by Annie Jocoby
I looked back at Luke, who was blushing eight shades of scarlet. I cocked my head at him. “You did that?” I asked, gesturing to the painting on the wall.
He shrugged and turned almost purple. “It’s not very good, I know. I mean, it’s nothing like yours.”
I sucked my drink down with my straw, and watched him from my side-eye. His work really was magnificent. Raw, with perfect technique and really captured the essence of how I saw the city myself. I found myself feeling profoundly impressed, yet a little bit envious. “It’s gorgeous,” I said. “But how do you know about my work?”
“I Googled you, of course. I mean, you didn’t say as much, but I figured that you were an art student or something. Needless to say, I found your images on-line. They were beyond words. You have a talent that far surpasses mine or anybody else I know. My stuff looks positively banal next to yours.”
“I think that you don’t have a sense of your own talent,” I said. “And, for the record, I don’t paint anymore. I’m guessing you figured that out for yourself, though, considering none of those paintings were created within the last nine years.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I also found the review by that son of a bitch Jacobs, too. Where the hell does he get off spouting off that obviously biased bullshit? I have no idea whose work he thought he was critiquing, but ‘stale, derivative and lifeless’ would be the last three words that I would ever use to describe your work.”
I felt myself retreating at just the mention of that man’s name. “Let’s not talk about that, okay?” I said. “I want to enjoy my lunch.”
“Oh, sure,” he said, obviously feeling embarrassed about his display of pique over my devastating review. “Sorry about that. I just got so worked up last night when I was reading it. But won’t bring it up again.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, as I finished off the burger and fries, dragging the fries around the ketchup on the plate. I felt bad for shutting down the conversation about my work, but it was still such a touchy subject with me. I did, however, want to find out more about Luke. His talent was phenomenal, much more than he would ever admit or perhaps even see.
So, I made a mental note to myself to try to do some Googling of my own that evening.
Perhaps I finally found something more interesting than getting schnockered.
Chapter Twelve
Luke
That same night, after I took Dalilah out to my little hole in the wall that had the best damned food in the Queens borough, or presumably did, I went home and tried to stay out of trouble. I could feel myself becoming ashamed about the badges of my working-class background when I was around Dalilah. Somehow, Joey just couldn’t resist embarrassing me, no matter how classy the girl was who I was with, which was why he had made a point about my betting on the horses. But Dalilah didn’t need to know about the little gambling I did. Not that it was a big deal. It was just a few horse races here and there, and a weekly poker game with the guys. I never lost more than $100 at a time, mainly because I just couldn’t afford to do so. Besides, my horse race bets were pretty sound, as I always, always did my homework on the ponies. That way my losses were minimized.
Even so, I somehow didn’t want her to know that I ever gambled at all. I had no idea why that was so embarrassing for me, except maybe to think that Dalilah was so rarefied that she would never deign to be with a working-class guy like myself. And I was trying hard to present myself as somebody who was more in her league. As fruitless as that was.
It didn’t help that I had Googled the girl and spent most of the previous evening reading about her and her life. She was fucking famous when she was a child. She was a prodigy that had been featured in just about every art magazine there was, and there was even an article about her in Time magazine. She was referred to as the “Mozart of the art world,” because she had such a sophisticated aesthetic at such a young age.
My intimidation about her grew as I studied her work online. She was goddamned amazing. She had dabbled in many different genres, from surrealism to impressionism, while her portraits were perfect examples of realism. They were almost hyper-realistic, for her details were so painstaking that it was difficult to tell her portraits apart from actual photographs. Yet she had a knack for bringing out the emotions behind the subject’s eyes. I could almost read the thoughts of the people that she painted, for she was that talented in portraying their essence.
But it was her work in urban expressionism that really drew me in. She evidently was gravitating towards that genre when she quit, as this was the genre that was represented in her major showings that she garnered when she was just 11 years old. It was amazing to me how clear-eyed she was in viewing the world, considering her tender age, and how she was able to portray it through her use of color, light and form. I could easily read what she was trying to say, and that was that the world was screwed-up, and she used her work to express how she felt about such issues as poverty, racism, alienation, animal rights, and environmental ethics. As abstract as her message was, I got it. I got her. Her art told me everything that I needed to know about her, and that was that she was an extremely gifted, intelligent and sensitive soul.
Which was why I felt like tearing Jacobs a new asshole when I read his scathing review of her showing at the Luhring. I was livid, reading what he had to say about her. I couldn’t understand, at all, why this art critic would publish something that was obviously so biased. Anybody with half a brain could understand that Dalilah was a rare talent. Anybody. Yet this asshole acted as if she was some kind of second-rate hack.
Then I read more about Jacobs, and it all became clear. He apparently has a daughter who was a struggling artist. She was around 20 years old when Dalilah was getting her major showings. His daughter was also trying to get recognition in the genre of urban expressionism. It seemed to me to be a classic case of tearing down the competition. As unprofessional as that was for an art critic to do that, it seemed to be the only logical explanation. I could just imagine how an 11 year old would feel, seeing her work torn like that in such a savage and scathing manner. No wonder she quit. She had the talent of somebody twice her age, but the maturity level of a child.
