I awoke the next morning with Gabriel curled up beside me and a fat cat licking my face. The rising sun shone through the window as I threw open the curtains and stretched out my arms with a hearty yawn. Gabriel moaned and pulled the covers up over his head, smiling when I pulled them back down and kissed his forehead. Reluctantly, he fell out of bed and dragged his feet down the hallway and into the bathroom. After last night’s incident, he asked if he could sleep with me, which also put my mind at ease. We were both a little on edge. I scared him going into his room the way I did, but I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I saw him standing in the hallway, stalk still and unresponsive. Though he’d never done so before, I figured he must have been sleepwalking.

After feeding the cat, I made a pot of coffee and yelled for Gabriel to hurry it up. A stack of papers lay on the kitchen table, and I thumbed through the bills and newspaper coupons until I reached the bottom where I found a handful of notes and photocopies. I scanned through the various copies of news articles and scholarly journals all pertaining to the rise of Satanism in America. Gabriel’s backpack sat on one of the kitchen chairs, and when I peeked inside, I found two library books on the same subject. He came around the corner and busted me, quickly explaining it was for a research paper for one of his classes.

“Don’t worry,” he said, pouring a cup of coffee, “I’m not into that kind of stuff.”

I nodded and hurried him out the door.

I never told Gabriel how I found him as a baby. As far as he knew, the story I always told him, was that I took him with me when I ran away from the orphanage because he was just so darn cute. The older he got, the less he believed me. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I didn’t know where he came from or who left him on the floor, but I wondered if Michael hadn’t said something. After seeing his research topic, I became convinced that Gabriel knew more about his origins than he let on.

I looked forward to our walks to school every morning. I enrolled him in a private school about five blocks from our townhome, but I refused to let him walk alone. I’ve always been a little on the paranoid side, but kids like Gabriel got abducted all the time. I knew what old men were into, the look, the body style, the pretty green eyes; I knew kids like Gabriel were live bait for pedophiles. He walked beside me talking politics with his arms swinging by his side and a bounce in his step. I loved everything about him, and up until the pot smoking incident, he’d been the perfect child. A polite straight-A student always eager to learn, he never talked back, was kind-hearted and affectionate – raising him had been a breeze. Gabriel was the kind of kid who helped old ladies cross the street and rescued kittens from trees, a real Boy Scout you might say, though he was never a member. By the time he turned nine, his book collection consisted of historical novels, political commentaries, and anything conspiratorial, his favorite topic being the assassination of the Kennedy brothers, the section of the shelf where his bong now currently resided. I smiled down at him as he talked my ear off about the candidates for the upcoming presidential election. I was a proud parent indeed, despite his minor downfall. We reached the campus and he hugged me goodbye, sprinting off into a crowd of skinny, long-haired boys dressed in black, his red-flannel shirt sticking out like a sore thumb. I hated when he wore that shirt, but of course, it was his favorite, a hand-me-down from Michael.

It might be a slight exaggeration to say that raising him was a breeze, but not because of anything Gabriel did. Living on the streets with a newborn wasn’t easy, and with another mouth to feed, diapers, and shelter to provide, Michael and I stepped up our game. We started turning more tricks, and eventually, I got in good with the art crowd. I catered to one such artist who let me stay with her for a while. It was a strange relationship. It was also the first time I had sex with a woman, an older woman, a post-menopausal woman. She was nice though, and she loved babies. I considered it to be a lucky break, but she gave me the boot when I started stealing from her. Gabriel and I eventually found sanctuary with Billy.

Pedestrians flooded the sidewalks as the early morning rat-race commenced. Suits and high-heeled shoes hurried past me totting briefcases and leather bags. I disappeared into the sea of workers, blending in with my designer clothes and polished shoes until I reached my small art gallery tucked away on a corner street. Later in the day, I would meet with an art curator to discuss an upcoming gallery showing, but the morning was mine to do as I pleased, which wasn’t altogether true. We’re forever tied down to limitations. I wanted to call Lisa back and unload my years of fury. I wanted to drag Michael out of the house and keep him tied down until he agreed to stop hurting himself, and a very small part of me wanted to jump in front of a speeding bus. Some days, that menacing voice that dwells inside everyone’s brain telling them to just do it, just end it all, is overpowering.

