Baby's on Fire
Table of Contents
Baby's on Fire
Book Details
Dedication
October 1994
June 1974
October 1994
June 1974
October 1994
June 1974
October 1994
August 1974
October 1994
October 1974
November 1994
November 1974
December 1994
January 1995
October 1995
May 2014
About the Author
Baby's on Fire
A.F. Henley
In 1974 Gerry Faun gets the break of his life: an opportunity to meet gorgeous, openly bisexual, glam-rock idol Mark Devon. Mark's world is new, exciting, and Gerry finally gets to explore the side of his sexuality that he's kept hidden. But the press is everywhere, and when Gerry's father gets wind of what's going on behind his back, Gerry ends up on the street. Mark offers to let Gerry come along with the tour and Gerry jumps at the chance. The tour is a never-ending party—and the start of what seems to be a perfect relationship for him and Mark. Until Mark's manager decides Gerry isn't worth the trouble he's stirring up.
In 1994 Gerry is finally coming out of some tough times—he has a job that pays the bills, a car that hasn't quite broken down, and a small rental in Jersey City. After a decade of barely getting by, if life was as good as it was going to get, Gerry figures he'll manage just fine. It would be easier if he wasn't still haunted by the man the media won't let him forget, the man who stole his heart and then broke it... the man that's shown up pleading for a second chance.
Book Details
Baby's on Fire
By A.F. Henley
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Tracey Pennington
Cover designed by Raphael
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition May 2015
Copyright © 2015 by A.F. Henley
Printed in the United States of America
Digital ISBN 9781620045398
Print ISBN 9781620045404
My father used to have an obnoxious saying (most likely he still does) that goes, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." In all honesty, the saying never made much sense to me (maybe I've just been lucky and only had brilliant teachers), but I've definitely bastardized the line for all kinds of uses. With this novel, it's a case of, "Those who can, do; those who can't, write about it." My brother was not just being cruel when he told me that I'd starve to death if I had to make a living with my voice.
So this book is dedicated to all the childhood dreams that never came to be, but that our hearts have never quite been able to let go of. Here's hoping it never does.
And to Volker, as my stories always are, for the hundreds if not thousands of things he does to make this process easier to bear. He'll tell you it's because he loves the words, but I'm more inclined to think he's a bit of a masochist. Volker, my friend, never change.
October 1994
For what seemed like the hundredth time, the traffic in front of Gerry Faun came to a slow-rolling halt. It was the rain doing the most damage, though the end of the workday was always ugly on the streets of New York City. Not that there were many pretty things on the street, regardless. Giuliani was trying, but the way Gerry had it figured, it was going to take more than a smile and a stand on graffiti and marijuana to clean up their kind of dirt. So while the rest of the city offered the mayor awe-induced stares of appreciation over recollections of Mafia Commission and Boesky trials, Gerry mostly sat back and speculated. When government officials got clever enough to stop assholes from blowing up pregnant secretaries and hard-working fathers, then they might actually get his attention. Until then, Gerry wasn't putting any more trust in them than he would anybody else. He'd learned a long time ago that not all that glitters is worthy.
He was lost in thought enough not to acknowledge the tunnel. He was, in fact, well into it before he remembered to take off his sunglasses. He forgave himself the digression. It had been a long week. Though Gerry worked in the financial district, he was no more than a glorified yes-man for his boss, a real estate broker that had made a fuck-ton of money in the eighties, and was merely coasting until the inevitable retirement. He ran errands and answered phones. He took messages, and booked flights that he was more than sure did not drop Mr. David Manon in places of business. He made reservations in exclusive restaurants, paid Mr. Manon's membership fees for a gym the man never went to, and bought Manon's anniversary and birthday gifts for the wife-of-the-moment. Gerry had a flair for it, or so his boss would tell him whenever the requirement came up, and Gerry was cocky enough to verbally agree with Manon every time. Damn right he was good at it.
Tail lights suddenly flared in front of him and Gerry cursed and slammed his brake pedal down. His eyes flicked between windshield and rearview, assessing space and distance, and he blew a sigh of relief when he confirmed that the guy behind him had been paying more attention than he'd been. Maybe it really was time to give up the car.
He'd heard it a thousand times from friends, family, and casual observers: public transport would not only save him money, but they swore up and down it would save him time. God knew gasoline was getting more expensive by the day, and parking costs in the district were insane. Gerry considered it pretty much every time the numbers went up on the billboards beside the gas stations. One day he would, he'd tell himself. One day for sure. When he could convince himself that walking the six blocks from the bus stop in Jersey's bitter January winds wouldn’t be as appealing as slitting his own throat with barbed wire. When he got over his control issues.
The side road whereby Gerry's rental home waited for his return was already jammed with cars, so instead of parking on the street, Gerry carefully worked his 1984 Buick into the tiny concrete pad that served as his driveway. He nudged the car as close to the house as it would go, wincing when the fender butted against the foundation and the ancient bow window above him shook with disapproval. While some of the properties on the street had given up parking for an attempt at a front lawn, Gerry couldn't see the point of bothering to maintain a six-by-eight square of greenery and have to fight for a place to park every day. Besides, what was the point? In the summer everything got so damn hot that his neighbors' plants and grass got their lives choked out of them. In the winter, anything that had managed to get a hold on the Earth was quickly destroyed by the cold and the snow.