I only hoped that she could overcome her mental blocks and start painting again. The world needed someone like her, and for her to be cowering in the background, when she clearly should be front and center and creating a major name for herself in the art world, would be absolutely a tragedy and a waste. It would be as if Basquiat had quit before he was able to compose the masterpieces that he did. It was tragic enough that Basquiat died at the age of 27, the same age as so many other great artists and singers, but if he had quit art at the age of 11, that would have been an even worse tragedy.
So, Dalilah was an enigma. A fascinating, beautiful enigma. Who also came from an extraordinarily wealthy family. I found that out as well in my Googling. Which was part of the reason why I was feeling the need to hide my own working-class background. As silly as it sounded to try to cover up who I was, as she was going to find out, sooner or later, I still felt the need to try to make her think that I was at least somewhat her equal. If only so that she could trust me to do a good job with her portrait.
I tried to put it out of my mind that she and I could ever be something more. As much as I was drawn to her, I just couldn’t see something like that ever happening. So, I had made up my mind that it was not something that I would ever try to pursue.
Just then, my phone started ringing. It was Jake, who was my best buddy. He and I often hung out, and he was a part of my weekly poker game as well. Sometimes he was my baking buddy, and other times we would just get together and listen to music and shoot the shit. At that moment, he had been involved with a rather stunning restaurant hostess, and they had been hot and heavy. So, I hadn’t actually seen him in quite awhile.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Dude,” he said. “I just got dumped.”
“Crap. When?”
“Sure.” Why not? I wasn’t working that evening, and my latest work in progress, which was a surrealistic view of Times Square, wasn’t exactly going swimmingly. Maybe it was time for a little brew and commiseration.
“Meet you at the b-ball court,” he said.
“On my way.”
So, I got on my jacket and shorts, got my battered basketball out of my closet, and headed down to the court that we always played in. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a game going on there already, so that Jake and I might actually be able to get a game going. I was a decent player, and Jake was excellent, so I usually looked forward to these matches. I always wanted somebody to push me, so that I could become better, even when it came to something as ultimately inconsequential to my life as basketball.
A short bus ride later, and I was on the court with Jake. He looked like he wasn’t having that great of day. His hair, which was normally a nicely combed dark wavy brown, was going in every direction. He had bags under his eyes, and he looked like he hadn’t slept for quite awhile.
He said that he was just dumped, but, from the looks of it, it seemed as if it had been coming for a long time.
The yard was deserted, as it was still in the middle of the day, so he saw me and nodded, and I tossed the ball in the air. Both of us leaped up to gain control of the ball, with Jake getting the ball and he immediately started dribbling down the court.
For the next half hour or so, we played a rough and tumble game. I was better at defense than he was, and he was clearly better at shooting. As I was only marginally better on defense than him, he usually was able to school me on the court. But he didn’t on that day. I was getting into better shape all the time, as I had taken up running and lifting weights, so I was able to keep up with him, shot for shot.
We finally quit the game to take a break, with him leading me by a basket. We sat down and got a drink of water, both of us out of breath and sweating. Jake playfully shook his head, the sweat beads flying through the air and landing on my shirt.
“Gross, dude,” I said, and then tried to do the same to him, but not quite managing it. My hair was just too short for that, I guess, although I certainly didn’t have a buzz cut. If anything, I think that I was overdue for a haircut.
He tossed the ball at me, and we got up another game. He started a conversation while we played. “So,” he said, while he dribbled the ball as I tried to get it away from him. “Belinda called me today to tell me that things just weren’t working out. For whatever reason. I don’t know, bro, I thought things were going okay. Not sure what I was missing.”
“Sometimes it happens that way,” I said. I, of all my buddies, was often the one who was called upon to size up romantic issues, simply because I was known as the ‘sensitive’ one of the bunch. In other words, I understood women much better than did any of them, which wasn’t saying a whole lot. “Women put out a lot of non-verbal cues. We just have to get better at picking up on them.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Like what?”
“I don’t know what,” I said. “It’s like porn. I know ‘em when I see ‘em.” I was paraphrasing Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, in a pornography case, where he wrote that famous line regarding how to tell if something is pornographic. I thought the same thing about the intangibles like the non-verbal cues that women give off when they’re ready to jump. I was never wrong about it, either. I was always astounded that my buddies couldn’t pick up on the same things, though. What was always obvious to me, somehow never was to them.
“Shit, dude, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
As I dribbled the ball, I thought of an example. “Okay,” I said. “Remember that one girl that you hit up at the bar about a month ago or so. Right before you met Belinda?”
“Narrow it down, bro, I hit up a lot of girls in the bar.” There was a bar that Jake and I went to that never carded anybody, and was constantly getting shut down because of it. But that place made so much money out of serving minors, it was well worth it to have to be shut down once in awhile.
