by P. J. Day
Chapter Three:
A Night on the Mount
“Keelen, you’re late again,” said Carol, the paunchy, graying store manager who had finagled herself into the only position within the store that paid a living wage. Carol was childless, husband-less, and was always the first one to arrive early and leave late because she lived in the apartment above the gallery.
“I’m real sorry, Carol. It’s just that my ride...”
“...this is getting old,” chided Carol. She grabbed Keelen by the arm and led her to a corner of the store. “You need to start taking this job seriously. I know you’re out there trying to make it, but I have on my desk right now over fifty job applications of kids trying to make it. Some of them are probably just as good or better actors than you—ones who could probably sell sin to Jesus himself.”
“I understand...”
“...this isn’t the first time you said you understood. We’ll talk after Mr. Click’s visit.”
Keelen’s eyes widened. “What? He’s coming to the store? My hair...I need to do my hair...is my hair a mess?”
“There’s no time. It looks fine. He’s in the parking lot right now and is going to enter the store any second,” Carol said quickly. She turned her attention to the other employees who were all loafing behind the cash register. “Marlon, your shirt…tuck it in. Lindsey, the lighting on that one isn’t quite right,” she said, pointing to Click’s A Night on the Mount: the large centerpiece that was meant to attract passersby. The photo had been taken on the peak of Mount San Antonio at night—the giant monolith that peaked out of the San Gabriel Mountains, and which was the ever-present prop for the city’s greatest magic trick whenever it disappeared behind the brown haze on those hot sweltering days the city was known for. The stars in the night sky were captured with a masterful time exposure, making it seem as if the mountain was showered with meteorites.
Thomas Click’s emergence had come out of nowhere. He had begun his career as a humble photographer for Christian missionaries in Africa and ended up becoming an overnight cottage industry. He’d developed unique lighting techniques that he honed and mastered photographing Victoria Falls throughout the days and seasons. His portfolio eventually attracted the burgeoning bourgeois tastes of suburban wives across the country, and the scorn of those in the art community, who felt that the mass production of his works was both tacky and soulless.
The squeak the backdoor made at the back entrance was unmistakable. It sounded like a cross between a dying mouse and the melodic pangs of a banshee.
Thomas entered with his assistant in tow; he was an impish man with a bulbous nose, and his weight pulled his enormous head down to the iPad he held with his chunky hands.
All eyes alighted on Thomas whenever he’d walk into a room; his smile transmitted confidence and his pencil-thin moustache exuded gentlemanly charm.
His eyebrows arched in enthusiasm when he laid eyes on Carol’s tight ship. “Carol, your gallery is like finding a peach stand in the middle of a hot, desolate Alabama road.”
Carol stepped forward and gave Thomas a hug. Thomas, without hesitation, returned the pleasant embrace.
Trent, the stout assistant, nudged Thomas on his side.
“Yes...yes...yes,” said Thomas, reminding himself. He turned to the employees who were lined up against the lone empty wall in the gallery.
As he gazed at each employee one by one, his large black pupils kindled at the sight of Keelen, whose fortuitous symmetry stood in stark contrast to the mundane faces of the other workers. “Who are you?” asked Thomas in his cheeky twang.
“This is Keelen Grant,” said Carol. “She’s been with us since December.”
“You should be in commercials,” complimented Thomas, whose breath smelled like a combination of licorice and Dimetapp cough syrup.
Keelen blushed and turned her head downward.
“She’s also an aspiring actress,” said Carol.
“Really? Do you have an agent?” asked Thomas.
“Yes...yes, I do.”
“You know what? I’m gonna want to talk to you in a bit.”
Keelen stammered at Thomas’s enthusiasm, “Th...thank you.”
Lindsey, who stood next to Keelen, smirked and rolled her eyes.
