He groans and puts a hand to his heart. “Johnny was so sexy on that show.”
As the crowd thickens, Shannon and I greet the guests one-by-one. They walk around, admiring Sparx’s paintings. He beams as he points to his masterpieces and describes his process in detail. People look fascinated if somewhat confused by the subject matter.
An hour later, everyone appears to be buzzed from the wine and art. Including myself. Shannon drinks from his glass and taps my shoulder. “If you want, I would be happy to do the introductions.”
“Not after what happened last time.” I shake my head.
He rears back in mock affront. “So what? I mispronounced a freakin’ name.”
“Since when is Gary Azquipe… Gary Asswipe?”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Even you have to admit that was hilarious.”
I shake my head and walk to the center of the room. The crowd quiets down a little with the exception of Sparx, who still babbles about one of his paintings. He says, “This is a reflection of the chaos in society and–”
I clear my throat, and he turns around.
Wearing my best smile, I beam at the patrons as they clutch their wine glasses and plates. “I want to welcome everyone to Pathways. I’m Meadow Hughes, the owner of the gallery.”
Shannon waves his hand like he’s just been crowned the queen of RuPaul’s Drag Race. He’s hard to miss at his height so I can’t ignore him like I want to. “And that’s my extraordinarily talented assistant, Shannon Burch.”
Shannon grins and takes a sip from his glass, appeased for the moment.
I step deeper into the room. “We are delighted to have all of you here tonight. Our featured artist is Sparx Birdmann. Tonight is his New York debut.”
Everyone applauds, and Sparx smiles wide, his yellowed teeth looking a little bit whiter underneath the heavy fluorescent lighting. He gives a wave. “That’s me.”
“One of the main reasons I wanted to exhibit Sparx’s work is because he has such a unique voice. And it’s an honor to have him here at Pathways. Sparx, would you like to share a few words about your inspiration?”
“Yes!” He makes his way across the room and stands next to me. “Tonight is a dream come true for me… a poor boy from Wisconsin. Now that I have been given this opportunity, I want to change the world with my art. I think that art has the power to unite us all.”
Everyone claps, and I try to appear enthralled by his words as I say, “Thank you, Sparx. That was enlightening.” I turn to the crowd. “If you have any questions at all, Sparx and I will be happy to answer.” Shannon clears his throat. “And Shannon too. Enjoy!”
I make my way around the room, greeting the patrons. With this tipsy crowd, surely I’ll be able to sell enough to pay my rent for at least six months.
I notice the couple who walked in first talking to a group of people. The woman says, “His work is incredible! If I can’t have one of his pieces, I’ll die from wanting something I can’t have.”
A lady with wireframe glasses says, “I agree. I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s so unique. I’m just so happy I discovered him when I did.”
“Yeah, Sparx is very gifted.” I join the group and nod to the lady.
Her face crinkles up like she smells a skunk. “Actually, we were talking about Henry Garrison.”
“Who?” I have no idea who they’re talking about. I’ve never heard of Henry Garrison. A sliver of unease settles over me. I know about all the hot artists. How could this Henry guy have slid under my radar? Am I off my game?
She chuckles, and I can tell she’s happy she knows more about art than the gallery owner in the eye of that hurricane moment. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. He’s known for spectacular glass vases shot through with 24-karat gold leaf. The colors… you wouldn’t even believe the vibrancy unless you see it with your own eyes. If I were you, Meadow, I’d check him out before somebody else gets the showing in a major coup over Pathways.”
“Really?”
A man nods and looks at me over his glasses. “You have to meet him. You should stop by his studio. She’s right, you’ll regret it if you don’t. I think that would be a smashing success to have him here at Pathways.”
My mind races. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of him. Has he been hiding under a rock?”
Chapter 2
Henry
Sheets of rain pour down outside the window of my loft. My cat lays on a rainbow-colored velour blanket, taking a nap. Verdi does this at least three times a day, but I don’t mind. Her long, silky white fur overflows her red velour kitty bed. She needs her beauty rest.
I walk over to my stereo and put my iPod into the dock. The dulcet tones of Bach’s “Ave Maria” float toward my ears, filling my heart with peace. Classical music always puts me in an imaginative mood, inspiring my creativity, so it flows from my hands to the clay. Lately, I’ve had so much on my mind. I’m itching to let my art be my muse.
I walk into my studio and grab a ball of the soft brown substance. It never ceases to amaze me how something so ugly can be turned into something so beautiful just from the massage of a human’s hands.
I shake my head in awe, then head to the potter’s wheel. Using my wet hands, I shape the lump. As the wheel spins, I make sure its smooth from every angle. Soon, it begins to take the shape of a vase. Looking down at the metamorphosis, a satisfied grin tugs the corners of my mouth upward. It’s going to be exquisite. I can feel it in my spirit. The clay speaks to me, caressing my emotions as surely as if it were my lover. I listen, admiring the musical composition as I continue to mold and shape. The muscles in my arms grow tight as I work.
The music touches me deep inside, reaching a place I’d like to forget exists. The intimacy of the moment isn’t lost on me since my art is my heart. My soul. My passion.
My partner.
