by Trisky
"I never said what we would do, just that we'd do *something* together."
"And out of the thousands of better things we could be doing, you thought walking around staring at art all night was the best choice? Besides, this looks like a private party. I don't think we're even supposed to be here."
"I have an invitation and an obligation to show up. Go get some culture, Mikey. Or one of the little cheesepuffs they're handing out, whichever you stumble on first."
"God, this place is depressing."
I hear him muttering to himself as he wanders off in search of the first cheesepuff. He's right, it is kind of depressing in here, but I prefer to think of it as mood lighting. The overhead lights are fairly dim and cast strange shadows across the walls. It's the soft amber spotlights on the individual pieces that catch my eye. I can't figure out the origin of the light source. It's like they're lit from within and glowing outward. It serves it's purpose because I find my eyes being drawn to the walls and not the patrons. I can see the effect they're going for. Emphasize the art and not the artist.
I walk past a small gathering of awkward teenagers just beginning to think they're the first rebels that ever lived. One has more piercings on his face than I have holes in my body. I'm suddenly grateful that you can't see Justin's one piercing. One is more than enough. Then there's the whitest of white girls with long unkempt dreadlocks and an oversized t-shirt over what looks like three layers of pants, skirt and some unidentifiable fringe shawl thing with the requisite Doc Martens. I kind of feel like telling her to take off all that shit and take a bath. She will one day, may as well get it over with now. The third one has that air of obnoxious arrogance. As if he knows he's the best and doesn't need anyone to tell him otherwise. I swear he's wearing pants that are big enough to fit three of him.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. This is a young crowd, not my thing. They probably consider me middle aged. There are a few professor types crawling around and maybe a couple sets of parents, like they're chaperoning a school dance. My stomach flips. Bad example. I spot a few people nearer my own generation. They're probably graduates checking out their alma matter's work, or maybe a couple of them own galleries. They actually seem interested in the stuff they're looking at. I can't tell if that's genuine or not. The crowd doesn't appear to bother them. They've perfected the look of indifference. They're not here to meet the people responsible for the work, just to see who's nipping at their heels.
It's all portraits hanging on the walls, some better than others. Despite myself, I start to wonder who the people are that are staring back at me from the walls. I wonder if anyone else thinks the same thing when they look at my portrait on the wall. Wonder what they see.
Finally, I find him. He's standing around with his hands in the pockets of his khakis surveying the sea of people that wander past him. Some stop and look at his work, some just keep going. But he stays still, like he's waiting for something or someone to engage him. He has to work on selling himself. He'll never sell a piece if he can't do that. I'm kind of relieved that he's not swarmed with people, or worse, some pierced, dirty and obviously color blind type filling his head with "revolutionary" ideas. The same ideas we all start off with when we're young, eager and stupid. Let's conquer the world. Use a paintbrush, an advertisement, a political cause, it's all the same shit.
I watch him for a minute. I'm hesitant to just approach him from the shadows. I don't want him to get the wrong idea, though I'm not really sure what the wrong idea is or what other idea he could possibly get. I've shown up. There's not much room for interpreting that as a casual move. I wait until he's turned his back to me. I can work with the element of surprise.
"I'm the best looking thing in this place, two dimensional or otherwise." I glance around at the series of portraits staring back at me. My face isn't all that clear in most of them. I might not even know it was me if I didn't know I was the subject. In a couple of them, I'm turned to the side, one is over the shoulder, one is of the back of my head. I wonder when he drew these. They must be snapshots he's taken in his head because I've never sat for him. He has this scary ability to zero in and memorize every part of me. I scan the series more quickly and then I realize that it moves when I look in succession. I start off with a blank expression, my eyes closed and it's me turned at every angle, until I've spun around entirely and wind up with a blank look staring at something I can't see. It's like a dance and every step takes you closer to revealing my face, eyes wide open. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.
"I thought you couldn't make it." He can't suppress his smile. That's exactly what I was trying to avoid.
"We went for some Thai food down the block. I figured I'd stop by since I was already in the neighborhood." I shrug my shoulders as casually as I can. The fucking place gives new meaning to hole in the wall. I think I drove past it three times before I figured out which building it was. It's a good thing I couldn't find parking so I didn't look like the semi-stalker I'm sure I seemed to be, circling the block in nearly slow motion. Luckily Michael didn't question why we had to eat Thai all the way downtown instead of our regular place.
"You brought Michael? Where is he?" He looks around like Michael might jump out of the shadows and yell "Boo".
"He's sampling the delicacies."
"Doesn't he already have a boyfriend?" He smirks and I tug his ear roughly to wipe it off his face.
"Even Michael has standards. Most of these guys look like they could use a good flea bath."
"Yeah, and they all have small dicks."
"You've inspected them personally?" My eyes keep doing the dance of my body spinning, but keep winding up on the one portrait that's totally out of place. It's not me. I don't know who it is. I've never seen the guy before.
"No, I've just found the bigger the paintbrush, the smaller the cock."
"Good thing you're into graphics."
"So what do you think?" He's rocking back and forth on the heels of his shoes. It's the most movement he's made since I spotted him. He's anxious to hear my opinion. I'm what he was waiting for.
"It's pretty good. Interesting even." He beams, just fucking beams a natural glow and outshines all the amber mood lighting that I've now realized is coming from some discreet footlights on the floor. "Who's the old guy?"
"I guess it can't be that good if you don't even recognize yourself." He snickers. Cute, real fucking cute. I glare at him, watch him stare at his feet trying not to laugh. He looks almost shy, and if there's one thing he's not, it's shy. He takes a deep breath and lifts his head to stare at the portrait he seems to be most proud of. As he should be. It's unbelievable. "He's just some old homeless guy I saw in the park singing opera to himself."