Carol pulled Thomas to the side and whispered something in his ear. He nodded. Keelen felt self-conscious, as Carol had most likely informed the dapper artist about her constant tardiness. After a few moments, Thomas broke away from Carol and began his speech. “Now,” he said, punching the sky with the snap of his short arm. “For the real reason why I drove all the way from my ranch to come see ya’ll…”
The employees smiled. Keelen eyed Carol, whose face seemed to be stuck in perpetual smugness.
“Not only is this, by far, the highest-grossing store in the entire western region. Out of every store in the country, you’ve sold the most units of A Night on the Mount. Because of your commitment to excellence and your dedication as exemplary employees, ya’ll are receiving a raise of twenty-five cents.”
The employees all looked at each other, paused, and let out half-hearted applause.
“That’s right, ya’ll earned it. Feel proud. Remember, the more we get my work into all the homes across the land, the quicker I’ll gauge and observe the true artistic and emotional tastes of our clients.”
Thomas shook the hands of each employee and worked his way down to Keelen, whose hand he shook the longest. “Keelen Grant, wonderful opportunities await. Can I meet with you in the office?”
Keelen choked up. An ominous tingling ran down her spine. She tilted her head back and sighed, releasing the sudden tightness in her throat. Thomas disappeared through the doorway behind the counter. Carol smiled at Keelen, curling her lips with an air of superiority.
“Don’t mess this up,” she said. “He never does this with any of his employees.”
Somewhat perplexed Keelen raised an eyebrow at Carol and followed Thomas into the office. She looked back at her coworkers. They all stared down at the assistant’s tablet computer, but Lindsey flashed a look of slight contempt.
Thomas sat behind the manager’s simple, gray desk when Keelen walked into the office.
“Have a seat, Ms. Grant,” motioned Thomas. “Oh, and please, close the door.”
Keelen sheepishly did what she was told to do and sat down on the only other chair.
“How you like working here?” asked Thomas, in a calm Southern affability.
Keelen didn’t find her position in the gallery as a burgeoning career, but it paid the bills. “I like it here a lot. Your work inspires me every day,” she said, feigning excitement.
“Good. Which one of my works inspires you the most?”
Keelen paused. “I’d say Velvet on the Savannah. The colors and lighting on that particular piece would humble even the most envious guest.”
“Good marketing pitch.” Thomas chuckled. “Did Carol teach you that line?”
Keelen squirmed in her seat. “I’m not gonna lie, but yeah, she did.”
“So, how much acting work have you gotten in this town?”
“Not much.”
“Tough, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” she said, with a light snort.
“Carol tells me you’re always late,” Thomas said, while crossing his arms. “That’s unfortunate.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Click, it’s just...”
“...it’s okay,” he said. “I know what it takes to get ahead in this world. I know the sacrifices one must make in order to create something extraordinary. I remember struggling, but I made the most of my opportunities by snatching them when they were given to me. Now, I just wander from place to place, and wait patiently, for the right opportunity. Which, for some unforeseen reason, always seems to work in my favor in the end.”
Keelen matched Thomas’s enthusiasm by slapping her lap. “You’re absolutely right. I know what it takes to make it. I’ll work hard until that day comes, and I promise to b
e on time from now on.”
Thomas reclined back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head. The businesslike demeanor on his face morphed into a casual one with specious eyelids.
“So, tell me, Ms. Grant. Just like most of the girls in this town, are you a risk taker?” Thomas then unbuttoned the top button right below his collar. “Are you a little wild?”
Keelen’s face crinkled up like cellophane. “Excuse me?”
“Are you an open-minded girl, one who would try something a little out of their comfort zone, perhaps?”
Her brows curled further at his suggestive questioning. She found his behavior surprising and odd. Every day, she’d walk into the gallery and would see the portrait of Mr. Click and his family sitting on a pristine lawn, with his beautiful, fashion catalog children and his smiling, modelesque wife, with “Matthew 4:1” written at the base of the portrait’s border.
“Are you suggesting that I...?”
Thomas quickly changed his tone. “No, let me rephrase what I was saying. I didn’t mean to come off as some sort of old perv.”
