Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  “My little sister, Caitlin, she was involved in a riot at her college. Something like fifty kids smashed up windows, lit things on fire. I mean fucked shit up. They tipped over a car. I guess she got cut on some glass.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “The bleeding made it look worse than it was. Anyway, when they got her to the hospital, I don't know, she was acting strange or something. They think she might be schizo.”

  The one time I saw Caitlin, she was wearing BP clothing. Did she collect the catalogs too?

  Santa is across the street, but it’s just a street kid in a red shirt juggling beanbags. The kid has a sign that reads, “I bet you $1 you will read this sign.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I hope she’ll be okay.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense. I guess schizophrenia often shows up in your early twenties. But we don’t have any family history. I don’t know. It just feels so random. First Loo and now this.”

  18.5

  Later in the week, during my lunch break, Marshall and I walk together down Marlow Street, my arm still in a sling. He has been talking endlessly about all the improvements the city has been going through. Out of all the people in my life right now, I’ve known Marshall the longest.

  “I've taken you for granted, Marshall. You know that?”

  He shrugs.

  “I know you love the city, but are you actually talking about me, how I’m getting better?”

  “Can’t I be talking about both?”

  We turn down an alley. Beside a dumpster, empty trash bags cover a refrigerator box.

  “Home sweet home,” he says.

  He lives a few blocks from my work in a cardboard box. I thought I understood his life, but I have an apartment, a steady income.

  His openness makes me want to confess. My depression has lifted, and I hang out with people outside work, yet I still feel like my new found sanity is temporary. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Marshall is the most likely to understand. “I've been seeing Santa.”

  “I see my family sometimes,” he says as if it’s no big deal.

  “I can’t stand this doubt anymore. I want confidence, but things have been precarious for so long.” He waits for me to go on, and I add, “A guy dressed as Santa caused my parent's death.”

  “That would do it.”

  “I let that go. I'm better.”

  He SNAPS his finger. “Just like that, huh? Maybe I should burn it down.”

  “What?”

  “Home sweet home. My box. Burn it so I can move on. Like you did. You moved on as if it was nothing. I could burn it down and move on like I should’ve done the first time my home burned to the ground. I'm living on the street. Look at this shit.” He nudges the box with his foot. “I thought it was on purpose. But what good? What good is all this suffering? It's nice you think you need me, Eric, but I'm sand, shifting under your feet.”

  “I’ve ignored people’s suffering.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “It does?”

  “Before you can take care of others…”

  “But I’ve been exceptionally blind when it comes to you. I thought I was such a good person because I was giving you spare change. I figured I saw you better than all those people walking by, but I was fooling myself, wasn’t I?”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I can be a selfish bastard too. I get by just fine.”

  “I don't need a rock, Marshall. Just be my friend, okay?” I squat and look into the box. There’s a ratty blanket and not much else. “Struggle is a pretty universal human experience, huh?”

  He nods.

  “It's funny, I kept thinking no one understood.”

  “Maybe they don’t.”

  “No. I just needed to be less of a narcissistic asshole. All the people at BP. I thought they lived these perfect lives. They suffer. Just like I do. Just like we all do.”

  The past month I’ve been getting to know them better. Adam self-medicates with alcohol and is only alive if he is “fighting or fucking.” Tara was a borderline nympho until she discovered Buddha, and now she’s spacey from her constant meditation. Hunter is estranged from his parents, and I think on some level hates himself for being gay. The others aren’t in any better shape.

  “Everyone's life is fucked up,” I say more to the world than to Marshall. The melancholy I feel now feels nothing like depression. It’s a sadness that connects instead of isolates.

  “Eric?” Hunter stands at the entrance to the alley. “What are you doing?”

  “Hunter!” The urge to hide the fact that I’ve been having a heart to heart with an eccentric homeless man is subsumed by the urge to have my two friends know each other. “I have someone I want you to meet.” I dash to Hunter, put a hand on his back, and urge him into the alley. “This is my good friend Marshall. Marshall, this is Hunter.”

