Arthur decides that the (inevitable) biopic made to chronicle his life will be titled Stony Silences: The Awkward Arthur Kirkland Story.
This scene would be its coup de grâce.
I wonder who would play me. Someone suitably handsome, I would hope, he thinks, and it's only half a joke.
He's still shaking.
Arthur is going to die at the white-gloved hands of Roderich Edelstein. No, scratch that. His career is going to die at the hands of Roderich Edelstein. Which will be ten times more humiliating.
As Arthur had learned after a very clipped response from Jones (he's still angry about the whole hi-I'm jumping-into-your-trip-you-have-no-say-in-the-matter incident; it was a terrible thing to do, but really, he's here now and there's nothing Jones can do about it, he can stop bitching), they're heading out to Connecticut to visit the twins' mother. Whom Alfred apparently despises, based on his incredible amounts of moaning and groaning.
The complaints end, however, when Matthew is cut off at an exit and begins to swear wildly.
"Dude!" Alfred laughs, gripping his brother's arm.
"Don't touch me while I'm driving!"
(Arthur wonders if they have ever had a civil conversation. Ever.)
"I'm just trying to calm you down!"
"I cannot calm down when you are holyshitholyshitholyshit—"
Arthur hadn't known he was religious until he started praying like hell. A wide swerve and a near smash into a guard rail marks the first hour of their trip.
Alfred is practically hyperventilating, holding onto that stupid little handle on the ceiling. "Matt, you drive for a living!" he cries breathlessly.
"Yeah, but usually my idiot brother isn't with me on the job to make me crash into the fucking rail—"
"Now it's my fault?"
"Since when hasn't it been your fault? You wouldn't let go!"
"I am going to kill you."
"Just try!"
Well, fuck Arthur if he was going to have another near-death experience within two minutes of the last one. "Shut up," he says, as politely as possible.
Alfred startles, like he's forgotten Arthur was there. "You've got no say in this," he says.
Arthur is taken aback, though he has no right to be. "I would simply rather not die." He adds with a snort, "Now now, anyway. Roderich would feel slighted if he didn't snuff me himself."
Blinking, Alfred asks, "Roderich?"
"Oh. He's the director I'm running away from."
Matthew eyes him in the rearview mirror. "Roderich," he ponders, turning the name over in his mouth. "Roderich, as in Roderich Edelstein?"
"Yes." Arthur narrows his eyes. "Why do you ask?"
"The one who's with Elizaveta Héderváry?"
Arthur nods, wondering vaguely where all of this is going.
"Since when are you into celebrities, Matt?" insinuates Alfred. Arthur can practically see him cataloguing future insults about it.
Matthew, though, shakes his head. His reflection in the windshield is wearing a knowing smile. "She's the actress Gil is obsessed with."
The photographer's mouth falls open, and his eyes widen in realization. "It totally is."
Arthur clears his throat.
"Oh! Gil's our neighbor." Alfred twists around in his seat to face Arthur, grinning. His glasses are crooked, and he hasn't shaved, and in the light of the morning the stubble is almost transparent, a glowing outline on his square jaw. His earlier anger is completely forgotten. "He's got a bit of a… thing for her."
The radio has long since switched to something that sounds like Pink Floyd but probably isn't. Arthur wishes that it would be. He could use some whiny, self-indulgent prog rock right about now. "And just how big is this thing he has?" he asks cautiously, not even sure if he wants an answer.
"Like, cardboard-cutouts-in-his-living-room big," Matthew says.
"I didn't even know they sold cardboard cutouts of her. Knowing Liz, though, she'd probably want one."
Alfred blinks again. "You know her?"
Arthur nods. "Yes, she is most likely going to assist Roderich in my murder. I saw her this morning."
"What, is she in your movie too?"
"Yes. And Roderich already hates me a little because I have to kiss her, and now I walk out on a table read…" He sighs and leans his head against the window, closing his eyes for a moment and pretending he is anywhere but in a car with Alfred F. Jones.
He had lied earlier. He doesn't particularly dislike Alfred, really. He just feels obligated to.
Is this what regret feels like? A balloon filling in your chest until it's on the verge of exploding and taking you with it? If the consequences of his actions hadn't occurred to him before, they sure as hell do now.
"Fuck," he breathes.
Sagely, Matthew says, "You are pretty screwed, man."
Arthur can only nod miserably.
The song switches. More Springsteen. This time Alfred does sing, and his voice isn't even bad. It's the kind of voice that should have been trained but never was, the kind of voice that could have been a nice warm tenor.
"'It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap,'" he declares, throwing his head back, rumbling in all the right places. He stops singing, and laughs instead, when Matthew punches him.
"I take it you like Springsteen," Arthur comments dryly.
Matthew meets his suggestion with a cynical laugh. "He knows every word to every song that has ever left the man's mouth. There is no greater love in this world," he sighs wistfully, "than the one between Alfred Jones and Bruce Springsteen."
Alfred nods enthusiastically. "Ours is a legendary tale of passion!"
Bruce croons and begs to Wendy, and the twins in the front seat spin an unabashedly smutty tale of romance in which Springsteen is the knight in shining armor to Alfred's princess ("Dude, if I have to be the princess, I'm at least the badass kind who doesn't wear a dress").
