BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 6-COMPLIMENTARY

GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV

dude looks like a lady

He was late. Again. As usual. The one day of the week you ask him to be on time, and he was late. It was a good thing for him that it was wintertime because you were in no mood to deal with two hundred thawing chicken breasts, thank you very much. It’s not like you ask a lot of him.

Very often.

You had plenty to do to keep you busy while you waited for him, like counting the box of his grungy, disgusting business cards that you were collecting at the hostess stand. You looked up and scanned the restaurant every three minutes or so, checking beverage levels, redoing your seating chart as people were getting ready to leave. The key to running a profitable restaurant was maximizing the number of people at every available table and seating customers such that each server’s section was never too busy or too slow. Quite frankly, that takes talent.

And years of management experience.

And you had both.

During one of your three-minute-look-arounds, you saw Zeek standing outside the restaurant in his ‘PROPERTY OF THE F.B.I.’ t-shirt, running his mouth to a customer that’d just left. He was with that girl, Harper. She drove you up a fucking wall because she insisted on playing with her hair over her food.

That’s just wrong.

You’d given up trying to get Zeek to wear a plain t-shirt to work; it just wasn’t gonna happen. That became abundantly clear to you the day he showed up to unload the truck wearing one that said, ‘NYPD ANIMAL CONTROL’ on the front, and ‘RODENT UNIT,’ on the back. The two of you almost came to blows over that, but then Mama came out and told Zeek to wear it inside out and for both of you to shut the hell up about it.

So you did.

And then for Christmas that year, Zeek gave you a black one that said, ‘HONK IF YOU’RE ANAL.’ You use it to clean the mold in your shower…every other day.

Except Sundays.

“I fucking knew you were going to do that, man. You and your possessive-compulsive bullshit.”

“That’s obsessive compulsive, you Neanderthal.”

“Yeah, see, you’re even anal about what you call it, man.”

Today, Zeek was with Harper and somebody else, some guy you didn’t recognize. At least, you thought it was a guy. You couldn’t be sure. He was too far away and way too pretty. You went back to your routine of scanning the restaurant, counting Zeek’s business cards in your hand, trying not to get more pissed off. You were trying to give one of a your servers a hint to ask one of her tables if they needed another bottle of wine. They were drinking an expensive Riesling. You wanted to sell another bottle. You were about to walk over and sell it yourself because you knew you’d do a better job when you looked up and saw Zeek standing right in front of you. Harper and, yeah, that was a guy, were waiting to be seated right behind him. Zeek grabbed two menus and sat them without even looking at your seating chart.

Unacceptable.

And then he walked towards you with a huge smile on his face when he knew damn well you were pissed at him.

“What’d you do that for?” you asked him, trying to look congenial through your frustration. You were really good at that.

“Do what?”

“You know damn well what. Seat them without consulting with me first. That’s not where my next table for two was going to be.”

“Jesus, Gabe, there're like ten empty tables in here. Don’t get your panties in a wad.” Zeek looked over at Harper and her friend and waved.

Sometimes he’s such a moron.

They waved back.

Great. Morons begetting morons.

You turned your attention back to Zeek, his box of ‘business cards’ in your hand. You shook it at him as you talked, “Look, I’m not doing this anymore—"

“Doing what?” Fucking asks a question before you can even finish your damn sentence.

“I’ve told you forty-five times, Zeek, just because you fuck somebody doesn’t mean they get a free lunch. Your plethora of ‘spaghetti gift certificates’ are seriously hurting our profit margin. I mean, that girl Harper’s had more free lasagna here than Mama can make in a month.”

“Yeah, man, she’s hot.”

You rolled your eyes at him, “And who’s that guy who’s with her? I suppose he has one of your calling cards, too.”

“That’s Eggo.”

“Eggo? What the fuck kind of name is ‘Eggo?’”

Zeek gave you that smug laugh that made you want to smack him, “He had little waffle marks on his ass when I fucked him.”

“Oh Jesus, now I’ve heard everything.”

“Look here, Babycakes, Mama doesn’t care if I give my friends a coupon for a free lunch, so you need to chill the fuck out. You do it for your friends all the time.”

“Yes, my friends, Zeek, not my fuck buddies. Your dick is going to bankrupt us.”