Looking, he was sure, about as sexy as a maggot trying to escape from a nostril, Gerry inched out from between his car and the base of the entranceway steps. His suit wasn't worth that much, but it was worth too much to go rubbing it up against rain-mucked concrete or the wet door of a car that hadn't seen an auto-wash in months. His breath puffed out from between his lips, the rain making October that much colder, and Gerry lifted his eyes to the sky. Dark, ominous clouds roiled in the gray heavens, and Gerry had serious doubts that the light rainfall was all the skies had in store for them.
In the second it took for Gerry to muse, a deep rumble of thunder broke, a distant sheet of lightning answered the call with a flare of brilliance, and the drizzle became a downpour. Without bothering to spit out the curse on his tongue, Gerry ran for the front door. The porch roof did nothing to protect him as the rain whipped against his back and legs, and he had to seat the key twice before it finally dug in and allowed him to open the door.
Dripping, mumbling, Gerry slammed the door behind him with a definitive clunk and flicked the deadbolt. He kicked off his shoes, sighing as small rivers of water raced across the lopsided flooring of the hallway, and he began to peel off of his wet clothes right where he stood. He might as well only drown one part of the house, and at least that particular location was vinyl tile. Most of the house had decades-old carpeting that, when wet, released all kinds of odors. None of them good.
With his wet clothes piled in his arms, Gerry stepped gingerly down the narrow hallway, and ducked into the bathroom. He dumped the armload into the tub, and grabbed a towel off the rack.
He didn't pause to look in the mirror and fix his hair. The cut was short, short enough in fact that he barely had to brush it, and that always seemed to make his sister chuckle when she saw him. There was a time when God himself wouldn't have been able to get him to cut his hair—when the arguments with his parents would grow to screaming matches over the bangs in his face and the uneven lengths that fell past his collar. But everybody grew up. Eventually.
As he walked back to the hallway, he toweled himself dry. The heat had been on since mid-September, an expense Gerry despised, especially since it seemed impossible to regulate the output. From October to April he either froze or sweated, nothing in between. And there had been winters, in the beginning, when the freezing had been unavoidable. The bills had been too high to bear. Oil, it seemed, was a commodity as valuable as gasoline. That had changed with his current boss, at least. The great and useless Mr. Manon paid him well for his services. If the man managed to hold out on retirement, Gerry might even be able to move into one of the brownstones in the city that he was so fond of. It was cool that he'd manage
d to find somebody who was willing to pay for the talents of a highly developed schmooze.
In the kitchen, staring through the window above the sink, Gerry contemplated coffee or wine. The sky was darkening so quickly that he doubted the change had anything to do with the time of day. By tomorrow, if the rain wasn't snow, he'd be damn surprised. With the impending weather in mind, he skipped the light stuff and chose vodka.
The silence of the house was deafening. Even the kids from the houses across the street were quiet, and that was all but unheard of. At that moment, silence was not something Gerry was interested in. There was too much silence in his life already.
With a huff Gerry slung the damp towel over his shoulder and marched into the living room. As though daring the house to stop him, he picked up the remote control for the television and turned on the set. He clicked past the news, past the hilarious but endearing family that managed to sum up all of life's problems within their twenty-four minute timeslot, and stopped to watch a super-slim, spiral-haired teenager wail notes that put opera singers to shame. He didn't make it to the chorus before the button was pressed again.
Gerry took a long drink out of his glass, squatted beside the couch to stretch his legs, and set the glass of vodka on the coffee table. With one hand, he kept flicking through channels; with the other, he pulled the towel off his shoulder to scrub his damp balls. A flash of light from the TV set stilled both hands. Music played. And time and place shattered into a million prisms around him.
"Heaven's lock on your golden cage, heaven-bound for heaven's sake...
Don't worry, baby, no one has to know that you're afraid."
He clutched the towel against his naked body. He didn't have to look up, preferring, in fact, to keep his eyes on the worn hardwood underneath his feet, but even without the visual he knew the eyes that would be staring at him from across the decades. Angel blue. Coke-bright blue. Glitter-spangled blue.
The remote control fell from his hand and clacked on the surface of the coffee table. The glass of vodka danced as he fumbled to retrieve it. His breath caught in his throat, a sound of pain squeaked out of his mouth. Twenty years slipped out of his grasp and challenged him to keep his balance...
June 1974
"Come on, Gerry!"
His sister's voice, shrill and demanding, cut Gerry to the core of his soul. The sixteen years of her being spoiled as the family's baby and only girl had ensured her the background necessary to perfect her demands to a stage-worthy performance. She whirled around the open doorframe of the bathroom and glared at his reflection in the vanity mirror. "You're going to make us late."
Gerry's brother was no better. Cliff was the oldest, and his self-importance was just as evident as Angie's self-indulgence. Cliff's skill set came dripping with contempt as opposed to mere whining, though. "Oh, give it a break, Angie. It's not like you have to be there early. That space-princess faggot you're going to see only has eyes for the boys."