Arthur feels terribly out of his depth.
At some point, Alfred lights a cigarette and dangles his hand out of the window, taking only the occasional pull. He lets it waste, just to watch the smoke disappear in the wind. Then Matthew makes an offhand comment about the mortality rates of lung cancer victims in the U.S.
Alfred drops the cigarette.
The Springsteen song ends and a block of commercials begins.
Arthur hates to play the "are we there yet" game, so he doesn't. He lets Matthew drive and Alfred sing unabashedly along to the radio; when "No Quarter" starts playing, he provides the low notes that Alfred can't hit. He knows the words better, anyway.
"It's 'cold,' not 'low,'" Arthur corrects when Robert Plant's wailings fade out, and the obnoxious radio DJ comes honking out of the shitty speakers again.
Alfred glances at him in the rearview mirror. "What?"
"'The winds of Thor are blowing cold,'" he sings absentmindedly.
Alfred gives him a look.
"You said 'low' instead," he offers desperately.
"You're way weirder than I thought you'd be," he laughs. "You seem normal on TV."
Arthur isn't even angry, because it's probably true.
They stop at a Dunkin Donuts for coffees (Alfred and Matt) and a piss (Arthur, who would rather make himself bleed than consume that devil's beverage). In the stall, he finally turns on his phone, which pings loudly 204 times. Francis is in the lead for amount of panicked and/or furious texts sent with a cool 123, but Elizaveta is hot on his tail. She is responsible for the ones with the best grammar and the most profanity.
In the later ones, she gets really creative. Arthur is awed by the emotional range of her swears. He would never have thought to use "cunt-sucking whoreson." Genius, really.
The place is deserted except for the employees behind the counter, two teenage girls. Al and Matt have claimed a space near the window. They hunch uncomfortably over the too-small plastic table, the fucking giants. Arthur isn't short, by any means, but he takes being even an inch or two below someone else as a personal insult. It's what comes of growing up in a house full of the lankiest older brothers imaginable and having them hold your books high over your head so you can't get at them.
And then dropping them in the loo "by accident."
Good fucking times.
He pulls another chair over to join the twins; they glance at him and nod, and seem to be off-put by the gaping stares of the employees.
"Is that Arthur Kirkland? It can't be Arthur Kirkland," one whispers doubtfully (but hopefully) to the shorter girl behind of the register.
"They're probably doppelgangers or something," she says, and the taller girl laughs.
Alfred raises an eyebrow.
"Haven't you heard?" Arthur asks innocently. "My evil twin is the actor, not me." He's thankful that it's not unseasonably cold for once, since he forgot his coat at Roderich's. His vintage pea coat. The poor thing is probably being horribly mistreated.
Maybe it should concern Arthur that he cares more about that coat than he does about human beings.
It doesn't.
Matthew isn't listening. He's too busy texting earnestly, a little smile at the corners of his mouth, and Alfred asks him about it.
"It's Kat," he sighs happily, which makes his brother choke on his coffee.
"When did you even get the chance to swap numbers?" he demands.
"You're just oblivious."
"Who's Kat?" Arthur asks (not because he's terribly nosy or anything).
Alfred snorts. "Our crazy landlady's sister, who Matthew met for, like, two seconds, right? And they're already a cheesy first date and a romantic proposal away from a house in the countryside and a horde of hockey-playing, poutine-gobbling offspring."
"Am not!" Matthew cries childishly, but doesn't really seem to think of that as a bad outcome. Turning to Arthur, he explains, "Kat lives in Toronto, but she's moving here to be closer to her siblings. Apparently her younger brother lives in Boston, too, so—" His phone vibrates, and he hurriedly goes back to texting, trailing off.
"Of course she's from Canada. It's a match made in heaven." Alfred cups his hands and makes an obscene gesture in front of his chest. "Plus, it helps that she's, you know, got huge—"
Matthew drops his phone on the table. "Oh, come on, Al—"
"Tracts of land?" Arthur offers.
The twins look up at Arthur.
"Sorry, I—" he tries to say, but they're laughing too hard to care.
"Is knowing Monty Python a prerequisite to being British?" Alfred asks.
Arthur answers with a solemn nod. "They don't give you your powdered wig or a seat in Parliament until you've memorized The Life of Brian."
Which sends them into fits again.
They finish quickly after that, and head back out to the cab; Arthur takes the backseat and is about to stretch out when Alfred hops in beside him. "What—"
Alfred holds up his camera meekly. "While we're here…?"
Arthur sighs and is about to condemn it when Alfred says, "Hey, you're the one who barged in. Face the consequences, man." He lifts his camera up to his face and before he knows it, Arthur is blinded from the flash.
Matthew laughs. Alfred is going to have the most morose gallery showing ever, if Arthur can do anything to help it.
After a lot of whining and a lot more pictures, they finally tell him where the hell they're going. Arthur promptly forgets the name of the town , since all he cares about is the fact that's it's only another hour until they get there. When all of this began, when he had to go and get himself pissed that night (only a few days ago still, how fast time has gone) and ended up in Jones' apartment, he never thought that he would ever end up meeting Jones' mother.
