If (30 page)

ASH

I FELT AROUND
my bed and let out a sigh of relief when I found the space beside me was empty. I didn’t remember much about the night before and there was a chance someone would be beside me. I rolled like a log until I hit the end of the bed and barely got to my feet.

The chill in the air reminded me I was naked, and I threw on pair of sweatpants hanging from a lamp. Then I smelled coffee.
Was it really coffee?
Yes, I never smelled coffee unless there was actually coffee being brewed. I like the smell of coffee. I wouldn’t have minded it coming to me here and there. Unlike licorice, which was always a part of my emotional responses even though I hated that shit.

Shit.
If I wasn’t the one making coffee, then someone else was. I slid into the bathroom. The used condom in my toilet confirmed I was not alone. I sighed, swept my fingers through my hair, and knotted it above my head. Then after one big roll of the eyes, I made the long walk to the kitchen, thinking of a way to get whoever the hell it was out of here.

“Morning,” the girl said all cutesy like she was some fucking high schooler. She was wearing my shirt. I hated when they did that.

“Morning. I have some appointments this morning. I’ll call you a cab.” Her face dropped. “There are to-go cups in that cupboard over there.” I gestured to the general vicinity of the kitchen as if that would help her.

I opened the front door of my condo, picked up the Times, flipped through the sections and my day got worse. Like punch to the balls worse.
Licorice.

There she was, dressed like an exotic bird, perched over some well-muscled dancer’s head.
Annalise “Bird” Campbell
the caption read. So much had changed in the five years since I had left LA and gone to New York City to start over. One thing didn’t—the way that girl made me feel. Except now she was a woman, and she had become all the things she wanted, and she probably hated me, if she thought of me at all.

That was the goal. She had to hate me. She had to erase me. The burden I had to bear was that I couldn’t erase her. And the pointless pussy parade didn’t change anything. I thought one day I might find someone else like her, but she couldn’t be matched, not even close.

“The cab?”

“Huh?” I asked, forgetting that nameless groupie was still there.

“You were going to call one?”

The busty brunette stood over me as I sat at my dining room table.

“Oh, yeah. Um . . .” I fumbled around for my phone.

“Forget it, I’ll just grab one myself.” I think I was supposed to be apologetic, but I was relieved she was finally leaving. The door sort of slammed behind her and I was again able to consume myself in thoughts of Bird. They were always a storm, love and regret, pleasure and pain, pride and shame. Even when she wasn’t part of my life, thinking of her fired me up. I still felt the all-consuming heat. But the sweet taste I used to get on my tongue was replaced with the sharp one of licorice. I thought about what Miller told me, the look of pure devastation on her face when he told her the news. I thought about how my last words to her were the promise of a life together. I mourned over the fact that the only way I could be good for her was to hurt her.

If only we had met later, maybe things could have been different. But we met when we were barely adults and we were drunk on love and I was just figuring out how to deal with my bipolar disorder and my self-loathing. Well, I was still trying to figure that last one out, to be honest.

Miller helped me set up in New York right out of the hospital. He wasn’t thrilled about it, seeing that city was the home of my first all-out def-con-level manic episode, but I had a heart to heart with him. I told him why I felt I needed to leave and surprisingly, he went along with it.

For a while, I kept my life simple. A low key job, a small apartment, and in the evenings I snuck around the city and made it my canvas. How ironic that I didn’t vandalize when I was homeless, but as a stable member of society, I used brick walls, park benches, lampposts and whatever felt right to create my art. Turned out people liked the work and it was rarely erased. My installations stamped the city and gained a cult following. I remained anonymous, but I hoped one day she might see my calling card and find me. I wouldn’t barge back into her life, but I wanted her to know I was around. She knew my signature style. It was a fanciful thought she might find me, but it was what kept me going.

