Men of All Seasons Box Set

by R. W. Clinger

  Of course, Kade attempted to set me up with dates, men my age he believed were possible candidates to become my husband. Sometimes, I spent the night with those website designers, chemistry professors, or professional volleyball players. And sometimes, the sex felt unbelievably natural. That didn’t mean that one of his discovered Toms, Dicks, or Harrys had a ticket to walk into my life and become my lover or husband. I chose to be single for a purpose, protecting my life, soul, and heart. The door to romance couldn’t be opened. The key to such a structure had been lost somehow, someway, but I didn’t seem to mind.

  * * * *

  The planned trip to Haven Island to interview the famous ashtray artist became obsessive for me. I packed a bag for overnight, called my parents, told them where my traveling would take me, and informed Kade that I would be leaving in the morning, driving my Prius northeast. Thereafter, I obtained a good night’s sleep, dreaming alone in my queen-sized bed.

  That night, I dreamed of demons, snakes in high grass, bombs flying into skyscrapers, rapes in back alleys, and necks being sliced open with sharp knives while visiting London. A string of nightmares followed me to bed and took over my mind. I woke up every half hour, screaming and sweating. And then I fell asleep and dreamed again, experiencing yet another nightmare. My night became cyclical and unstoppable; somewhat like a recording that kept playing over and over.

  I made it out of the dreams safely, surprised to be alive by morning. Dawn surfaced in the distance, and I sat up in bed, disbelieving my night of horrendous nightmares. Sweating and perplexed, I stretched and yawned, listened to thunder outside my downtown city apartment. Lightning streaked through the heavens. A downpour ensued, spilling to the earth.

  No matter what the weather entailed or how rested I felt, I climbed out of bed, taking on the day. Passing on a shower, I brushed my teeth, fixed my hair, and made a cup of coffee. Within the hour, I climbed behind the wheel of my royal blue Prius and started driving to Erie, a strange island called Haven, and a famous ashtray artist named Finn O’Rourke.

  * * * *

  My knowledge of Finn O’Rourke lacked emotional substance, although I did have numerous facts of the artist’s past, a litany of dates, extraordinary events, and historical affairs. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any knowledge of Finn’s mental facilities, likes, and dislikes. One of my personal goals entailed a breakdown of the man’s poignant side, learning the ins and outs, and finer threads, of the artist. As far as I knew, the world lacked substantial text of Finn’s sentimental and emotional side because he had declined any and all interviews in the last few years. Not only did I want to break that wall of communication down, I also had planned to learn everything I could about Finn that his fans and public hadn’t learned during his unstoppable and flighty career. Until then, I had limited biographical facts regarding the man and very little information about his personal life.

  Finn Fitzgerald O’Rourke was born on August 21, 1975, in a small Columbus, Ohio, neighborhood called Tempson. There, Maeve and Tanner O’Rourke raised their little boy, an only child, with pride and joy. Both were enamored with their son, spoiling him to his core. Finn had his mother’s brown curly hair and his father’s striking hazel eyes. Although somewhat on the shorter side compared to his classmates, Finn would grow into a six-two-framed man with very little fat and a cowboy’s sexy smile. He attended Tempson grade school, and then the town’s middle school, above average with his grades and social skills.

  An article in the Columbus Review told me there were always moments in Finn’s childhood when he desired a sibling. A sister or brother could have filled the void of boredom in his youth. His parents were always talking about their family-owned business, The O’Rourke, a hotel and restaurant on East Main Street by Franklin University in Columbus. The O’Rourke supplied their family with funds to survive throughout all of Finn’s childhood. Unfortunately, the parents died in a car accident on Finn’s nineteenth birthday, and The O’Rourke closed, taken over by the state because of a pending mortgage. Had Finn not been the only child of Maeve and Tanner, he and his sibling could have continued running the business and attempt to pull the establishment out of debt. Nothing of the sort happened, though.

