A birthday gift from me to you.
Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes, so here is a little gift from me to you. (Read it as a "one off" not part of the continuing saga.)
Randall
****************
Justin awoke with a sheet of typing paper tented over his face as he sprawled on his back in the big bed. When he brushed it off and squinted at it, all it said was "29" in a huge black font.
"Prick," he mumbled and stumbled into the bathroom. Taped to the mirror: a depiction of the grim reaper with the numbers "29" written on his scythe. He balled it up and threw it on the floor.
"Jerk," he mumbled. He got in the shower and turned it on. As the steam rose, he noticed the glass door had been carefully oiled so that the numerals "29" showed up when steam covered the rest of the glass.
"Brian!" He yelled. No answer.
Wearing Brian's red robe that hung loosely from his smaller frame, he walked into the main room of the loft. Outside, Chelsea was alight with morning. Vendors rolled flower carts into position. Londoners hurried to work as though it were not a glorious sunny day. Beyond the Embankment Road, the Thames was sluggish and brown this morning. The tides pulled slowly today. Time was chugging along. Justin had an interview in an hour, some Times art editor about his painting being made part of the permanent collection at the new Tate. He wanted Brian to be there for the interview because interviews made him nervous. But Brian laughed and said he had his own business to run. Which was true. The London branch of Brian's ad agency was still experiencing growing pains. Justin may have turned twenty-nine, today, true, but Brian was forty-two and that made him smile with cruel vindication.
He saw a note on the counter. Brian's scrawl. "Open fridge. Follow instructions."
The note was followed by the numerals "29" typed over and over again across the bottom. "Asshole," Justin muttered. He opened the fridge. There was a pitcher of something pale pink, and a note that said, "Drink me". He did so. At the bottom of the pitcher was etched the number "29". But the luscious vodka enhanced pink grapefruit juice with a touch of guava took away the pain. A box invited "Eat me". Justin opened the lid and saw two perfect, flaky pastries forming the number "29". This time he laughed.
He sat down at the glass topped table overlooking the waterfront and ate his pastries and finished his juice. His phone rang, that annoying chirp that British Telecomm preferred. "You are such an asshole," he greeted his caller. Pause.
"What if I were your mother?"
"I knew it was you."
"Just wanted to be sure your lazy ass was awakened by the alarm since you have your interview."
"I'm up, I'm showered, I've eaten my fattening and devoid of nutrition breakfast."
"You loved it."
"Of course I did. Hold on, Brian. There's the door."
He opened the door to the loft, admitting a flower delivery man who gave him twenty-nine perfect white roses. The card said, "White is the Asian color of mourning. Mourn your lost youth, B."
He thanked and tipped the delivery man and returned to the phone. "You are so incredibly rude."
"Surprised?"
"I remember when even acting like you remembered my birthday was considered heresy. You couldn't buy me a single rose without chest pains. Now you use it like a weapon against me."
"Just wait until next year."
"You know, Brian, I'm still as much younger than you as I ever was and always will be."
"Not if I die first."
"That day may come sooner than you think."
"Ohhh, I'm scared now," Brian's laugh annoyed him.
"When you turned forty, I let you have a moratorium on bad jokes about age. I gave you that for your birthday. This is the thanks I get?"
"Don't you remember, Justin? I was twenty-nine when we met and you did everything in your power to make me feel ancient. Pay back is a bitch."
"Pay back is childish. I was a child."
"Where are you right now?"
"On the terrace."
"Go inside, bring the portable, open the desk."
"Are twenty-nine rats going to jump out at me?"
"Damn, I knew I forgot something. Go."
Justin sighed but obeyed, warily opening the drawer of their genuine Art Deco desk. It was a gift for Brian's last birthday, oddly enough. Nothing jumped out at him. He saw an oversized white envelope and it felt heavy. His name was scrawled on it by Brian.
"See it?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"Open it."
"Tell me what it is, first?"
"Fuck you, open it."
He opened it carefully and a bunch of black confetti fell to the floor in a glittery heap. He sighed. "I am so not cleaning that up."
Brian laughed. "Keep going."
He pulled out a second envelope trimmed in black. "Brian, this is getting old."
"No, Sunshine, you're getting old. This is a gift."
He unsealed it and a colorful iternerary fell out. He picked it up and spread it open. "What is it? It's an itenerary, I see that, but...?"
"That trip you wanted. Asia, down to Australia, New Zealand, fly back to London."