When I came to NYC, the money didn’t matter. I just needed stability. Early on, I had faith Bird and I could find each other again, but reality set in. We were just fucking kids. Eventually decisions have to be made from a place of logic, not from some wellspring of love. My first step in becoming a man was leaving Bird so she could truly live. Men don’t have time for childish dreams.

It hurt, and the hurt was the reason I snuck out at night and colored the city. It was the only way I could let that pain out.

Eventually, I was prescribed a medication called Lamictal that didn’t dull my synesthesia. After my initial diagnosis in college, I had given it a shot, but developed a potentially fatal allergic reaction. When I got back to NYC years later, my new doc insisted on giving it another shot. This time, there was no bad reaction.

Once I found something that could keep me in a functional range and still retain my senses, I was producing like a madman.

Through the filter of an ever present heartache, the city that was full of sounds and scents and people made my senses explode. Smells, colors, tastes and sensations overlapped. But nothing ever shined like Bird.

Every time I painted, it was an attempt for me to channel the way Bird made me feel; when I painted and she danced, and life was simple. We existed infinitely in those moments. I never thought they would end. If I stopped painting, I would stop feeling her. If I stopped painting, it would be like Bird had died.

For a while, I followed her successes, but it was too much. I knew enough to know I made the right choice. She went on the tour, and Danse Nocturne became hugely popular. I saw billboards and ads for shows all over the U.S. I might have become an underachieving street artist, but she had become everything she deserved and more. That was good enough for me. That was until about three years ago, when the same hand of fate that placed Bird and me in each other’s paths swept in for a second jab at things.

I was in Alphabet City. At the time, I had a website where I posted the sites of my upcoming installations. It started to gain a decent following, and I became something of a mythical figure in New York.

I was painting a street lamp, creating the illusion that it was melting into the street below when a limo pulled up. This was not the kind of neighborhood where limos just cruised along.

The electronic hum of the window lowering finally got me to turn and acknowledge its presence.

My first instinct was a rich creep who had a penchant for tall young men.

“You’re WATT?” Out popped the head of a pretty brunette with huge brown eyes. I could tell she was petite, though I could only see her from the shoulders up. Her makeup and hair was fresh, the maroon coat draped across her shoulders looked like it cost a month’s pay for me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my hands full of fresh paint in front of a freshly painted post.

“I’ve been trying to find you. I saw your website said you’d be here next and I have been coming here every night for the past four weeks. I even just left an event to check.”

I looked at her skeptically.

“Could we talk?” she asked.

“About?”

“My name is Shyla Ball Holden. I own several art galleries across the globe and I want to discuss your work.”

I had long abandoned the dreams of becoming the next big thing. I convinced myself I was content to paint the streets. But her words stirred something that had lain dormant: the desire for my name to live alongside the artists I admired.

I tilted my head to peer into the limo, but couldn’t see much. Sometimes cars still made me claustrophobic. The claustrophobia struck like lightning, I never knew when or where the walls would suddenly begin to shrink. But the woman had my attention, so I was going to take the gamble.

I sighed. “Okay, fine. But I need a window open.”

She smiled and opened the door and I slid in as she moved back to her seat. I was surprised to see Mr.GQ talking on his cellphone just beside her.

“That’s my husband. I kind of pulled him away from something important, but apparently he’s not a fan of me wandering around looking for mysterious artists in dark corners by my lonesome.”

I nodded.

“So, I am a huge fan of your work. It’s fresh, unique, full of texture and movement and light. And the way you interpret landscapes and people, it’s almost otherworldly, like a drug trip.” I had isolated myself and my work for so long, I had forgotten what it was like for someone to admire it in my presence. The last person who did that was Bird.

“Thank you.”

“What’s your name?”

I pulled down the half ski mask I wore to shield my identity. “WATT.”

She smiled. “Fair enough. I want to do an exhibit of your work in all of my galleries.”