“I’m not that naive, Mr. Click.”
“Now, now, Ms. Grant. I was just seeing if you wanted to join me for a drink tomorrow night to discuss the possibility of having you do one of my gallery’s national spots.”
Keelen shook her head. “I don’t think your wife would appreciate the way you approached me with your offer, and I don’t think my boyfriend would either.”
“You know, for someone who is in desperate need of real acting work around this town, you sure are a little tightly wound for your own good.”
Keelen stood up from the chair. The edges of her eyelids moistened, the nostrils on her thin nose flared. “If there is one thing in which I pride myself, it’s in letting people know how I truly feel. I’m an honest, forthcoming human being. One who’s just trying to make it on my own, without compromising my entire being for a shortcut. You aren’t the first guy with a little power to offer me work in exchange for a good time. I’m not stupid.”
Thomas sighed. “Such lofty ideals. Did you know that I could get in trouble by the feds for having you employed here?”
“What do you mean?” Keelen asked, wiping a tear from her cheek.
“I’ve run E-Verify. You don’t even have a visa.” Thomas grinned. “Where you from?”
“From Southern California.”
“You’re lying. I thought you were good at this honesty business.”
Keelen’s teary eyes darted around the room. Her closed lips quivered. Thomas stood up and came around Keelen and put his arm around her shoulder. Under the cover-up aromas of licorice and Dimetapp, she smelled the unmistakable scent of bourbon on his breath. He whispered in her ear, “I can make this all go away. I can offer you guarantees. Believe me, there is nothing guaranteed in this town, but I’m full of them.”
Keelen curled her lips downward and held back her sobs with controlled resolve. She grabbed his arm and lowered it off her shoulder. She squared her body and faced Thomas. Right then and there, she made a decision…a decision that would carve out the rest of her destiny with the precision of a highly trained surgeon’s nip.
Chapter Four:
Saint Drake
Empty canvases littered the studio floor of Logan Drake’s living space.
The fourth floor of a renovated warehouse, near the fashion district, was part of the city’s efforts to gentrify the outlying downtown area. The converted brick building was surrounded by bodegas which sold piñatas, party favors, and pupusas.
Logan’s living space had blood-filled packets neatly stacked on the table by the kitchen; they were arranged and labeled by name and blood type. Dried pools of plasma surrounded the floor of the workspace at the east end of the apartment. With meticulous fervor, Logan placed scented candles on every shelf and table in his studio to wash out the coppery smell of his favorite emulsion.
In his bedroom, his slender naked torso sat upright on his large, minimalist bed frame. He caressed the dip of his friend’s back as she lay on her stomach while she clutched the cold underside of her pillow. His baritone voice hummed into the smartphone that was tucked tightly between his defined jawline and shoulder. “I don’t think right now is the right time for this interview.”
Eva glanced up while her naked body spooned the down comforter. Her laugh lines meshed with her large lips, as she flashed Logan a sated smile.
A female voice whined and begged on the line. “You’re the featured artist for next month, and our June edition goes to print in a couple of days. You’ve been putting us off for a few weeks now.”
Logan stood from the bed and flirtatiously waved his index finger at Eva as he exited through the partition with the phone still attached to his ear. He sat on his work chair, pulled open a fresh blood packet, and stirred it with his finger. “I’m humbled by your determination to get me to do this interview, but honestly, I don’t feel comfortable letting your readers know who I am yet,” he said, smacking his lips after tasting the sanguine paint. “I feel my anonymity is what drives my popularity. You know, kinda like that Banksy dude.”
Behind Logan, three paintings adorned the wall of the partition. They displayed his trademark reddish hues.
“No, I disagree. Your work is what makes you popular,” she said. Logan could feel the excitement in her voice. “But I do agree that your mysterious nature enhances everything.”
Flattered, Logan grinned. “Go on,” he said, kicking up his feet on top of an ottoman.
