by Stanley Gray
He sat down. The food smelled delicious. The warm aromas of freshly baked corn chips filled the air around him. Butter and corn, and something… It reminded him of home. He ate a few bites, juices dripping down onto his chin and shirt. He looked down, realized he’d forgotten napkins, then smiled and shrugged. He could go a day without being fastidious.
Tom felt a little better, after eating something. He tried to recall if he’d eaten anything since he’d awoken. His mind wandered. He followed the meandering trail his mind led him on for several minutes, lost in the cerebral act. Blinking, he looked down at his phone. It was getting late. He still wanted to try to get one more assignment out of the way, if he could.
He focused. Or tried to. Thankfully, towards the end of his visit to the library branch on 23rd and Main, Tom had jotted a few notes in his phone. So, he wouldn’t have to make things up. That offered a small relief. He scanned the writings, forming a mental image. A story began to form. He smiled.
Tom used a finger to enter some data on his device. Then he created a few files, with beginning sentences and story arcs. A basic premise and hook came to life, and Tom felt satisfied. It wasn’t much, but he’d managed to accomplish something. It felt good. His sense of determination partially restored, he walked back out into the martinet that was a Texas summer.
Seeing a grocery store nearby, he decided to go inside. He needed a few things at home, and he figured he could swing by, drop off anything that might need refrigerated, then head back out. He could change his clothes while he was inside, too. He pondered this. Standing at the edge of the parking lot, sweat beginning to form under his arms, he wondered what he should wear to an informal art gallery. A group of painters and other artists were presenting to a small audience for a charity event in a few hours. Tom wasn’t sure how informal they meant when they said informal. Some people, he thought.
Heading inside, he felt the blast of cool air immediately. He sighed. It felt good. The aroma of baked bread wafted out and greeted his nostrils. He wanted to stand there, in the entrance, inhaling the pleasant scents and experiencing the breeze. Instead, he walked deeper into the brightly-lit store. Tom strolled around, browsing, trying to recall what it was he’d come in for. He smiled when he remembered he needed cream cheese. Bagels were one of his favorite breakfast foods. His time in Seattle had made him into a coffee snob, and he always enjoyed a good bagel with his morning cup of joe.
Grabbing a few more things before he headed towards the checkout, he saw the line and frowned. It snaked around the corner. He looked down at his watch. Did he have time? To endure the interminable line? He stood and stared. For some reason, he felt a sense of ennui creeping up on him. A seeming inability to focus, to make a decision assault his senses.
Finally, looking down into the red plastic crate he held by its two long handles, he decided he could wait. He placed the full container down on a shelf, next to some crackers with smiling cartoon animal faces adorning the brightly colored packaging, and left. He felt a little bad, about just leaving his items to be re-shelved by some overworked kid. But sometimes you just had to do it. Job security, he thought.
Getting in his car, he looked around. His hands shook as they gripped the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles blanched white. The thought, of someone following him, refused to leave his mind. The awareness of this tail haunted Tom’s consciousness now. He took several deep breaths. He felt a little better when his eyes failed to register any sign of the white van.
Switching on the radio, he listened to oldies and nodded his head to the beat. He escaped into the music. He felt himself transported to a different time. A time when the dope was good, people smiled, and life seemed an endless vista rife with possibilities.
He almost missed his turn.
He screeched to a halt, and then merged into the correct lane, so that he could turn. The light had waited to turn red, so he was able to scrape by. His blood pressure seemed to move in drastic ebbs and flows, these days. He tried to calm himself down, and focused on the Bee Gees as they played their peppy, energetic tunes. It worked.
He pulled into his driveway. The sun scowled as it fought then steady encroachments of night. The air felt cooler, though that wasn’t saying much. Tom looked around. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw that there were no white vans parked on the street. He began to idly wonder if maybe he had been imagining things all along.