This solitary life of an artist is not for everyone. Some days, I even wonder if it’s for me. It’s been a long time since I’ve even been kissed. I can still remember Zoe’s face… those deep set dark eyes, her long auburn hair, the way she smiled. I met her in a cafe in Union Square. I noticed her right away, sitting by the window, drinking what looked like a cappuccino. Her physical beauty socked me right between my hungry eyes, but the thought of saying something to her overwhelmed me, allowing fear to override desire. So I just ordered my espresso and tried my best not to stare.
But then, I heard a husky voice say, “You can sit down if you want.”
When I turned and saw that the sexy voice belonged to her, we struck up a conversation. Well, I’m probably exaggerating… she did most of the talking. I just sat there, savoring the sound of her voice. Before she left, we exchanged numbers. That night, I went home and sketched a drawing of her from memory. I snapped a picture with my cell phone and texted it to her. As soon as I hit send, I regretted it, not wanting her to think I was some kind of weirdo stalker.
But a few seconds later, she texted back that she loved it. And that was the start of our relationship. Well, I’m probably exaggerating again. It’s been my experience that people don’t have real relationships in New York City. You just kind of hang out with a person until you get bored or find something better. Well, that never happens to me… the getting bored part. People fascinate me. The subtle nuances. I love learning everything about them, like peeling back the layers of an onion. They always seem to leave me before I ever get to their soft inner center.
I would’ve been content to stay with Zoe, maybe forever. But after we hung out a couple of times, she just faded away. The phone calls became sporadic and then she even stopped texting me. I’m not sure exactly why.
Ghosted.
That’s another thing about living on this crazy island. The reason for the slow fade isn’t always clear or doesn’t provide closure. And does it even count as a break-up if you never really meant anything to each other at all? Beautiful women don’t entice me anymore outside of inspiration for my work. They’re not
hing but shiny promises that quickly turn into betrayal.
I put the finishing touches on my vase and take it off the potter’s wheel to dry. Stepping back, I stare at it with an artist’s critical eye. I can’t wait to fire it up in the kiln, add 24-karat gold leaves, and cover it with my special ceramic paint.
A buzz from the table shocks me back to the present. I quickly wash the clay off my hands and grab it. My mom’s name lights up the screen along with a cute photo of her wearing her smock and gardening gloves, covered in soil.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
A laugh crackles across the line. “Nothing important, just checking on you. My favorite son.”
“Your only son.” My sigh bubbles up, but I swallow it down. I’m far too old for her to be checking in daily. But I love my mom, and I’m not going to tell her to buzz off no matter how badly she annoys me. Part of me understands why she still does it. She hasn’t been the same since… “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
Concern laces every syllable, taking me back to a place I don’t want to go. “Yeah, I’m sure. You don’t have to worry about me so much.”
She clucks her tongue. “I’m your mother, I’ll never stop worrying about you.”
The sentence undoes me, and I walk over to the window, letting out a breath that reveals too much with just a puff of oxygen. “I realize that. Now’s not the time to get into it. I’m about to get something to eat.”
“A date?” The hopeful tone in her voice stabs me right in the heart.
“I wish.”
“I really hope you meet a nice girl soon, Henry. I saw the most adorable little boy at the grocery store today. I know I’m going off on a tangent here, but I really want grandkids. In a timeframe where I can enjoy them before I die.”
I rest my head in my free hand, mentally face-palming myself. “You tell me that constantly. I got it the first hundred times.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll let you go. Your father and I are putting together this dresser we got from Ikea. He’s already said about four curse words and has thrown the Phillips on to my new tile floor. He’s lucky he didn’t chip it with such craziness. Something about parts labeled with letters instead of numbers.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, Henry.”
I take off my messy apron and throw on my jacket. Grabbing an umbrella, I head for the door. The damn thing is as black as my current mood. Grandkids might be something my mom never receives, no matter how badly she wants them. As an only child, I might be destined to be alone for the rest of this life. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have my blood surge in an animalistic way, that kind of Neanderthal need to mark my territory. Probably because I’ve never acted on it in real life. Women can’t be claimed. And I’m damn well sick of twisting myself around with that pretzel logic.
I walk down the hallway and take the old-fashioned elevator down to the first floor. With every pitch and lurch, I feel like I’m going back in time because of the metal accordion door.
Outside, the rain beats against every surface, causing a din that assaults my ears. Despite the monsoon, there are still a lot of people on the streets. Nothing ever stops New Yorkers. I mentally thumb my nose at it along with everyone else and turn down Prince Street.
A few minutes later, I walk into a boutique grocery store famous for organic foods, free-range this, and gluten-free that. It’s also well known for prices that give customers heart palpitations. Something about it soothes me just like classical music. It’s not like I’m buying dinner for myself. I head straight to the pet care aisle and grab a can of gourmet cat food. I smile as I put a few cans in my basket. Verdi is probably the pickiest cat in the five boroughs. But having her around keeps me company as I perfect my artistic process.
When I get to the register, a middle age woman with short hair grins at me. “Hey, if it isn’t the cat man. How you doing tonight, hon?”
I smile at her jowly face complete with painted on black eyebrows. “I’m fine.”
