by Priya Grey
“I got you a date,” he proclaims, rubbing his hands together. “And she’s a hottie, bro. Killer body. Nice tits. Great ass. You’ll love her.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Not happening,” I tell him.
But Harry persists. “Hey, didn’t your therapist say you should start engaging with people more? This whole hermitic existence thing you’ve got going on, Jackson, has to come to an end sooner or later. You know I love you, but I can’t be your only connection to the outside world. You need to start interacting with people again.”
“When my therapist said I should interact with people, I don’t think he meant going out on a date.”
Harry shoots me a devilish smirk. “He would have, if he saw the body on this girl. Her tits are amazing. Trust me. If I wasn’t married, I would bang her myself. Anyway, you’re going to pick her up next Wednesday at 7pm. Her name is Tiffany Porsche. She’s a news anchor for one of those entertainment gossip channels. I made you dinner reservations at Balthazar.”
“An entertainment news anchor, seriously?” I say, annoyed. “You know I hate that celebrity gossip bullshit. Cancel it. I’m not going.”
I walk past Harry, frustrated, and take a seat in front of my blank canvas again.
Harry walks over to me, determined. “I’m not going to cancel it. You’re going on this date.”
“No, I’m not,” I reply like a petulant child.
“Yes, you are,” Harry insists.
I rise angrily from my chair. “You don’t tell me what to do, Harry! You work for me, remember!” I shout at him.
I feel bad the second I say it. Harry is more than my manager / agent. He’s my best friend. I know he means well by setting me up on this date, but I’m just not interested.
“Fine,” he says defensively. “Let’s keep this strictly professional then, Jackson. That’s even more reason for you to go on this date.” He points to the blank canvas. “You haven’t painted shit in nine months. If we pull out of this gallery exhibit, your brand is going to take a serious hit. Which means our business takes a serious hit.”
There’s a long pause. As he looks at me, I notice the defensive look in his eyes change to one of concern. “I know how much you miss her, bro. I know she meant a lot to you. But you were a great artist before you met Ashley. And you’re still a great artist now that she’s gone.”
“I was better with her by my side,” I tell him. “You know for a fact that she made me better. The paintings were stronger, more inspired. Now that she’s gone, the work will never be that good.”
I walk away from the canvas, toward the large window in my studio that overlooks the nearby river.
After a long moment of silence, Harry says, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but there are other women out there. Ashley was great, don’t get me wrong. And I know she had a profound impact on your work. But there are other women out there. Women just as amazing. Trust me, if you just get back into the dating scene, you’re going to meet somebody who will make you feel just as great.”
“I don’t want to,” I mutter, observing the choppy waves of the nearby river. “I’ve been with enough women in my life to know how special she was.”
There’s another long moment of silence.
“Fine,” I hear Harry say. “Then let me put it this way: If you don’t go on this date with Tiffany Porsche, I will hereby stop functioning as your manager and your agent.”
I turn around and stare at him with disbelief.
“Seriously?”
Harry looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. “You’re leaving me no choice, Jackson. I represent working artists. I don’t want to piss off Amanda at the gallery. She’s been very good to us over the years. I also have my reputation to worry about, you know?” He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t like talking to you like this, because you know I love you, right? But this has to end, sooner or later, Jackson. You can’t keep torturing yourself like this. You have to check back into the human race. So go on this date… for me. Because if you don’t, you leave me no other choice but to stop representing you.”
I can tell by the expression on his face, and the look in his eyes, Harry actually means what he says. He can be just as stubborn as I am. Although I no longer have much interest in painting, Harry remains my only connection to the “real” world these days. If I lose Harry, I really don’t have much else.
“Fine.” I give in. Then I point my finger at him. “I’ll go on the date. Just this once. But you can’t do this to me again, Harry. You can’t threaten to quit if I refuse any more dates.”
The serious expression on Harry’s face suddenly breaks into a wide smile. He walks over to me and grabs me by the face with both his hands. “That’s my boy!” he says with excitement. “I think you’re gonna like this chick. And do me a favor, try to get your dick wet. All right? A little pussy always helps a man get his head straight.”
“Give me a break,” I reply.
Harry drops his hands from my face and shrugs his shoulders. “What?! It’s true! Studies have shown that it’s not good for a man to go too long without getting laid. It can really do a number on our brain.”
Harry turns and walks toward the door.
“Remember. Next Wednesday. 7pm. Balthazar. I’ll text you her address.”
Before leaving, he turns to me and says, “Who knows, maybe this chick will get you inspired again. I’ll talk to you later, bro.”
He opens the door and walks out.
Once he’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. But then I realize I have a date next week. I’m dreading it.
Harry was right. Tiffany Porsche did have an impressive body and even more impressive breasts. Too bad every inch of her had been sculpted by a plastic surgeon. I don’t think there was a single part of her body that hadn’t been altered somehow.
I like my women natural and with healthy curves. I’m not interested in plastic.