Zeek told you it wasn’t really a coupon, it was just his business card, ones he was ready to ‘retire’ with ‘FREE LUNCH’ scrawled on the back, “How ‘bout if I just write ‘FREE DRINK?’ Can you keep your panties on if I do that?”

“’FREE DRINK. NO REFILLS.’”

“I’m not writing that, you asshole. This is how I network, man. It’s how I further my business relationships and enhance customer loyalty.” You wondered if Zeek had been reading from one of your textbooks again. His chest puffed out. “You know, word of mouth.”

“Word of cock is more like it. And for Christ’s sake, Zeek, you don’t even have a business. You’re a brute for hire. Just because you put ‘President and CEO’ on a business card, doesn’t mean you own a business.” You scanned the restaurant quickly. Had to stay on top of things. “And besides, normal people take someone out to dinner before they fuck them. They don’t fuck them and then comp them a meal afterwards.”

“Yeah, well, potato tomato.”

“You mean ‘potato, potata.’”

“Whateverthefuck you said, okay? You’re just jealous because I get way more tail that you do.”

“Well, at least people don’t fuck me for free lasagna.”

‘Yeah, well, maybe you’d get more takers if you tried it my way. If you didn’t discriminate.” That was Zeek’s way of admitting that he’d fuck anything that had a pulse and a smile, and not necessarily in that order.

”Boys, that's enough. Zeek, go unload the truck, and Gabe don’t talk shit to your brother in front of my entire restaurant.” Mama had overhead.

When you finally had time to sit down in your office at the end of the day and sort through all of your paperwork, you noticed that your business cards were upside down in their holder. You picked them up to turn them back over and realized that Zeek had written ‘TIGHT WAD’ on the back of all twenty-five of them. You threw them in the trash can and were all ready to staple your numerically-sorted purchase orders to their corresponding invoices when you couldn’t find your brand new stapler.

It was hanging from the ceiling.

*********************
so never judge a book by its cover
or who you gonna love by your lover

That night, just like pretty much every Friday night, you caught up with Zeek and some people he identified as ‘friends’ at whichever club was the hot spot that week. Lately, it was Mindset. Zeek was always easy to spot wherever you met up with him, something about that fluorescent glow of testosterone that was always preceding him. You spotted him in his ‘FDNY’ t-shirt. Zeek had never put out a fire in his life. He starts them.

“Whazzup little brother?”

“Fuck you. I would’ve been here sooner, but it took me ten minutes to find my fucking stapler.”

Zeek busted out laughing while simultaneously performing an innocuous hand gesture that landed a drink right in front you.

A Midori Sour.

Your favorite.

Zeek made a horrible face, “I don’t know how you can drink those fairy drinks, ‘Cakes. Don’t know how.”

“Last week you said it was a ‘candy-ass’ drink.’ Make up your mind.”

“’Candy-ass, fairy, same damn thing.”

“Yeah, well, I happen to be a card-carrying, candy-ass fairy, so I suppose that’s appropriate.”

“You got that right.” The music changed and Zeek directed your attention to Eggo and Harper slamming shots at the end of the bar. “Gonna go cut a rug with the Bobbsey twins. Welcome to join us.”

“No thanks.”

“More for me, Babycakes. More for me. I certainly don’t mind being the middle of a blond-sandwich.”

Zeek started to walk away from you and you called him back, “Hey, Meathead, hold it. Does that Harper girl know that you’re boning that Eggo kid?”

An evil smile spread across Zeek’s face, “She was there, man. She was right there, the whole time.”

“Good lord, Zeek.”

He slapped you on the back, “Hey, it’s impolite not to share, man. You oughta know that, Mr. Manners. Besides, there’s plenty of me to go around.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I can’t even decide who’s hotter. They’ve both got asses that won’t quit.”

“I’m sure it keeps you up at night.”

“Right again, little brother. Right. Again. You’re batting a thousand tonight.” As Zeek walked away, he tapped on the bar, getting the bartender’s attention, “Hey, hit Babycakes one more time. On him.”

You flipped him off.

Zeek.

Not the bartender.

*********************
If u didn't come 2 party,
don't bother knockin' on my door

You sipped your candy-ass, fairy liquid encore and watched Zeek handle Harper and Eggo like they were two trained tigers. If you asked Zeek, you were sure he’d tell you they were. You perused the club for someone more your speed, but wondered why you bothered considering Mindset wasn’t exactly a hang-out for affluent/independently wealthy, professional, educated, slim-but-not-emaciated, gay men who’d be interested in taking you home.