  Hunter cautiously shakes Marshall's hand.

  “I've heard a lot about you,” Hunter says.

  It’s an understatement. Embarrassment flushes my face.

  Marshall raises his eyebrow. “You’re the gay guy.”

  “That’s right.”

  I cringe and change the subject. “Hunter wants to open his own clothing store.”

  Marshall thinks and taps his chin. “Two good spaces opened up that you ought to look at. One on Twelfth, near the waterfront, that one seems good if you’re thinking upscale. Then there’s a little place on a Hundred and Twenty-fifth, above a used record store. That one would be great if you’re thinking of a more hipster vibe. Both owners are gay and trying to help the livability of the city, so that might work in your favor when negotiating a lease.”

  Hunter looks a little stunned.

  “Marshall pays attention to the city. It’s like his hobby. You should ask him about where to eat. That’s how I found my favorite Thai place.”

  “I don’t eat out,” Marshall explains, “but I see the looks on people’s faces. I know what makes people happy. People are generous when they’re happy. The Mermaid Coffee Co. across the street from your work, until recently, it was one of the best coffee shops in the city.”

  Hunter laughs. “Yeah, until Eric quit. And where is that one girl, whatshername, you know, the short girl with the back hair. Does she work there anymore? She made the best vanilla lattes.”

  “Her name was Loo,” I say. “No, she’s gone.”

  “Well, she is missed. I can tell you that.”

  As Marshall and Hunter talk about the best coffee in the city (Outpost Café is high on the list), it strikes me how strange it is when the people from separate parts of your life interact for the first time. We all prejudge. We all reevaluate given the chance.

  The more I hang out with my coworkers, the less I miss the inside of the catalog. Real people get on my nerves, but they’re actually great, because they’re like me, flawed and uncertain, trying to make the best of a messy life. Even JuanCarlos, Tara, and their lovey-dovey antics have grown on me. They fight. They make up. They’re just people trying their best.

  I saw myself as separate from the world. Not only was that perception making me depressed and suicidal, it simply wasn’t true. Even at my darkest hour, I had countless connections. Depression just blinded me to them.

  Tara often talks about the “interconnectedness” of things. Like everyone, she wants to be heard and validated, and showing her genuine interest goes a long way. Human connection can be surprisingly passive. Often it takes more effort to keep people away. Tara talks. I read between the lines. Her complexities present themselves as long as I pay attention.

  Tara and JuanCarlos invite me to an apartment warming party to meet some of their friends. Instead of living all in my head and obsessing over my insecurities, I observe and listen. A game of Smash Brothers gets wild as most of the people use it as a drinking game. ANTHONY, a tall skinny guy, flirts with me, coming on pretty strong. It’s flattering, and though I’m not that into him, we end up fooling around in the apar
tment complex’s laundry room. It’s meaningless fun, no angst involved. His care with my rugby injury adds a tenderness that the experience wouldn’t have had otherwise. Once back home, I almost regret not exchanging numbers.

  A month later in a garden supply and greenhouse run by inner-city youth, Tara, JuanCarlos, Hunter, and I browse houseplants. The front of the building has an impressive living wall, two stories high. The kids, as young as sixteen, install walls like that all over the city, even some upstate. It makes me feel like I’m wasting my life. I need to get back into film and make something of myself.

  I love the damp earth smell and fragrant sweet herbs, especially the basil. Maybe I could have a herb garden.

  “Nothing too exotic.” Tara looks at the care instructions more than at the actual plants. “We don't want Eric to kill it the first day.”

  “If all goes well,” Hunter says, “maybe he can get a puppy next.”

  “God,” JuanCarlos says. “You guys act like he’s a recovering addict. What he needs to do is get laid.” He doesn’t know, of course, I fooled around with one of his friends last month.

