The Medium of Desire

by Alex McGlothlin

  Brett stopped in front of an out-of-the-way row house on Allen Street.

  “This is my place,” he said.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Thanks. I just wanted you to know where I lived. Since we’re here, do you want to come up? Or need to get back?”

  He was forward, but she liked it. She liked knowing he liked her. She hadn’t gotten an offer like this in a while. She actually couldn’t remember the last time a guy asked her upstairs. She studied him, his hair all swept back, his tattooed biceps, a few days’ stubble speckling his cheeks. She was surprised how badly she wanted to go up there and let it happen, but that was poor form. If he wanted her to come upstairs, first he was going to have to struggle.

  Brett hung in suspense for her answer. He hadn’t asked a girl up to his place in months. Maybe he was being too forward. Damn it, he hoped he hadn’t spoiled a good thing.

  “I want to,” Olivia said. “But I really need to get back. It sounds juvenile, but my mom’s expecting me.”

  “I understand,” he said, peddling towards the studio.

  Back at the studio, Olivia returned the bike to its original spot, and Brett walked her to the door. Had he blown it? He almost tripped over himself trying to open the door for her. When he slid it open, she turned and kissed him once.

  “Let’s do this again soon,” Brett said.

  “How about tomorrow at five?” Olivia replied.

  Brett couldn’t say yes fast enough. He watched her walk down the street, climb into her car and motor away. When she was gone, he went back into his studio and set a five-foot wide canvas across an easel, and set to mixing his paints. He saw her in his mind perfectly, her eyes on fire and her jawbone strong, body slender, a living, breathing testament to the ancient Greek romantic human form, her physical beauty only eclipsed by her character. Brett painted without pause, working through cramps, capturing the lines of Olivia’s image as meticulously as possible, depicting her pedaling that matte red Specialized bicycle, her blonde hair blowing horizontal and reflecting light like bolts of lightning, the tires spinning in an unbroken series of downward Vs, sunlight punching through the thick tree canopies. Her muscles tensed as to suggest she were in a hurry, her anxiety mitigated by a complete and thorough lack of design. In transit, he captured in her a glimpse of what it was to live.

  He painted her as she was and as he felt, without a need to prepare, without the need to stop and reconsider the object of his desire. He painted until he captured his feelings for her on the day of their first kiss, and he only washed his brush when he had captured it perfectly. Finished, he stood back to admire his work. Fleeting beauty. He translated that into French. Beauté de Vélo.

  Chapter 13

  Theodore McPherson’s office was a stately, two-story brick building, with understated but well-manicured landscaping. The majority of the building housed a psychiatric group.

  Brett and Paco entered into what one might have anticipated would be a receptionist’s area, but was actually more of an anterior room. There was no sliding glass window housing a gatekeeper with a sign-in sheet, no attended desk, no dated and worn magazines spread across a coffee table. A faint bell rang when they had opened the door, and Theodore McPherson, Esq. appeared without further prompt.

  McPherson was approximately 6’2” and broad shouldered with a rigidity normally associated with military disciplining, but his jaw hung loose and his left hand was casually tucked into the pocket of his light summer cardigan.

  They introduced themselves.

  Theodore led them into his office, a relatively large room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which were only punctured by two large windows. A medieval knight’s suit of armor was in one corner of the room, and a samurai’s shoulder pads, helmet and sword in an opposite corner. There were pictures of him in remote locations, such as in tiny boats in overgrown forests, and another of him riding a camel amongst a landscape of sand dunes. There must have been 3,000 books in the office.

  McPherson sat, legs crossed in a tall arch, comfortably reclined in his chair. Contrary to how he’d felt about sitting in lawyer’s offices in the past, Brett was relieved to be in Theodore’s office. If you’d polled him an hour ago, he would have reported low confidence Paco would keep the meeting. Brett had practically dragged him here, and had given Paco at least two pep talks. Given that he’d driven Paco this far, and that Theodore was a pro, Brett felt growing reassurance today’s meeting would take them to the next stage.