Somewhere along the way, he falls asleep. He has confused dreams of crooked glasses glinting in camera flashes, and he forgets them when he is jostled awake.
Alfred hops out of the car, laughing about something, and so does Matthew. Arthur, still groggy, makes no move to leave.
"You coming?" Alfred asks, sticking his head through the open door.
Arthur shrugs awkwardly, rubbing his eyes and fixing his hair. "I don't want to intrude."
The photographer raises an eyebrow dubiously. "You didn't care about that when you hopped in the car and demanded a lift to Connecticut."
Well…
Arthur has no argument, but he can at least huff at the imaginary injustice as he steps out.
The neighborhood is small and poor, and so is the house, with the irrevocably dingy look of an old building never properly cared for. Arthur can see where Alfred and Matthew got their pride from, however, because the lawn (or what's left of it) is cut evenly and perfectly; everything else is neat and clean. Arthur likes this family's philosophy: when you don't have much, you take care of what you do have. If he weren't so materialistic, he would live by it.
Alfred's feet begin to drag the closer and closer they get to the front door, like he's fighting his way through an ever-growing layer of molasses.
"Come on, Al," Matt prods gently, and grabs his arm to drag him the rest of the way to the door. "Word of warning," he says, turning his head over his shoulder to face Arthur, "our mother is probably your biggest fan."
Arthur blanches. "And my presence is a complete surprise?"
Matthew shrugs, saying silently, You're the one who got yourself into this— and, well, it's true.
"We'll make something up," Matthew says. "Just be cool."
Since Arthur is paid exorbitant amounts of money to be cool, he says it shouldn't be a problem.
Alfred is very quiet, so unlike him, and he looks drawn and pale. It's not right. Arthur wants to rile him up just so he'll finally make some noise, like the real Alfred, to get rid of this strange impostor. But he just watches him play despondently with his camera.
When Matthew rings the doorbell, Alfred exudes so much dread that it's almost suffocating. Arthur hangs behind.
The horrible creature that Arthur expects to open the door is actually a plump woman in her forties, wearing an outfit that went out of style at least thirty years ago, and even back then it would be considered ugly. Blonde hair dulling to gray, curled meticulously and pinned over her head in a style that is probably supposed be nice-looking.
Arthur, looking her up and down, would give an A for effort.
Her smile, though, is small and soft and sweet, a classic motherly smile; more like Matthew's slight grin than Alfred's (which, when he's happy, stretches across his face like a lazy cat and is just as obstructive).
But he is not happy now. In fact, he looks more miserable than Arthur could have ever imagined.
"Hi, Mom," Alfred greets, too cheerful-sounding for his expression, and hugs her. Matthew does the same, a bit less reluctantly.
"You've finally come down to see your old mother," the woman sighs wearily.
Matthew laughs and shakes his head. "You're far from old, Mom."
Their mother— Mrs. Jones? Mrs. Williams? Why do they have different last names, anyway?— steps inside, and suddenly Arthur is very exposed.
Their mother gapes.
"Oh, um, Mom," Alfred struggles to explain, "This is Arthur Kirkland."
She opens her mouth to speak but doesn't; she spins wildly around to face her sons, while simultaneously keeping an eye on Arthur, and a massive smile breaks her face.
Alfred and Matthew simultaneously blabber two different lies. One is spouting something about a car breaking down; the other is going on and on about three chance meetings and a run-in with Irish gangsters on the south side of Boston during a fast-paced, daring rescue.
But she's not listening to either of them. Mrs. Jones/Williams lets Arthur in, ushering him on. "Welcome to my humble home, Mr. Kirkland!" she greets brightly, unfazed and totally ecstatic. She rambles on in a thick Southern accent. "What an honor it is to have you in my home, you know, never in a million years did I ever think I would have such a famous man in my house, never mind Arthur Kirkland! How wonderful is this, now just let me fetch the lemonade I got ready for my boys, I'm so sorry if it ain't up to snuff with what you usually have, but it's all we've got!"
He assures her that lemonade is completely fine and that yes, he does not only subsist on martinis and caviar (though he wishes he could), so anything she serves him will be perfectly adequate.
As she hobbles off to a kitchen somewhere, Arthur eyes the hunched-over, shrunken Alfred— who is currently trying to blend into the drab floral wallpaper (despite his neon green T-shirt). He's examining his fingernails intently, like there's gold hidden beneath them.
The inside of the house, it seems, is just like the outside: drab and old and clean. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It reminds Arthur of the house he grew up in (except maybe a bit smaller, and with less stains on the walls from various food fights). He follows the twins into the living room, where Alfred and Matthew immediately fall into their personal indents in the couch, formed by years of arse-pressure. Arthur perches awkwardly on the arm of a loveseat, across from the old television set. (Old as in "has an antenna.")
Arthur can hear Mrs. Jones/Williams puttering about in an unseen kitchen, opening the refrigerator and preparing something. She comes back in bearing a tray of lemonade.
"Thanks, Mom," says Matt, reaching over to take a glass when she sets them on the teetering coffee table. He nudges Alfred, none too lightly, to take one as well. He does, but he doesn't drink, holding it a calculated distance away from his face, like it's poisoned.
