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Good men are sparse in a world of swindlers and crooks-- far and few between like a decent landlord and a pleasant marriage. Artie Green, it happens to be, is a shining example of a good man. Artie is mellow-- perpetually optimistic in an almost grating way. He’s a man who would take a slap in the face not as a misfortune, but as proof of his continued existence. A man so full of the zest of life has no business hanging around with Joe Gillis.
“Hey, kid. Best ease up on the smokes,” Artie bats away a plume of smoke from my Marlboro. He can be a prude like that sometimes. Artie Green: never quite the drinker. Unless, of course, he has company in me.
“Got some fine curtains you protecting, buddy?” I snort, trailing my gaze to the curtains obscuring the windows by Artie’s bedside. They’re darned with an array of mismatched patches. He’d tried his best to mend what few belongings he owns, but rudimentary stitching only goes so far. “Cut me a break, Green. It’s the first time I’d seen you in months.” I exhale another puff of smoke directly onto Artie’s face. Artie coughs and gags, his nose all scrunched up. I hesitate before I kiss him. Then I kiss him again, something strange and unknowable swelling up in my chest. Artie still reeks of sweat and the drug store pomade he gels his hair with.
“It’s my apartment, Joe,” He sighs around another kiss. I thread my hand through his hair and push him in a longer caress. Copper skin emerges under an off-white duvet. I chase every glimpse of it with my mouth as Artie pants and groans. “Jesus--” Artie presses his palm against my forehead, forcibly pushing me away. “Stop,” He says, but there’s a chuckle at the end of it. I let Artie reach for my fingers to pluck my cig away. He stubs it out on our ashtray-- a perfectly good cigarette!-- though I allow it.
“I paid money for that,” I say, my fingers feeling lonely. I flick them irritably. “What’s a strapping young stud like me supposed to do without the allure of a cigarette?”
“It gives you bad breath,” Artie says. Doe-like, deep umber eyes meet my own. His voice carries a tenderness I’d like to wrap myself in before I’m shoved in a casket. “No one wants to kiss a man that tastes like burning coal,” Artie smirks, though his gaze lies elsewhere. I sustain a pout for a few seconds before it breaks off into a guffaw.
“You kiss me anyway,” I tease. Artie ruffles my hair with a stupid smile on his face. “What’s the sense in trying?”
“You’re too much,” Artie says. I immediately climb on top of him, legs locking onto his. Our groins brush up against each other, and I feel a heat grow on my cheeks. He was inside of me just moments ago, but I can’t help but feel bashful when it’s the two of us like this. My hands are planted across from either side of Artie’s head, on the pillow he’s rested on. Artie blinks slowly, a smirk overtaking his features. There’s a half-assed mustache above his lip. I look into his eyes, then back down at his lips. I kiss him again. This time, Artie grabs my back and pulls me in, making me lose my grasp. I fall, teeth knocking into Artie’s jaw, but all we do is laugh as we roll back onto the bed.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting all sweet on me, Artie.” I drawl, placing my hand back where it belongs on the back of his neck. “Two bachelors in a one-room affair-- it’s all so dreadfully cliche, don’t you think?”
Artie raises a brow.
“One bachelor,” He says, plainly.
The room chills several degrees. A lump forms in my throat like a cherry pit. Right . How had I forgotten? A good man requires a good mate, and dearest Artie had already found himself a wife in Betty Schaefer. Ambitious-- razor-sharp. Stacked in the bosom and generous in the gams. Who else would be better than a woman to feed Artie’s flame?
“One bachelor,” I repeat, staring at Artie’s lips. Soft, voluminous lips for a man-- a sodomite’s wet dream. “And a man still on the menu before his wife calls.” This earns a slap on the shoulder, which I rub away while grinning like a goddamn maniac. “It’s only fair!”
“You constantly prove why a woman could never tolerate your antics.” Artie presses his thumb into my cheek, rolling it into feather-light circles. My eyes flicker before they close, and I make a soft noise in my throat. “Settle down, Joe. It would be good for you.”
“Settlin’... it’s ah… no dream for me. You said so yourself. Too much of a cynic to find a dame.” Artie’s thumb freezes. I push my cheek against it in desperate search of its comfort, but he pulls his hand away. “You, on the other hand…”
“Oh, Joe,” Artie laughs. “You’re a fool.”
A fool for a man that’s blissfully wed, Joe Gillis, I can almost hear him say. He doesn’t, as Artie is too kind of a man to rub salt in the wound, but he seems to convey it in his gaze. Tough luck, guy, he stares at me with a look that’s almost mournful. Too little, too late.