The guy is in tattered clothing. He looks like he might have been good looking when he was younger, but time and life have beat the surface beauty out of him. He's got some sort of scarf on. I can tell it must have been vibrant in person, something only Emmett could pull off, because the pattern is sort of crazy in pencil, but he wears it like it's made of the finest silk. There are birds circling mid-air and what appears to be a few bodies rushing by in the background, totally oblivious to him. He just stands palms open, mid aria, singing to himself. I don't know how I know it was sunny that day, but the piece feels warm, even with Opera Guy in a beat up old wool coat. The amber lighting almost distracts from the natural light of the piece.
"He was a good subject. You really did him justice." I don't have to have seen him to know that.
"You think?" He seems genuinely unsure of his ability. "It was kind of hard putting it on paper. He was just standing there singing and no one was even paying attention, not even the birds. They just walked by him like he was some fucking statue no one notices anymore. You should have heard him Brian. He was amazing."
"You did it by hand didn't you?" I smile a small smile. I no longer care about why I shouldn't have come or what impression he's getting. He should be damn fucking proud of himself. I'm fucking proud of him.
"You can tell? It almost killed my hand." I nod my head and he blushes with pride and looks the other way. I think I might have circled the block thirty times if it meant getting to see that reaction.
"Why him? It doesn't seem to fit the rest of the series."
His face grows longer and more pensive. He won't look at me. "My teacher wanted all the artists to do a self portrait for their series. Only we couldn't draw ourselves. We had to find someone who best represented us. That's why the lighting is so mellow. I think she wants to see if people can figure out which student goes with which series."
"Can't you arty types ever do anything obvious? I think people would appreciate art a lot more if you weren't all so abstract about everything." I suck back the air around me, my throat heavy with constriction. I can't take my eyes off Opera Guy. If this is how Justin sees himself then I don't even want to know how he thinks everyone else sees him. It kind of scares me that I suddenly feel about ten years *his* junior and not the other way around. I'm all fumbling fingers trying to find a place to put my hands. Mostly I want to cover my eyes, stop seeing him stare back at me in that portrait. Instead, I just wipe my brow and try not to stare directly into the amber light at my foot. "How much are these going for?"
"They're not for sale. Just for show. You can take whatever you want." It's so easy for him to be unselfish. To be giving and expect nothing in return. He has no idea how much he's worth.
"And deny all of these people the pleasure of staring at me? Besides I don't want to ruin the succession." One missing piece and the entire balance is thrown off. A different arrangement and it no longer makes sense. It just becomes a series of angles. Put together it's a life study.
"You noticed." He looks briefly in my direction, summing up my position, his eyes following mine as I scan the series. "You have a really good eye. That's why you're so good at what you do."
"I do have a good eye. I notice a lot." He looks up at the final piece in my series, my eyes wide open. If anyone seems to know that, it's him. "I want that one." I point to Opera Guy.
"What do you want with that?" His confusion is palpable. He wasn't expecting that. I wasn't really expecting it either.
"It intrigues me." I turn to his puzzled expression. He's always trying to figure me out. If he looks hard and long enough, I'm sure he'll see how fucking obvious I really am, and for a moment, I don't care. I just don't care. "I don't want to just take it off the wall. You could... bring it over to the loft when you're done here." I'm not in the mood to be circular. I know what I want and since I'm not an artist, I can be as obvious as I want.
His first response is to stand straight at attention. I can see how much he's trying not to burst at the seams, but he falls into a casual pose. "I can't. I have to be up early for the breakfast shift. You could come over and pick it up."
Fucking artists.
"I'll be busy most of the week." Advertising must be some form of art somewhere in the world. "But I'll find some time to stop by."
His cheeks flush with their natural glow and I find myself staring longer than I should, and I just don't care.
"The creampuffs are actually pretty good."
I'm sure my head twitches involuntarily at the sound of Michael's voice. I fucking forgot he was even here. He approaches us chewing the last bit of his creampuff while he stares at the walls. Staring at me, unaware of what he's staring at until his eyes fall onto the final portrait. He looks down abruptly, right into the amber light, blinking rapidly, realization coming into focus. He kind of looks past me in Justin's direction, but not directly at him and swallows the creampuff with an exaggerated gesture.
"Hey Michael."
"Hey."
We all stand awkwardly. Justin with his piercing outlining his shirt, Michael with his sloppy boots and a bit of the creampuff on his lip and me with my attitude. What a fucking sight we must be. Whatever the opposite of a detente is, that's where we're at. We all just stare at different angles of me bathed in amber light. Justin looks at my eyes closed, I look at my back and Michael looks at my eyes wide open, while Opera Guy sings his unending aria. I can almost hear him in my head.
"Thanks for coming Brian." See, I knew he wasn't shy. "It meant a lot to me."
I soften my stance. It must be the warmth of the light because it almost feels like I'm melting. "We're gonna head out."
"I'll see you this week." He reminds me, hopefully. I just nod slowly. Michael is anxiously looking in the other direction.
I turn my back and start to leave when I feel his hand grasp mine and he stops me mid-stride. I turn around first. Michael, who's a couple of feet ahead of me stops and turns to see what's holding me up.
I think I feel his tongue, before I feel his lips. I know I feel his free hand on my neck pulling me down to his mouth. I don't feel much, other than light as can be. He releases my mouth, removes his hand from my neck, but struggles in letting go of my hand. He finally does and spins his back quickly away from me.
I watch him for a minute, back in his original position, hands in his khaki's but with a smile that starts at his mouth and reaches his toes.
Like amber waves of grain in a field of weeds...