It was too fast. It was like some Cinderella story and it didn’t feel real. My talents deserved this chance, but I still didn’t feel I did. I had blown my chance years ago. Second chances didn’t happen in real life. I had accepted my fate of living as a monk, paying penance for ruining my family and hurting Bird.

“I don’t know.”

“What is there to consider?” the husband asked. I missed that he had ended his phone conversation.

“Well, you both come up to me in the middle of the night out of the blue—”

“That’s the only way to find you,” Shyla interjected. “Trust me, if there was another way . . .”

“True, but, give me the benefit of acknowledging this is a lot to take in.”

“Yes, but I have great instincts. I know what sells. Street art is hot, you’re hot, and your style fits perfectly between high conceptual art and pure beauty. People would proudly display this on their walls. Modern art museums would eat this up. You do understand there’s a buzz around you, don’t you?”

“I don’t pay attention to those things.”

Shyla laughed to herself. “You are already a star. Everyone wants more from the mysterious WATT.”

“Wow, um . . . can I think about it?”

“Yes, but I need a way to contact you.”

“How about some insurance for both sides. I need a new piece for the office,” the husband offered.

“Oh the Kandinsky isn’t enough?” Shyla playfully snickered at her husband.

“Actually, happy early birthday,” he said. “I know you love that painting, so I am having it moved to your office. Now I have a blank spot to fill.” I watched her face morph from a look of sass to pure glee. It was clear they loved each other in a way money couldn’t buy, but I also couldn’t believe my ears—Kandinskys being swapped like trading cards.

“He had synesthesia,” I chimed.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Kandinsky. We have the same . . . gift. I can see sounds and emotions. It’s a sensory thing, my senses overlap.”

“I’ve heard of that,” the husband said. “Fascinating. Taylor, by the way. Taylor Holden.”

The name rang a bell, I searched my mental rolodex and it clicked. I had seen him on TV and magazines. He and his wife were prominent young philanthropists who traveled the Biennale and Art Basel circuit in search of new artistic talent to add to their portfolio. They couldn’t be much older than me, and the similarity in age made me trust them. Maybe because I felt we could identify with each other in some way.

“That explains so much about your work,” Shyla said, with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of an art-lover who had unlocked the hidden secret behind a piece. “So that piece up in DUMBO . . . the one with the Brooklyn Bridge, but it’s comprised of light and underneath all these shapes and colors . . .”

“Yeah, I set up shop there and played some . . . I think it was Bach. Yeah . . . Bach. That’s what the Brooklyn Bridge looks like when I’m looking at it through Bach.”

“Wow . . .” she said under her breath in amazement.

“It’s not always so literal though.”

“I love your friezes. Like a modern piece of Rome. I love trying to interpret the stories.”

“Thank you,” I nodded politely. I didn’t personally care for the recognition, at least when it came to me. I wanted the work to get the recognition. I wanted the name to get recognition. I preferred my relative solitude.

“So, I’d like to buy the first piece,” Taylor said, pulling out his phone from his jacket. “This is your guarantee, not just the money, but when people know I have the first WATT in my home, they will follow. This art collector world is full of egotistical assholes who will immediately want to out-price me to wave their cocks around.”

I laughed. He was cool, like James Dean in an Armani suit kind of cool.

“Everything I have painted is out there.” I pointed towards the window.

“Good, that means we get something fresh. We can get you the dimensions and then you create something new with your otherworldly talents.”

“I uh . . .”

Taylor leaned over and whispered something into Shyla’s ear. She grinned and nodded.

“How does one hundred thousand dollars sound?”

“One hundred thou—” I choked on the dollar amount, it was so outrageous.

“I think that’s a yes,” Shyla smiled.

“Okay, I’ll put it in escrow. I suppose you don’t have an attorney?”

“My brother,” I muttered, still in disbelief.

Taylor started typing into his phone and I turned to Shyla. “Why?” I asked.

“Because I know what it’s like for someone to see potential in me and cultivate it. And because you are going to make both of us a shit ton of money.”