"Brian, you said you would never go on a cruise until you were so old they had to roll you onboard with your portable oxygen and your motorized wheelchair."
"No, that would be our fellow passengers. This is your birthday gift, Sunshine. Take it or leave it."
"But it's so long! Will you really stay out of the office that long?"
"How long is it?"
"Long, let me look, it's...twenty-nine days." He smiled. "It's twenty-nine days."
"I thought we'd add some time in Hong Kong at the front of the trip and in Auckland at the back and round it up to a beautiful, still sexy, still trim, still vital, still viril forty-two."
"You'll take a trip that long? Just the two of us?"
"I've earned it. You can paint anywhere, even at sea. And they tell me the internet works in the middle of the ocean. I'll keep an eye on my business."
"You're still ridiculously romantic, you know that?"
"Of course I am. It's my charm. Oh and Justin?"
"Yes?"
"Make sure I have enough refills on my little purple pills to get me through that trip."
Justin laughed. "You don't even need them."
"I do if I'm going for the record."
"And what is the record?"
"Twenty-nine times a day, what else?"
Justin smiled. "You'd better have twenty-eight close and personal friends lined up that day, Brian, because my ass isn't taking that much punishment."
Brian laughed. "Oh for the old days when you were still young and ripe."
"I'll show you ripe. Drag your wrinkly old ass down to Chelsea and let's go at it."
"My wrinkly old ass has a meeting and your fat young ass has an interview."
"Fat? You'll be lucky to see it again after that remark!"
"Promises, promises."
"Brian, I love you twenty-nine times more than when I first met you."
"Yeah? You're twenty-nine times more trouble, too."
"I got twenty-nine minutes of hard sucking waiting for you when you get home."
Brian paused. "I can be there in twenty-nine minutes."
"What about your meeting and my interview?"
"We'll be twenty-nine minutes late. It's considered fashionable."
"You have twenty-nine seconds to hang up and start over here."
"Be naked."
"Twenty-seven..."
"Justin?"
"Twenty-five, what?"
"Happy birthday."
"Twenty. Thanks. Hurry. I'm twenty-nine times hornier than last night."
Brian hung up as Justin laughed and reached for the nearest rose to inhale the beauty of it times twenty-nine.
End
Randall
****************
Justin awoke with a sheet of typing paper tented over his face as he sprawled on his back in the big bed. When he brushed it off and squinted at it, all it said was "29" in a huge black font.
"Prick," he mumbled and stumbled into the bathroom. Taped to the mirror: a depiction of the grim reaper with the numbers "29" written on his scythe. He balled it up and threw it on the floor.
"Jerk," he mumbled. He got in the shower and turned it on. As the steam rose, he noticed the glass door had been carefully oiled so that the numerals "29" showed up when steam covered the rest of the glass.
"Brian!" He yelled. No answer.
Wearing Brian's red robe that hung loosely from his smaller frame, he walked into the main room of the loft. Outside, Chelsea was alight with morning. Vendors rolled flower carts into position. Londoners hurried to work as though it were not a glorious sunny day. Beyond the Embankment Road, the Thames was sluggish and brown this morning. The tides pulled slowly today. Time was chugging along. Justin had an interview in an hour, some Times art editor about his painting being made part of the permanent collection at the new Tate. He wanted Brian to be there for the interview because interviews made him nervous. But Brian laughed and said he had his own business to run. Which was true. The London branch of Brian's ad agency was still experiencing growing pains. Justin may have turned twenty-nine, today, true, but Brian was forty-two and that made him smile with cruel vindication.
He saw a note on the counter. Brian's scrawl. "Open fridge. Follow instructions."
The note was followed by the numerals "29" typed over and over again across the bottom. "Asshole," Justin muttered. He opened the fridge. There was a pitcher of something pale pink, and a note that said, "Drink me". He did so. At the bottom of the pitcher was etched the number "29". But the luscious vodka enhanced pink grapefruit juice with a touch of guava took away the pain. A box invited "Eat me". Justin opened the lid and saw two perfect, flaky pastries forming the number "29". This time he laughed.
He sat down at the glass topped table overlooking the waterfront and ate his pastries and finished his juice. His phone rang, that annoying chirp that British Telecomm preferred. "You are such an asshole," he greeted his caller. Pause.
"What if I were your mother?"
"I knew it was you."
"Just wanted to be sure your lazy ass was awakened by the alarm since you have your interview."
