the futile! the futile!

[star studded]

<center>Why can't I get just one kiss
Why can't I get just one kiss
There may be some things that I wouldn't miss
But I look at your pants and I need a kiss
Why can't I get just one screw
Why can't I get just one screw
Believe me, I know what to do
But something won't let me make love to you
Why can't I get just one fuck
Why can't I get just one fuck
I guess it's got something to do with luck
But I waited my whole life for just one
Day after day, I get angry and I will say
That the day is in my sight when I?ll take a bow
And say goodnight

Going down the kitchen at the top of the stairs
Can I mix in with your affairs
Share a smoke, make a joke
Grasp and reach for a leg of hope
Words to memorize, words hypnotize
Words make my mouth exercise
Words all failed the magic prize
Nothing I can say when I?m in your thighs
Oh my mum my mo my mo my mother
I would love to love you, lover
City is restless, it?s ready to pounce
Here in your bedroom, ounce for ounce

Add It Up - Violent Femmes

</center>

Lincoln Adler was frayed end of sparked nerves and a steel-shot tongue that hit its target every time. One half of a contrasting twin set, he battered his way through life with fists and silence, slamming drumsticks against taut snares and floor-toms in time. With a head too filled with thought, Lincoln wound around every worry too tightly. He white-knuckled decisions until they broke under his palms and shattered beneath him, left entirely undecided afterall. He was split down the middle and divided in half, torn between two opposing sides of himself and running in too many directions at once.

record: misdemeanor shoplifting, vandalism, assault and battery. auto theft conviction, 100 hours community service, six months probation. second degree arson conviction, one year of juvenile detention, 300 hours community service and two years probation.

<font color="#000000"><font size="1">[ April 21, 2005 12:59 AM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font></font>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ September 20, 2006 11:27 PM: Message edited by: midnight radio ]</font>

[star studded]

5/26.


meanwhile back on earth i told you to fuck off and go away
i've gotta call my friend who moved from New York to LA
five days before Christmas last year his girlfriend died in a plane crash
he says the way that it happens is your heart
is so heavy it rips away upon impact
and then you just bleed inside
you don't even feel a thing
they found her on a hill in Columbia
intact among the debris

another plane went down today in the
atlantic nine miles off shore
and every single black car that goes by just might be yours
i haven't moved from this spot
i sit here watching TV in bed
i wanna see if the crash was sabotage
i wanna know if everyone is dead

<font color="#7F8190" size="1">[ May 26, 2004 05:24 PM: Message edited by: shipwrecked ]</font>

[star studded]

Part One.

Full Name: Lincoln Reverin Adler
Goes by: Linc, Lincoln, some guys back in school used to call me Rev'.
Current location: Queens, New York
Description: An apartment, with a roommate, and electricity.
Occupation: Stock-boy and register monkey at Lamden's Grocery in the Village.

Current age: Twenty one. I can drink!
Date of birth: October 27th
Birthplace: Women and Infants in Boston.
Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of parent(s):

Jonathan Adler - Pilot for American Airlines.
Rosemary Hawkins - Art dealer.

Name(s), age(s), and occupation(s) of sibling(s):

Althea Adler - Waitress and aspiring drama queen.

Height: 5'10"
Weight: 160
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Blue
Left-, right-handed, or ambidextrous: Left-handed

Heritage/Nationality: American, Czech, French.. I'm all over the place.
Religion: Catholic
Education: Diploma from Boston Latin
Marital status: Unwed.
Children: Oh no no no.

Part Two.

Likes: Music, showers, boxing, sports, American Gladiators, video games with Glory, coffee, the Moondance Diner, Uncle Pat.
Dislikes: Bad movies, bad music, excuses.
Phobias: Strange ones.

Part Three: Do you...

Smoke: Marlboro.
Cuss: When it's necessary.
Sing well: Not really.
Sing in the shower: Yes.
Talk to yourself: Not that I'm aware of? Maybe I talk in my sleep.
Believe in yourself: Why not.
Play an instrument: Drums. Are they an instrument?
Want to go to college?: Not at the moment.
Want to get married?: Are you proposing?
Want to have children?: ...is there something I should know?
Think you're a health freak?: Not particularly.
Get along with your parents?: When I'm not around them.
Get along with your siblings?: Yes.

Part Four: Current...

Clothes: Jeans and an orange button down.
Mood: Existential.
Music: The Thrills.
Taste: A red lifesaver.
Make-up: All natural, baby.
Hair-style: Out of control. I've stopped trying.
Annoyance: I'm kinda tired.
Smell: I got nothin'.
Book you're reading: The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
CD in CD Player: The Thrills (self-titled)
DVD in player: SNL - The Best of Will Ferrell
Refreshment: Coke.
Worry: If I'm going to be able to nap.