“Okay,” I said. “Actually, this is something that happens all the time. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a good-looking guy, but sometimes you get all up on some woman who clearly doesn’t want nothing to do with you.”
He shot me a dirty look, and I shrugged. “It happens,” I said. “Anyhow, I distinctly remember this one girl. You were talking to her, hanging on her, and she was all talking to her girlfriends while you were trying to get her attention. I think that you were clueless that she wasn’t picking up what you were throwing down.”
He looked mystified. Granted, he was kind of a stud, really. He got a lot of women, most of them pretty smoking, so pointing out his rather rare mis-fires probably was a blow to his ego.
Finally he shrugged. “Eh, she probably already had a boyfriend.”
“I’m sure that she did,” I said. I ran down the court, and dunked the ball, and then chased Jake down the court while he dribbled and he finally shot a basket from half-court, making it through the hoop cleanly.
“Nothing but net, my brother,” he said, putting his hand down as I slapped it. “Let’s go get a brew and shoot some pool.”
We both changed in the bathroom, and headed down to our bar in his beater hoopdie Corolla. “When are you going to get some wheels?” he asked me in the car.
I thought about it, realizing that, with Nottingham’s money, getting a car might be a distinct possibility. Of course, I hadn’t actually seen dime one from Nottingham, so the car would just have to wait. Unless I wanted an absolute hoopdie that constantly had to be worked on, which Jake did, in his own driveway, just about every week. Personally, I had better things to do with my time than mess around with a car that was constantly on its last gasp, as was Jake’s Corolla, which was nicknamed Brown Betty.
“Fuck that, man,” I said. “You know I’m looking to move to the city soon. No use getting a car now.”
Jake started laughing. “You’ve been talking about moving to the city ever since I’ve known you. Unless you suddenly got some kind of sugar momma, I don’t see that move happening, my brother.”
I bristled at the words sugar momma. “The only momma I’ve been getting with is your momma. Last night, in fact.”
“Ha ha ha,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Seriously, man, you gotta hustle your shit more. You’re really good. I’m just busting ya when I tease you about not being able to move to the city. You gotta cash in that lotto ticket you were born with, sooner or later.”
I shook my head. Heard it all before. Truth be told, before Nottingham, nobody even really noticed me. It was tough standing out amongst all the wickedly talented artists who were in this city.
We ordered our beers, and Jake looked around the bar. He caught the eye of a willowy blonde who was there with three of her girlfriends, and excused himself to go over and talk to her.
He certainly did work fast.
I looked at my phone, feeling bored and wanting to bolt. Which I would, if Jake ended up with blondie. I casually texted Dalilah, not really sure exactly why I was doing so. She just seemed to creep into my thoughts, just when I wasn’t expecting it. It wasn’t even her beauty or her talent or her obvious intelligence. It was something else, something that was as intangible as the non-verbal cues that I was discussing with Jake on the b-ball court.
“Hey there, Dalilah,” I said, almost as a joke, as I knew that I was ripping off the ubiquitous song from many years ago.
She texted me back immediately, an emoticon smile. “Oh, what you do to me,” she wrote, obviously continuing the joke. “How are you tonight, Luke?”
“Awesome,” I texted. “What’s up your way?”
“Doing some Googling,” she texted back. “Found your website.”
I felt a little bit embarrassed, although I really didn’t know why. There was something about Dalilah seeing all of my work that made me feel vaguely uncomfortable
, as if she would see it and find it wanting somehow. “Oh, yeah? Bet you couldn’t tell my work apart from Matisse, huh?”
Another emoticon smile. “I’m actually VERY impressed,” she texted. “Your use of color and light is very reminiscent of Michael Flohr,” she texted, referring to the modern impressionist whose work I really did admire. “But you aren’t derivative, either. Your style is certainly unique.”
I smiled, hoping that she wasn’t blowing smoke up my ass. “Well, it’s nothing compared to yours,” I texted.
She sent a frowny face emoticon to that. “No, much better.”
I was just about to send her another text, when she sent another one of her own. “Would you like to come over and watch a movie?” she texted.
I was somewhat startled, as I wasn’t expecting that. I rapidly texted “what time?”
“As early as you can get here.”
I glanced over at Jake, who was engrossed in conversation with blondie, and probably wouldn’t ever notice that I had high-tailed it out of there. “Be there in an hour,” I texted, regretting telling her that somewhat, as I knew that I had to shower before getting on the subway and the bus to get to where she was in SoHo. “What’s your addy?” I texted, realizing that I had no idea where she lived, except that it was in SoHo somewhere.
She texted it, and then wrote “I’ll order Chinese delivery. What’s your poison?”
“Anything moo shoo,” I texted. “But I’m easy when it comes to Chinese. Surprise me.”
“Will do.”
I put my phone away with a smile, looking way forward to that evening, much more so than I had ever looked forward to anything else prior to that. There was something about this girl….
I went over to Jake, who was now draped over blondie, who didn’t seem to mind one bit. “Cutting out,” I said to him. “Catch you later, huh?”
“Yeah, later,” he said.