"I'm up, I'm showered, I've eaten my fattening and devoid of nutrition breakfast."
"You loved it."
"Of course I did. Hold on, Brian. There's the door."
He opened the door to the loft, admitting a flower delivery man who gave him twenty-nine perfect white roses. The card said, "White is the Asian color of mourning. Mourn your lost youth, B."
He thanked and tipped the delivery man and returned to the phone. "You are so incredibly rude."
"Surprised?"
"I remember when even acting like you remembered my birthday was considered heresy. You couldn't buy me a single rose without chest pains. Now you use it like a weapon against me."
"Just wait until next year."
"You know, Brian, I'm still as much younger than you as I ever was and always will be."
"Not if I die first."
"That day may come sooner than you think."
"Ohhh, I'm scared now," Brian's laugh annoyed him.
"When you turned forty, I let you have a moratorium on bad jokes about age. I gave you that for your birthday. This is the thanks I get?"
"Don't you remember, Justin? I was twenty-nine when we met and you did everything in your power to make me feel ancient. Pay back is a bitch."
"Pay back is childish. I was a child."
"Where are you right now?"
"On the terrace."
"Go inside, bring the portable, open the desk."
"Are twenty-nine rats going to jump out at me?"
"Damn, I knew I forgot something. Go."
Justin sighed but obeyed, warily opening the drawer of their genuine Art Deco desk. It was a gift for Brian's last birthday, oddly enough. Nothing jumped out at him. He saw an oversized white envelope and it felt heavy. His name was scrawled on it by Brian.
"See it?"
"Yes, what is it?"
"Open it."
"Tell me what it is, first?"
"Fuck you, open it."
He opened it carefully and a bunch of black confetti fell to the floor in a glittery heap. He sighed. "I am so not cleaning that up."
Brian laughed. "Keep going."
He pulled out a second envelope trimmed in black. "Brian, this is getting old."
"No, Sunshine, you're getting old. This is a gift."
He unsealed it and a colorful iternerary fell out. He picked it up and spread it open. "What is it? It's an itenerary, I see that, but...?"
"That trip you wanted. Asia, down to Australia, New Zealand, fly back to London."
"Brian, you said you would never go on a cruise until you were so old they had to roll you onboard with your portable oxygen and your motorized wheelchair."
"No, that would be our fellow passengers. This is your birthday gift, Sunshine. Take it or leave it."
"But it's so long! Will you really stay out of the office that long?"
"How long is it?"
"Long, let me look, it's...twenty-nine days." He smiled. "It's twenty-nine days."
"I thought we'd add some time in Hong Kong at the front of the trip and in Auckland at the back and round it up to a beautiful, still sexy, still trim, still vital, still viril forty-two."
"You'll take a trip that long? Just the two of us?"
"I've earned it. You can paint anywhere, even at sea. And they tell me the internet works in the middle of the ocean. I'll keep an eye on my business."
"You're still ridiculously romantic, you know that?"
"Of course I am. It's my charm. Oh and Justin?"
"Yes?"
"Make sure I have enough refills on my little purple pills to get me through that trip."
Justin laughed. "You don't even need them."
"I do if I'm going for the record."
"And what is the record?"
"Twenty-nine times a day, what else?"
Justin smiled. "You'd better have twenty-eight close and personal friends lined up that day, Brian, because my ass isn't taking that much punishment."
Brian laughed. "Oh for the old days when you were still young and ripe."
"I'll show you ripe. Drag your wrinkly old ass down to Chelsea and let's go at it."
"My wrinkly old ass has a meeting and your fat young ass has an interview."
"Fat? You'll be lucky to see it again after that remark!"
"Promises, promises."
"Brian, I love you twenty-nine times more than when I first met you."
"Yeah? You're twenty-nine times more trouble, too."
"I got twenty-nine minutes of hard sucking waiting for you when you get home."
Brian paused. "I can be there in twenty-nine minutes."
"What about your meeting and my interview?"
"We'll be twenty-nine minutes late. It's considered fashionable."
"You have twenty-nine seconds to hang up and start over here."
"Be naked."
"Twenty-seven..."
"Justin?"
"Twenty-five, what?"
"Happy birthday."
"Twenty. Thanks. Hurry. I'm twenty-nine times hornier than last night."
Brian hung up as Justin laughed and reached for the nearest rose to inhale the beauty of it times twenty-nine.
End