  In truth, Finn never liked the hotel and restaurant business and became unaffected when the state had sunk its claws into the establishment and took it away. At twenty, attending classes at Marlton University, he became obsessed with glassblowing. Thereafter, he began designing his art career and obtaining a degree in art and design. Outside his classes, he worked with Rod Helsinger, a professional glassblower twice Finn’s age, and became the man’s helpful apprentice and lover.

  Together, the two men created such pieces called Dove in Sky #3, Hospital Bed, Enchanting Forest #7, and Lucifer at Twilight. For two years, under Helsinger’s lust, care, and firm instruction, Finn learned the ins and out of glassblowing: how to use shears, scoring knives, mashers; choosing batches of glass; comprehending various furnace types; gathering iron; threading and shaping; using different yokes; and using annealers. Then Finn graduated from Marlton, and Helsinger set him free, releasing him into the world.

  Then all hell broke loose in Finn’s life. He discovered drugs, alcohol, and men. Setting his work aside, temporarily abandoning his glassblowing, Finn O’Rourke became a heavy drinker, used an assortment of drugs, and jumped from one man’s bed to the next.

  According to a small article in Northeastern Art of Pennsylvania, the author, Mitchell Bain, wrote, “Finn O’Rourke turned into a bad boy. Someone who couldn’t be trusted. Drugs and alcohol were his vices, along with handsome men. Finn became unruly, obsessed with sex. Long-term relationships were a nuisance in his life, and he avoided them at all costs. Most men called him a player or fuck toy. And rarely did a man call him romantic when in his youth. Frankly, sex became mandatory in his life, something he couldn’t live without and…”

  Ex-lover, Rod Helsinger had a hand in saving Finn O’Rourke’s life. Strung out on meth and amphetamines, Finn hunted the glass blower down in New York City for money so he could buy drugs and alcohol. Rod declined any monetary charity to Finn. Instead, Rod chose to open his home, pulling Finn into his life to help him. Being a gentleman, lover, and a good friend to Finn, Rod allowed Finn to stay in his apartment, fed the man, and cared for him for almost a year, until Finn became healthy, capable, and willing to stand on his own. Had Rod not helped Finn, Finn would have fallen from grace and died. Most likely, Finn would have had a string of vodka shots and overdosed on a street drug or contracted AIDS.

  Rod and Finn worked together, creating many glass pieces: bowls, glasses, fashionable dinner plates, vases, and rare animal ornaments blown from an arrangement of vibrant glass hues. Each piece was hand-signed and numbered. By word of mouth, Rod and Finn’s works became popular, but it just so happened to be Finn’s ashtray pieces that brought him the most attention. Finn took it upon himself to create a thirty-piece statue of a life-sized David. Each ashtray could be removed from the statue and be used.

  Titled David of Color, the work landed Finn in the art world, and Finn became unstoppable as an artist. His ashtrays sold in the millions, and he became a success story overnight. Finn continued to create new ashtray sculptures throughout the next year: Weeping Boy #4, Lonely Woman, and Child at Sleep #6. Magazines labeled him a prodigy, an artist with a magnificent eye for the manipulation of glass and one of the decade’s most self-interested artists. Finn turned into a powerhouse in the art circles of New York City and Paris. Overzealous regarding his career, he sold his ashtray trademark to various companies that created calendars, post cards, puzzles, pens, mugs, coffee table books, and T-shirts. His glass ashtray sculptures became cash cows for him, creating millions in his bank account. His name turned into a household item around the world. People of all classes recognized his ashtray art. Finn had had the world by the tail.

  Almost ten years ago, Finn’s life turned into a wreck. No one knew the details of why Finn O’Rourke became a recl
use. Public documents stated that he had paid eight million dollars for Haven Island in Lake Erie, which covered one-point-five miles. The magazine, Architectural Eye, provided its readers with articles about the island, stating that it had running water and electricity. The website, Psychologypop, proclaimed that Finn had had a nervous breakdown, losing all faith in his ashtray sculptures, and decided to hide away on Haven Island. Other online sources called Finn obtuse regarding the world around him, haphazardly misplaced, and not of the human race. Most journalists agreed that Finn had simply lost his mind and decided to go off grid; not that anyone in the media world blamed him.