The door blocked out the sun as I stood in the entryway of my gallery – cold, dark and void of pleasantries, I needed something other than my own morbid designs. Gripping the metal handle, I pushed myself outside and quickly locked the door behind me. Pigeons jumped and flapped out of the way, irritated by my presence and intent on protecting their turf; they gathered once again after I strolled on by. A homeless man called out to me and asked for money, his ratty beard covering most of his face, his clothes torn and mismatched, his shopping cart filled with aluminum cans, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and picked up the pace. Cafes with colorful chalkboard menus lined the street along with gourmet eateries whose names I couldn’t pronounce. Specialty shops flaunted their expensive taste with fancy window dressings as I walked briskly through the crowds. Stone-faced patrons sat under canopies drinking their espressos, nibbling bagels, and reading the New York Times. I stopped to light a cigarette as the freeway hum mingled with the morning chatter. The homeless man tracked me down. Yelling from across the street and cursing my existence, he ratted me out to people walking by. You chose your fate, I thought, live with it. Sirens wailed in the distance, buses opened and closed, construction workers pounded the ground, cars honked and babies cried, a businessman bumped my shoulder – I stood in place, closed my eyes, and asked aloud, “Where is everybody?” I smiled and asked the question again, “Where is everybody?” Laughing now, but not yet satisfied, I opened my eyes, spread out my arms, and yelled, “Where is everybody!”

The homeless man shook his head and pushed his cart further down the sidewalk. The pigeons scattered. A few people laughed but most just looked away and sipped their espressos. I was as insignificant as the maroon colored napkins covering their laps. The walking signal turned, and the crowds left me behind. Directionless and in need of escape, I crushed out my smoke and jogged to my gallery to grab some spray paint.

I didn’t want to be one of them today. I didn’t want to play the game or look the part. I didn’t want to act like they acted, or walk like they walked, or talk like they talked. I didn’t want to die like they would surely die. When did I become one of them? I untucked my shirt, loosened my tie, and taped a note on the glass side of my gallery that read, “Go Away!” I located my newly purchased cell phone, the one that I’d lost under a painted tarp that covered my marble floor, and I called Lisa. She answered with nauseating perkiness.

“I plan on fucking your husband tonight,” I said. “Don’t wait up.” I then hung up and tossed the phone on the floor.

Two blocks down from high rises, corporate ladders and sushi bars, the slums greeted me with boarded up windows and shady convenient stores. These streets I’d known in another life, before I sold my soul to be one of them. Everyone sells out eventually, Michael once said, welcome to the other side, Mr. Brava. I turned off into an alleyway and followed the sound of water. Mr. Ashley Brava, cream-of-the-crop, another high-paid hooker eager to please, whatever you want, I’ll paint your dead grandma if that’s what it takes. Mr. Ashley Brava, distinguished and proud with his pretty green eyes. I trekked through high weeds and underbrush until I came upon the bayou, the dirty brown water calm and capped with strange white foam. My polished shoes sank deeper into the ground as I trudged closer to my destination. Weathered into smooth concrete and stained with moss and mold, the overpass bridge put a smile on my face. I eagerly searched out the mark I’d left from my childhood. I slipped down the slanted cement side and kicked off my shoes letting them tumble to the edge of the water, the heavy backpack setting me off balance. Guiding myself up with my hand, I marveled at how easily I used to scale these walls as a child. Just need better shoes, I thought. A homeless man sat under the bridge with a bent fishing rod secure in his hand. He glared at me as I climbed closer to the top. Could have been the same one from my youth, the one that yelled at Michael for chunking glass bottles, the one that yelled at him to “Shut up!” when he screamed out awkward profanities as they busted against the concrete. Son-of-a-shithole! Mother-fuckhead! I crept closer to the top, scanning the faded graffiti until I found our spot decorated with my signature, ASH, painted black and perfected with a thorny vine. Michael’s name was smaller and off to the side, faded and unreadable. I set down my backpack and rolled up my sleeves.

Michael had never been in to the idea, ashamed of his lack of artistic talent and too impatient to learn, he spelled out his name with childlike simplicity and then handed the can over to me. You can make it look better if you want, he’d said, but I never got around to it, spending too much time on my own name. I wanted to leave my mark, and after that first spray painting, I left it all over the city. The sides of buildings, bridges, street signs, trains, but my big break came when a client offered to pay me a hundred dollars to paint a mural on the side of his gallery. It was the first time I got paid for something besides sex. It’s since been painted over, as has most of my graffiti art, but that’s how I developed my skill. The streets may have stolen the last of my innocence, but I also found my passion. The streets made me an artist.