Fumbling in his pockets for his keys, he finally managed to get the door unlocked on the third or fourth try. He walked inside, and made sure he locked the door behind him. He stood by the entrance for several minutes, quietly listening, trying to divine the nuances of the silence. The feeling that the sanctity of his home had somehow been violated by a foul and faceless presence nagged at him. He knew that part, at least, had not been a mere figment of his overactive imagination. Nonetheless, worrying about it didn’t do him any good.
Satisfied that no one was going to emerge from the shadows to murder him, he meandered back to the bedroom, where he rifled through the closet, muttering to himself as he tried to find something suitable to wear. At one point, he took a time-out to search the gallery’s website for any clues as to the décor that might be suitable for the event. It seemed like the small but vibrant local LGBT community was a major supporter of the Mayhew Gallery, so he took that as one hint. He found an apricot ascot, and added that to his sartorial repertoire.
Looking in the mirror, he almost laughed. An ascot. He shrugged. It didn’t look terrible. Consulting his watch, he realized that he needed to skedaddle. He rushed out, only narrowly remembering to lock the doors behind him. He smirked as he got in the car. Why even bother? Somehow, the powerful people he’d upset had ways of getting past locks and security systems.
He arrived at the small, single-story gallery precisely five minutes early. He looked in the rearview mirror a few times, adjusting his avant garde tie and making faces. Trotting inside, the evening sky a pastel painting, he joined a small group at the door. They smelled exotic, like expensive champagne and imported French perfume. They laughed and carried on. Tom enjoyed their joy. It was infectious. He found himself smiling, a genuine smile, for perhaps the first time that day.
“Tom Martinez, El Paso Gazette.” Tom said to the lithe man holding the clipboard. The young gentleman frowned. He nibbled on the edge of an expensive-looking silver pen. He motioned to someone, and a big, burly man with a manicured goatee walked over. They moved a few feet away and huddled, shielding themselves so that their conversation was muted and confidential.
Tom wasn’t sure what to do. He turned and looked behind him. A group of people, all wearing elegant clothing, stood, their gazes fixed on him.
He sensed the disapproval in their stares.
Chapter 6
Panic threatened to overtake him.
Tom stood there, sweating. His head felt damp. He reached up and patted at it, eyes on the duo discussing his fate. He wanted to flee. But a bigger part of him wanted to persevere. If only to see how this whole charade would end. It seemed like a binary proposition: either he would get in, or he wouldn’t. He resolved silently in that moment to not call his boss to ask for special permission. He didn’t want anyone’s help. He knew that they would blame him for their mistakes. But at this point, he was beyond caring.
He tensed.
The dapper man with the expensive, stylish haircut strode towards him. He met Tom’s gaze and smiled. Tom took this as a good sign.
“I’m sorry for the delay, Mr.…” the man looked down at his clipboard. “Mr. Martinez. Please, enter. We’ve made special accommodations, so you may have free drinks at the bar.”
Tom glanced down at the man’s shirt, trying to find any name tag or other identification. Failing to catch sight of any, he just smiled curtly and nodded, walking off in the direction of the bar.
Low lighting created an intimate atmosphere. Cigarette smoke hovered in a thick, acrid blue-gray cloud above the din. The paneled bar sat off to the s
ide of the main gallery. A buxom black young brunette in formal attire moved between the overweight, upscale clientele. Tom approached the bar, waiting at the edge of a small group, his eyes searching for any sign of an opening. Someone pulled their stool out, the wooden legs scraping on the gleaming tile floor, and Tom rushed forward. He barely got there before a tall man with a thin mustache.
Smiling nervously, he looked into the face of his competition. He very deliberately placed one hand on the red leather of the bar stool’s seat and positioned himself so he could more easily sit down. Then he pushed himself forward.
“Hi, sir. What can I get ya?” the bartender asked. She had a sultry voice with a thick accent that sounded like honey tasted. She seemed like the sort of woman one could slide into a conversation with. They just had to be careful not to drown. She possessed beautiful black hair that shined in the light from above the bar. Two large television screens played college football highlights overhead. Even so, Tom felt entranced by the sweet sound of the woman’s voice.