The second Tiffany got into my car and we headed toward Balthazar, I realized there was another reason I didn’t think Tiffany and I would hit it off. She was glued to her phone and taking selfies the entire car ride to the restaurant.
“My branding manager says I need to update my Instagram account at least ten times a day to increase my traffic,” she informs me as she snaps another selfie, apparently not satisfied with how her hair looks.
Then she insists on taking a selfie with me while I’m driving.
“There’s no better way to improve your social media traffic than to take a picture with a hot guy. Smile, Jackson!”
I begrudgingly smile as she snaps a picture of us.
When we finally get to Balthazar, things don’t get much better. After we place our order with the waiter, Tiffany keeps responding to text message after text message.
I miss the days when you could get to know someone without a phone interrupting your conversation every five-seconds.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she shoots off another text. “Everybody’s freaking out about Bradley and Raquel.”
“Bradley and Raquel?” I ask confused.
She looks at me like I’ve been living in a cave. Which I guess I sort of have been.
“They broke up!” she declares. “It’s like the biggest news of the century. Where have you been, Jackson?”
“Why is their breakup such big news?” I ask, not understanding the magnitude of the situation.
“Because they’re the hottest couple with the most Twitter and Instagram followers!” she replies. “Combined they have like a billion social media followers. I’m actually going to conduct an exclusive interview with Bradly and Raquel in two days to discuss the breakup.”
“They’re going to do an interview with you on why they broke up?” I ask, still dumbfounded on why this is breaking news. “Why is it any of our business?”
Tiffany looks at me like I’ve just spoken in a foreign language she doesn’t understand. “Because we live in the 21st century, Jackson. Everything is everyone’s busi
ness.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry. I guess I’m old school. I like my privacy.”
“That’s cute,” she responds as she sends off another text.
The waiter returns and drops off our salads.
“Yummy,” Tiffany exclaims as she takes a picture of her salad and uploads it to her Instagram account.
I watch her, amazed. Does every moment in our lives now need to be documented? No matter how trivial?
“You just took a picture of a salad?” I point out.
Tiffany nods with a smile, “I take pictures of all the food I eat.”
“Why?”
She looks at me like I’m an alien from another planet. “Because, like I told you in the car, I need to update my social media feed at least ten times a day. Pictures of hot guys – like yourself – and food, always drive a spike in traffic.”
I shake my head in bewilderment. I don’t understand the world anymore. And the longer I look at Tiffany, glued to her phone, I realize there’s absolutely nothing we have in common.
“Excuse me,” I tell her as I place my napkin on the table. “I need to use the restroom.”
Tiffany looks up from her phone and smiles. “Sure.”
I get up from the table and head to the back of the restaurant. I was lying when I told her I needed to use the restroom. I just need to get away. When I step into the bathroom, I splash some water on my face and look at my reflection in the mirror.
I know I’m being overly critical of Tiffany. But the thirty minutes I have spent with her have only reinforced in my mind how special Ashley was. I can’t picture myself on a series of dates with women like Tiffany. I just have nothing in common with them. I want someone with substance. Not someone obsessed with the frivolous, the superficial, the shallow.
Maybe Tiffany isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s me. The world has clearly changed. I’m a painter living in a world of selfies. Maybe I just don’t belong anymore.
As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, a dark dread and loneliness comes crashing down on me. The thought of returning to that dinner table and faking a pleasant conversation with Tiffany seems unbearable.
I can’t fake anything right now.
I’m just too miserable.
I step out of the restroom and make my way toward the dining area. I stop when I see Tiffany sitting in her chair texting away on her phone. I know I’m being an asshole, but I just can’t muster the energy to go back and join her for dinner. We have absolutely nothing in common. I contemplate just walking out of the restaurant and leaving her there, but I realize that would be a really jerk move.
I walk back to the table but don’t take a seat.
“Is there something wrong?” Tiffany asks looking up from her phone.
“I’m sorry, I’m really not feeling well,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to go.”
She looks shocked and confused. “Oh. Really?”
I nod. “I’m sorry. By all means, enjoy your salad. I’ll pay for dinner. I’m really just not feeling well.”
I then turn and walk away from the table. I make arrangements with the waiter to charge everything to my credit card. I feel bad leaving Tiffany alone in the restaurant, but this wave of depression is slowly drowning me. It’s just too unbearable to fake my way through.
Chapter Ten
Rebecca
The hurricane completed its path of destruction, leaving my hometown devastated in its wake. Once the storm had passed, Todd told me to take some days off and visit my parents to make sure they were okay. I was very grateful and immediately booked a flight.
In less than twenty minutes, the hurricane had ripped off the roof of my childhood home and flooded everything inside. Shock doesn’t begin to describe the feeling running through me as I stand in over a foot of water surveying the damage. Everything has been destroyed. The house is unlivable. It’s moments like these, that make you feel like the universe is against you.
I plow slowly through the water in a stupor, heading toward the center of the living room.
