An Eulogy for Maxwell Demon

Title: A Eulogy for Maxwell Demon

Author: mao

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes,
and a lot of other people, most namely not me. I'm just a poor
college student not trying to make any money from this, and if you
sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles.

Author's Notes: Just kinda popped into my head. In pieces because
I'm anxious for feedback before I write more.

Warnings: Guess what! Two boys in love!

I don't want to be here. Here, in the rain, on the street outside
his hotel. Here, in this trench coat, in this hat, doing the worst
Humphrey Bogart impression anyone has ever done. Skulking here in the
shadows, rainwater falling on my head and dripping off my hat to my
shoes, where the drips trickle down and meet the pavement.

I know which one is his room - don't ask me how. It was how I saw
him and fell in love with him - I simply saw the window and knew it
would be his. I don't think he'll want to see me. I know he won't
want to see me. It's been fifteen years since that day when he left.
Fifteen years since it all happened - he left me, I 'died' and
crashed my career, and Mandy left me. Bad things do come in threes.

I did the Tommy Stone thing for a while. But somehow...it wasn't
as satisfying. Maybe because he wasn't me - I don't know. I felre
re
at home being Brian Slade than as Tommy Stone or even as Thomas Brian
Stoningham - who I am now. And it was even easier to be Maxwell
Demon...but I don't need to think about that right now. Right now, I
need to focus on getting into that hotel.

It's swanky place - we stayed there a million times. Mandy and I,
Curt and I, the whole entourage. Until Jerry tromped on my career,
they kept a couple suites just for us when they knew we were in the
area. It'll be harder to get in now if they have anyone there who
recognizes me.

But it's been fifteen years. I don't think they will.

Inside, it glitters. That's the only word for this place - the
marble floor is black and white and gold swirled together to create
this massive, beautiful design. The walls have golden paper and the
ceiling drips gold and crystal and candles. The elevators are at the
end of the elegant lobby, the desk to my left. What did he always
call himself when he checked into hotels?

"What room is Oscar Wilde in?" I try to be polite to the young
girl at the desk, and yet look as authoritative as I know how. But
since the Tommy Stone sales went down two years ago, I've been into
coke again. I've started doing junk. I found out that I'm sick. I've
spent so many days, so many weeks simply lying in bed in a stupor,
like I did right after my career as Brian Slade crashed. I don't know
how to feel in charge any more - all I know is dealers like you to be
meek and mild and then they'll give you what you need faster.

"Four seventeen," the girl tells me. I nod, and move away from the
desk. "Would you like me to call up and tell Mr. Wilde you're
coming?" I'm already in one of the beautiful golden elevators, with
the door closing by the time she asks.

The last time I saw Curt up close, he was walking down the street.
His back was to me, and his hair was like gold, swaying slightly, and
too bright for the dreary British sky. I knew it was him, walking
down the road, as my limo passed him. He didn't see me, but maybe -
just maybe - he saw the limo pass and thought of me.

I wonder sometimes if he remembers the last words I said to him.
"Well fuck off then!" Every time I think of him, I think of the look
he gave me when I said that. The hurt in his eyes, because he knew
something I hadn't even thought of yet. Because he had known from the
beginning that neither of us could be what we professed to be all the
time. All he'd wanted was love and understanding, and I couldn't give
it to him. It was Curt Wild I'd fallen in love with, not the man
whose body he lived in, just as he'd fallen in love with Brian Slade,
not who I am underneath.

Because I am still Maxwell Demon. I can see it in my golden
reflection on the walls of this elevator. My eyes are sunken,
red-rimmed and bloodshot, with heavy bags under them. My skin is
plae, almost bluish, and the veins stand out, thick where the track
marks are when I roll up my sleeves. My posture holds my head below
the top of my neck, and the coat and hat are far too big for my
shrunken frame. My lips are dry, and my gaze rolls quickly past my
neck - hickies from a hooker rest there, thick and dark with
blood-colored speckles on my pale flesh. My hair is stringy, golden
red and to my shoulders, longer than it has been in years.

I look like a demon. But maybe it's what's eating me inside.

The elevator stops and I climb out on the fourth floor. I step
out, wander down the familiar hall with its blue and gold
decór, its thick carpeting.

Does Curt suffer like I do?

And here's the door. Four seventeen in perfectly neat brass
letters, on a pale blue door that hangs between two perfectly
symmetrical gold-plated lights. My pale hand reaches up, and knocks.