Arthur takes one and sips cautiously. It's delicious, better than he could ever do. (For, though he'll never admit it, whenever Arthur Kirkland steps into a kitchen, everything edible within perishes.)
"Alfred, dear," their mother begins in an authoritative tone, "What have I told you about dressing like that? Really, that green…" She shakes her head and places the tray on the coffee table. "Are you trying to dress like a girl?"
The photographer sinks into the back of the sagging couch in the hopes of being absorbed by the fabric and never seen again.
"Why can't you dress like Matthew?" she barrels on, sweetly, relentlessly. "He looks like such a fine young man. Don't you, Mattie?"
Arthur chokes on his lemonade. She doesn't notice.
Matthew gives a small half-smile, barely listening because he's too busy plucking at the sleeve of Alfred's jacket, trying to gently pry him out of the cushions. "My style isn't for everybody, Mom," he replies warily, like he's stepping on glass.
"Oh, I don't know. It's how any good young man should dress, I think." She shrugs innocently, reaching for one of the glasses herself and settling down in an armchair. She turns to Alfred. "Have you been seeing any girls lately?"
"No," he mumbles.
She laughs. "Well, why not? You're a good-looking boy. You could have them hanging off you."
"I don't want them hanging off me," he spits, standing suddenly, rocking restlessly on the balls of his feet. "I'll be. Wherever." He plunks his glass down on the table and stalks off; there's the telltale slam of a screen door somewhere out back.
That didn't last long, thinks Arthur.
Matthew stares worriedly after his brother, and after a while, he follows him, leaving only Arthur and the mother.
And then there were two. Arthur wants to punch himself for thinking it. He smiles gently at Mrs. Jones/Williams (he seriously needs to get that name thing straightened out), and notices a small rack of DVDs behind her.
All of them are his films.
Go figure.
"Perhaps we should join them?" he asks her, when he feels she's been staring at him for long enough.
"Well, Alfred gets like this," she laughs. "You know, you say one little innocent thing and he—"
Arthur cuts her off with, "I'd really like some fresh air."
The woman (the stupid, stupid woman, Arthur can already see what's been going on in this house for years) folds, in a pile of smiles and titterings of "here, here, the back door is here."
There's the screen door that Arthur had heard Alfred pass through, and a small backyard with no grass, just dirt; there's a patio with plastic chairs and a grill, and a chain-link fence that separates them from an equally tiny yard.
Nothing like where I grew up, Arthur sighs inwardly, where it was all open grass on misty mornings…
Alfred is whispering like he wants to shout, arms waving wildly, lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth; Matthew is nodding gravely and trying to calm him down with soft words. It does not seem to be working.
Both of them whip around to face the opening door, Alfred bristling, bringing his shoulders and head up like he's meeting a challenge. Matthew already looks tired.
"Alfred, you'll get lung cancer," his mother warns wearily, taking one of the chairs on the patio. "Mr. Kirkland, please, take a seat."
He does. Careful not to dirty his shoes, he steps over and sits as far away from the woman as possible. Matthew takes the chair next to his mother. Alfred shuffles over but doesn't sit. Or put out his cigarette. He keeps smoking, his own little form of rebellion.
"So," says Arthur.
Mrs. Jones/Williams looks up expectantly. He finally asks her what she would like to be called.
"Well, my last name is Jones," she says (her complete comfort around him is so surprising; she's not even crying, which is what "biggest fans" tend to do) "but you can call me—"
"Mrs. Jones," he interrupts, with what he hopes is an air of finality. Keep it formal. He then asks, "If it isn't too personal a question, that is, but why aren't you Mrs. Williams?"
"Oh, that," their mother laughs. "Me and their father—" she waves a hand at Matthew and Alfred— "were never married, you see? And when we ended it, right after the boys were born, we took a baby each. Mattie went to Montreal, where his daddy was from, Alfred stayed here with me."
For God's sake, woman, Arthur thinks, disgusted. She nods, like what she just said was sensible.
Alfred adds bitterly, "No courts to go through, since they weren't married. So they split us up."
"Don't sound so down about it, Alfred!" she exclaims. "We all got to be a big happy family again eventually."
"Yeah, when we were fifteen."
"When Dad died," Matthew explains quietly. "They came up to Montreal and brought me back."
A small smile lifts Alfred's lips a little, and he looks like himself again. As he speaks, smoke flies out of his mouth and into the cold wind. "We hated each other for, like, a year."
"More than that," laughs Matthew.
"You didn't hate each other," Mrs. Jones insists. "You just had… you had differences."
Matthew snorts. "Yeah, differences. Differences that made us hate each other."
"Watch your tone, Matthew."
"Sorry, Mom."
Arthur asks, "What changed?"
"I saved his ass," Alfred says gloatingly.
"Alfred! Langauge."
"Sorry, Mom."
"I was getting beat up behind the school one time," begins Matthew, "for mouthing off to some tough kid. I don't even remember. But then Alfred waltzes out the fire escape door, since the alarm hadn't been connected for as long as anybody could remember, because he was going out for a smoke or something—"
"Alfred!" their mother cries.
"—and he beat the ever-loving shit out of them."
"Language!" she shouts again, but making her boys behave seems to be a futile effort.
