Death, Drag Queens, Defenestration, and the Damned

Chapter 3

Note: I did not know that 'Alex and Ross' could be taken as 'Alexander Ross'. A friend suggested one character be named Nelson, who was unaware of this. So, in a way, a small tribute to Nelson Alexander Ross, who does kickass work.


“Shit!” Ross tugged on a fresh pair of pants, hopping towards the bathroom and nearly falling over the sink in his rush to get in. He held his cellphone against his ear with his shoulder, speaking into it and buttoning up his jeans once he was inside the small space. Then, he turned, resting his foot against the door and balancing between the handle of the bathroom and the counter as he jerked his pant leg up over his shoe. “Alex. You fucker, if you don’t pick up…”

Ross was already late. He didn’t have time to shower. He barely had time to brush his teeth and run a brush through his hair. “What the hell? Come on, Alex… pick up, pick up.”

“I’m so sorry,” Alex’s voice said, obviously a recording, on the other line. “I’m probably a bit tied up at the moment – no, not like that, silly. But if you’ll just leave your name and a message I’ll get to you as soon as possible. Leave a message after the beep, loves. Toddles! Oh, and have a fabulous day.”

Before Ross could speak, the phone dropped, landing on the carpet while Ross hurried to try and simultaneously brush his teeth and hair while leaving a message. Leaning down as he did so, and spewing out bits of toothpaste into the carpet, he screamed, “ALEX. YOU FUCKER. IF YOU DON’T FUCKING PICK UP I’M GOING TO BASH YOUR HEAD IN. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO? WHERE ARE YOU? WHY THE HELL DID YOU TELL MY RIDE I WASN’T COMING? WHO THE HELL IS FILLING IN FOR ME? FUCKER… IF YOU GET ME FIRED, SO HELP ME GOD I’LL—” There was a beep on the other line, ending the message, and Ross groaned.

He thrust his toothbrush into the holder. The brush was likewise thrown aside, clumps of blue hair in it. Then, he tugged his shirt over his head. In an effort to look at least slightly decent, he straightened out the material, wrinkled and, unbeknownst to him, grease stained in the back though it was.

Ross picked up the phone, dialing. This time he’d try a neighbor. If Alex wasn’t going to answer, he’d have to get a ride over to the studio and see that the man didn’t send his career straight down the toilet. If he could just explain in person… maybe offer them his first born child…

“Hello... Mr. Nelson? God, I’m so sorry to bother you at this time of night, but would you be willing to give me a ride? Really? Thanks. This means so much to me, really. Thanks!”

Straightening his shirt, Ross, kicking the door opened before disappearing into the bedroom to find his coat. “Fucker… I know you have your phone on…” Ross re-dialed Alex’s cellphone, again getting his voice mail.

The living room the television, left on from Alex’s stay, blared some commercial about hair lost that Ross found annoying ironic, given that strains of his own, which made a trail through the hall on the carpet back to the bedroom. To the man’s surprise, he soon heard Alex’s voice. Gazing down, he checked his cellphone. Then, mouth opened and quivering, stepped back to look at the television.

Alex wasn’t – he didn’t. He just didn’t.

The camera shot to Alex, whose hands hovered over a crystal ball on the table. “My dear friends,” Alex began, grabbing on to the ball and hanging his head over it. “Your beloved psychic cannot be here tonight. A sickness ails him. But not to worry, my loves! I am here to fix all that ails you. Not only am I psychic, but I have dabbed in the ancient, powerful art of voodoo. So before you call in tonight, my loves, think! What ails you? Do you need me to give you ingredients for a love potion, perhaps? Something to see that the great karma finds its way to your boss or a cheating boyfriend that ail you? Call me!”

That. Fucker. Not only was Alex in his seat, the one that he had ordered especially for himself with the crimson leather and behind his ebony desk that he had had to beg for after season one, but the fucker was on his show.

Squinting, Ross dialed the number of the show into his phone before hurrying to turn off the television and meet his neighbor at the door. He grabbed the coat Alex had left thrown over the couch before answering it. Then, on second thought, grabbed a knitted hat to put over his head, which was now had a bald spot in the middle of patchy blue areas.