Part Five: Favorites:

Food: Mushroom Pizza
Drink: Dr. Pepper (NO ICE.)
Color: Blue.
Album: Aerosmith - Toys in the Attic
Shoes: Doc Martins.
Candy: I'm a fan of Funny Bones. Those are more pastry.
Animal: Dog, I guess.
TV Show: Saturday Night Live, before it started to blow.
Movie: Old School
Song: Love in an Elevator - Aerosmith
Girl's name: Ivy.
Boy's name: Jack.
Vegetable: Asparagus.
Fruit: Pomegranate.

Part Six:

If I were a month, I'd be: August.
If I were a day of the week, I'd be: Saturday.
If I were a time of day, I'd be: Noon.
If I were a planet, I'd be: Mars.
If I were a sea animal, I'd be: Shark.
If I were a direction, I'd be: Falling.
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be: A chair.
If I were a sin, I'd be: Caprice. Is that a sin?
If I were a historical figure, I'd be: James Dean.
If I were a liquid, I'd be: Blood.
If I were a tree, I'd be: An elm.
If I were a bird, I'd be: A robin.
If I were a flower, I'd be: Poison Ivy? Plant, I guess.
If I were a kind of weather, I'd be: Clear.
If I were a mythical creature, I'd be: A troll.
If I were a musical instrument, I'd be: Snare drum.
If I were an animal, I'd be: A snapping turtle.
If I were a color, I'd be: Blue.
If I were an emotion, I'd be: Contemplative.
If I were a vegetable, I'd be: Spinach.
If I were a sound, I'd be: A clap-track.
If I were an element, I'd be: Barium.
If I were a car, I'd be: One that runs.
If I were a song, I'd be: Pink - Aerosmith
If I were a movie, I'd be: Armageddon? I have no idea.
If I were a food, I'd be: No clue.
If I were a place, I'd be: Boston Common.
If I were a material, I'd be: Concrete.
If I were a taste, I'd be: Cotton candy.
If I were a scent, I'd be: Cooking pizza.
If I were a religion, I'd be: Catholicism
If I were a word, I'd be: Harrowing.
If I were an object, I'd be: An alarm clock.
If I were a body part, I'd be: Hands.
If I were a facial expression, I'd be: Examining.
If I were a part of a house, I'd be: The hallway.
If I were a subject in school, I'd be: Music theory.
If I were a cartoon character, I'd be: Trent Lane. Where did Daria go?
If I were a shape, I'd be a: Half circle.
If I were a number, I'd be: 10.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ April 13, 2005 07:16 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>

[star studded]

"Speaaaaaaaaak."

BEEP.

"Lincoln, it's the wicked witch of the west, your mother. Are you there? Are you screening your calls? We wanted to call and say we love you, and we'll miss you tomorrow, Cindy and the kids are here. They send their love. Oh! I heard all about your new job at Faulkner from Uncle Pat. He sounds excited about it.."

Lincoln lunged for the phone, snagging the receiver and slamming it to his ear.

"I'm moving."

"What, honey? Do you always do that? Hear your poor mother on the phone and then just let me talk and talk."

"Ma. I'm moving."

"Moving where?"

"New York."

"You too!? Both my babies are going to be flitting off to the big city like it's some Paradise! Where are you going to live, Lincoln, how are you going to get a job?"

"With Althie, or Eddie, or I know this kid named Glory who lives out there.."

"Named what?"

"Glory, Ma."

"I'm going to let my little Lincoln live with some hooligan with the name Glory!?"

"Will you quit the guilt trip.."

"It's not a guilt trip, I'm just worrying about you! You just got that new job at the hospital."

"Yeah, and it blows."

"Watch your mouth!"

"I gotta go, Ma, I'm in the middle of packing."

"Lincoln, do not hang up this phone on your---"

Click.

[star studded]

<center>you'll take advantage 'til you think you're being used
'cos without an enemy your anger gets confused
and I got stuck on a side you know I never chose
but it's all about taking the easy way out for you, I suppose.</center>

Moments like these never made sense to him, no matter what way he looked at them. The warm and slow feeling of being drunk was in no way debilitating to memory, seeing as each morning, he woke with the same feeling and the most vivid memories. He couldn't even sift out a pattern from the mess he left himself in. Today, this plan was out of anger, but at what, he couldn't quite remember. His brain worked in simple input and output. Input: displeasing. Output: instant payoff. He was tunnel visioned and focused on the action and not the reasoning. He had no reason, he just had a goal.

Tonight his goal came in the form of a timid blonde that smelled and felt like vodka, stinging and bitter but with a distinct aftertaste that remained no matter what you used to wash it away. They were in disarray on the red couch that sat in the dimly lit bar of The Cutting Room, Lincoln's arm wrapped around her waist in an uninterested flop. His fingers were barely enthusiastic enough to swipe at the band of her skirt when she leaned enough to expose the slightest hint of pale skin. Mouths were pressed together in a drunken slur, her hands draped on the cotton across his collar.