I smiled as the cans rattled in my hands when I shook them up and down, and I relished the strong, pungent smell after doing a quick test spray. Armed and ready to go, no practicing, aim and shoot, just like the old days, let her rip. I started with Michael’s name, darkening the original black and then outlining the letters in vibrate shades of red and purple, but I didn’t stop there. It needed something. I dipped into my bag and pulled out more colors, rattling the cans and tasting the fumes on my lips as I drew the outline of a face, and then the hair, long black dreadlocks framing the thin portrait. I paid careful attention to the eyes, perfect ovals, golden with a touch of green and outlined in black to capture his natural eyeliner. I added careful shading for the high cheekbones and used a single stroke for the nose before switching colors for the lips. My suit jacket held the paint cans in place as I searched the lids for a muted red. I jumped when the homeless fisherman whipped his head around and reminded me of his presence.

“Hey you, stop that, you’re stinkin’ up the place!”

I reached for my desired red. “Not now old man!” The lips needed to be full yet defined, red but not overkill, couple of quick strokes, don’t think too hard about it, add some delicate shading, ah, there he is. I sat back and admired my masterpiece. Dizzy from the fumes and wet from the humid air, I unbuttoned my shirt and fanned myself down.

“Looks good,” the fisherman said. “Bob Marley?”

“No,” I laughed, “better.”

I paid the man twenty dollars for putting up with me and then made my way back down, holding out my arms and leaning back as I skid down the bridge. I left my shoes and coat behind and took the easier route back to midtown, avoiding the high weeds by following the road. Lunchtime traffic congested the streets, but I shrugged off the honking horns and stiff-armed briefcases. My black trouser socks wore thin as I felt the rough concrete graze against a spot on my foot. My white button-down shirt, stained with a mix of paints, caught the wind of passing cars and exposed my chest, bare and christened by the dingy air. I readjusted the backpack slung across my shoulder and stopped to light a cigarette. Lines curved and stretched outside the cafes where young waiters and waitresses bustled around and catered to their hungry patrons. The wheel turned and spun its yoke chasing the hands of the clock. Hickory dickory dock, another hole in my sock, shit… I stopped to peel them away and then left them behind on the street. Barefoot and hungry, I turned the corner onto my block.

I ripped the note off the glass side of my gallery and turned the key to unlock the door, only to find it wasn’t locked. I held my breath and headed straight for the back office. Michael lay stretched out on my daybed with his long legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded behind his head; his scarred wrists showed through his thin sweatshirt. He smiled with his eyes closed.

“I’m assuming the note didn’t apply to me,” he said, opening his eyes. Lifting his head and scanning me over from head to toe, he asked, “The hell happened to you? You get mugged or something? Where’s your shoes?”

I sat down on the bed and lifted his legs into my lap. “Went for a walk,” I said, unlacing his boots. I waited for him to bring up Lisa and scold me for my little phone call, or at the very least, have a good chuckle at my bold, out-of-character stunt, but he rested his head again and closed his eyes. I slipped off his boots and commented that I might be losing it, to which he replied, “Join the club.” My white button-down shirt slid off my shoulders as I leaned in for a kiss and stretched myself out across him, his hands sliding down my back and his fingertips grazing the inside of my pants.

We fell asleep afterwards scrunched together on the daybed until the office phone woke me up. Michael rolled over and stretched out his legs as I jumped to answer the call, recognizing Gabriel’s number when I picked up the receiver. I panicked thinking I was late in picking him up, but school didn’t let out for another thirty minutes. He asked if it would be okay for Billy to pick him up today and take him to his favorite skate park. With confined apprehension, I agreed.

Michael sat up and reached for his clothes, “Come on,” he said, “let’s go eat.”

I dressed and followed him out the door.

We strolled along the sidewalk together with Michael doing most of the talking. He kept his head down for much of the time, looking up every so often to see my facial expression when I failed to respond. With his hair loosely tied and bunched together under a knitted hat, the needle marks on his neck garnered most of my attention. He carried on about his hate for touring and the exhaustion he constantly felt, unable to start the day without a line of coke, and relieved to end the night with his beloved heroin.

“What else?” I asked.