Alfred laughs. "The suspension was worth it. Damn, Matt, you didn't stand a chance against those mother—" a sharp look from his mother— "dirty rascals. I meant to say 'dirty rascals.'"
Arthur is a bit mystified that 'dirty rascals' is the first thing that came to his mind.
Alfred seems to have calmed down a bit; tensions die down, which Arthur is thankful for. Alfred finally takes a seat, using the plastic chair between Matt and Arthur himself. The camera still swings from his neck.
They talk about nothing much. Mrs. Jones makes the conversation, in all her sweetness and unrealized cruelty. Matthew ignores all of them, concentrating on the consistent buzzing of his phone. Probably still talking to the Kat girl, the one with the formidable chest.
The one thing that the twins' mother wants to talk about most, though, is Arthur's new film. "Oh, I've read articles," she sighs. "None of them say what it's about, though! I really can't wait to see it, you have no idea! So what is it about, exactly?"
"Well," says Arthur uncomfortably, "that's sort of impossible for me to tell you, at this stage. Too early on, you see. Not even allowed to tell the press yet."
She sighs again, disappointed this time instead of wistful. "I understand. I just really am a big fan. You like his movies, too, don't you, Alfred?"
Alfred looks up from the hem of his controversial green shirt, which he's been fiddling with, and gives an awkward cough. "They, um, seem like they'd be up my alley," he says.
Arthur can't help but grin. "You've never seen any of my films, have you?"
"No!" he protests, but then it turns into a more docile acceptance of the facts. "Well. No. I've seen snippets on the movie channels, but you were just... never in those snippets."
Arthur laughs, but his mother glares at him, deathly serious. "Alfred, they are masterpieces and I am sitting you down to watch one right now," she announces. "Put out your stupid little cigarette and come inside."
Arthur cries, "No, it's quite alright! He can see them another time. It's fine, really. You needn't go through the trouble—"
"Nonsense, Mr. Kirkland! I own all of them, after all. Come on, boys! No better time to watch a movie than when the main character's watching it with you, huh?"
Matt looks at Arthur with bemused pity and stands, shoving his phone into his pocket. Arthur scowls back. The phone in his own pocket suddenly feels very heavy.
Miserably, Alfred stomps out his cigarette ("What a waste," he mutters) and heads back in with the rest of them.
"If you could direct me to a washroom…?" says Arthur quietly. He has infuriated text messages to answer.
Alfred wordlessly points up at a flight of stairs, directing him to the door at the top.
"Thanks," he whispers. "Enjoy the movie."
Alfred punches him in the arm, good-naturedly, but it still hurts. The brute doesn't know his own strength.
Arthur tromps up the stairs (trying not to rub his arm too conspicuously), taking out his phone before he's even closed the bathroom door. He turns it on to another barrage of pings.
The most recent text is from Francis.
[From: The Frog]
I WILL RIP OUT YOUR ORGANS ONE BY ONE IF YOU DO NOT REPLY THIS ISNTANT, YOU INSUFFERABLE ENGLISHMAN.
[1:34 PM]
Arthur sits on the edge of the chipping bathtub and taps in a reply.
[To: The Frog]
I'm very sorry. Please tell everyone that I'm fine.
[1:35 PM]
[From: The Frog]
Do you have any IDEA what you have done? Where the hell are you?
[1:35 PM]
[To: The Frog]
Yes, sadly, I do. And I'm in Connecticut.
[1:35 PM]
[From: The Frog]
CCONNECTICUT TH E STATE? YOU FUCKIGN LITTLE BITCH, WHAT TH FUKC FUCK FUCK FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE EV
[1:36]
[From: The Frog]
EN DONE YOU SSON OF A BITCH?
[1:36]
[From: The Frog]
Elizaveta took my phone. She apologizes for the spelling errors; she's in a rage. But she has a point.
[1:36]
[To: The Frog]
She has a point, and she is corect. I am a son of a bitch, indeed.
[1:37]
[To: The Frog]
Correct*
[1:37]
[From: The Frog]
Roderich is so angry that he's been playing sonatas for three hours and won't talk to anyone.
[1:37]
[To: The Frog]
Oh, dear. Is that bad?
[1:37]
[From: The Frog]
There could literally be nothing worse.
[1:37]
[To: The Frog]
Tell him I'll be back tomorrow.
[1:37]
[From: The Frog]
Tell him yourself. Come back.
[1:37]
[To: The Frog]
I'm a bit tied up at the moment. My only ride is currently in the living room with his mother, watching my films.
[1:38]
[From: The Frog]
You're with your photographer, aren't you?
[1:38]
[To: The Frog]
…Is it that obvious?
[1:38]
[From: The Frog]
How old are you, Arthur? 28. For how many years have I known you? 28. Stop trying to escape from me. I have eye
[1:38]
[From: The Frog]
s everywhere.
[1:38]
[To: The Frog]
That is absolutely terrifying. Look, I will be at Roderich's flat at nine AM tomorrow to apologize.
[1:38]
[From: The Frog]
Good, because he has ceased to play notes and is just smashing on the keys.
[1:39]
[To: The Frog]
Tell him what I said. Good luck, Francis.
[1:39]
[To: The Frog]
I'm not the one who needs it.