  “Shall we begin? Mateo tells me that you’re in the market to open a business.”

  “That’s right. I’d like to open a food cart, and I’ve been hearing I need to get a bunch of licenses, permits, insurance, all kinds of stuff. Is this the kind of stuff you can help me with? You start businesses often? Are you familiar with the types of licenses I need to start a food cart? What happens if I don’t get a license I need before I start operating? What happens if one of them expires before I get it renewed? I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “I’ve got good news for you,” McPherson interjected when Paco finally stopped to take a breath. “You’re not going to go to jail. And yes, I’ve assisted many clients in starting businesses, obtaining licenses, and the like. I can handle all of that, and it should otherwise be considered immaterial to you.”

  “If you’re taking care of all that, what should I be worried about?”

  “You shouldn’t be worried about anything. There is one question I ask my clients, however.”

  “What’s that?” Paco asked.

  “Is this business something you’re passionate about?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “Good. The reason I ask is because lots of people have good ideas, but the period of time between when you start and when you find your success can feel a lot like failure.”

  “I’m thinking about doing a kebob stand. What do you think about

  a kebob stand?”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  “It’s definitely what I want to do, but you don’t think I should do like chicken and waffles? Or sandwiches or something?”

  “Do you want to make sandwiches?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Why kebobs?”

  “I’m from Brazil, and back home they have kebob stands on every corner. I grew up eating kebobs. Before I moved to the U.S., when I was nine, I used to help my cousin with his kebob stand.”

  McPherson smiled reassuringly.

  “I think you should do kebobs.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Paco said. He looked to Brett, who nodded supportively. “So how long do you think it’ll take to get all the licenses and what not together, Mr. McPherson?”

  “I’ll need to get some information from you,” McPherson said. He turned to his computer, clicked his mouse a few times and his printer started shooting out forms.

  Brett’s phone buzzed. He slid it out of his pocket, holding it inconspicuously at waist level. The text was from his sister Belinda.

  “Yo bro. I’m leaving Charlotte in five minutes to head to Richmond for the day. You around?”

  “When will you be in?” Brett texted.

  “In an hour.”

  “Stay put. Pick you up shortly,” Brett texted.

  “Paco, I gotta jump,” Brett said.

  “What? What about this meeting?” Paco asked, waving his arms towards McPherson. “You can’t go anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I quit my job to come to this meeting. What happened to all that pep talk? About all that how I owe you and not being a pussy?” Paco demanded, clinching the arm rest, butt slightly lifted out of the seat.

  “I still mean it. I just, my sister’s never in town.”

  “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

  “You guys got this under control?” Brett asked. “We be good to start selling kebobs in the next few days?”

  “Definitely,” McPherson said. “We just have to iron out some details.”<
br />
  “There you go,” Brett said, slapping Paco hard on the chest until he yelled stop. “I’ll catch you later.”

  “You better not leave,” Paco’s voice trailed after Brett.

  “Nice to meet you, McPherson,” Brett said over his shoulder, as he walked out the door.

  Chapter 14

  Brett rolled up in an Uber to the arrivals gate at Richmond International Airport. He immediately spotted his sister, discordantly wearing a hijab and a revealing white tank top, gold bracelets climbing the lengths of her arms. Next to her sat the smallest roller-bag on the market, not much larger than a laptop carrying case. All her possessions fit in that tiny suitcase, which he respected her for but it also made him a bit sad. When his car stopped, Brett leapt from the car and picked her off the ground before she saw him coming. She squealed.

  “Brett, you’re going to make me drop my phone,” Belinda said.

  But Brett didn’t let go, he squeezed her and shook her up and down, like a parent frenetically performing the Heimlich on a child on the verge of choking.

  “Brett!”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, putting her on the ground, crouching to look at her eye level. “Welcome home! This is a surprise.”

