Techno music blared from my stereo in the corner of the room, repetitive and hypnotic, keeping me on track as I sat surrounded by spray cans. After changing into my painting clothes, an old pair of jeans and a white tee-shirt, I grabbed Michael’s dreads and spread them out on the floor in front of me. My initial idea was to paint all of them different colors, each color signifying a different mood or persona, but I quickly nixed that idea. I wanted to go with the red balloons. With about fifteen or so locks of hair at my disposal, I decided to paint only five of them red and leave the rest in their natural state. I would still use the old wooden window frame as my base and keep all my colors natural and muted except for the five red dreadlocks. I was in love with the idea, excited again about my art and already planning a five-piece series centered around the frame. Grabbing the red paint can, I shook it up and down and relished the strong smell as I carefully sprayed Michael’s hair.

The hours slipped away, and dusk turned into night, but time no longer mattered. I was in the zone, possessed by inspiration and drunk on a bottle of wine I kept stashed in my office. The pieces were coming together, an old vinyl record nailed to the side of the window frame, a paper-mached mask tied to the other side with fishing twine. I coated the exposed parts of the wood with a light bronze and pinned Michael’s long dreadlocks sporadically around the frame. The red ones needed to dry over night before they could be added, but it was my masterpiece, and the thought of anyone critiquing it turned my stomach. This one wouldn’t be for sale. I stopped to stretch out my legs and smoke a cigarette by the door which was a vain attempt to respect my own no smoking rule, a pointless endeavor as the smoke came billowing back in. But everything made sense for the moment. Reaching into my pocket, I popped another muscle relaxer and swallowed it down. My vision was slightly blurred, but everything made sense. Everything was in its right place.

I loved getting lost in the night and carried away by uninhibited creativity. The highly acclaimed Zone is a difficult destination to reach, and for myself, usually not accessible without some type of mind-altering substance. I changed out the CD in my stereo to something a little more subdued and let the music work its magic. Music always helped open the doors and served as a gateway to the zone, but the wrong song choice could throw the entire ritual off balance and out-of-whack. I chose well. A baritone sax and sliding bass guitar sounded from the corner of the room as the rock band, Morphine, quenched my need for a dark, bluesy jam. The zone remained open. I leaned against the doorframe and finished up my smoke while my mind obsessed over the project and planned the next move, the next delicate touch and added feature. I would work through the night if my body permitted.

I tossed my cigarette into the street and turned to resume my work, but headlights appeared around the corner and sped down the road slamming to an abrupt stop in front of my studio. Recognizing the silver luxury car, I folded my arms and prepared myself for the blind prosecution stepping up the curb. Her white-blonde curls caught a gust of wind as she pulled her pink-tailored jacket tighter around her hourglass figure. She always appeared neatly put together and perfectly groomed as if she’d just spent the entire day being pampered at some high-priced salon. Even with the wind blowing in all directions, her hair fell back into place like a homing pigeon returning to its hair-sprayed nest. I stood by the door and inhaled a deep breath as she approached. The sadness on her face threatened to soften my hardened heart, but the snap of her tongue brought me back.

“This is all your fault!” she yelled, pointing her long French-manicured fingernail.

“What’s that?” I asked, still leaning against the doorframe.

Lisa huffed and pushed past me, inviting herself into my studio and promptly turning off my gateway music. The zone would be closed for the remainder of the night.

“Do you know where Michael is?” she asked, barely pausing for my reply. “He’s at the Pink Flamingo!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s he doing there?” I asked. “Getting fashion tips?”

Lisa scrunched up her face and stared me down. Under the bright lights of my studio, I saw the streaks of tears that stained her cheeks and flawed her perfectly applied makeup. She sniffled and glanced around the room, but her eyes quickly fell upon the dreadlocks spread out on the floor. I gulped down some wine and readied myself for the punch.

“He’s not well, Ashley,” she said, staring down at her husband’s hair. Tucking her skirt behind her knees, she knelt down and picked up one of the dreadlocks. Tears clouded her blue eyes as she looked up at me and searched my face for understanding, but her torment turned to anger the longer she assessed her surroundings. I was caught red-handed and without an excuse after she examined my masterpiece.

“This is what he means to you?” she asked, holding up a painted lock of hair. “A prop for your gallery? A muse?” Lisa chunked the red dreadlock at my face and stood on her high heels with more grace and balance than I could ever manage flat-footed and sober.