As I look down, a piece of drywall floats past my leg, then I see the cookbook. I reach down and pull the cookbook from the water. Although its pages have been damaged, they are still legible.
It’s the cookbook my mother used to teach me how to cook. Every Sunday we would gather in our kitchen and prepare a recipe from its pages. It was our Sunday ritual – that is until her stroke. Then I did all the cooking by myself. But I always used this book. I didn’t bring the cookbook with me to the city because I secretly hope the symptoms of my mom’s stroke will eventually subside, and she’ll be able to cook from its pages once again.
Holding the book firmly in my hands, I turn around. I slug through the water and leave the house. My parents are waiting for me in the center of the street. My father refused to go inside and survey the damage.
“What’s the point?” he said to me. “It’s gone.”
As I walk toward them, I notice my dad’s dazed and worried face as he grips the handles of my mom’s wheelchair. I glance down the street and watch our neighbors going through the same heart-wrenching experience as us. The entire neighborhood is still in shock. We are all standing in awe at the destructive power of Mother Nature. It’s impossible not to feel incredibly small and vulnerable at moments like these – when everything you own has been destroyed.
A cool wind blows as I approach my mom and dad.
“How bad?” mutters my dad.
I look into his despondent eyes and slowly nod my head. “Bad.”
I bend down and look at my mother. She’s been confined to a wheelchair for the last five years. The stroke paralyzed the left side of her body. She can still speak, but with difficulty. I show her the cookbook, and tears form in her eyes.
“It’s yours,” my mother manages to say as tears stream down her face. I do everything in my power to fight back my own tears. I need to be strong at this moment, for my mother and father. They lost everything in the storm. Thankfully they are still alive, but the house they called home for over thirty years is gone. Their possessions, everything they worked hard for, has been ripped away.
I look at my father, who is still standing behind my mom, gripping the handles of her wheelchair. He’s staring out into nothing, in a complete and total daze. I’ve never seen my father like this. No matter what happened to us – the bankruptcy of his business, my mom’s stroke – he’s always been the strong one, pushing through all adversity. He’s a fighter.
“Dad?” I say, filled with concern at the defeated look I see in his eyes. “Dad?” I repeat.
He finally acknowledges me. I’ve been standing right in front of him. “Hi sweetie,” he replies with the saddest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Are you going to be okay?” I realize it’s a dumb question at a moment like this. How can anyone be okay after witnessing such indiscriminate destruction by a force much greater than us?
My dad stares at me for a long time. It’s a look I’ve never seen from him before. It’s not the happy, comforting gaze I’m used to witnessing in his eyes. It’s a look of fear.
“We should get going,” my dad says quietly as he turns my mother’s wheelchair. “Or you’ll miss your flight back.”
Unfortunately, even though I’ve been in North Carolina for two days, it’s only now – a few hours before my flight back to the city – that we were finally able to access our street and home.
My dad wheels my mother back to our car. I follow him, still holding the salvaged cookbook in my hands. When we get to the car, I help my father lift my mother into the passenger seat.
Then we drive away.
In the backseat, I stare at the other families experiencing the same sense of loss and disbelief. Many are holding each other and crying. I think it’s safe to say, every one of them is terrified of what lies ahead – the future. My hometown is a blue-collar town. And many of the families survive paycheck-to-paycheck. They can’t afford surprises like these.
From the backseat of the car, reflected in the rearview mirror, I see the sadness in my father’s eyes. I then glance out the window as he navigates our car through the various trees still blocking some of the roads.
“I can change my flight,” I offer. “Stay longer so I can help with the paperwork for the insurance company and FEMA applications.”
My father shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the road. “There’s no point,” he mumbles. “You should go back to the city. You have a job. Don’t worry about us.”
Although my father is telling me not to worry, the defeated tone in his voice makes me more concerned than you can imagine.
“The insurance should cover most of the damage, don’t you think? You can rebuild. Or move into another home,” I tell them, trying to find a glimmer of hope.
My father sighs. “We don’t have great coverage,” he laments. “After your mom had the stroke, I took out a second mortgage to help with all the bills. And from what I hear, we’ll be lucky if the insurance even covers 20% of the damage.”
I had no idea my father took out a second mortgage on our house. I suddenly feel guilty. Growing up, my parents did everything they could to provide me with a great future. They even helped me out financially when I was out of college and moved into the city. I never realized the amount of financial stress they were under.
We drive the rest of the way to the airport in silence. Fear of the future is palpable inside the car. Its uncertainty is terrifying.
When my parents drop me off at the curb – outside the terminal for departing flights – I hug my father tightly. “It’s going to be okay, Dad,” I tell him, fighting back the tears.
My father stares at me blankly, his face cut from granite. Slowly, he finally smiles and nods. “Thank you for coming, sweetie. Seeing your face was the only good thing to happen to your mom and me.” He leans forward and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
Then I bend down and look at my mom. Her eyes are still filled with tears. “Love you, honey,” she says slowly, straining to say the words.