It was only when her hands dove lower that he found himself taken aback, brows lifting and his mouth yanked from hers. Thoughtlessly, he stood, shrugging her off like a jacket in warm weather. Fingers lifted to scrape at his temple before his hand smeared across a disarray of black hair, glancing down only once at her confused expression. He shrugged lamely in response. He never really did have an answer, did he? The crowd parted itself as he wandered through it, or maybe that was just another imaginative fabrication. Nobody moved out of the way for him, he zig-zagged through them like they were a living, breathing, drunk maze. The bar was left behind to pulse new music that he thought was pure crap, a second glance not even considered. New York lights and the rush of late traffic were his next area of focus. Oh yes, that and a reason. He had been angry before, but why?

Some fuck named Tucker was coming into town. His father had lunch with Althea and he hadn't heard so much as a peep about it. He had to go have drinks with all of his sister's yuppie, upscale friends and pretend like he didn't loathe their pretention the entire time. He had promised to not be inappropriate, but he had never promised not to bring Glory, or not to be belligerent. That wasn't inappropriate, was it? Hardly. Maybe those were his reasons. Maybe that was why he had felt the need to seek instant gratification that he never found the desire to fully pursue. Strange.

Bleary eyes stared up at the water-glimmer of midnight in an urban sprawl, the heel of his hand lifting to rub the shine away. He was headed somewhere, but it was obvious that anywhere he ended up would fail to be altogether welcoming.

[star studded]

Lincoln was propped against the chair in the most lazy of positionings, his spine slumped, his arm stretched over the back. He balanced himself delicately on the two back legs of the chair, lifting feet and attempting to maintain balance before he'd send the front two crashing back down against the floor in a harsh thunk. Everytime the sound broke the silence they had constructed, Althea would jump, her silverware rattling against her plate. After awhile, this ritual became less about his personal attempts at seeing how long he could stay balanced, and more about the satisfaction of watching her jump each and every time. It was almost like each time he did it, she didn't expect him to do it again.

Thunk.

Her eyes closed in a silent sort of disappointment, but rather than speak up, she stabbed at another piece of salad. He waited for her to lift it towards her mouth, and then once again, the chair came crashing back down with his weight. The fork wavered and she immediately slammed it down against the wooden surface of her small table.

"Knock it off!"

Victory. Leaning forward, he held up hands in defense, his head shaking. "Alright, alright." Arms clunked on the table and his hands folded, his empty plate already pushed aside. His knee bounced in rhythm to some song she couldn't hear, and the idea that he was sitting there, staring at her as she tried to finish must have been slightly disconcerting. Lincoln didn't seem to mind, blue eyes fixed on his sister intently, watching her method of clearing her plate that took much longer than his own. This was how she acted when she had something to say and no nerve to say it. She played the role of the cold, collected sister whose silence was harsher than her loudest rants. She was waiting for him to give in and ask, and he knew that the moment he broke all hell would follow.

"Look, if you wanna bitch at me for the other night, why don't you do it instead of wasting my time." His voice was an annoyed sigh of anticipation and he slumped against the back of his seat again, arms folding across his chest. That stance had always proven to be his armor when things got tough. Things bounced off of him easier when he looked like he didn't really care at all.

Althea's attention didn't snap to him like he expected it would. Instead, it just slid from her plate, to the door, and then over in his direction, as if she only accidentally heard what he had said. "I'm sick and tired of bitching at you, really. It's more of a waste of my time than a waste of yours. You don't listen anyway."

"The fuck? I listen all the goddamn time to you." Dark brows creased at his sister, his shoulders angling with speech.

"You're right. You listen when I'm talking about bullshit that doesn't matter, but the second I bring up something of mild importance, you conveniently tune out. It's really effective, huh? Maybe I should try. You know, the next time you call me looking for help because you got your ass in trouble, or the next time you need someone to eat dinner with, or someone to come to your stupid fucking shows." She cracked at the edges but never down the middle. Frustrated, Lincoln rolled eyes in response.

"Okay. My bad. The only important shit you talk to me about is shit that happened years ago that I'm over, but you're clearly not. So, I'm sorry if I'm not all gung-fucking-ho to yank that out and just lay it out for you. Sometimes we don't have answers. Sometimes I'm sick of apologizing."

"Sometimes? You never have answers, and you never say you're sorry. You can't be sick of something you don't do, Lincoln." She had abandoned dinner for this conversation, glaring across the table at him, just to meet the same resolved stare back.