Shame, you thought. I’m neat, clean, smart, more or less well-hung, and I can cook like a banshee. A well-off, intellectual homosexual would be lucky to bag you.

You were a catch.

Your eyes wondered back to Zeek and what he’d caught for the evening. Throws in one line and gets back two fish. Figures. Story of his life. Thirty minutes later, the trio was heading towards you, the twins propped on either of Zeek’s arms. They’d obviously had too much to drink.

“Gonna take my friends home, ‘Cakes. Catch you later.”

Eggo stopped right in front of you and looked you right in the eye. You’d never seen such blue eyes on someone who obviously had no personal integrity. “Wanna come?”

You tried not to roll your eyes, “No thanks. I don’t fish in my brother’s pond.”

“Whoa. That was profound.” Harper burst into laughter at Eggo’s response.

“Yeah. I’m deep like that.”

Eggo gave you a seductive smile, “I’ll bet.” He smiled way too much. It was annoying.

Zeek yanked him by the arm, “Forget it, Eggo. You’re not Babycakes’ type.”

Eggo didn’t move. Just stood right in front of you, “Why not?”

“You’re broke, dude.”

Eggo winked at you. The nymph took flirting to a whole new level, “That’s what you think.”

*********************
get these mutts away from me
you know I don't find this stuff amusing anymore

The next day you nearly lost your shit when a homeless guy showed up with one of Zeek’s ‘coupons.’ He smelled. He was filthy. And there was no way in hell you were going to let him eat in your restaurant. But he was also irrationally persistent; he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, and you didn’t want a scene, especially right at the start of the Saturday lunch rush. So you offered him takeout that someone had never picked up—Chicken Parmesan.

He refused.

When you tried to impress upon him that there was no way he was going to dine in your upstanding establishment when he smelled like a sewer, he finally spoke, “Wait.”

“No. I’m not gonna wait. You need to leave, or I’m calling the police.”

He shook his head at you, almost like it was a nervous tick, “No. Wait for Josie.”

Your frustration was winning out, “Sorry. No one here by that name.”

He shoved Zeek’s business card right under your nose, “Josie. Have to wait for Josie,” and then sat down in on a bench by the hostess stand. You’d had enough and broke down and called Zeek.

He picked up in the middle of the first ring, “Yo, ‘Cakes—"

“Where are you?” You knew Zeek could hear the irritation in your voice.

“At Mama’s, hooking her up with some free cable.” That was just perfect. That was all you need to top off the perfect week: your mother in jail for stealing cable. Mama’s was four blocks away from the restaurant.

“Well, I need you to get over here.” You whispered the rest, “Because there’s an absolutely vile, homeless man here with one of your cards and he won’t leave.”

“Oh shit.”

“You’re damn right, ‘Oh shit.’ You need to—"

“What’s he look like?”

“He looks gross. That’s what he looks like—“ You didn’t care if the guy heard you. He’d been staring blankly in the direction of the front door since he sat down.

“Dirty blonde hair, big brown eyes?”

You actually looked at the man closely. His hair was the epitome of dirty blond, “Yeah.”

“Fuck. Don’t let him leave, Gabe. I’m coming.”

“What? Don’t let him leave?”

Your words fell on deaf ears. Zeek had long since hung up on you.

*********************
ALAN HARPER’S POV

when I was a little boy
and the devil would call my name

When you, Alan Harper, surfaced, when you rose to the top, you were looking for something. Something that you thought, that you hoped, you remembered. Your journey was and always would be hampered by the smell of life underneath the streets of New York City--the dark, damp smell of the human condition, of the overwhelming need to persevere. The stench of neglect. And decorated with Technicolor images of things that you hoped were memories.

But most of them weren’t.

Most of them were the byproducts of a sabotaged imagination, one that betrayed you under the guise of a constant, benevolent, yet misguided mission to guard you against the villainy of the world. A world that you feared knew what you were looking for.

And wanted to take it away from you.

There were days when you were positive of that, days when you could catalogue the photographs left in your head while the rest of the world was eating breakfast, when the resulting collage in your head seemed strangely void of fear. On those days, you wound upward through the tunnels underneath the city, squinting hard at the eventual streaks of light as you got closer to the street. On those days, you walked and concentrated on the comforting vision in your mind—the only uncorrupted picture of your family you had left.