“I made a mistake coming here,” she said. “I’m sorry, I actually thought you gave a damn.” She turned and stormed toward the door, her high-heeled shoes muted as she walked across the tarp. Despite my better judgment, I asked her not to leave.

“Wait,” I said, “we need to talk. You’re right, he’s not well.” Dressed in raggedy paint-stained clothes, my hair matted to my head, I stood off balance and swayed in the center of the room with my bottle of wine in hand. Lisa turned around and slowly walked toward me. Mascara darkened the circles under her eyes, and thin strands of curls stuck to the side of her reddened face. She kicked a spray can out of her way and stood before me with tightly crossed arms. I leaned back against the table and held out the bottle. After taking it off my hands, the blonde bimbo bummed a smoke.

Our truce lasted for about two hours that night, but we both knew any sort of friendship was out of the question. Too much had happened between us, too many harsh words spoken for there to be any semblance of trust. The damage had long been done. We finished off the bottle of wine in a matter of ten minutes, passing it back and forth as we swapped stories about Michael’s deteriorating condition. Her eyes clouded with tears when I described the hair-cutting incident, and her voice softened and pulled back when she shared her concerns. She confided that for the past week since he returned home, Michael had been leaving in the middle of the night. She assumed I was his motivation.

“He’s not coming to see me,” I said, “and his wrists were messed up before his break from the tour.” Hesitating, I glanced at the potter’s wheel in the back corner of the room and then down at the wooden frame. “He says it’s the devil,” I said. “He blames the devil for all the markings and bruises.”

Lisa rubbed her eyes and nodded into her hands. We’d both noticed the recent scratches on his chest and the needle marks on his neck. His wrists bared the most noticeable wounds, but skin-deep cuts and bruises appeared, overnight it would seem, on his arms, legs and back as well. He’d given Lisa the same explanation. Apparently, the devil was working overtime.

“What’s going on with him?” she asked. “You really think he has split personality?” I looked into her swollen eyes and gave her a slight nod. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” she said, straightening her posture, “I knew he wasn’t gay.” She grabbed the wine bottle from my grip and swallowed down the last few drops. “Come on, you’re going with me to rescue him from that place.” I meant to stumble back in protest, but as Lisa grabbed my arm and pulled me along toward the door, I lost the will to fight her off. Besides, I didn’t want Michael at that club any more than she did, and as far as I knew, Lisa was right, Michael wasn’t gay. If anything, he was like me, confused and undecided.

We didn’t talk much on the way to the club. I struggled to keep my eyes focused as the lights from the city reflected off puddles on the ground. The rain-speckled windshield distorted the outside world, blurring the faces and crowds packing the busy street. Whether it was Monday night or Saturday night, Montrose was always hopping. It was ten o’clock on a Tuesday night when Lisa and I banded together to rescue Michael from a seedy gay bar. I had no business being out in public, drunk on wine and a handful of muscle relaxers, but the more I thought about him being there, the more unsettled I became. I should have asked Lisa to drive me home. I should have cleaned up my mess before starting another one.

The Pink Flamingo looked moderately crowded as we drove up to the front entrance. The bright neon sign cast a pink light around the building setting it apart from all the other bars and clubs lining the strip. Nicely dressed and well-groomed men filed in and out of the establishment as I sat in the car and worked up the nerve to join them. Lisa insisted on waiting in the car and used the old, there’s no place to park excuse. I pointed out a couple of spots fairly close to the entrance, but she insisted on circling the block. A limousine pulled in behind us and Lisa shooed me out of the car and quickly drove away leaving me standing on the curb. Her taillights rounded the corner and I turned toward the club, the lights much too bright as I held up my hand to block the neon sun. I stumbled forward and bumped into a guy that kind of looked like me – tall and slender with short dark hair, green eyes and a pensive face – he gave me a go-to-hell look when I grabbed his shoulders and told him we were long lost twins. His body-builder boyfriend also appeared unamused as he pushed me away. I was in no shape to be out in public.

Lisa’s car circled back around and stopped in front of the entrance again. She honked twice and peeled away. I cursed under my breath and stumbled toward the door, but a large man standing outside held up his arm and blocked my path.

“There’s no way you’re getting in here,” he said.

“And why the hell not?” I asked. The wind slapped me in the face and threw me off balance, but I stood my ground. This asshole didn’t know who he was dealing with. I attempted to push past him, but his thick arms held me back.

“Can’t let you in,” he said, “not dressed like that.”