  “Eee!” Belinda belted, smiling with her eyes shut.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Do you have time to hang out? Are you busy? I didn’t give you a heads up.”

  “I’ve got an art lesson at five, but I’m yours until then.”

  “An art lesson? When did you start teaching? I thought you eschewed all that workaday, real-world nonsense,” she said and waved her hand to suggest the airport and the muscle of capitalism it symbolized.

  “It’s not to make ends meet. Well, sort of, but not exactly.”

  “It’s for a girl, isn’t it? You’re exploiting your talent to get laid.”

  “Not at all,” Brett said with a mischievous grin, though he had fewer qualms exploiting his teacher-student relationship than he had before, so long as it made everyone involved all the happier. “I’m just sharing my knowledge.”

  “You’re going to tell me more about this girl,” Belinda said, as she pushed Brett into the Uber.

  They stopped at Brett’s apartment first, where Belinda changed into a black and white striped bathing suit, and then they shuttled to the studio to get the bikes.

  “Wow, this place is legit,” Belinda said, running into the depths of the space and stretching her arms out into the great expanse. “I see how you can get inspired somewhere like this. It’s your space, you know? It’s like, there’s just so much raw, creativity here. I feel like I’m standing in your mind.”

  “You haven’t been here before? I thought you came by the last time

  you were in?”

  “No, you were still working from your apartment. I recall you talking about a studio, but I was imagining a room, not a freaking 747 hanger.”

  “Yeah, well it came pretty cheap unfinished. I may not be able to hold onto it forever if the developer gets an offer, but that’s the way with everything.”

  Belinda’s attention fell on Olivia’s painting of the apple, which had rested on its easel undisturbed since she’d made it. “I like this. I see your style in it, but you didn’t paint it. So are you going to tell me who the girl is? Is it the same Teresa girl?”

  No, it wasn’t the same Teresa girl. He normally would have had some thought like, it was uncanny how people had the ability to bring up the one sore subject in his life, but he was pleasantly surprised that the mention of Teresa didn’t bother him. Painful thoughts of Teresa channeled straight into warm feelings for Olivia, which was awesome.

  “My student painted that,” Brett said.

  “I know you’re not telling me the whole story,” Belinda said.

  “We hooked up, but let’s catch up before we get all deep in my love life.”

  “Isn’t swapping secrets the essence of catching up?” Belinda asked.

  Brett saddled his bike and opened the garage door.

  “Come on before I leave you behind.”

  Brett and Belinda lay out on a giant rock inches from the gushing James River, sipping beers they had bought on the way to Belle Isle.

  “So how long were you in Lithuania? Are the girls there as pretty as they say?” Brett asked.

  “Lithuania was gorgeous, but the people were a little sensitive.”

  “Why? What do you mean??”

  “Nevermind.”

  “No. What happened?”

  Belinda waved her hand like don’t worry about it, but Brett insisted.

  “Okay, okay. Alright? So I was at this Euro league basketball game, Germany versus Lithuania. I was cheering for Germany, of course, because I’m based out of Germany. I don’t know anything about Lithuania, other than it’s a former Soviet-satellite state, giant power stacks everywhere, nukes probably hidden underneath playgrounds. The women are beautiful. But anyway, I had a little too much to drink at the game, everyone did. Germany won on a buzzer beater, and I was out on the street after the game. All the Lithuanian’s were on the street sulking, and I made an off-color remark to one of them. I couldn’t resist. The guy waved it off at first, but a few minutes later, there were these screams. I look over, and there’s this girl almost identical to me being accosted by the guy and his friends. It only took a second before the fuse went off, and boom! German and Lithuanian fans trading blows in the streets. Riot police came in. Then I got arrested.”

  “When the hell did this happen? Why didn’t I hear anything about it?” Brett asked.