He shook his head and wrapped his arms against his chest.

“What happened to your wrists,” I asked.

He shook his head and stared off down the street, tightening his arms and pulling his sleeves down with his fingertips. “You see that guy over there?” he asked. “Across the street, the one with the cane?”

“No,” I answered.

Michael smiled and nodded, “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

The lunchtime rush ended by the time we agreed on a place to eat, which really meant that Michael, once again, got his way. We filed in to his favorite Italian food restaurant, one of those swanky places whose name I couldn’t pronounce. Eventually, I’d get it out of him. Either by alcohol, sex, or a heroin-induced confession, I’d find out the truth that I think I already knew. Years before he sold his soul to rock-n-roll, and I sold mine to the art world, I think I knew what he could never tell me.

We were seated at a middle table and Michael promptly ordered a bottle of wine, an appetizer, and two main dishes for the both of us. He complemented the young waitress on her perfectly manicured nails and then folded his hands and asked about my day. I sipped my wine and confessed that two short hours ago I had stood outside of this fine establishment and bellowed obscenities like a fool with my arms raised up in the air. He beamed with approval.

“Yeah,” I said, “I know, made me pretty horny too, to be honest.”

Michael leaned in closer and held his hand to his ear.

“Horny,” I said louder. An elderly couple near the back turned their heads.

Michael scrunched his face and mouthed, what?

“Horny I say!”

The young waitress hesitated before reaching our table, quickly dropping off the appetizer and turning to leave, she giggled when Michael politely complimented her nails again. He bit into a freshly buttered roll and threw it across the table hitting me square in the forehead. I sipped my wine and dabbed my mouth with a maroon-colored napkin.

“Lick it,” I said, leaning over the table. “Come on, lick me off.”

Michael held his hand to his mouth and looked down at the table. Straightening his knit hat, he raised up out of his seat and slowly dragged his tongue up my forehead. I closed my eyes and groaned, my ass up in the air and my bare feet poking through the cracks of the chair. I sat back down and tore into a roll with my teeth. A party of stiff-lipped businessmen cleared their throats and motioned for the waiter. Across the table, Michael cut off a chunk of butter and placed it in his mouth. Slapping his hands down, he pushed himself up, pulled one knee onto the table, followed by the next. His wine glass toppled over and crashed to the floor as he crawled across the table with a chunk of butter melting on his tongue.

“Suck it,” he said, attempting to keep his mouth open. “Suck me off,” he said, the butter falling onto the table. He crawled closer, his knee landing in the basket of rolls and knocking over my wine glass. I leaned in to follow orders, but two large Italian men stopped me. I wasn’t sure we could take them. Holding up my arms, I agreed to leave. The jig was up. No reason to get violent. Michael threw a fit.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, holding his hand to his chest while remaining on all three’s on the table. “I’m Michael Cross! Lead singer of Limbo Diver! You can’t kick me out!” The Italian men glanced at each other and then picked Michael up, one grabbing his waist and the other his legs. They carried him away as I followed behind protesting, but not before yanking the wine bottle off the table. I met them in the front lobby where Michael, now standing on his own, demanded an apology from the two unamused Italians. After threatening to sue, he grabbed the bottle from my hand, took a swig, and then thanked them for the complimentary wine. We sauntered out the door and quickly vacated the premises.

Once in the clear, Michael turned and asked, “Why’d we do that? I’m starving!” He debated on returning and getting our order to go, but settled, instead, on picking up some fast food. We found a bench in Menil Park and ate our greasy cuisine, washing it down with the rest of the expensive wine. We spent the rest of the day browsing record shops and resale stores where I purchased two large wooden window frames for my next art project. I also bought a cheap pair of tennis shoes. Michael helped me lug the frames back to my gallery and waited on the daybed while I called my curator and apologized for missing our appointment. Afterwards, I crawled onto the bed and fulfilled my duty without interruption from the Italian thugs.

We slept off the wine for about an hour or two and then walked to the end of the block in silence. I told him to call me sometime tomorrow. Shaking his head, he crossed his arms against his chest and pulled his sleeves down to his fingertips. A bus pulled away from the curb as he stared out across the street in silence. Tucking his shoulders closer to his frame, he turned and asked, “Walk me home?” I gently grabbed his waist and pulled him closer. “The devil,” I said, “that’s who you saw?” He shivered and nodded into my arms.