“Listen,” I said, pulling out my wallet, “I’ve been in much nicer establishments than this shithole, so what’s say I pay the cover, a little something extra, and we’ll be done here.” I held out a twenty-dollar bill and attempted to wink, though I suspected both my eyes had closed. The bouncer shook his head and advised that I go home and change into something nicer. I asked if I could borrow his clothes, but his thick arms pushed me to the side.

“It’s a fucking gay bar!” I shouted. “Who cares how I’m dressed?” I received a few glares from some of the patrons, but the bouncer kept his cool and successfully ignored my outburst. It was for the best. I knew I couldn’t take him. I stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the neon pink flamingo dressed in a topcoat and hat with a cane in one wing and a cocktail in the other. Spiffy. I lit a cigarette and waited for Lisa to return.

“Ashley, is that you?”

I whipped around and exhaled smoke into the face of a client I currently worked for. A lawyer of some sort, he was an older man with salt and pepper hair and a pinched face. The smoke didn’t help his disposition. I held out my hand and gave him a firm shake, the cigarette dangling from my mouth as I patted his back and complimented his attire. He thanked me and took a step back while looking me over.

“How’s that mask coming along?” he asked. “I need it by Friday.”

I assured him it was in the finishing stages and he hastily bid me goodnight, ducking off into the same black limousine parked on the curb. A handful of people emptied out of the bar and made their way to the limo, and as I turned to search for Lisa’s car, I saw Michael. A man stood behind him with his hand on his lower back directing him into the limousine. I called out his name, but he ignored me.

“Michael!” I yelled again. “Wait, it’s me!” I ran toward the car, but the driver quickly shut them in and jumped behind the wheel. I pounded on the window but stumbled forward as they peeled away. Lisa pulled in behind them. The passenger-side window rolled down and her hand popped off the steering wheel in aggravation.

“Where’s Michael?” she asked.

I pointed straight ahead and told her he took off with some men in a limousine. Lifting up the door handle, I stuck my head through the window and asked her to undo the locks, but she suddenly hit the gas and I fell back onto the sidewalk.

“Crazy bitch!” I yelled, but I was a spectacle. No one offered their hand or even asked if I was okay. No southern hospitality or brotherly love, no sympathy for the drunk guy in raggedy clothes face down on the cement. I was the bad omen, the downside of nightlife, the party pooper who made everyone uncomfortable. Picking myself up off the ground, I brushed my hair back, checked to make sure I had my wallet, and walked away from the Pink Flamingo with my head down and hands in my pockets. I knocked over a couple of orange cones on my way out.

The walk back to the studio wasn’t so bad. I shivered the first few blocks but the faster I walked the warmer I became. My ears ached from the cold wind and my eyes struggled to decipher shadows from solids, but I relied upon autopilot for most of the seven blocks. I unlocked the door and then slammed it behind me, my hand clutching the knob as I stood facing my dark studio and tried to make out the shadows. I stared at the back wall where the potter’s wheel sat and looked for the same shadow that had spooked Michael, but it never returned. Switching on the light, I threw down my keys and walked over to check on my masterpiece. I halfway expected Lisa to drop by or at the very least call, but I never heard from her again that night. Michael was gone, and as I stared at his dreadlocks on the ground by my feet, I wondered if he was ever coming back.

The man he left with was a onetime client referred to me by another client for whom I also designed a mask, but how they knew Michael was beyond me. I agreed with Lisa, Michael wasn’t gay, but why go to the Pink Flamingo in the first place? Nothing made sense. I felt betrayed, passed over and left out of the loop. Michael was mine. He and Lisa could play house all day long, but when it came down to friendship, loyalty and unconditional love, no other relationship compared. I dug around in my pocket for another muscle relaxer and then lit a cigarette when I came up empty-handed. I needed something. Swallow a pill, drink some wine, snort some coke, shoot some heroin…that’s how it snowballs into a full-fledged relapse, that’s how the mind tricks and entices the addict, whatever the poison. In my case, when weed, alcohol and pills just didn’t cut it anymore, I moved on to the harder stuff. I knew what I liked, and I knew how to get it, but I stopped myself. It’s as simple as that, just stop yourself, just say no, just lay down and go to sleep, put yourself out of your misery, but I couldn’t. I stopped myself from going out and scoring heroin, but I couldn’t just lie down and sleep.