“Well, for example, your Claret Clarice, which just sold for $400,000...”
“...absurd, don’t you think?” he interrupted.
“What?”
“It’s ridiculous that there are people out there who are willing to drop that sort of money on a whim for some dude’s doodle.”
“A doodle? It’s an impressionist piece of a timeless woman wearing a crimson dress that can’t even be recreated by software Pantone models.”
“Don’t you think that money could’ve gone to enhance the human condition?” he asked.
The woman on the line paused. “Your work is admired by powerful and successful people. You never have to worry about being part of the legions of starving artists. Your work inspires many, which means you’re already enhancing the human condition.”
Logan lifted his feet off the ottoman and downed the packet of blood. With the back of his hand, he wiped away the crimson trickle from his mouth. “I guess,” he said, subdued.
“I can have our photographer meet you right away for a photo shoot. How about it? We would be honored to be the first ones to show your face to the world.”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Drake, your work is about to detonate like an atom bomb onto the art world.”
“Not right now. It just doesn’t feel right at the moment.”
“Can you at least tell me your age? I need to paint a picture of what you look like to our readers.”
“Just tell them I’m young. Youth rules in this town anyway.”
“Well, how old? Early 20s?”
“Sure,” Logan said, as he began sculpting a form on the canvas with his blood-dipped index finger.
“I’m going to go ahead and print what was discussed in this conversation, is that okay?”
As Logan stroked the canvas, the crackling sounds of beams settling caught his attention. He turned to look over his shoulder, and Eva’s nude hip rested against the wooden archway. Her white silk robe covered the edges of her curvy chassis. Her skin sparkled with the cherry-scented, glittery lotion she had slathered on her midsection. “Get off the phone,” she whispered.
The dark pupils in his caramel eyes widened as his eyes met hers.
“Logan, are you there?” insisted the woman on the phone.
“Yeah,” Logan said, while distracted at the sight of Venus. And her longing look.
“Are we done with the interview?”
“Sure,” he muttered i
nto the phone, still marveling like an owl that had accidentally flapped into the temple of the Karni Mata.
Logan placed the phone on the ottoman. He stood up from his chair and wrapped his wiry and toned upper frame against his latest muse’s abdomen. Small pecks ensued, signaling a joyous escape from the hyena-like requests of yet another try-hard who wanted to capitalize on the fame that he often despised.
“Sorry about that...”
“It’s a bit cold in there,” Eva said. “Keep me warm.”
She lifted one of her legs and wrapped it around Logan like a bronzed serpent. “Is this what it’s like being Logan Drake? Everyone out there trying to make a name for themselves by letting the world know who you are?”
Logan’s arm curled around Eva’s sculpted back. He jerked her toward his bare chest and slid the smooth side of his chin down her neck, while blowing intermittent warm breaths. “Everyone will know who I am, soon.”
She pushed him off playfully and widened her green eyes. “That’s pretty bold statement. Think an awful lot of yourself, don’t you?”
“I’m serious,” he stated as his face stilled.
Eva’s smile dissipated as her playful demeanor gave way to Logan’s sudden bout of coldness. “About what?” she asked.
“Do you like being human?”
Eva shook her head. “What do you mean? You’re kinda freaking me out right now.”
“Do you enjoy what it means to be human? You know, all this?” he said, pointing out the window.
Eva clutched both sides of her robe together and proceeded to tie her belt. She was a little uneasy with Logan’s change of topic and the way his eyes seemed to fasten in deep focus.
“I’m here with you. I’m enjoying our moment, I mean, I was enjoying our moment. Why, all of a sudden, are you asking me about what it means to be human? Are you having some sort of existential crisis or are you from another world?” she asked.
Logan closed his eyes and shook his head, breaking himself out of his own spell. “I just have all these thoughts going through my head and sometimes, I guess, I express them in the most eccentric ways. I’m sorry,” he said, as he opened his arms out to Eva, who stood in a guarded stance.