Somewhere, church bells ring for the funeral of an unknown writer.
“You know, I’m… writing this picture about these two pilots. Real wunderkinds in the field, and one of the guys has this Mexican dolly pining for him fierce. He doesn’t reciprocate of course, but she’s not the flighty type. What uh… what would she say to him?”
Artie sighs, stretching up onto the bedframe so that his back is propped up against it. The futon slips further, revealing more of his chest and stomach, and I’m reminded of the punishment of Tantalus. Artie stars as a sun-ripened peach, fuzz and all, on a gargantuan peach tree inches away but always just out of reach. His flesh is sweet, refreshing on a hot summer day, and I’m ravenous for even the tiniest bit of nourishment.
I’d craved him since we were both two naive kids trying to make it in showbiz. When he’d pored over my scripts in all their amateurish glory and offered revisions. Artie was always there, with a coffee and his warmth-- even as one rejection turned into seven others. I’d stayed in his bed when we’d both craved the companionship of another. Over time, our meetings grew sparse and Artie neglected to call. As things go.
“Well, I figure she’d call him a number of flattering things. Snookums, honey-darling--”
“In Spanish, Artie.” Artie looks back at me with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. I chew the inside of my cheek, cursing God for giving my best friend such beautiful eyes. “For… authenticity.”
There’s a question laid unspoken between us, though we’re both too chicken to voice it.
“Probably… she’d call him mi amor. Her love.”
“ Mi amor , Artie,” I croon, fingering Artie’s chest, letting my words drip like honey. “ Mi amor,” I whisper, walking my fingers down Artie’s ribcage. A chuckle vibrates through his chest, and I find myself transfixed, twirling my index finger in a circle over Artie’s heart. “ Mi vida. Te quiero. ” Artie’s breath hitches— his eyes widen before he grabs my wrist and pulls it away.
“Cut it out.” His grip is firm against my wrist, hand constricting it with a pressure usually only reserved for moments of anger. So it is, I think. It’s serious between him and the girl. I’d seen her only once at the studio, but I don’t blame him for being charmed. She’s a persistent one, that Miss Schaefer-- filled with the same spark we’d once had. Artie was always good at picking them.
“I’m only kiddin’. Learned a couple new words.”
“It’s not funny, Joe,” he snaps. Oh, he wants to play this game.
“I think it is,” I snap back. “Taking it all out on me when you chose to sleep with me in the first place.”
“It was only a few nights--”
“Some wedding you’re planning. The groomsman screwing his best man under the alibi of ‘releasing tension.’ What would the guests think if they knew Artie Green was a fag ?”
“That’s all it is,” Artie mutters. “Screwing. I have a wife , Joe--”
“ Fiancee ,” I interject. “And she’s beautiful and clever and you love her and you deserve her. How on earth could I compete with that? Go to her.”
Let Artie marry, settle down, have a nice house with a manicured lawn out in suburbs. There is no room for a friend who mooches off of him, pathetic and pining over his every action. I love him enough to understand that what Artie wants is a blissful domestic life, and I can’t give that to him. Not when misfortune shadows my every move, and not when every good thing I’ve gotten I ruin with a traitorous ease. There is no happiness to be had in a life with Joe Gillis. No fruit is to be borne from the entwining of two men.
There’s a silence. I’m breathing shallowly.
“Where are you thinking?” I rasp. My eyes feel wet-- sissy shit-- I rub at them with my hand while Artie isn’t looking.
“South Pasadena, maybe. My folks left a nice place for us-- it’s modest, but just enough until we get our footing. There’s a nice yard. Maybe I’ll build a swing for the kids,” Artie chuckles, looking off. There’s a dreamlike sheen in his eyes-- the type of fondness a man can’t fake-- and a stab of jealousy courses through my chest.
“Oh yeah? Bet you’d… be a good father.”
Artie looks back at me, genuinely surprised. “You’re a pal, Joe. You know you’d always be welcome at our house,” he says, mouth curled up in a tender smile.
“Thanks,” I say.
I take Artie’s hand in mine. He’s rigid at first, but his grip slackens when I show no ill intention. If I squint, there’s a restlessness in his features. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. It’s pitiful, how much I care for him. The thought of Artie married and away from me shouldn’t revulse me if I were a better man, but selfishness runs in my veins. I respect Artie, so, rationally, I should approve of his union. It’s a travesty that I don’t.
“Let’s talk pictures,” I say.