“You all right?” George asked, voice gruff with a small growl sneaking into some of his vowels. “You sounded… distressed over on that there telephone…”

George Nelson was a heavyset man going on seventy that resembled a bear from the way his hair was grown out like fur over his back and one of his eye sockets, missing an eye, squinted, forcing his upper lip to pull up enough to give him a perpetual snarl. How he was alive, one eye and all, was anyone’s guess and, as many claimed, a miracle of nature. Aside from his appearance, there was nothing foreboding about the man. He all self-help book advice and smiles underneath the twitching snarl. In fact often he could be found baking cookies and knitting sweaters. Ross immediately decided he liked him after moving in and being greeted by a platter of assorted cookies he and Alex had devoured with milk the same evening. Just last Christmas he – and even Alex – had been gifted with the knitted hat he was wearing and an admittedly ugly (as hats were more the old man’s thing) sweater that every so often Alex would suffer to put on.

It was just after New Year’s, and a bit too much wine on Alex’s part, that Ross and Alex had been deemed the building’s homosexual couple – not that many suspected otherwise. George had caught Ross pushing Alex up against the wall and telling him that in public he wanted no public affection else the building suspected they were more than just friends. Alex responded by giving the other man’s ass a firm grope and pulling him into the apartment. It was obvious how anyone else could take the motion the wrong way.

After that event, George had made sure to show his support through using rainbow yarn and topping the cupcakes and cookies he brought by with rainbow sprinkles. Alex had never quite let the joke die, encouraged it even by beginning to call Ross his other half and other such nonsense that Ross disapproved of – quite vocally with a ‘NO! I’m not gay, I swear!’

Alex would give George a long suffering glance, rolling his eyes with a sigh. George would pull Alex into his arms, nearly suffocating and squeezing the smaller man to death all at once, and assure Alex that eventually Ross would come around. These things just took time; that was all.

It didn’t improve matters that Ross never brought home dates but always went shopping for two. Or that Alex was usually tugging Ross home drunk around 5 in the morning. Or that Alex insisted on watching porn while Ross was gone and two, or more, clearly masculine moans, leaked through to apartments next door. And that his neighbors gossiped.

Eventually Ross came around and allowed the joke as no one seemed to want to set his door aflame, mailed him anthrax, or slid hate mail through the slot in his door. That, Alex found, seemed to be Ross' greatest worry. It was a good thing, he had joked upon discovering this, that Ross had not been born in Poland just after World War I.

Either way, the lack of death threats seemed to ease Ross' mind enough that he allowed Alex's persistent touchy-feely clinging and even went so far as to occasionally don one of the rainbow, knitted hats around the holidays – inside the building at least. Outside was a completely different matter – outside he wore the green one.

"Mighty cold weather, huh?" George asked Ross, who was pulling on his coat and grabbing his keys from the spot just beside his door. “I think it might be just about ready to snow…”

Ross tried dialing the number to his show again, mhm-ing every so often, then throwing in an ‘mmm-yeah…’ to give the other man the impression that he was listening.

“But don’t you think it’s a little early in the year for snow?”

“Mmh—“ Seeing the other man’s look, he quickly changed his response. “Oh, no, no. But, ugh, I suppose it’s possible… I’m sorry – it’s just this thing with Alex and him running off with no real explanation and…God. I suppose I’m just frustrated."

“You two didn't break up, did ya?"

Ross turned on the other with a glare before rolling his eyes and turning towards the passenger side of the car, shaking his head. “No! No, I told you we’re not going out. Really. We never were – never will be a couple."

"That's the denial talking, son. You just need a little time to heal. How about we pick ‘im up some flowers on the way there? Who can stay mad after you get flowers? And a box of chocolates?"

Seeing that his attempts to assure the man he was straight were, as usual, in vain, Ross gave in. "Yeah, flowers. Sure…" Ross muttered, re-dialing. “I’ll get them on the way back. I just need to get to the studio before the fucker gets me fired."