"If you're trying to get me to apologize for the other night, I'm not going to." He went so far as to scoff at the notion, his mouth turned into a sarcastic grin. It made her sick to see.

"I'm sure you're not. I've stopped expecting you to apologize to me. And the idea of you going to Michael to say you were sorry that you acted like a complete idiot is just laughable. You don't have the balls to do something that humbling."

"And I'm sure he does, right? Because he's the perfect fucking gentleman. He's all smart and has a great job, and I'm sure he's fucking loaded, too. I guess I can't blame you. If I was in your situation, I'd be fucking him too."

It was relieving to see pale cheeks flush red with anger, to know that he hadn't lost the ability to make her want to throw tables over and break anything in sight. It was her composure that made him the most upset. She was not the Althea he had known long ago, temperamental and easily infuriated, sensitive and in need of mending.

"I can't believe you.. you would even insinuate that! That's such a load of shit, and you know it! You know that has nothing to do with anything at all!" The twin's temper flared only briefly, before it dulled back down again into something meek and unsure. "How could you even say that to me?"

"Because people like that make me wonder what the fuck they want from people like you."

Quickly, Althea had stood, her foot used to propel the chair backwards, skidding until it toppled over. Lincoln refused to flinch. "You know what? You really do treat me like shit, Lincoln, and I defend you every time you do something stupid. I make excuses for you, I try to make people understand that you aren't just some idiot kid who hasn't grown up yet. I make up reasons for your bullshit, I give you millions of chances to prove everyone wrong and all you do is spit in my face."

He laughed slightly at that notion, a hand lifting to motion towards her. "Is that what he told you? That I'm a shitty brother?"

"If you'd like to make this about him, we can just stop now. I don't feel like arguing over the fact that you're jealous that I feel like I can rely on someone other than you."

"You're full of shit. Don't fucking psychoanalyze me." He stood to parallel her, his frame taking up considerably more room.

"It's true, isn't it? You just want to ruin everything, every friendship, every tie, every relationship, because to you, there's no reason why I should need anyone else but my fuck-up brother to get by."

"Shut up." It was snapped as the punctuation to her statement, and suddenly the shift of power was obvious. Althea leaned forward, her body positioned in a condescending stance.

"Well, how about you tell me why then? Can you think of a better reason? Do you need a minute to make up some bullshit story?"

Lincoln moved slowly, his shoulders lifting in a shrug as he pushed himself away from the table. "No, I'm good. You don't need to kick me out this time, either, I'm gonna head out. Because.. well, because fuck this, Althea. Fuck you and your accusations, and your choosing sides, and fuck your opening night. Give my ticket to your precious Michael."

"Fine. I don't want you there anyway."

"Fine."

It wasn't as satisfying as he thought it would be to slam the door behind him so hard that he heard dishes rattle.

[star studded]

He had to clean up. Glory was bound to be home, even if it wasn't until that morning, but the sooner he accomplished it, the sooner he could stop worrying about it. The mattress-on-the-floor was a rumpled mess, and his clothes were strewn carelessly in a breadcrumb trail of activity. All the way from the door and into the bedroom. Great.

He started with the bed/futon, the sheets and pillows pulled back into some sort of order, stretched over corners and fixed back into arrangement. He turned on bare feet, dipping to gather up the distribution of dirty laundry, scooping it into his arms and then returning to stick it in the basket he'd haul down to the laundromat within the next few days. Clearing his throat, repeatedly, for no real reason, he was struggling to think of something, anything. The triplet rhythms he was taught in middle school band, how much money he needed to save up for a new drum set, anything but why his clothes were thrown about the house in such a careless, reckless order. Another harsh jar of his throat and he felt things become just a bit warmer. Clothes were dumped into the ratty, plastic basket and he refused to think of it anymore.

No more thinking about Brian, about an argument in a kids arcade bathroom, about a desperate need fulfilled, about aimless questions and a violent urge. He just wanted to forget for now. To be blank and aimless like he had been three days ago, before all of this started. He wanted to be balled up and distrustful, he wanted to be vicious and biting, he wanted to drink someone under the table just to prove he could. He wanted to do something manic and assertive. Hit, abuse, banter to the ground. He wanted to bark at something until it ran away. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

The back of his hand smeared over his forehead as he thudded steps into the small kitchenette, the yellow paper stuck to the fridge barely catching his attention until he had opened the door in search of a beer and found little else but mayonnaise and a can of coke. Glory's hacked handwriting was scrawled on the paper, and Lincoln reached out to snatch it from the door, squinting to read.

Dude, don't be a fag. Get some BEER.

Jesus fucking Christ. No no no no no.