[1:40]
Arthur puts his phone away and douses his hands, face, in the coldest water that will come out of the rusty tap. If he were religious, it would be baptism. He feels clean all the way through afterwards.
When he walks downstairs, Mrs. Jones is still agonizing over what film to choose. Alfred is asleep on the couch, and Matthew is texting again.
"We could watch Midnight's Daisy," she muses, running a finger along the spine of a DVD case.
"I had literally two lines in Midnight's Daisy," Arthur says incredulously, stepping into the living room.
She beams at him. "They were the best two," she declares with confidence, and keeps looking.
Arthur notices that his first big break, the movie where he was the lover of a poet (the one Matthew had been watching that first morning), is missing from her extensive collection. Too gay for this household, apparently, he thinks bitterly.
Alfred snores; Matthew punches him in the gut. Waking with a desperate snort, Alfred's glasses fly off his face, his hair a rat's nest from where it had twisted against the couch cushions.
He hurriedly collects his specs, checking for damage and shoving them back onto his face. "You stupid little bitch!" he cries, taking a swing at Matthew. The scuffle that ensues is broken with a practiced, motherly bellow from Mrs. Jones.
She finally breaks the suspense by choosing Arthur's most recent film, a quiet spy thriller, not put out in many mainstream theaters but garnered great reviews either way. Mrs. Jones turns on the TV, slips the disc into the DVD player and gives a little squeal of excitement as she presses PLAY.
"I still can't believe you're friends with Arthur Kirkland and you've never even seen one of his movies," she chuckles to Alfred, who stammers something about friends, well, I don't know about friends, maybe acquaintances? But it's too late, the film has started and Mrs. Jones is already enthralled. Matthew looks up with interest, as well.
Arthur hates watching himself. He's never met another actor who doesn't. All he can o is nitpick; I look like an idiot there, why in the world did I think that phrasing worked, did I just look at the camera?
He prides himself in his work— he just doesn't want to watch it. He excuses himself again, this time to the kitchen, wondering if there's anything to drink.
There is, thank the Lord above! Cheap beer, standing like a godsend on a shelf in the fridge. It's rude, it's infringing on hospitality, but he takes the bottle and digs an opener out of a drawer, relishing the hiss. He puts his lips to the bottle and—
"Raiding the fridge is usually my job, dude."
Alfred is standing, grinning in the doorway; Arthur, in vain, tries to hide the bottle behind his back.
"Take it easy! Just don't get smashed this time." His smile shows that it wasn't supposed to be a cruel comment, but Arthur scowls all the same.
Alfred strolls across the kitchen and reaches for a bottle himself, taking the bottle opener from the countertop; with another hiss, Alfred holds up his bottle in a toast. Arthur taps the neck of his with Alfred's, reluctantly, and they both take a swig.
"Never too early to start drinking," Alfred sighs contentedly.
Arthur snorts. "Finally, someone who agrees with me."
Alfred takes a seat at the rickety kitchen table, and Arthur follows him. The photographer immediately snaps a picture, and Arthur is surprised to find that he barely even cares anymore.
Arthur asks, "Where's Matt?"
Alfred grins widely at him. "I think you're gonna have a new fan on your hands, Artie. He's been sucked in."
Arthur almost chokes on his drink. "You did not just call me Artie."
He raises his eyebrows all innocently— what did I do?
"If you call me Artie," Arthur cautions, "I am going to have to call you Alfie."
"You wouldn't."
"Don't underestimate me."
"Dude, no. Those sound like couple names."
"Oh my God, Alfred," he coughs. "What would your mother think?"
They both giggle wildly, in the most unmanly way possible.
"Just imagine," laughs Alfred, doubling over to rest his forehead on the table. "Man, she already has a gay son she doesn't want. I don't think she could deal with her actor crush being a homo, too."
Arthur shrugs, a little timidly. Even under (self-inflicted?) blackmail, this man is becoming much too easy to talk to. "She'll have to deal with it," he says slowly, sipping slowly from his bottle, savoring the terrible beer.
Alfred's eyebrows shoot up so high they almost fly away.
Arthur regrets opening his mouth immediately. "It— well, obviously, it isn't public…"
But Alfred stares at him.
"How can I put this in terms an American can understand?" he contemplates aloud, tilting his head and tapping the rim of the bottle against his lips, trying to make this at least a little funny so some of the awkward will go away. (Alfred smirks. Plus one point for Arthur.) "I guess you could say that I'm like a highway in the Midwest. Think Kansas. Have you ever been to Kansas?"
Alfred nods. "Yeah, actually. An uncle of mine had a farm there."
"Right. Well, you know how it's all long, straight roads? But every once and a while, you reach a town. The town has a few more turns, the straight road gets a little convoluted. And on some occasions you'll drive through a rotary, and it's not straight at all." He pauses for a drink. "You see what I mean?"
"No, not at all. Arthur, have you ever heard of the Kinsey Scale?"
"The one-through-six, completely-straight-to-completely-gay chart."
"Right." He nods. "That was invented so people like you wouldn't have to make lengthy and confusing Kansas highway metaphors about their bisexuality."