Once they were to the car, George turned to the other, resting a hand on his shoulder. Ross couldn’t help scooting towards the door and giving the man an awkward smile. Reaching up, he firmly took the other man’s hand to pull it off his shoulder. “I’m really not gay…”

“I know you wanna to tell yourself that…” George said grabbing on to Ross’ other shoulder. Again, Ross pushed it off. “But you have to accept who you are. That’s the only way you’re gonna find happiness for yourself. Not your parents. Not me. Not anyone. Now… what is it? Are you afraid that your parents are gonna react badly? Because sometimes they do, but if Alex makes you happy… then, well, fuck ‘um. You’ll be happy and your parents will realize that and accept you for who you are,” the man said, reciting something that he had probably read from a pamphlet or book entitled 'So your neighbors are homosexuals…’ “And me and all your neighbors and your friends… we’ll support you. You just remember that, okay? You just know that we’ll be here to support you."

"We didn't break up, I swear I just – ALEX. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Ross asked into the phone. By the time he finished his sentence, there was no one on the other end. He could just see Alex now, leaning back into his chair and saying, ‘Oh, my, we do get some crazies this time of night…’ Just like he had to do.

"Ross! That ain’t no way to speak to him. That there is probably the reason he broke up with you to begin with! You have to be carin', treat his emotions like they’re your own. You both had such a good relationship before this incident. Don’t you want to try to work things out?”

"I can handle this, okay? Thanks. I'm sorry – really. Just… please drive?”

“I still say you’re going about it the wrong way, son,” George said, pulling the car out and making a tsking sound in Ross’ direction.

“I can handle it, I swear. Thanks, though, you really are a big help, but this is just someth— Alex. WHAT THE HELL?"

There was a pause on the other end, soon followed by a drawn out “Well…”

“Well what?”

“I couldn’t have you acting like a maniac on your own show…"

"YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON IT?”

"Well, certain … sources informed me that it was probably not in your best interest to do this until he could check your, ah, medical record on his computer—"

"DON'T GIVE ME THAT. YOU… YOU STOP, RIGHT NOW. IF YOU GET ME FIRED, SO HELP ME GOD, I'LL—"

"Relax, Ross,” Alex said, “It's fine. It's just for tonight. Now, please, don't start. The crew loves me. They say I'm a natural. Like a white Miss Cleo."

"Alex… why didn't you tell me before you left? We could have worked this out…" Seeing George look over to him, he quickly added, "This… problem… in communication – I mean, shit! ALEX. STOP MAKING ME GAY."

"I was going to tell you! You wouldn't get up, so I handled it. I went by the station to tell them you'd be absent for a week for a week. They said I was a natural. So, I agreed to do it this week as your… current condition wouldn't allow for it."

"You took my job, you –"

"I have to go, bye!"

"DON'T YOU HANG UP ON ME!" There was a click on the other end. Ross groaned, resting back into the seat of the car and gazing over at the other man. "This… this is all his fault, you know."

"Of course it is… but, Ross, you can't blame him for everything. Maybe if you’d spend more time carin’ than blamin’ you'd be able to heal. Together."

"…Right. Healing. I'm calling the studio. This… this is ridiculous.”

“Alex knows what he’s doing. Now, relax, son.” Reaching over, George closed the phone and gave Ross a pat on the shoulder. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have worked everything out, and it’ll be just like old times. Okay? But right now I’m going to call so he doesn’t fuck up my job.”

George shut the phone again. “Son, we’re only a block away.” pulling the car around back to park. “Just try to keep what I said in mind, all right?”

“Sure, yeah.”

Ross shoved open the door before the other man could turn off the engine and stormed passed the studio’s doors. Then, he groaned. Already Alex's reign of terror had begun. The studio smelled faintly of cheap incenses and his desk – his desk that had came out of Africa – was covered with cloth that looked suspiciously like one of Alex's old dresses and lit candle holders dripping wax down into the fabric.