She rings up my total, and I pay her. “Paper or plastic?”
“Normally, I would do paper, but it’s raining.”
“Good point.” She puts the cat food in a plastic bag. “There ya be, sweetheart.”
As I walk out, my mind drifts back to the point of the polite conversation. Cat man? What a title. But I guess it’s better than asshole. As I pop open my umbrella, I almost run into a man jogging on the sidewalk.
“Watch it, pal!” He glares at me and stomps his sneaker-clad foot into a giant puddle.
“Sorry.”
A jogger in this torrential downpour? But why should that surprise me? Type-A personalities fill this city, and he seems like the kind who can’t function as a member of polite society without his workout… even a blizzard probably wouldn’t stop him. He’d just throw on a pair of cleats and pick through the ice and slush with his toes.
Well, to each his own.
I walk two blocks down and into a pizzeria on the corner. It’s one of those places that sells slices. A long line of people mill around, texting and scrolling their social media feeds. A pretty young brunette with curly hair stands behind the counter. I remember her. She usually works on Saturdays. I wonder if she remembers me or if I’m just another nameless customer. I can’t even remember the last time I felt seen. Us quiet types tend to fade into the background.
Or into oblivion.
When it’s my turn, she flashes her bright smile. I smile back, even though I’m suddenly nervous knowing I’ll need to speak. Pressing my tongue against my teeth, I will it to cooperate. There’s always that pregnant moment before I know if I’m going to be able to spit out the words without humiliating myself.
“What can I get ya today?”
“I…” I look at the different pies behind the glass… pepperoni, veggie, white, and plain slices. They all look so good. Maybe something spicy to warm up this raining day?
“Hurry it up already!” the guy standing in line behind me barks, and when I glance back, I see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes narrowed. “Make a fucking decision.”
A rush of anger hits me in the chest. I hate confrontations, but I feel like I have to say something to this rude asshole. But what? And will it come out sounding normal, or will I give this asshole something else to hassle me about?
I open my mouth, my comeback on the tip of my tongue…
“Sir, just wait your turn, all right?” The girl behind the counter glares at him as she beats me to it. He takes a deep breath and starts to look at something on his cell phone screen.
I can’t believe a woman had to defend you, loser. Speak the fuck up for yourself!
The devil on my shoulder delights in berating me.
“I… I’ll have a plain slice.” I’m happy the almost confrontation hasn’t unraveled my tongue. As angry as I am at the man behind me, I keep my words slow and steady. “Actually, can you make that two? I’m kinda hungry.”
“Sure, no problem.” She puts two slices into the brick oven. “Will that be all?”
“Can you please add a bottled water?”
“Okay.” She rings me up, and a few seconds later, she puts my slices on a red plastic tray with my bottled water.
“Thanks.” I sprinkle oregano and red peppers on my pizza.
“Don’t mention it.” She lowers her voice, “Between me and you, guys like him make me want to quit. There’s no reason to be so testy. Acting like that won’t get you through life any faster.”
“It’s all about slowing down enough to enjoy the journey.” I grip my tray, casting my gaze over her left shoulder. “Besides, if you quit, I won’t have a reason to come back here.”
Damn, did I just flirt with her?
Before she has a chance to respond, I walk over to a table by the window. It can’t be that easy. Shit is always so complicated in the city. There’s no telling what she’s got going on in her life and if we would even be compatible.
The tiny sliver of hope that wiggled its way into my heart escapes and flitters right back into the darkness.
But still, the possibility intrigues me and gets my juices flowing. Just sitting there, eating my pizza and watching her work behind the counter makes me wonder what my future will look like.
The rude man walks to the door and stares me down. I don’t look away from his gaze. Is he gonna start a fight right in the middle of the restaurant? All I know is that he’ll have hell to pay if he knocks my delicious pizza on the floor. As he walks out, I exhale. Crisis averted until the next asshole tries to engage. The men in the city seem to be on testosterone overload.
I’m pretty sure that he would’ve laughed if he found out what I did for a living. Real men are supposed to be construction workers or electricians or lawyers or Wall Street Bankers, but definitely not artists. And if they are artists, they should be in metals and abstract, not making love to their pottery wheel.
Art is the only thing that ever slapped me in the face like a school of dead fish. Surprising me with its hidden depths. Even as a kid, I used potting as my release valve. And even though I’m grateful for my successes and all the awards I’ve won, I would be an artist despite all that. The only thing I care about is making enough money to live.
Fame and fortune… I don’t need it. Hell, I don’t even want it.
If I won the lottery, I’d create just for myself and never sell anything. But giving it away just to see the joy in people’s eyes when they hold one of my creations in their hands, I could do that all day long. Setting up a foundation or charity to help young artists realize their own dream of creation is the highest priority item on my bucket list.
A young couple exits, and I’m the only customer remaining in the restaurant. The woman behind the counter smiles at me. “It’s like cats and dogs out there, hey?”
“Yeah, I need to get back to Verdi.” I mentally groan. How do I explain that I’m a starving artist alone in my loft? With a cat.
Her pert nose scrunches up into a mess of wrinkles. “To who?”
Mansplainer Page 2