  I no longer wear a sling, but my shoulder still feels weak (I continue to baby it when lifting weights). It gives me an excuse to avoid playing rugby again. Playing video games with JuanCarlos and Tara is more my speed anyway. We have fun, though JuanCarlos is mostly too busy to play. I often help him study while we wait for Tara to get off work. College no longer seems like the solution to all my problems. He’s plummeting into debt, has no free time, and still doesn’t know what he’ll do with his degree. Tara talks about how his life is out of balance. He agrees, but what can he really do about it?

  He stands off to the side with his arms folded. He has been preoccupied all day. He got an A on the essay he was worried about, so I doubt it’s school that’s worrying him this time.

  He gives me a strange look I can’t read. “Eric, come with me.”

  I'm apprehensive.

  “Come on,” he insists.

  I go with him to the other side of the greenhouse. He stops in front of a long bin of squash plants, and I feel one of the prickly leaves. Maybe I should start a vegetable garden.

  He pulls a tiny box from his pocket and shows me a modest engagement ring. “Will she say yes?”

  I’m more than a little surprised he’s asking for my opinion, but I’m not surprised he’s already thinking about proposing.

  He gets closer to me. “Tara's so liberated. I'm just this naïve Catholic boy. God, I'm an idiot, aren’t I?”

  “You're not an idiot.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “No. You're just in love. I'm jealous.”

  “I should wait until I graduate, huh? Until I have a real job.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Take a breath.”

  He takes a breath, though it doesn’t seem to help any.

  “You don’t need to rush anything, but at the same time, you’re just scared. It’s cute, but as Tara would say, ‘Now is the only time to live your life.’ If you love her, if you want to marry her, you should go for it.”

  He nods stiffly; his shoulders held high.

  I hope what I said helps. I want them to work out. They’re good people.

  Unlike the main documentary, “The Archive” lets the viewer see the raw footage unedited. There’s no manipulation and no message, no editing tricks, just the footage, mostly captured in and around one Brief Pose location. . . .

  The third video in “The Archive,” shot in the alley behind Brief Pose, secretly documents a shipment as it’s unloading from a BP truck.

  In the distance, Tara signs for the delivery. The shot is from near the ground, as if Bram, the cameraman, is crouching. As the truck pulls away, Tara sees him filming her. She seems unfazed by this, as if she already knew Bram was there, and motions him over. “Come on. If you’re going to film it, you better get over here.”

  The shot points at the ground and his tennis shoes while he runs. The image jostles as he gets into place. When the camera lifts back up, we are through the back door and in the BP stockroom. This is the first footage from inside the store. The shot does little to establish the room, but everything is orderly, in sharp contrast to how it appears later.

  Tara opens the crate with a crowbar as her boyfriend JuanCarlos watches. They both look into the container, but the shot doesn’t reveal what’s inside. Instead, it centers in on Tara.

  A mischievous smile lights up her face, and she says, “Eric is gonna flip.” (Sartain, 102-105)

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Empty Room

  19.1

  Over the course of the week, I repeatedly go back to the greenhouse and get to know some of the kids working there. It’s amazing how much of the city opens up when you can use public transportation. EDUARDO GONZALEZ stands out because he wears BP clothing. If I were going to make a short doc about this place, he’d probably be the anchor. The kids here know a ton more about plants than I ever will. They’re inspiring. Honestly, it feels good to have my money go to them instead of Brief Pose.

  My emotional state is better. My living environment should reflect that renewal. The problem is my apartment is finite, and now houseplants overwhelm the space. It’s not as cluttered as when I had the endless BP clothing and the catalogs and collages, but still.

  The walls have a new coat of paint. A Lawrence of Arabia poster has replaced Hellraiser. Sorry, Clive Barker, but the hell priest was getting me down. The blinds are opened every morning, so the plants get light. It’s all an improvement, but not ideal.

  I wish plants needed to be watered more often; I have to pace myself, or I‘ll drown them. It’s just heartening to be taking care of living things that are flourishing this well.