Backing up, he hung his head so that fingers could reach it with ease, tearing through black-brown hair to no real avail. He needed to calm down. He needed desperately to maintain that level of apathetic control that he was so used to having at his reach. His chest rocketed with gasping breaths, as though he had just ran around the block at top speed, or had swung fists at whatever it was that was whittling away at his already flimsy confidence.

His heart sped like hummingbird wings, and his chest ached each time he gasped an inhale. Feet were pacing in tiny, tight circles, His hands, as much as he wanted them to ball into fists and fly at anything that came too close, were stuck taut and stiff. Bending joints took intense effort. His stomach flip-flopped in a nauseous whirl, which only sent his head to spin. He needed to sit down, which was why he was making a shuffling bee-line to the couch. Rather than sitting, he collapsed in a heap, his head hanging as a tingling numbness occurred in the tips of his fingers and the centers of his palms. Difficult fingers hooked in the collar of his shirt, prying it from his neck so harshly that the cotton stretched beyond repair.

He was sweating or something.. either way, something warm and salty was running down his face and across dramatically curved lips. Reaching nervously, he snagged the phone from it's cradle, fingers punching in a number after a million tries. He couldn't hold the phone or his finger still enough to get it on the first try.

A few streets over, a phone jarred Althea from her sleep, sprawled face down on her mattress. Grumbling, her arm slung from the covers to fumble for the phone on her bedside table. Snagging it, the power button was pressed and it was jammed to her ear.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" A low mumble was met by a frantic gasp that sent Althea sitting up almost immediately. "Hello? Hello?"

Lincoln was trying to choke out words, but all that his sister heard were open vowel sounds that could have been anyone. "Who is this?" She chirped nervously into the receiver, her brain scanning for someone who would call her at this ungodly hour.

He felt like he was screaming, but there was no sound coming out.

"Lincoln?"

Yes, yes, oh God yes. "Al.."

"Are you home?"

He gasped again, the ache in his chest refusing to subside. "Uh-huh.."

"Stay there. I'm coming over, okay?"

No answer. His face was scrunched so tightly in distress that he couldn't crush sound out of his mouth.

"Okay!?"

"Mm-hm.."

"Don't move, Lincoln."

In the moments that followed, both twins couldn't help but remember years ago, the inexplicable screaming and uncontrollable motion that had disrupted a French class and accompanied a plane crash.

Lincoln sunk into the cushions of the couch, hugging knees until the only sort of help he knew arrived.

[star studded]

I am nineteen. The buzz of performance has worn off, and I am stuck somewhere between almost drunk and almost exhausted. The lights in the Axis are flickering and swirling and the speakers are pounding some music I can't really decipher considering my ears are still blown out from the set a half an hour ago. The sight of my sister holding hands and making out with our singer, Nick, is nauseating for a multitude of reasons.

I can't really tell if I hate Nick or not. We were pretty close all through high school because most of the time we had no choice but to be close. It was just us. No other guys, no other friends, no girls, nothing. It just became routine to hang out, to fuck around and be lazy, to spend days on end doing absolutely nothing but staring at a television screen and eating whatever it was we didn't have to use the stove to make. Things started changing when we started the band. Suddenly, there were two other guys and an assload of fans. There were girls and merch guys and all sorts of bullshit people to wade through to get to actual people who weren't a waste of time.

The first time I saw Nick and my sister a little too close for my own comfort, I freaked the fuck out on both of them and I still, to this day, have no real idea why. I don't give a shit what Althea does, or with who. It's her own business, and I've never really been one to shove my nose into it. I played it off for a bunch of reasons. She'd fuck up the band like Yoko, Nick wasn't good enough for her blah blah blah. None of which I really believed. It just made me mad. That sort of nameless, angry, fucked up feeling you get when there's a word you want to say but you can't remember what word it was, so you just get more and more pissed off and you spend more and more time obsessing over what word it was. That's what it felt like, twenty-four hours a day for awhile. Then I got over it, and we all moved on. And now we're here, playing one hell of a huge show at the Axis, and there's my sister making out with our fucking lead singer, and all I want to do is beat the hell out of him.

And so I do. Not at first. It takes me a few minutes to get over there, I have to shoulder my way through a couple of kids who probably snuck in with fake IDs. As soon as I'm close enough, I reach out and grab his shirt while he's in mid-grope. It's somewhat satisfying, but not enough, so with the space that's already been cleared in shock, I manage to drag him back and plaster him against the floor. It's a pretty quick scuffle and fair at that. After we both manage a few shots at the other's face, we're being dragged out by security. I'm screaming all the obscenities I can think of but I'll be damned if I could tell you why. It just feels good. I feel betrayed, so it's good to get that out. Venting, I guess.

My sister will break up with Nick this Friday.

Two weeks later, I will meet Glory Corgan.

[star studded]

"Why don't we hang out anymore?"

"You want the extended or edited version?"