"Fine, you conformist." Arthur gives him a shark-like grin, and Alfred, ever the mature one, sticks his tongue out at him.
"I don't really discriminate between the sexes," he continues. "As clichéd as it sounds, it's more about the person than the gender. Yet, if I had to, I'd put myself at a nice, healthy three and a half."
"There's no halves on the Kinsey Scale."
"There is now. And you?"
"I'm at least a seven."
Arthur blinks. "I thought it only went up to six."
"Exactly."
Arthur laughs, loudly and deeply, and it feels good, so he does it some more. "You know, Alfred, for the longest time, you flew completely under my gaydar. My suspicions were only confirmed today, with your mother's dazzling display of homophobia." (Alfred snorts and rolls his eyes.) "I thought Matthew called you a fag just to be cruel."
Alfred laughs now, higher, boyishly. "Well, he does call me a fag just to be cruel. Doesn't mean it isn't true, though."
"I suppose so." He taps the side of his half-empty bottle against the edge of the table, daring it to break. "Seriously, though. Even in a lime green T-shirt, you still look straight. That, sir, is an amazing feat."
"I guess that's true, isn't it?" he laughs, totally unabashed. He goes on after a long swig, as if to steel himself for the coming story. "When I was in college, I used to go to this gay bar with some of my friends, right? Shitty little place, but fun enough." He shrugs casually. "I just never got hit on. Ever. At first, I thought it was because I was revolting or something, but no— everyone there just assumed that I was that one straight guy tagging along with his gay friends." He laughs a little (he's the kind of person who laughs at his own jokes, the bastard, Arthur thinks amiably).
"I only found that out when a guy asked me to go home with him, and I said yes. And he was shocked. Oh, shit, man, you should have seen the look on his face." Alfred's eyes widen, his jaw goes slack like a dead fish's, and Arthur cackles.
"He told me that one of his friends had bet him a hundred dollars that he couldn't get in a straight guy's pants. He was convinced he was going to seduce me out of liking vagina. It was hilarious."
"I bet you went home with him anyway," Arthur says.
Alfred raises his bottle in a mock toast. "You bet your bottom dollar I did. I won that motherfucker a hundred bucks that night."
(Arthur had never noticed that Alfred had been taking pictures that whole time.)
After a while, Arthur finds himself blurting, "I don't really dislike you, Jones. I did, but I don't anymore."
Alfred nods. "At first, I thought you were a strange alien made out of acting and money. Now I know that you're an asshole. Still made out of acting and money, mind you, but assholes are human like the rest of us."
"When I said my part, I was trying to be kind."
"I wasn't."
"That much is obvious."
Arthur's phone pings again; this time it's Elizaveta, apologizing for being rude earlier. Probably because Francis told her to. And Antonio probably thinks this whole thing is hilarious, a sort of backhanded retribution for the Yacht Incident. Arthur makes a mental note to hit him later.
"Who's that?" Alfred asks, caring nothing for keeping his nose out of other peoples' goddamn business.
Arthur sighs, deletes the text, and slips the phone back into his pocket. He's had enough confrontations for one day. "Elizaveta."
"Héderváry?"
"The very same," he says, and smiles. "The one your friend is in love with."
"And you said earlier that you're her friend. Does everyone in Hollywood know each other?"
Nodding judiciously, Arthur replies, "Yes. We've got underground networks that connect our houses to every other famous person, so we can plot the ultimate destruction of you untalented plebs."
Alfred grins and is about to reply when Matthew scurries in, his trainers squeaking as he slides to a halt, pointing at Arthur with intent.
"You," he declares, "are a fucking genius."
Alfred laughs at the sudden display, and all Arthur can reply with is an uncertain "Thank you?"
Matthew shakes his head. "Seriously, man. I can't even believe it. We're in the middle of this movie, and I know you now, in real life, and I can barely recognize you. It's like you change skins. I don't know how you do it."
"It's all in the self-loathing," Arthur explains airily. "You just want to be someone else so hard that you stop being yourself."
"That sounds terrible," says Alfred.
"It is, but I like acting, and it gets me lots and lots of money."
Matt laughs, grabs a Coke from the fridge, and as he leaves he promises Arthur lots and lots of fanfiction.
Arthur looks at Alfred questioningly. Alfred snaps a picture, and nods gravely that yes, my brother does indeed write fanfiction.
"Matt was an English major. I studied photography. It's probably why we're so poor," he sighs.
"I was a history major. Not a lot of jobs in that field, either."
Rolling his eyes, Alfred drawls, "So you managed to snag one in acting, which is so much less exclusive."
"I'm just lucky, I guess.".
"Yeah, you most definitely are."
Arthur thinks about that for a moment. He never feels lucky. Most of the time, his life feels more like a burden than a good time.
Does Alfred F. Jones always see the world like this? Like it's all one big communal bowl of happiness, even when you never knew your father, even when you've got a mother who must have shoved you into that little hetero box of hers for years and years and years? And you come back out the other side, with a useless college degree and a shitty apartment in a city you hate, and you're still happy.
It hurts Arthur's head to even think about, and it makes him hate himself a little more. Too bad those were the last two beers.
They continue to talk about nothing, and Alfred continues to take pictures; when the movie is over, and after a good half hour of gushing, Matthew declares that it is time to leave.