  Visitors were prohibited on Haven Island. Finn had the reputation of scaring all journalists away, which always ended with him threatening them with cussing and a loaded rifle. Other interlopers on the island were scolded for bothering Finn and told to leave. Finn punched two reporters in the mouth in the last six months; neither sued him but could have, if they wanted. Seven other trespassers were arrested in the last year, three of them being reporters and four being super fans of his amazing work. Truth told, Finn just wanted to be alone on his island, reclusive and hidden from the world. But some people just couldn’t understand that, of course.

  * * * *

  October 23

  As a journalist, my job rarely involved serious risk. Simply, I gathered facts and constructed sentences and paragraphs, creating one thousand-word articles for Artist Trend. Never had I been placed into a position concerning guns, warfare, or physical violence. Danger didn’t lurk around every corner. Although spying could have certainly been a trait and issue in my career, it didn’t transpire. Never. Frankly, the job presented very few exciting moments. Interviewing artists, art critics, and art curators became dull in my life and unexceptionally mind-numbing. Truth told, I did it for the paychecks, all of which were signed by Tommy Tudor.

  At thirty-five, I wanted to settle down and write a novel. Something mysterious and dark, with just a hint of romance. An on-the-edge-of-one’s-seat type of read with thirty-sixty chapters and ninety thousand words. Although I didn’t have an outline completed for the book, I did have a few chapters written down and a string of characters within the folds of my mind: a drug-addicted racecar driver, his whore of a girlfriend named Betina, and Betina’s wealthy father, the rude and obnoxious oil tycoon. Thus far, I had forty-five pages completed, lacked inspiration, and mostly sat staring at the piece, unable to continue its growth. In the meantime, I kept the designed characters inside my memory, called them very close friends, and planned on using them in the near future, once the creative bug struck me again.

  * * * *

  Autumn rain, wind, and leaves splattered against the Prius’ windshield. I flicked the wipers on and watched them zoom left to right. The window to my right looked cracked ever so slightly, and I smelled the true essence of the season: a funneling of rotting summer, a wet crispness in the air, and winter’s chilly dome approaching, just around the corner. Autumn had turned out to be one of my favorite seasons, and I enjoyed its colorful spirit. How interesting it felt to observe the change of seasons and drop in the weather, instruments that probably caused upset in Mother Nature’s thinking. The fun of summer had come to a close, and winter would soon make an appearance.

  No matter the beautiful conditions of the day, I became lost on the backroads near Lake Erie and Haven Island. Rover Road turned into Mass Road, weaving left and right. Deep woods sat to my left, climbing upwards along what I believed could have become a mountainous peak. According to Reginald, my computerized navigational device inside the Prius, he instructed me to make a right off Mass and climb part of the mountain on Steppingford Road. Steppingford would lead me to Asher Point Road, a mile-long dirt road that led to an entrance to Lake Erie and one of Finn’s available boats. Thereafter, I had been told to park along Asher Point Road, climb into a small, flat-bottom boat with my single bag, and row myself to Haven Island, covering a distance of one mile on the lake.

  To no avail, Reginald and I couldn’t find Steppingford Road. Reginald insisted I should turn around. Calmly, I cussed him out for being an idiot, knowing that he was wrong. I continued driving northeast, along the dirt-covered mountainous road, and attempted to find Steppingford Road for the next forty minutes, keeping my mental composure together. In the end, I never did find Steppingford Road. Somehow, some way, I discovered Asher Point Road and headed directly to the lake, closer to a boat that would sail me to Haven Island.

  Asher Point Road wasn’t a safe road to travel over. Massive rocks jutted up and out of the earth. Fallen trees were askew, preventing a straight pathway to the shore and available boat. The wind and rain didn’t help in the least, and a family of deer bolted in front of me, which caused me to slam on the Prius’ brakes. The road curved left to right along the precipitous landscape. The vehicle creeped along its narrow width. At some points, skeletal-like post-season limbs on blackberry bushes brushed against all the doors and snaked around to the Prius’ rear bumper.