My sister's always got some witty quip to go along with her snotty answers. Sometimes it's cute and endearing. Mostly when the person she's snapping at isn't me.

"Uh, edited. If you can keep it under two minutes, that'd be great."

My brother is the kind of guy who can't take a hit without slinging one back. It's his rule. It's how he was raised. If you can dish it out, dish it out, because one of these days someone is going to make you take it. Beat them to it.

"We don't hang out because every time we do, you manage to find some new and interesting way to weasel yourself into my life, fuck with the people I care about and leave me to clean up the mess."

"Are you still mad about Michael?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm over that, so it'd be nice if you could move on too."

"You're what?"

She does that a lot too. When you say something big, she makes you repeat it. It's a bitch. A lot like her sometimes.

"I'm over the shit with Michael. Done, finito. You and Telemundo can go do your thing, I don't really give a shit anymore."

He's full of shit.

"You're full of shit."

"I'm not full of shit, you're full of shit."

"I didn't even say anything!"

"Exactly"

"Uuuuugh, Lincoln!"

It's times like these, face to face with him in my apartment, that I feel like I never should have let him have my home address or phone number. It only leads to me wanting to throttle him. I wish, with every part of me, that disliking my twin brother was an easier task than genetics and biology and loyalty makes it out to be. The wish goes unfulfilled. Times move on. Cycles repeat. If Lincoln's one thing, he's consistent.

"Look, Althie. I'm sorry."

Scratch that last part. If Lincoln's one thing, he's inconsistent.

"You're.. what!?"

"Will you stop doing that!?"

Goddamn! I knew this was a waste of my time the second I stepped into her apartment. Everything was going to spiral into an out of control mess and she was going to make me say I was sorry a thousand more times. On camera. On a live internet feed. With the entire city of New York watching. She'd never let me live this down.

"What are you sorry for?"

See!? Do you see what I mean? Give the girl an inch and she yanks it a mile, for fuck's sake!

"Ohhh, come on, can you not play Wheel of Humiliation right now?"

"No, you're apologizing, do it right!"

"I'm going to be apologizing to the neighbors in a minute for throwing you down the stairs!"

"Lincoln Reverin Adler, fucking apologize!"

"Alright! Alright! I'm sorry for coming over and acting like a dick in front of your friends, I'm sorry for breaking your vase and trashing your flowers, I'm sorry for being a piece of shit to Michael, I'm sorry for humiliating you that night with the drinks and with Glory, and I'm sorry for punching Michael in the face."

"Good! See, that wasn't so ha--wait, you what!?"

"For the love of CHRIST, Althea, stop that!"

"When did you punch him in the face!?"

Uhhhh. Now here's where my faulty logic starts to kick in. See, this would be a great time to lie and say I didn't punch him at all, because you know.. she doesn't know about it. Essentially, I've offered over more information than I was planning to, and this doesn't make for a good case. To lie? Or to tell the truth.

"The day before he was walking around with a black eye?"

She's going to kill me.

I'm going to kill him. Before I know it, I'm a windmill of girly shrieks and slaps, knocking my hands at Lincoln while he just laughs and puts up his arms in defense. He always finds it funny when I go berserk because I hit like a girl. Well, so sue me.

"Alright already, Althea, knock it off! Okay! Okay, ow, I get it! I said I was sorry!"

"To him!?"

"... not exactly, but I figured, you know, if you really wanted to, you could relay the message."

"Relay the message, my ass!"

"Please don't make me apologize to Michael, please, Althea, I'll do anything, I'll scrub your floors, I'll grovel at your feet, I'll buy you candy and flowers and tickets to the circus or whatever you want, just don't make me go say I'm sorry to him."

"Fine."

"What?"

Dammit, now I'm doing it!

"Fine. You don't have to say you're sorry to Michael."

Score!

"Really?"

"Really. You just have to have lunch with him this weekend."

"Are you retarded!?"

"Ah ah ah!" Althea whips her hand up like it's some effective silencing tool and I want to tell her how much she looks like our mother. She'll be staring at herself in the mirror for days, trying to rework her casual motions to be less Rosemary and more Althea. "Lunch. Not three romantic days in the Poconos, just lunch. A civil, peaceful, normal, calm lunch. No one will yell. No one will get angry, no one will throw things, or punch the other in the face. You'll discuss things like gentlemen. Discuss politics, music, girls, I don't care if you talk about Teletubbies! Shit, I don't care if you sit in silence until you're both done eating. You're going to sit together in a room without anyone acting as a buffer and you're going to get along. You're going to learn to like each other! You're going to go to sporting events and out for drinks together after this."

Why am I being so persistent? Because I know my brother. I do. I know him better than he knows himself and I know that if he stops trying to act like some big macho hardass and just acts like himself (maybe not entirely himself, but .. a good chunk of himself), people will like him. People will see that he's funny and smart and really quite easy to talk to. They'll like him. They have to.