Your sister.

You walked, unwelcome, knowing that the sidewalk resented your footsteps because you were no longer useful. You were a burden.

But a part of you knew that it hadn’t always been that way. There were random, faded flashes of bicycles and board games, sneaking up on your mother while she read the latest romance novel on the front porch, sitting beside Harper on a plaid couch while she tried to teach you how to crochet, her feet unwisely perched on the coffee table, against the rules.

But she was Josie back then.

She was Josie who pretended not to be afraid when you explained how you had to smother a stray cat that preferred your front porch because it was threatening you. She was Josie who accepted the job of hiding your exaggerated actions and rationalizing your philosophical deteriorations because it felt good, because it gave her a purpose.

And a purpose was something that you’d only have on a good day, like today.

*********************
if you’ll be my bodyguard
I will be your long, lost pal

Three hundred and fifty-seven footsteps and you smelled that smell that you remembered. That you associated with her. Garlic. Three hundred and sixty-eight and you were standing in front of the first of many gates you’d pass through today, the card you held in your hand having fallen on the floor the last time you saw her. You didn’t know how long ago.

The anger directed at you felt like progress. You weren’t invisible today. And when Zeek showed up to collect you, you started counting again.

From three hundred and sixty-eight.

“Alan, man, you have to take a shower before I’ll take you.” Squinting again in the sunlight. Four hundred and twelve.

“Okay.”

“And I’ll give you some clean clothes.”

Four hundred and thirty-nine. “Okay.”

……

……

“Look man, can you stop counting? That drives me nuts.”

I’m not counting out loud.

“Yes, you are.” Four hundred and seventy--, seventy--, seventy—two. “You sure as hell are.”

……

……

Five hundred and ele--

“You don’t have to count, man. I’ll help you get home.”

*********************
JUSTIN’S POV

these events may have had some effect
on the man with the girl by his side

Harper looked relieved when they knocked on the door. She opened it and wrapped her arms around a man who barely looked like a man. He was so pale. So lost. His clothes hung off of him. They were too big.

Zeek introduced you, “Alan, this is Eggo.”

“Hi, my name’s Jus—"

“His name’s Eggo,” Zeek repeated, almost a warning in his voice.

Alan spoke to you, “I like waffles.”

“Me, too. It’s nice to meet you.”

But Alan wasn’t even listening to you anymore. He was focused on Harper, “Want you to cut my hair.”

She smiled, “Already got my scissors out.” She walked over to her desk and picked them up. Alan sat on one of your milk crates and closed his eyes. You watched quietly as Harper’s fingers moved through his hair. It was almost if that was enough for him, to feel his hair falling around him. His head began to fall forward and you finally spoke, almost in a whisper,

“Harper, he’s falling asleep.”

She smiled again, “He always does.” She stopped cutting for a second and waited for his head to complete its descent and then resumed. The only noise in the room the snip of her scissors and the click of your mouse. Zeek sat at your computer, surfing the net in silence. You looked back at him and he raised his eyebrows for a second and smiled.

When Harper finished, she tapped Alan on the shoulder, “I’m done. You can get up.” He stood seeming almost disoriented and made his way to the futon. She sat beside him, and he laid down and put his head in her lap. You felt like you were observing something private and intimate, yet at the same time, you knew she didn’t want you to leave.

“Bad things are happening. Something bad is trying to come.” Alan mumbled into her lap.

She stroked his hair, “I know.”

“I’m trying not to, but they’re still happening. Every day.”

“It’s okay. They aren’t real.”

“They aren’t real.” He wasn’t agreeing with her, he was trying to convince himself. It was the last thing he said before he fell asleep, his head on her legs. You sat on a crate next to Zeek and watched them until Zeek’s hushed voice interrupted your viewing,

“I’m gonna go down the street and get some pizza and beer. He’ll be hungry when he wakes up.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“No, I want you to stay here. Call my cell phone if he wakes up, but he probably won’t. I won’t be gone long.”

It made you nervous that Zeek was leaving, but you didn’t tell him, “Okay.”

You watched him leave and then moved your glance back to the two of them. Before they arrived, Harper told you that Alan had been the one who’d stolen your computer.

You looked at her dumbfounded, “What?”

“Just listen to me before you get upset. It’s complicated.”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

“My brother’s homeless. His name is Alan. He’s a year younger than me."