Before Ross could go to the set and turn the show into one even Jerry Springer would be proud of, George pulled Ross back. “I know you’ve been taught more manners than that, son. You just wait until he comes out.”

Alex greeted both men with a smile after passing around the edge of the set and spotting them. He took a long puff of his cigarette, then threw his arms around George. "George! You brought Ross all the way here. That is so kind! He's a doll, isn't he, Rossy? Just a doll." Reaching for Ross, he pulled the man into his arms and put an arm around the other's waist while dragging on the cigarette.

George blushed. “I’ll leave you two alone. I think Ross has something to say to you.”

“Aw, and so thoughtful! Such a dear. And you.” Alex turned the other man in his arms and closer, hand on the man’s chest. “What are you doing here, sick?"

Ross glared, pushing Alex back a bit and trying to make it clear that he was not – in any way – in the mood to deal with the other man's games or his own supposed homosexuality. Especially at work. "Alex."

Alex's limp wrist immediately dropped. "Don't have a hissy, dear. I told you it was only temporary. You can talk to the director if you'd like, but try to pretend you have a vicious flu – talk through your nose."

"You told him I had the flu? Why’d you do that? Did Zack put you up to this?”

"I'm just looking out for your health! I said it might be a one-day thing… but it was still terrible. So, just to be safe, he scheduled me for all week – isn’t that lovely?”

"But… But what about the guy that was going to be my substitute?"

"I'm afraid he suddenly came down with a minor head cold as well. It is the season you know. Strange coincidence."

Ross grabbed the man, tugging him off to a secluded corner of the room to speak with him. His nails sank into the other’s wrists, making two indents next to the ones from earlier that day and scars from older ones. Used to it, Alex didn’t even flinch.

Whispering, Ross hissed, "You… you set this up, didn't you?"

"I didn't! Zack did…"

"Figures. God, will you both stop prying into my life? We all had an agreement!"

"Technically, it’s Zack's life – and his job to control – or pry – into it. All you own is your own existence."

“So I have no free will.”

“No, no! You have free will. You rule over your existence, just not what impacts you. You can’t choose who you come in contact and lust over, but you can decide to pursue them and, inevitably, if you love them. Suicide is a decision… but it’s a decision that can be influenced.”

"Comforting,"

"Of course. Remember, little ray of sunshine?"

"But you’ve… you haven’t done anything here, have you? You’ve been behaving, right? No lisp? No flirting with the callers? Not trying to convert people to your… lifestyle?"

"No, Ross. It's practically been scripted for me. All I have to do is improvise here and there, that's it," Alex said, pulling out his pocket mirror from his jeans underneath the long robe that he had been forced in as soon as he arrived. The purple lipstick and eyeshadow from earlier had been removed, and in its place there was eyeliner and chapstick. Above the jeans, Ross even caught a glimpse of black fabric that he suspected was a t-shirt.

Well, Ross didn’t have to worry about that. The whole ordeal didn't seem like such a bad thing. Most people would kill for time off of work, after all. But at the same time… It didn't exactly leave much for Ross to do. He'd have to wait on Alex to finish or – worse – find something to do on his own.

Silence passed between them before Alex finally ventured to ask, "So you're not mad?"

"No! No, I don't care. Just… don't fuck this over for me, okay?"

Alex hugged the other man, arms around Ross’ neck. "Thanks. You know, you can stay if you want to."

Ross pushed Alex off again, then backed away to meet up with George seeing someone gaze in his direction. “No… I think I’m going to try to get some more sleep. Do you have to work tonight?”

“No, I was just going to crash at your place if that’s still okay… Mine’s on the other side of town and you know I hate riding the bus that long alone.”

“Fine. You have a key— Shit. GO. That’s your cue to get on stage. Hurry up.” Alex glanced over at the set, then waved before hurrying off to take his spot behind the desk.

“How’d it go?” George asked, wobbling after the other man.

Ross shrugged, shoving his hands into his coat pockets and moving to the door to exit. “False alarm. But I’m still going to kill him.”