  Marshall reads a medical journal on the loveseat. He’s staying with me until he can get a job and find his own place. I don’t know how long that will take and don’t care. My place isn’t big enough for two people, but a cardboard box isn’t big enough for one.

  Actual food fills my cupboards and refrigerator. At first, it was for Marshall, but the food was there, and my appetite was returning, and now I eat things. I make meals a few times a week, spaghetti or lasagna, nothing too complicated. But still, real dinner with another human being!

  It’s not all rainbows. Marshall can be a handful. He loves reorganizing my knives (Can you say creepy?), but in some ways his quirks make me feel sane. Seeing Dirty Santa out of the corner of my eye is never as big a deal as Marshall’s night terrors. He once thought I was engulfed in flames and doused me in dish water while I slept. I’m getting used to his antics. If I had a bit more space, it would hardly notice them.

  I crush a basil leaf between my thumb and index finger and hold it to my nose. My senses were stolen a long time ago, and I’m grateful they’re finally back. What could I use basil for? Pizza. Authentic Italian pizza. With marinara. Fresh mozzarella chunks melted to perfection. My mouth waters. I need to learn to make pizza dough. Or maybe it’s enough to smell the herb, really appreciate it, and then go to the pizzeria two blocks down the street.

  I step out onto the fire escape, into the sun and the cold city air. Winter-resistant plants line the grate and break fire code, giving Marshall legitimate reason for concern. Next to the front room’s two windows are another two windows, these plastered with newspapers and leading into the bedroom my landlord uses for storage. Like a pack-rat, he stores things that he never uses. Maybe he’s hiding a dead body and plans to frame me for the murder once I’ve lived here long enough.

  On impulse, I try to open one of the newspaper-covered windows, even though I know it’s probably locked.

  The window opens a crack with a harsh squeak. It would be so nice to have an actual bedroom! Maybe I could help my landlord move the stuff to a storage unit. It’s a struggle, but the window slides up, revealing the coveted room.

  I thought it would be floor to ceiling boxes. I imagined piles of newspapers, magazines, furniture, filing
cabinets, and clear garbage bags of men’s clothing. What I didn’t imagine was an empty room. Dust covers a hardwood floor. That’s it.

  Why would my landlord keep me out of an empty room? I could have been using it this whole time! Rage makes me want to hurl a plant off the fire escape.

  I duck back into my main room and fall over onto my mattress.

  “Something wrong?”

  I spring to my feet and charge through the room, almost stepping on Marshall’s feet. “I’ll be right back,” I say.

  I knock hard on my landlord’s door. I knock some more.

  The door opens. My landlord has a dazed look like he just woke up. It’s mid-afternoon. He wears an open robe, boxers, and a tank top. Curly chest hair sticks out, much of it white, even though he can’t be much over forty.

  “Why would you do that to me?”

  “Eric? What are you talking about? What’s up?”

  “The bedroom in my apartment. You said you were using it for storage, but it’s empty.”

  He scratches his head. “I told you not to look in there.”

  My heavy breathing lets him know that I’m furious. I could punch his stupid face. But I think of Tara and her lessons on cultivating peace.

  He shrugs. “I didn’t have a cheap studio available, so I just locked the bedroom so I could charge you less. I was doing you a favor.”

  “A favor, really?”

  He’s offended by my skepticism and retorts, “You were a mess. I felt bad for you.”

  “Fine, thanks. I’m going to use the bedroom now.”

  “Can you pay me more rent?”

  “Nope.”

  We stare each other down.

  “Whatever. Use the goddamn room. See if I care. Don’t expect any more favors.” He slams the door before I can respond.

  I go back to my room, riled up, but not sure why; I got what I wanted. I motion Marshall to come with me out onto the fire escape.

  “Something I should see?” he asks.

  He sees the open window, climbs into the empty room, and lies down on the floor like he’s about to make dust angels.