You’d stared at her like you didn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth, “I had to cancel my fucking show because of my computer being stolen.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. He’s fucked up, Justin. He suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.”

She’d had an expectant look on her face, awaiting your reaction. You didn’t really know what to say. “Shit. I don’t understand. Your family’s well-off. How can your brother be homeless? That makes no sense.”

She took a deep breath, glanced at the gray floor and then looked up at you again, “Justin, I wasn’t exactly honest with you about why I wanted to come back here, why I wanted to share this space with you. My brother’s lived in the tunnels for about three years.”

“The tunnels?”

She nodded, “Yeah. There’re intricate tunnels underneath the city where entire communities of homeless people live. A lot of them, once they end up way down there, don’t ever come back up. Alan does…….when he remembers me.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I had to come back here because he thinks this is where I am. When I left to go to that place that my dad got for me, it was a disaster. He came around and my dad was furious. He doesn’t believe that Alan’s sick; he thinks he’s just a quitter, a loser. My dad has a rather narrow view of the world sometimes.”

“So what if he came around there?”

“My dad doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t want to even acknowledge him as someone he knows, much less fathered. I was my father’s pride and joy until I told him that I wouldn’t turn Alan away. My dad basically threw me out.”

You told her you could relate to that.

“I’m pretty sure he stole your computer because he came by here and saw you here and not me. He doesn’t function in the rational world. He just doesn’t understand when things aren’t exactly like they were.” You were both quiet for a minute. “I wanted you, it’s important for you, to meet him so I can show him that you’re my friend, so he won’t mess with your stuff. If I just tell him, he won’t remember. He needs to see you. In a lot of ways, he’s like a little kid.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been apologizing for my brother all my life. I understand if you’re angry. I wouldn’t blame you. It’s just that he doesn’t steal for the same reasons that other people steal. He tries to make things like he remembers them. I never had a computer here. It probably confused him, made him frustrated.”

“Shit.” You felt like you should be really pissed or something, but then you glanced back at your brand new computer that was even better than the old one, and you just couldn’t be.

Harper told you that she hoped you still wanted to be her friend, “And to stay here. I really like working with you, Justin. I hope you don’t want to leave.”

You weren’t sure what to do. And then there was a knock at the door, and you saw the expression on Alan’s face when he saw Harper, a mixture of relief and an apologetic desperation.

It was an expression he would always wear.

*********************
for what it’s worth
it was worth all the while

When Zeek returned with the pizza, Alan started to wake up. The four of you sat on the floor in sort of a circle with the box on a crate in the middle. Zeek had forgotten to ask for paper plates. The four of you ate together and you listened as Harper tried to fill Alan in on what was going on in the world,

“Bush is still the president, and we’re still fighting in Iraq. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah, Stitch killed people in Iraq.”

You figured Stitch was one of his friends. Zeek handed you a fresh beer.

“Stitch’s killed people in every war, Alan,” Harper reminded him.

“He likes to kill people.”

She nodded, “In your mind. He likes to kill people in your mind.”

“I know.”

She winked at him, “Just checking.” Alan laughed.

When the pizza was gone, you went with Zeek to the dumpster to throw everything away, “Harper tell you that she’s pretty sure he’s the one that broke in here?”

“Yeah, she told me.”

When you opened the door to your studio, Alan was helping Harper open up the futon. He laid down on it, and she laid down beside him. He mumbled to her until he fell asleep.

“Harper, do you care if I sketch the two of you?” you asked her. Her arm had looped over him, and there was a peaceful smile on her face.

“Not at all.”

Zeek watched you as you drew them, as he popped the top on the last beer, “You’re really good.”

“It’s not me. It’s the subject matter.”

“Harper tell you the whole story. How she and I met?”

Your eyes didn’t move from the picture forming in front of you, “No.”

Zeek lowered his voice, Harper having fallen asleep as well, “Buddy of mine, Reef, me and him were on our way here almost two years ago. Got a job painting a bunch of units in this building.”

“Mmm, hmm.”

“So we saw her and this fucked up, filthy guy in front of the building. He was screaming at her, kept saying, “’Just give it to me,’ or something like that. Reef and I thought he was going to attack her.”

“Did he?”

“Not before we jumped him.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, Reef was about to beat the shit of him, but then she started screaming, ‘Stop, he’s my brother,’ so he let up.