My body wanted to collapse, and my vision was unreliable at best, but my mind suffered insomnia. My mind plotted to sabotage whatever semblance of intelligibility I retained in my drunken stupor. I sucked down my smoke and continued staring at my masterpiece. It was all for him – my art, my poetry, my dreams and nightmares, my anger, love and hate, my pain – Michael inspired my soul, but the pain mounted. I saw his face looking back at me and the unknown man with his hand on his lower back directing him into the car. He had seen me, looked right at me when I shouted his name, and I think he even smiled before ducking into the limo. As I played the scene over and over again in my head, I became convinced that he knew exactly who I was.

I lit another cigarette and continued staring at the window frame on the floor. What was happening to my friend? I envisioned him snorting coke at a private party with the three men, talking up a storm and entertaining them with his embellished stories, taunting them, kissing and undressing them, and it was all for free. The days of turning tricks for money had long since been replaced by tours and gold records, so what the hell was he doing at the Pink Flamingo? Why did he willingly get inside that limo? My mind raced. I tapped one of the dreadlocks with my foot and re-examined the night he cut them off. He’d known exactly who I was that night. If Michael did suffer from multiple personality disorder, his alter egos weren’t playing by the rules. Whether he’s playing the whore at some gay bar or crouched down in the corner like a frightened child, he answered to the name Michael. He also remembered everything that happened that night. The longer I stood and stared at his dreadlocks, the more I believed we weren’t dealing with split personality but rather some sort of mental breakdown. After enduring a childhood wrought with abuse and addiction, maybe he finally lost the fight and surrendered to his sickness. Call it schizophrenia, personality disorder or drug-induced insanity, but something dwelled inside him that threatened to take him over. I feared it existed within me too.

My shadow shivered and moved across the wall as I walked over to my cabinets and opened the bottom door. I pulled out the mask and set it down on the long table, its vacant eyes soon to be filled with those of my client’s. His pinched face would be hidden under my mask come Friday night, and some unlucky kid would be his playdate. I ran my finger across the gold trim circling the eyes and flipped the mask over to add my signature, the last finishing touch. Friday night he would become somebody’s nightmare, and I will have directly contributed. I might as well attend the event myself, wear my own mask and play along. Maybe I’d see Michael there too hidden behind his own mask.

I dipped my thin-tipped brush into a dab of black paint and left my mark in one quick stroke. I envisioned the devil popping up behind me with cloven feet and pitchfork laughing as he collected his debt. I watched my signature bleed into the white backing of the mask and felt as though I’d just sold my soul to him. My shadow on the wall shrank back into itself as I stumbled across the studio into my office. Thirsty, numb and oblivious to the lateness of the hour, I downed a bottle of water, poured myself a shot of bourbon and slammed it down. Michael willingly left with the devil. He could be tied up by the wrists or beaten and drugged while the lawyer with the pinched face and his two cronies have at it, taking their turns arousing and abusing him, enjoying and exploiting him. Maybe afterwards he crouched down in a corner somewhere and cried. I poured myself another shot of bourdon and slammed it down. Something about all of this was off, and the more I thought about it, the more I suspected the devil might be a blast from the past.

Chocking down one last shot, I swore off bourbon and considered lying down in my daybed. One more cigarette then I’d call it a night. Papers and pencils still littered the floor after Michael cleared the desk earlier, and I noticed a small amount of blood on the comforter from his wrists. Fresh wounds to replace the old ones, almost as if on purpose, the same ritual by the same person, the same haunt he cowered from like shadows on the wall. I steadied myself and headed back to the long table in my studio where the mask waited for me with vacant black eyes. He would need it by Friday – we’ll see about that.

I stumbled over a ripple in the tarp and caught myself before falling on the window frame, my working masterpiece that I carelessly left out on the floor. Michael’s red dreadlocks suffered a brief stomping, but my lightweight canvas shoes spared them too much of a beating. My body begged for rest, but the night wasn’t over yet. I had a bone to pick. All was not well in the universe, but I didn’t care about the rest of the world, only mine. I had to protect me and mine, and Michael had always been and would always be mine. I had to make amends with the little boy from my past who would despise what I’d become. I had to do it for Michael, for myself and for the young rent boys waiting in the wings.

I picked up the long-nosed mask, held it up to my face and imagined myself at one of those private parties. How liberating to hide behind a mask and embrace the monster within, entertain the devil resting on the shoulder and do as thou wilt, so the saying goes. I saw myself suspended from the ceiling with my wrists and ankles bound, and my naked body quivering from the cold whip as it ripped into my back. The fat businessman licked his lips and ran his hand up my thigh as I dangled helplessly, pleading for him to let me go, the smell of bourbon on my own breath magnifying the memory. I heard the laughter from the other room mocking me as I screamed and cried, but my savior would soon emerge from the closet, hang on a little while longer, he’s planning your escape, he’ll risk his own life to save yours… I pulled the mask off my face and chunked it on the table. The night gave pause. I knew what to do.