“I was told I had some sort of…special accommodation.” Tom said. He winked. He didn’t know why he did it; it just felt like the sort of thing to do. Shouldn’t it feel cool, to have expensive drinks comped for the evening? He kind of thought so. He nibbled on his lower lip and tried not to appear nervous.
“And your name is…” the woman maneuvered down the line, looking for something as she poured a draft beer from memory and slid it to a man nearby without even looking. The movements seemed so graceful and effortless. She smiled and nodded when she saw a small, spiral-bound notebook on the far end of a table set back behind the bar. She plucked it up and rifled through a few pages, already headed back in his direction. Not more than ten seconds had transpired.
“Tom. Tom Martinez.” he said. He reached up with one fist and cleared his throat. He tried to glance up at the mirrors above the bar, to see if he were blushing. His face felt hot. His mouth felt dry. He felt acutely aware that he was in the presence of a pleasant and beautiful young woman. He chided himself, even as the bartender stood there, trying to make sure he was, indeed, supposed to receive free adult beverages. She probably gets hit on a lot. he thought.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Martinez. What can I get for ya?” she asked again. She smiled, displaying perfect, even teeth.
Sinful thoughts capered about in his mind as he looked at her voluptuous lips and slender neck. Her face. It was perfect. Flawless. Tom smiled. “I’ll have a Jack and Coke, no ice, please.” he said. As she walked away, he exhaled. He hoped he’d made a wise choice. He hardly ever drank, and when he did, it usually wasn’t hard liquor. But it seemed like the sort of drink that might leave an impression. Might brand him as a masculine sort of guy.
She pushed a glass to him, making eye contact as she did so. They both smiled.
He sipped. The liquid burned as it slithered down his throat. He tried his best not to grimace, though he couldn’t be sure that he fully succeeded in hiding it. Tom felt like he had a new mission now, beyond the obvious part that included his job as a reporter. He wanted to get this woman’s number. He wanted to do all sorts of dirty things with, to, for, and around this angelic creature. It seemed like she was a perfect fit for the environment. A work of living art amongst the statues.
Tom turned and looked around. He allowed his mind to drift. He wanted to meet some new people while he was here. It seemed like the clientele skewed rich and influential, as might be expected from the setting. It never hurt to have rich and powerful friends. Tom resisted the urge to laugh out loud at that sudden revelation. He kind of wished he’d learned that years ago. Before he’d set fire to his career by investigating rich people.
Getting up, he sacrificed his seat. Someone was there before he’d even fully stood. Tom exchanged an awkward greeting with the woman who’d swooped in to take his stool, and then walked into the crowd. In the large main lobby area, there were a few large marble statues, as well as some paintings on easels. Alan walked over to them, partly because the paintings had smaller crowds around them. He examined them, trying to blend in and remain inconspicuous.
One of them caught his interest. He tilted his head to look at it from a different angle. A desert scene, the hues were bold and warm. They seemed to radiate the heat and reflect the desolate aloneness that one might expect from such a setting. But, there was something…more. Something vaguely visceral and powerful. The painting drew him in. It felt as if there were something profound being communicated directly to him, in that moment, and Alan refused to leave until he’d figured it out.
His skin tingled. He couldn’t remember ever experiencing this level of interaction and emotional engagement with any piece of art. Visual masterpieces were not his media of choice, which might be a reflection of his existence in the realm of words. Yet, here he was, in the middle of an assignment, immersed in the many nuances of an unknown local painter’s work.
Tom moved closer. He bent at the hip and squinted, peering into the scene. He wanted to travel inside of it.