“He wasn’t trying to attack her, then?”

“Nah, he was just trying to get his point across. Whatever that was.”

“Oh.”

You’d completed the picture an hour later, save a few details you’d probably add later. You dated it and signed it, out of habit, your pencil stopping when you tried to think of what to name it.

You took the name from what you could see of Alan’s t-shirt, writing it in all capital letters in the lower left corner, “SECURITY.”

*********************
so take the photographs, and still frames in your mind
hang it on a shelf in good health and good time

About a month later, Harper offered for you to piggyback on a small show she was in with a few other relatively unknown artists, “I asked the guy at the gallery, and he said ‘sure.’ It’s a pretty big place; they’ve got extra space to fill.”

“So he wants me because I can fill space?” You were half joking, and half not. You were both high, anyway. You didn’t really care.

“Well, I told him that you had this huge mural you were working on, and he said, ‘That would be perfect.’”

You looked over at the mural you were working on. Well, sort of working on. The inspiration behind it had died down the last couple of weeks. “I don’t even know when I’ll be done with it. I’m kind of losing interest in it.”

“Well, it looks done to me.”

“Well, it’s not.”

“Well, maybe it is and you just don’t know it yet.”

You tilted your head sideways and looked at it, “It’s a big, black blob. I don’t even know what it is.”

Harper turned her head, blowing the smoke from her joint in the other direction, “You’ll know when it wants you to know.”

“Right. Whatever. You’re just personalizing an inanimate object, like you always do.”

“They personalize themselves, Justin.”

You rolled your eyes at her, lying on the futon so you could look at the picture from another angle. She told you not to let the blood rush to your head and took your joint away from you.

……

……

And then it came to you, “Holy shit, that’s what’s wrong with it. It’s upside down.” You got up and started to rotate it.

Harper got up, “Jesus, let me help you. You’ll drop it.”

You took a good, hard look at it once you and Harper had turned it one hundred and eighty degrees. What you thought was a solid black waste of your time was suddenly riddled with shadows and implications. You were ready to start finishing it right then, but Zeek was on his way over. The two of you hadn’t seen him since Alan’s visit. Instead of spending that Saturday evening drenched in paint, you spent it dining, drinking, and dancing. The three of you stumbled back to the studio sometime after one a.m. You were lying face down on the futon, staring at the picture you’d finish within three days, while Zeek fucked you.

When you came, there were colors mixing together in your head. Zeek came a few seconds later, “You’re tighter than a virgin on prom night, Eggo. You know that?”

……

……

“Don’t ever say that to me again.”

*********************
at night when the bars close down,
Brandy walks through a silent town,
and loves a man who's not around

The card on the basket of wine, fruit, and cheese that was waiting for you when you arrived at the gallery the night of your first show read:

Good luck tonight,
Brian

You’d told him about it a week before.

“It’s no big deal, really. It’s not even really my show. I’m just kind of going along for the ride.”

“Shit, I’d love to be there. I just wish I’d had more notice. I’m flying to Toronto with Michael to see the kids that afternoon.”

“That’s okay. Really, it’s no big deal.”

……

……

“Justin, I want to be there. I just can’t cancel on Gus.”

“And god forbid you cancel on Michael. You’ll never hear the end of it.”

“No kidding.”

……

…...

“I can’t make this one, but I’ll come up there………..if you want…..Soon.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can always come to the next one.”

…..

“Okay, sounds good.”

“I’ve got to run, Brian. I’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Sure.”

……

“Justin?”

“Huh?”

“I’m serious when I say I want to be there.”

“I know.”

“All right, then I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah. Later.”

*********************
I’m on my way,
can’t stop me now

You and Harper had arrived fashionably late with Zeek in tow. He hovered around the front of the gallery, worried that Alan would show up.

“You kids have fun schmoozing. I’ll be up here.”

Harper seemed to relax once Zeek got there. And admittedly, so did you. She held up one of the bottles of wine, “Oh good, we can drink this later.” The two of you stood in the gallery’s break room trying to find room in the fridge for the cheese.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s top notch, whatever it is.” You’d tucked the card from Brian in your wallet.

“Guess we better go mingle, huh?”

“Guess so.”