Friday night my client would be scourging discount stores for a cheap Halloween mask, perhaps a run-of-the-mill plastic one, perhaps none at all. Perhaps he would see the error of his ways and take a rain check on the party, but I doubted it. Maybe he’d have to settle for a brown paper bag, but whatever the case, I knew he wouldn’t want mine. Dabbing my brush into a small bottle of red paint, I smiled and pressed the wet tip onto the front side of the mask. I tried to envision his reaction when I handed it off to him, and I decided not to wrap it or provide any sort of protective layer just in case he opted to view it later. I wanted to see the look on his pinched face. I wanted him to know that I knew what a piece of shit he really was. Initially, I’d planned on destroying the hideous thing, but the more I thought about it, the more I decided a statement needed to be made. It wasn’t enough to just stomp on it and toss it in the trash. It needed to break the silence and tell the truth. It needed to expose the apple in the birdcage.

I thought back to the many parties I attended in my youth and wondered if my client had been among the masked men. I wondered if he knew me better than I thought. My client surely saw me pounding on the window before they drove away with Michael in tow, and although the entire night seemed like a blur, I saw clarity at the end. Everything was connected. The robed men, the strange early morning phone calls, the three men leaving with Michael in the limo, a connection existed somewhere, and I was determined to find it. Looking down at the mask, I lowered my brush and stared at the bold red letters I painted across the forehead: PEDOPHILE. Simple and to the point. And with the long-exaggerated nose, ah, it was absolutely perfect. I couldn’t wait to see his face.

Sirens howled in the distance and I felt a lump form in my stomach. What if it’s for Michael? What if the ambulance is in route with his lifeless body in the back plugged up to machines? What if this weekend I’ll be attending his funeral instead of his concert? My eyes swelled with tears as I looked across to the other side of the studio and studied the back wall. The potter’s wheel cast an abstract shadow but nothing like the one I saw with Michael. Whatever we witnessed that night was a onetime deal, but I wondered if maybe the devil wasn’t coming after me as well. Rubbing my eyes, I placed both hands on the long table, hung my head down and prayed for my friend to be okay, but I knew full well no one was listening.

The silence drove me mad once the sirens faded. No music, no honking horns, no blonde bimbo to interrupt my drunken solitude, no wayward rock star to fall into bed with. I lifted my head and let the tears drip from my cheek onto the mask. Overwhelming silence. Unnatural and horrifying as I stood listening for the hum of freeway traffic but heard nothing save for the sound of my own breathing, my own pathetic whimpering. Come here boy, I’ll give ya something to whimper about. Glancing down at the mask, I swept my arm across the table and sent it crashing to the floor along with five opened bottles of paint. On your knees boy, I’ll pay ya extra to swallow. I swept my arm across the other side of the table and knocked everything off within reach: a mason jar filled with brown water, a cluster of ceramic tiles, and another round of paint bottles. Nothing was safe. I kicked over an easel and threw the half-painted canvas across the room like a Frisbee, tripping on the tarp again as I looked for something else to smash. Grabbing my nude sculpture of a woman’s body, I chunked it at the wall and flinched back when it slammed to the floor. I then turned my attention to the window frame.

It disgusted me. The old record, the dreadlocks, the stupid red balloon – I towered above my masterpiece with growing disdain for the hideous thing. I wanted to destroy it, rip it to shreds and erase it from existence. My foot kicked the side of the frame and my eyes zeroed in on the long strands of Michael’s knotted hair. Kneeling down, I lifted it into my lap and ran my fingers down one of the dreadlocks, my tears hitting my hand as I examined my work of art. Heavy and bulky in my arms, I carried the wooden frame across the room and let it rest against my legs. The long table might collapse under the weight of the blow, but it had to be done. Lifting up the frame and holding it over my head, I stumbled back and lost my balance when my foot landed on a bottle of paint. I fell backwards with the frame hitting first and my shoulder catching the weight of my fall as I landed on top of my masterpiece. Laughing and crying at the same time, I rolled over on my back and quickly sat up when the dizziness threatened to induce vomiting. Miraculously, my masterpiece survived the fall, and either unwilling or unable to stand upright, I temporarily gave it a reprieve. Bruised and emotionally broken, I laid back down and let the sickness take me over.