"Now you're pushing it."

"Okay, so my imagination was running away with me. But you're still doing it."

"Why?" I whine at her. She hates that.

"Don't whine at me, I hate that."

See?

"But he hates me, and I hated him until I got bored with hating him. Hating someone takes up way too much time and energy."

"He doesn't hate you."

"I'm sure he doesn't want to back my presidential campaign. Ha, y'like that? Little election year humor there, did you catch that?"

"He just thinks you're a dick. And he's not entirely wrong, but maybe for once you can fool someone into thinking you're an actual human being with feelings and remorse and an ability to be smart and funny and likeable."

"I dunno, Al. Why are you so hell bent on this?"

"Because I love him."

"Oh my God, you're so gay."

"And I love you."

"Stop, I think I'm going to throw up.."

"And I think that the two guys that I love the most should get along." She says this while reaching in to grab my cheeks and pinching like a bastard. She hurts worse than mom and Aunt Lilian combined. Christ.

"Ow. Quit pinching, knock it off."

"Say you love me."

"I'd rather sell my tongue on eBay."

"Say it!"

"No!"

"Say it or I'll call mom and make you say it to her!"

"Okay, okay, I love you! I love you, you're my sister and I love you."

Althea flings her arms around me and squeezes like we've never hugged before. We've hugged before. I can't exactly remember the last time it happened. But we have. I think. Yeah, we have. Reluctantly I hug back, because we all know that if I don't, she'll throw a shit fit.

"Okay, you gonna let go now?"

"I love you, Lincs. You're a good brother."

"Yeah yeah."

Maybe I'm trying to be. A little. For now.

[star studded]

Can't lift a finger, can't hurt a fly
I find I always move too slowly
One thing's for certain, I'm insecure
I never knew till someone told me that
If that's all you will be, you'll be a waste of time
You've dreamed a thousand dreams
None seem to stick in your mind
Two points for honesty
It must make you sad to know that
Nobody cares at all


"What's this?"

My sister is craning over the refridgerator, squinting at some piece of paper that I stuck to it with my Aerosmith magnet. Peeking over her shoulder, I realize she's staring at Liv's phone number, the one I retranslated and stuck up there because I'd lose it any other way.

"What's it look like?"

"It looks like a girl's phone number."

"My God, how come you never went to college again?" I shove her out of the way and yank the door open, stealing a red tin can of soda from the shelf. The fridge door closes on its own, and I crack the tab. It makes a loud, satisfying snap. Ahh. Refreshment in its finest.

"When did you start getting girls' numbers? No, wait, when did you start keeping them?"

"How do you know that's mine?"

"Because Glory doesn't get numbers, he gets restraining orders."

Good point. I shrug at her and take a swallow. "She's just this girl I met at the bar. She sings. She wants me to drum for her. It'd be cool to start a band again, y'know? Not a big deal."

"I think it's a big deal." Althea reaches out and whacks my arm with the back of her hand. She's slowly turning into a thinner, younger version of our mother. "Is she pretty?"

"I guess? I don't know." Of course Liv is pretty, but saying this outright would put a big hole in my part of this argument. "Why do you care?"

"Because I want to know if you're going on dates. I get to meet prospective girlfriends, it's my duty as your sister."

"I'm not going on dates."

"Well why the hell not!?" She plants her hands on her hips in that way that she's done since we were five, when I stole her Barbies for science experiments. She gets that 'you've got some 'splaining to do' expression, and I wind up saying something stupid. Case in point.

"Because I'm with someone."

Oh for the love of everything holy, what the hell have I just done? I've created a monster. Althea's eyes slowly grow wide and I feel myself trying to sink into the refridgerator door. My instinct is to back away before she squeals at a pitch that only dogs can hear.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaat!?" She screeches. I wince.

"What have I told you about the howler monkey voice?"

"Lincoln!" For a moment she just stands there and sputters. Someone alert the presses. Althea Laurel Adler has nothing to say for once in her chatty fucking life. I'm tempted to zoom out of the building and leave nothing but a Lincoln shaped hole in the wall. If I had any sense in me, I'd be halfway to Mexico, wearing a samba hat and wishing I had been friendlier to Telemundo so he could teach me some Spanish.

Althea snaps me out of my daydream about endless tequila and bullfights. "Well!?"

"Well what?"

"Well, tell me about her!"

"I told you, she's just Liv. Olivia Liddell. She's from somewhere southern. I don't remember where, somewhere with a thick accent, and--"

"Not her. The other her."

"What other her?"

"The girl you're seeing."