What appeared to be a young woman, her face unwrinkled and unblemished, sat in a rocking chair. She might have held a baby cradled in arms, but it was hard to tell. A buzzard, or some sort of large black bird with wise and somber eyes perched on a telephone pole, its gaze directed at the feminine form barely discernible in the distance. The shadow cast by the eaves of the ramshackle wooden house covered part of the lady’s face, giving her a sort of mysterious allure. An oil derrick rose somewhere far off in the distance.
Shaken, Tom looked around. He reached out and ran a finger over the surface of the painting, feeling guilty about touching this work of art. It seemed as if his single, momentary caress could defile the solitary innocence of this being. Tom glanced furtively about, trying to divine if anyone had seen him. His heart began to gallop in his chest. He visualized himself being carted off, shouting protests, by the large man from the entryway.
But, no one saw him. Or, if they had, they didn’t care.
Tom felt vaguely disturbed by this. Did people not share the same intimate experience with this wonderful piece of captured imagery? It seemed a rank violation. He walked around behind the piece, and, he shrieked. He reached up and covered his mouth, eyes wide, and again allowed his eyes to scan the crowd. People were absorbed in their own conversations. Turning his attention back to the revelation he’d been seemingly gifted by some divine source from above, he bent down to peer closer at the price tag. The painting was on sale. Unfortunately, the price was quite high.
$1200. Tom pulled out his phone, and checked his bank account. He ignored the 7 text messages he’d received. He barely had enough. He tried to remember when he would be paid next. Something inside him tried to claw its way out. He felt the acidic juices in his stomach churning. Tom was a point in his life where he couldn’t even be sure he would have a job tomorrow, or a paycheck next week. Would it be wise, to purchase an expensive painting on a whim?
The vagaries of fate conspired against him. The only thought in his mind as he returned the slim device back to his pocket was who to sign the check to. He looked around, scanning the many pretty faces in the crowd. He felt uneasy. Almost sick. Here he was, in the presence of elegance, honesty, raw emotional power and beauty, and the phony humans around him ignored it. They were in an art gallery, and the only thing on most of the artificial corporate drones’ minds was looking good for the Joneses and racking up a few more frivolous and fraudulent billable hours.
A certain odious vulgarity attached itself to the sudden moment of clarity that Tom experienced in that moment.
“May I help you?” a male voice asked from behind Tom.
Tom startled. He turned around. Someone was standing right there, immediately in front of him. But something about the hat he wore, a dirty old thing with a bent cap, made Tom wonder if he should be seen engaging with him here. Tom looked past the emaciated young man, frowning. He wondered where the artist was.
“Did you like this piece?” the man a
sked.
Shuffling his feet, Tom looked around. He didn’t want to be rude. But, he felt an intense impulse that would not be satiated until he purchased this painting and had it safely ensconced in his vehicle. He bit his lower lip. Made eye contact with his interlocutor. “Yeah. It’s…nice.” Tom said.
Examining the man in front of him, Tom began to smile. He felt a little ashamed. He tried to avoid looking into the man’s face. Wearing the cheap hat and the frayed red skinny jeans, with a long earring dangling from one ear, the gentleman had to be the painter of this piece. And Tom had originally wanted to avoid the guy. He listened to the soft man’s voice, not hearing his words.
“So, you from around here?” the painter asked.
Tom blinked. He licked his lips, then blushed. He shouldn’t be doing that, not here, in this context, with this man. He shifted his weight and looked up at the ceiling. Over the balustrade at the mezzanine level, people hung on the polished wooden railing and talked gaily, not a care in the world.
“I just moved here, actually. I’m from…” Tom wasn’t sure what to say next. Where was he from? Seattle? Denver? Feeling slightly buzzed and also taken aback by the volatile and fluid life he found himself catapulted into, Tom forced himself to take a few deep breaths. He felt keenly aware of the other man’s intent gaze as it traveled the length of his body. Tom didn’t like it. It seemed sort of creepy. But, at the same time, if this man were the creator of this beautiful artwork, he didn’t want to risk offending him.