InsaneJournal

It all started with my mother and a black bag.

If you were to see my room at the house that upper middle class aspirations built, you’d think ‘what a spoiled brat’. I had everything a kid could ask for. Tons of shit. And for the last five years, my life consisted of a black bag. It had changed size and shape, but it was still a large black duffle, full of my ‘fucking underwear’, as Brian once said. Funny that he bitched about that, then proceeded to fuck me out of them.

My mother went to see Brian at his office, dropping off a bag, a check, and a reprimand. She couldn’t have picked a worse time or way to introduce herself. She didn’t understand that Brian wasn’t inclined to make it easy for me. In fact, his resolve to kick me out of his life for good grew even stronger with the presence of that damned bag. He didn’t, not right away. Seems he had a few more things to show me. Let it not be said that Brian Kinney does things halfway, especially when it comes to instructing one about the joys of fucking. I was an apt pupil, and I’m almost positive that I learned a new way to walk in those early days, so sore from the frequent plowing of my ass. But hey, who was I to complain? I had a Pavlovian response to Brian’s cock. As soon as I saw it, hard, wet and heavy, my ass was in the air like a cat in heat.

At that moment, I went from a kid with everything to a drifter with one bag to represent my then-seventeen years on this planet. It went from place to place, bed to sofa to bed and back again.

Sometime after entering PIFA, I acquired a black and blue messenger bag. Sometime after that, it became a plain black one. It held my hopes and dreams, much like the way the black duffle carried the few material things that were my own. The funny thing was, it didn’t bother me much. I’ve had to be ready to go at the drop of a hat ever since that night outside of Babylon, when my father gave me a choice. I picked the right one for me. It was only when I accompanied Brian back to his loft, watching him queen out over his face, that I realized that I might have been a bit hasty. It seemed that he cared more about the marring of his looks than the fact that I was now homeless. I changed my mind, however, after I pulled the worst sneak attack in history by attempting to crawl, unnoticed, into his bed. The fact that he merely held up the duvet for me to enter said more than his words ever would.

Not long after its arrival, the black bag was packed once again, hastily, as I ran from the wrath of Brian. It was inevitable, you know. Maybe he was feeling crowded. Back then, I really didn’t care about what he said so much. I’d already figured out that Brian often would say one thing, and do another. It was usually along the lines of calling me a twat, fingers twined in my hair, then fucking me into submission, as if to say ‘Brian’s always right, never forget that.’ Later, I would forget knowing that. I forgot a lot of things. And then, as later, it seemed as if he’d been practically waiting for me to fuck up. And I did.

Did I ever.

He was robbed. They took everything that they could haul off, by the looks of things. Of course, as Brian pointed out, they didn’t touch anything of mine. I mean, come on, Brian’s loft was a lot like McDonald’s, millions served. You can’t tell me that every trick on Liberty didn’t know about Brian’s high-tech kitchen and closet full of designer clothes. Didn’t he announce, loudly, what he was wearing, and who designed it? I’m surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner. But, since I was the last one to leave, it seemed likely that I’d forgotten to set the alarm. I thought I had, but...well, shit happens. Usually to me.

I packed my bag and ran all the way to New York. And Brian hauled it, and me, back to Pittsburgh, and to Debbie’s. Funny how much crap you accumulate in a short time. I had tons of clothes, but somehow, I got them to fit in that damned bag. My art supplies went into my messenger bag. I figured I could box up the rest once I figured out where I’d end up. At that point, I had no clue.

I remember packing the duffle in eagerness and anticipation, ready to show the world that Justin Taylor was coming, just like Rage. Hell, because of Rage. I chased my dreams all the way to Hollywood, where my head and heart were filled with promises and dreams of glory. Just once, I so wanted that to be true. Let me have this one thing.

Turns out, the one thing I was left with was a drawing. One that I stuffed into the bag as I made my way back, dreams of glory left tacked on the walls of a soon-to-be-forgotten stretch of wall in a hidden studio art room. The world wasn’t ready for Rage, they said. It wasn’t ready for me. Not yet, anyway.

I went over to the sofa and laid back, thinking.

I was so tired. So tired. I was twenty-one years old, and I felt fifty. So tired of packing and unpacking, of being shuffled about like someone’s least favorite relative. “You take him, no, you take him.” I felt…adrift. Like a once proud tree, blown over in a storm of circumstance, dashed and bashed by the ocean’s fury, and finally sent in pieces to rest along the high tide line, alone. I know I needed a place of my own. I’ve needed that for so long. But I allowed myself to hope- that maybe, for once, that the bag and my underwear belonged here. That the drawer for my drawers would somehow anchor me to this place, to him. You’d think I’d know better by now.

I remembered the night that I’d first come here. I was a scared, blithering idiot. I cringe when I think of that. I had the barest of ideas what would happen. Films and magazines can’t tell you what actual sex is like. They make it look so easy. Maybe Brian was right all this time. Maybe we should have stuck to fucking.

I glance over at the entry to the bedroom…to Brian’s bedroom.

I hate that fucking duffle bag.

I hate what it represents.

It’s my life. It’s every dream I ever had that was taken away, every home that I’d thought I’d managed to find. It’s my address, my one constant. Justin Taylor, Care Of Justin Taylor’s Black Duffle Bag, Somewhere in Pittsburgh, PA.

When I die, they’ll probably bury the fucking thing with me. Or bury me in it. ‘Here lies Justin, where he belongs; wrapped in the only canvas that matters.’

Okay, that’s maudlin, even for me.

I sat and waited, and wondered. Was this my punishment for hoping? Did I want too much, expect too much? Is it too much to hope for a place, one place, to lay my head and know that it would always be there?

Yeah. My head, resting on that fucking bag, in a park somewhere.

Oh, I know there are places that I could go. But then again…Debbie has Emmett now, my mom’s place is really too small. I could go back to Daphne’s, but I think she’s probably getting sick of me by now. Besides, I’m sure she appreciates the quiet.

Maybe I should have thought this through more.

The bag seems to glare at me from its hiding place. I sigh. It’s time, I know it is. Time to stand up, to be a man, to take care of myself. I can do this. I can.

It’s just that every breath I take seems to strangle me. My hands are shaking, and my head is throbbing. And I don’t want to go. I don’t. But I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t stay, knowing that this is all I’ll ever have. A loft that isn’t mine, full of things that aren’t mine, owned by a man…who doesn’t want to be mine.

The door slides open, and Brian walks in. We talk, or, at least, I do. I attempt to tell him what I want, how I feel. I thought he was listening, and then the panic appeared. He thinks he’s so good at hiding it, but I know what to look for. As soon as he decided that the solution was to fuck it better, I knew. It’s his fail-safe, his comfort zone. It’s all he knows, all he will allow himself to know. And so, with the answers that I need, I walk over to the bedroom entrance, and grab the sum of my existence.

A messenger bag, full of dreams, and a black duffle bag, full of my life.

It’s heavy. It’s so heavy. It seems to slow my every step. And, I as stand in the doorway, looking at him once more, I’m not sure if the weight of it will spill me forward, or tip me backwards. In the end, I right it, center it, and leave.

Brian asked me to let him know where I ended up. I should have just pointed to the fucking bag and said, “Here. Here is where I always end up.”