Oh fuck. I should just make up a story. That's my first instinct. Immediately, I'm conjuring images of some girl, naming her Amy and giving her a backstory. She grew up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, she has two brothers and a sister, her favorite color is blue and I met her at the Hammerstein Ballroom. She has brown hair, green eyes, she's short, wears jeans and t-shirts a lot, likes listening to The Clash.

And then I remind myself that Amy's not real. Amy doesn't even sound mildly interesting. If I make up some story, one day I'm going to have to make good on it. That might prove a little tricky down the line. So scratch the fake story. I'm left with two options. Option one: Fake a seizure, fall to the floor, flail around and pray that when I "come to" all of this has been forgotten. Option two?

Tell the truth.

I can feel my heart start at that erratic, irregular pace. It's not beating with a rhythm, it's just fluttering and then stopping. It feels hotter in here. Althea tips her head at me.

"Hello? Earth to Lincoln.." She snaps her fingers in my face and I want to bite them off. "Tell me about the girl you're seeing."

"I'm not."

"Not what?"

"Seeing a girl."

"Well then why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't." I need to open a window.

"Why do you look like you're going to pass out?"

"I don't know."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Did you ask one?"

Althea takes either side of my face with one of her hands and stares me down. I have a problem looking at people when they're staring at me like they're going to eat me for dinner, so I look sideways at the ugly cracks in our gross, yellow kitchen wall. I wish Glory would come through the door and say something offensive so Althea will storm out. I wish New York would suffer a devastating earthquake. I wish I could liquidize like Alex Mack and slither away and down into a drain somwhere.

"Lincoln. Who are you seeing? What's her name?"

I think I'm physically incapable of replying. But I've been known to surprise myself every now and then.

"Brian."

"What?"

"Brian. His name is Brian."

Althea lets me go. And for awhile there's nothing but silence.

I honestly hadn't intended on telling her. Her, or anyone. Liv doesn't count, because I didn't tell Liv, she was just witness. This was just supposed to be my secret until I figured it all out and decided what to do, and now everything is going to shit because I can't keep my big mouth shut or my hands to myself. That will teach me, I suppose. There's my lesson. If you can't keep a secret, don't put yourself in the position where you have to.

Althea moves and leans against the counter. As if on instinct, she starts rummaging through our cabinets and pulls out a box of instant pasta salad.

"Can I make this? Do you want some?"

I find this incredibly ironic. "Don't. Don't even.. be that way, Althea. You're.. don't just get your shocked attitude and walk away from it all like you don't give a shit. If you're going to.. to get all weirded out by this, it makes you a real fucking hypocrite, you know that? You work in a field where you're surrounded by throngs of people who are .. way fucking gayer than I am."

"They aren't my brother!" The box of pasta rattles as she whips around to look at me again. "You're my brother! My twin brother, Lincoln, what the hell am I supposed to.. to say!? I didn't know, but.. but how did I not know? I knew you didn't like girls, I just.. I didn't have any clue that you liked men. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you just.. just tell me?"

"I knew you were going to do this, why do you think I never tell you anything? Because you always .. make it some big drama queen thing about you!"

"I'm not making it about me!"

"You are! 'How did I not know, why didn't you tell me!?' It's always about you, Althea. Why didn't I tell you? Because I didn't.. know, I didn't.. I had no fucking idea what I was doing up until.. like.. two days ago!"

She doesn't say anything. She just folds her hand into a fist and presses her mouth against it, the tip of her nose reddening.

"Why the fuck are you crying!?"

"Why are you yelling at me!?"

"Because you're crying! And yelling! And you're going to eat my pasta salad!"

"I don't want your stupid pasta salad!" So she throws the box on the floor. It would have been really cool if all the noodles spilled out and rattled across the linoleum, but they don't. The box just clunks down and she crosses her arms. Shit.

"Look, I know you're upset, but leave the salad out of this." It's a lame attempt to make her laugh. It doesn't really work, but it does make her dip and pick up the box. Good. I wasn't about to do it.

After a good chunk of sniffling silence, she peeks up at me. "You're really gay?"

What a stupid fucking question. "Uh. I guess? I don't know. I didn't know you had to like.. subscribe to some union or something. Is that how it works? Do I have to register somewhere?"

"Shut up." She manages to laugh. It's a relief. My sister looks like a hag when she's crying.

"You asked."

"I know."

"Don't tell mom."

"I won't."

"Or Michael."

"He probably knows."

"What?"

"Don't ask. He just knows these things about people."

"Whatever. Or Eddie. You know, just.. don't say anything."

"I won't."

"Thanks."

"Are you happy this way?"

I do a double take. I was prepared, somewhat, for a bunch of different, weird, prying questions, but not that one.

Am I happy this way? Yes. God, yes. Of course. But, is that what I really want to let anyone know?

"..hey, uh, how about that salad."