After the obligatory hugs goodbye (Alfred's is stiff and formal), Mrs. Jones says, "Oh, can I get a picture with you, Mr. Kirkland? My friends just ain't gonna believe it if they don't see it!"
"Of course," he says, and motions for Alfred to do the honors. He bends down to her level, putting on a smile from his ever-practiced repertoire: the Look at What a Nice and Relatable Person I Am (ver. 2). With the press of a button, it's captured, and Mrs. Jones gives a happy little squeal that rivals even the youngest of fangirls'.
"I expect a signed copy next time you come back, Alfred. A girlfriend would be nice, too! Mattie's got one," she titters.
"She's not my girlfriend," Matt protests weakly.
Alfred tries to smile, but it ends up being a grimace. "I can supply the first, Mom, not so much the second."
"Oh, dear. You're still in this phase…" She gives a little tut, tut, tut that makes Arthur want to shake her.
"You'll have to settle sometime," she sighs, patting her leaning hairdo back into place.
There's a snap in Alfred, so dramatic that it is almost audible.
Arthur realizes that the shit has, just now, hit the fan.
Alfred's voice is low and surprisingly menacing as he growls, "Mom, the only kind of person I will ever settle with— and it won't be anytime soon, since I am only twenty- fucking-three— will be a human being with a distinct lack of tits!"
"Al!" Matthew cries, but it's futile. Their mother's brow furrows.
"You do not use such language in front of me," she intones, holding up a shaking index finger. Arthur looks on, a helpless spectator in a game of verbal tennis gone horribly wrong.
"I'll use whatever language I fucking want," Alfred sneers, "because I am sick of—"
Matthew smacks him in the back of the head. "Bye, Mom, love you," he shouts over Alfred's shrieks of indignation as he drags his brother out the door, slamming it behind him.
Arthur is still inside, though; he gives an awkward lopsided smile (his I Have No Idea What to Say or Do Right Now), stammers something about how nice it is to meet fans, and scurries outside, Mrs. Jones still staring emptily after him.
Alfred and Matt are already getting in the cab. He runs to meet them.
Arthur ends up in the passenger seat next to Matthew, with Alfred forcibly put in back; if he were up front, he'd probably be strangling his brother.
"I was finally standing up to her!" he rages, kicking the back of the driver's seat as hard as he can. "You fucking little prick, you drag me out when I was finally getting my way—"
Matthew buckles up and starts the car, throwing an "I'm sorry" look at Arthur, apologizing for the coming shitstorm. Pulling off of the curb, he says, "Because she's our mother, Al, and you're not going to change her mind about you by flipping out on her."
"She is the biggest fucking— fucking— she is the worst person on the planet."
"Look, I know she did some terrible stuff, Al—"
"Remember when she wouldn't let me join the swim team because the other guys would be in Speedos? And she thought her poor demon-possessed son only wanted an eyeful of ass?"
Matthew groans in exasperation. "Well, yeah, and that was horrible! I get it, okay? I hate her just as much as you do. I love her, though, too, because she raised us and gave us food and shelter and made sure we didn't, you know, die."
"I was never ashamed of it, Matt!" Alfred screams, his hands flying in the air, only to smash against the ceiling. "I— I was never ashamed of, of being a fag, a homo. Remember when she used to call me that? And she didn't even think she was being mean. 'Alfred, dear, don't be a fag. Don't be a homo.' Do you even fucking remember?"
"Al, of course I remember!"
"Jesus, she never let me be a kid, Matt. No one would have even cared if I came out of the closet in high school. There were plenty of gay kids out and about. If any kids even bothered to give me shit, I would have bashed their skulls in. I could have done it. I was the fucking quarterback. The problem wasn't that I was ashamed of myself, Matt. I have never been ashamed of me. The only person that has ever been ashamed of me is her."
Alfred runs a hand through his hair, jaw set in a painfully light line, and says nothing more.
In the silence, Arthur turns on the radio.
It could have been a poignant song that fit the moment beautifully. It could have been a soft ballad, a screaming tear of electric guitar that would ring in their ears for an hour afterwards, meaning everything and nothing, all at once.
It's a Viagra advert.
Three hours later, Arthur is sitting back in his hotel room, Alfred's cell phone number safely saved into his phone ("Come around sometime next week, I'll call you").
He grabs a beer from the fridge, pulls off the cap and takes a huge gulp. He wishes it tasted worse, like the beer at Mrs. Jones's house.
A/N: Alfred Has Mommy Issues, Part 423 out of His Entire Life.
People who said the last chapter was short, this is for you! I liked writing such a lengthy chapter. Maybe I'll manage to do it again sometime.
Thank you guys for being so fuckingamazing. So many reviews last time! If you loved (or hated) this story, I won't know unless you tell me. Favorites and alerts are all fine and dandy, but reviews mean a million times more, and they always manage to make my day.
Music Note (see what I did there?): The Springsteen song quoted is, of course, "Born to Run." "No Quarter" is Led Zeppelin. I'm probably going to vomit all of my favorite music into this fic— that is your warning and your enticement, because, if I do say so myself, I've got pretty good taste.
Until next time, my lovelies!