  “Um, because I studiously avoided telling you. I was all paranoid the airline had bugged my phone, and I didn’t want them to know. I mean, the Lithuanian officials were chill once everything cooled off. They let me go with a warning: don’t come back to Lithuania for two years.”

  “You’re banned from Lithuania for two years!”

  “It’s not really a ban, more of a soft warning. I mean who the fuck goes to Lithuania anyway? Unfortunately, my airline goes to Lithuania, and they try to put me on flights there occasionally, so I’ve spent the last few months dodging those assignments, bribing co-workers to switch routes every time they come up.”

  “Geezus. I had no idea you were such a badass,” Brett said.

  “Badass. I like that a lot better than dumbass,” Belinda said, sipping her beer.

  “What’s been going on with your work?”

  “Things have been steady the last couple of months. I’ve been producing a lot, and Salina’s selling my stuff consistently.”

  “You producing, her selling. Sounds like a good fit.”

  “It is, but . . .”

  Brett wanted to tell Belinda about the Pinstead appointment. He wanted to present the opportunity in neutral terms to garner her unbiased opinion, but could she ever offer unbiased advice? Truthfully, he wanted the meeting, he wanted the rewards, but he also wanted someone’s encouragement to blame if the situation went sideways. It wasn’t fair to saddle his sister with that responsibility.

  “Hello. Did you just get lost? What the hell?” Belinda asked, waving her hand in front of Brett’s blank stare.

  “Salina got me an interview with this big-time art critic, which I’m really excited about and have total confidence in, but he’s known to give reviews that destroy careers.”

  “That won’t happen to you,” Belinda said, nonchalantly dismissing the possibility of such a misfortune as preposterous. “You’ve always been lucky as hell.”

  “I was hoping you’d make an argument based on my talent or drive, but I guess I’ll take lucky.”

  A teenager swam out into the river, dangerously close to the suck of a gnarly white water rapid. He maneuvered for a rock in the middle of the river, but swimming towards the suck of the rapid was too much for his undeveloped freestyle stroke, and the river sucked him into the blackness of the subterranean vortex. Brett leapt to his feet. Others watched. The kid bobbed to the surface of
the whitewater, flailing his arms over his head, before being sucked back into another washing-machine rapid, disappearing underneath white foamy bubbles.

  Bystanders watched in paralyzed terror.

  “Are you going to do something?” Belinda asked.

  “Like what?” Brett asked, frantically. “Get myself killed?” His heart ached. Had he really just watched him drown? Did anyone call 911? No way a dive team could get there quick enough to save the kid’s life. They’d be lucky just to recover the body. Brett struggled to breathe. The entire crowd of mid-day revelers fell silent, suffocating on the spectacle of watching a life taken before their eyes.

  A teenager ran along the length of the river, yelling inaudibly, presumably calling for Eddie. The drowning kid’s name was Eddie. It was sadder than Brett could bear.

  The friend ran into the water, just beyond the rapid’s danger zone, slapping the surface as if he expected his friend to respond from below.

  Just as despair set in, the victim’s hand emerged from the depths, and his friend grabbed him, pulling the kid’s bruised and bloodied body onto the rocks. Had Eddie’s friend as much as flinched, the brief window to rescue would have been severed forever: Eddie could not have survived the next series of punishing rapids. Brett got chill bumps. The crowd had just witnessed a small miracle.

  Brett and Belinda remained at the scene until the EMT arrived, when the crowds dissipated to permit the professionals the space they needed. Brett and Belinda gathered their things and biked silently back to the studio. Belinda was beaded with sweat by the time they got back. She pulled off her t-shirt and browsed around Brett’s studio, handling objects of interest, perhaps trying to find a cooler spot. She froze when she saw the portrait Brett had painted of Olivia. For some reason when he realized she’d discovered it, he was overcome with shyness, maybe even embarrassment, despite having exhibited dozens, if not hundreds, of paintings. He had exposed something of himself on that canvas that he wasn’t ready to show, even to his sister.