You lost track of Harper as soon as she joined the milieu of people in the gallery’s foyer, being a social butterfly often seemed second nature to her. You wandered around looking at everyone else’s work before going over to your own. You had five pieces in the show: Security, two computer-generated pieces created on your old computer and recovered through an email you’d sent to Daphne, a two foot square painting that you’d done several months ago, and the mural. You were standing in front of it, trying to decide if it was actually finished, if you were even happy with it, when the young woman who’d handed you the gift basket upon your arrival walked up behind you. Her flowery perfume virtually accosted you as she put her hand in front of your face, a round, orange sticker stuck on the end of her index finger,

“Well, Mr. Taylor, would you like to do the honors?”

You turned around, “What?”

She walked around you, smiling, putting the orange sticker on the tag next to your painting:

Untitled
Justin Taylor.

“Congratulations, Mr. Taylor, this painting’s been sold.”

“It has?”

“First one out of the gate tonight,” her hand smooth over the sticker as she spoke, so matter-of-factly. “Before we’d even opened.”

The flowery woman turned on her heel to walk away from you, but your words stopped her, “Wait. How could it sell before you’d even opened?”

She returned, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Happens all the time. The owner has friends who come to private showings before we open to the public. Guess your painting caught someone’s eye…….and their wallet.”

“Wow. Guess so.”

“My, that’s a pity, isn’t it?”

*********************
color me your color, baby
color me your car,
color me your color, darling
I know who you are

Another voice coming from behind you. People sure liked to sneak up on you in this place. The man sporting the deep voice quickly moved to stand to your left. Thankfully, he smelled nothing like flowers; more like……something really good. He held his glass of red wine as if it was on display, as if he’d walked all the way to the back of the gallery just to show it to you, his eyes fixed on the mural, “I was ready to snatch this piece up.”

He smells brand new, you thought.

You turned your head to look closely at him, “You were?” He was a few inches taller than you, impeccably dressed, his black dress shirt tucked perfectly into his gray wool slacks.

“Absolutely, knew right where I was going to display it. I have the perfect spot for it.” He took his time with each word that came out of his mouth, seemed to treat them all individually like they weren’t all part of a sentence. His black belt and black shoes looked like it was their first night on the town. He seemed to study you as he spoke, “Over the sofa in my office. I really need something there,” he sipped his wine. You wondered why you didn’t have a glass. “Something exactly like this.”

The space around the two of you was vacant, almost as it people had been warned to stay away.

“I’m sorry. That it’s already been sold.” You wondered if you should suggest that he buy one of the other four pieces you had in the show, but he started talking again, almost as if he could read your mind, “I was drawn to this piece in particular because, well, it has such a quiet violence about it.”

“Isn’t that an oxymoron? Quiet violence?”

“I don’t know. You painted it. You tell me.”

A hush hung in the air between you as you let your eyes wander over the whole painting before you replied, “I have violent feelings about it, but that’s not what I see when I look at it.”

“Ah, dissonance…..Perhaps that’s what you should call it.”

“No. It’s not about dissonance.”

“Could’ve fooled me, but then again, I’m not an artist.” Exactly, you thought. “I’m just a doctor.” He turned and looked you right in the eye.

“Oh.”

“A psychiatrist,” he said succinctly, “A psychiatrist with an unhealthy addiction to dissonant art.”

“I really don’t think it’s dissonant.”

He looked back at the painting, “Well, then, I’m off base. Won’t be the first time.” He turned again, extending his hand in your direction, “Daniel Cartwright.”

You shook it. He wore no rings, and he’d obviously had a manicure. Nobody's hands looked that perfect. His hand was warm and dry. And calm.

“Justin Taylor, nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

You felt like you were supposed to be ending the conversation as you both rotated to stare at the painting again, “Well, thank you, for taking such an interest in this piece. I’m sorry it’s been sold.”

His smile was kind and unassuming when you found yourself looking at his face again, “Well, if you’re interested, Mr. Taylor, I can think of a way you can make it up to me.”

“Justin.”

“Justin. Very well.”

You didn’t turn away from his steady gaze, “What did you have in mind?”


Lyrics taken from Aerosmith’s Dude, Looks Like a Lady, Prince’s 1999, Paul Simon’s You Can Call Me Al, Loves Me Like a Rock, Hearts and Bones, Greenday’s Good Riddance (Time of Your Life), Looking Glass’ Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl, Heather Small’s Proud, and Blondie’s Call Me.