of Suzy while we're away," my brother continued.

"Suzy?" I repeated dully. "Who the hell is Suzy? You guys have another kid?"

"Our dog, Tom, she's our dog."

"Ohhh, right, right, sorry. Suzy. Wait -- Suzy?? You want me to take care of that thin? It looks like a cross between an opossum and a doormat with eyes!"

"She's a purebred poodle!"

"It's frickin' terrifying!! My dogs will tear it apart!"

"Come on, Tom, she's not that bad," said Eric persuasively. "Please? It'll only be for three or four days, and you'll only have to walk her twice a day, and I'll give you the bags of dogs food tomorrow morning. You never do anything for me, Tom. All I ask is that you take care of the family dog for a little while."

I took the phone in both hands and pantomimed breaking it in half. "Yeah, I'll take care of the little gremlin," I said dully.

"Thanks, Tom. See you tomorrow."

I hung up and glared at the phone for a couple of seconds. I hoped Manet would get overly friendly with that... thing... and bite its stupid little head off. Ohh, that would be lovely. I stared off into space, imagining it, and then remembered that there was a movie playing in the other room and hurried back in.

Bumlets was curled up against one of the pillows, holding his knees loosely against his chest, fast asleep. His shaggy hair had fallen into his eyes, and for once he didn't flick it back.

I stood there, staring at him. The light from the television was dancing across his angular features -- his perfectly straight nose, sensual lower lip, dark eyelashes -- and the curve of his side against the couch. And I realized looking at him that there was no one else I'd rather be spending the evening with.

Except maybe Catherine Zeta-Jones. He, even if I was gay, she was still pretty damn hot.

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Author's Note: Phew!! I'm really sorry, no shoutouts today, I have to go. I'm off to Rochester for the next four days! HOORAY!! Thanks to Sinhe, singin'-newsies-goil, geometrygal, studentnumber24601, Madison Square, Coin, Dakki, Scout73, SpotLover421, and kattabean for reviewing, I love you all!!

-Saturday