Angie's voice rose to ear-piercing decibels. "He's not gay, you spaz!"
Gerry didn't involve himself in the argument, but it was hard to completely ignore the two of them. The bathroom was tiny, the door was still open, and both their reflections were as obvious as his own. Even with his dark eyes focusing on nothing but the brush and the draw of that brush through his hair, Gerry could see Angie prop a hand on her hip and get ready to spout off. And for the millionth time that month—ever since Angie had decided she'd flipped through enough articles and heard enough interviews to make her an expert—Gerry wanted to scream in her face that she should just shut the hell up and stop trying to fight impossible battles.
Oblivious to Gerry's attempts to glare her down, Angie's acidic tone did its best to cut her eldest brother down to size. "He's bisexual, duh. Which, if you know anything at all, is the true sexual predisposition of all creatures. God, you are so nowhere!"
Gerry's stomach rolled. He gritted his teeth. He brushed his hair.
"No, Angie dear." Cliff smiled and cuffed the top of Angie's head hard enough to make her hiss and grab at the barrette that kept her long straight hair off her face. "He's a faggot. He just says he's bisexual to make sure his female fans keep buying his albums." He sauntered into the bathroom, doing everything possible to try and lock up his gaze with Gerry's. "He really likes the boys, doesn't he, Ger?" He dropped an arm over Gerry's shoulder and sneered at Gerry's reflection. "You know, right? What I'm talking about? The kind of boy that's tickled pink to take a nice hard prick up their—"
"Clifford, that is enough!"
All three of them jumped. Cliff dropped his arm. Gerry looked up in the mirror and avoided his mother's eyes, "Ma..."
"There is a child in this hallway." As if mimicking Angie, their mother also cocked her hip and braced a hand on it. It really was no wonder where Angie picked these things up. "I swear I just don't know what is with you kids these days. Your father would tan your hide—"
"He's just kidding around, Ma." Gerry dropped the brush on the sink and shoved Cliff away from him. "Come on, Ang. You ready?"
"Only for half an hour already!"
The sudden ping of the doorbell made Angie spin. "They're here! Ah!" She clapped her hands together, sixteen years transforming into a mere six, and took off in a run. "Dad, get the door!"
Marcy and Gina and Sally. Plus his sister. Every one of them sixteen, every one of them already squealing like stuck pigs, but hey, at least it meant that he got to borrow the car without hours of negotiations with his father. Besides, Mark Devon didn't come to New York every day. Seeing Mark strut as Maxx Starlight would be more than worth the torture of having to be seen in public with high school chicks.
He smoothed his T-shirt over his chest and shook his head to flip his hair back. The brown corduroy pants he wore hung low on his hips and tight over his ass and thighs. He'd have loved to glitz up like most of the crowd would be, but even with his twenty-first birthday only five months away, there'd be no way his parents would let him leave the house with colored hair, sequined clothing, or make-up. They'd probably ship him off to some kind of monastery and leave him there to rot if he dared to even try.
He caught his own gaze in the mirror and checked a smile before it lit. His bangs were long, the rest brushed his shoulders, and the color was an almost perfect match to his dark eyes. He looked all right. He'd pass. Maybe not for cool, but at least he didn't look like a complete prude.
From down the stairs, the girls let out another round of shrieks and Cliff groaned. "Ah, Mom, make them stop. Before I have to drown one of 'em."
Gerry couldn't blame them for their excitement. He'd be hollering himself if he'd figured he could get away with it. "I got it, Ma," he mumbled. "We're leaving."
He looked up as his mother crossed her arms and eyed him. "Is this singer really a fruit, Gerald?"
"Oh, my God." Gerry rolled his eyes and flung a hand in the direction of his brother. "Why are you listening to him? You know he's just trying to cause trouble."
"I don't want anything happening to my girl, Gerald," his mother said. She pursed her lips and continued to try and hold his stare, even as Gerry's gaze skipped anywhere but at her. "She's just a baby."
As if. Sixteen was no more an infant than twenty was. But arguing the point would just cause further delays. Gerry gestured at a non-existent watch. "We're gonna be late."
He didn't wait for any more questions. He pushed past his brother, through the doorway of the bathroom, and hop-ran down the stairs. "Hurry up," he mumbled to the girls when he jumped off the final step into the front entrance. "Before Ma gets down here and starts up again."
Angie's eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms over her chest. "The name of the game is education, Gerry. We need to provide the less-informed and culturally-manipulated with the information to change their views and enlighten their minds."
"Great." He grabbed his jacket and the front door handle at almost the same time. "You spend the next hour trying to do the impossible, and I'll go see Maxx Starlight by myself."
"Oh, heck no," she snorted.
He eyed her with a frown. "Then move it."
The lot of them ran across the porch, down the driveway, and the moment their hands touched the car, the mood changed. Gone were the house and the parents. The tedium and the bullshit slipped away and were replaced by a sense of freedom and excitement, with the promise of warm summer nights and rock music.