  Eventually, I made it to the end of Asher Point Road. Erie Lake opened in front of me. Its dark blue-green waves looked rough and uncontrollable. Bolts of yellow-gold lightning danced within the heavens. Rain poured down from the cloudy sky. Haven Island sat in the distance, a mile out on the lake, awaiting my arrival. Trees, rocks, and a sandy shore were visible. I could not see Finn’s two buildings that I had read about in recent articles concerning the artist’s life on the island. His log cabin and barn-shaped studio were hidden, concealed by northeastern trees.

  I parked the Prius on the right side of Asher Point Road and climbed out. Then I retrieved my single bag from the trunk, locked the vehicle, and found the small green boat next to the lake. The flat-bottom fishing boat stayed positioned between two massive rocks for protection. The rocks secured it on shore when the lake’s tides rose near dark. After setting my single piece of luggage aside, I squeezed between one of the rocks and the boat, removing the boat from its home.

  Lifting the boat out from between the rocks proved difficult. I manhandled the aluminum structure with both arms, cocked my legs apart, and eventually, after much conviction to get the job done, squirmed the boat out of its dock. Once the boat let free of the oversized rocks, I placed it on the sandy shore, dragged it to the water, and plopped my single bag inside, near its bow. A narrow seat at the stern of the boat welcomed my bottom after I pushed the boat into the lake. I found the single oar in the bottom of the vehicle and used it to the best of my abilities to row to Haven Island. Fortunately, similar to my father, I was long-armed and found it easy. One stroke turned into a dozen as I attempted to steer the craft north, heading to Haven Island and the ashtray artist’s home. I feared drowning in the lake. A tempestuous wave could have easily lifted the bow of the fishing boat, flipped the boat over, and thrown me into the lake’s choppy waves. I would have flailed my arms and legs and attempted to stay afloat. Unfortunately, I didn’t have swimming trophies from my high school and college days. Therefore, drowning could have been considered a high risk.

  Fortunately, the boat rocked back and forth on the lake’s surface, and up and down, staying afloat. Through the rain and wind, I navigated my way to the island, rowing like a champion in the summer Olympics. Thunder rocked the sky, and lightning flashed on and off above me. The lake’s surface glowed a bright yellow hue, and the tempest’s roar echoed within my eardrums, keeping me alert.

  I drew closer and closer to the island. Haven resembled something out of a fantasy world: high peeks covered in green trees with massive trunks; rocks along its sandy shoreline; a gap in the woods, which I presumed led to the artist’s cabin and barn-like studio. I imagined massive-winged dragons hanging over the island, breathing fire. Or alien spacecraft circling the artist and his abode. I thought of flying pirate ships, house-sized zeppelins, and giant mosquitoes hovering over Haven Island, inhabiting Finn’s property, invading.

  Exhausted, feeling the muscles in my shoulders cramp, I managed to steer the boat
straight ahead, approaching the distant island and my subject of interest. Every bone in my body ached, and I became a drowned rat. Rain poured down and over my head, wetting my jeans and jacket. A chill moved through my shoulders, mixed with the pain, and then down and along my spine.

  As usual, Kade Supine called me at the most inopportune time. I felt my cellphone vibrate in my left pocket, listened to it ring in the rain and thunder, and thought to myself: He’s calling to check on me. Any friend would. Answering the call wasn’t possible due to my rowing, though. Had I stopped, the flat-bottom boat would have veered to the right and missed Haven. Instead of placing myself into even more danger, I ignored Kade’s call and decided to contact him at a later time.

  The island looked stunning in the afternoon mist of rain, fog, and flashes of lightning. Foreboding came over me, warning of an uncontrollable emergency that I believed would happen. Greyness shadowed the island, creating the perfect MGM or Universal thriller. Thunder wreaked havoc within the layer of dark clouds, offering a sense of clandestine terror. And lightning continued to fill the day with exuberant bolts of blinding light that reminded me of fireworks on the previous Fourth of July.

  No matter how uncanny and sinister that moment seemed, I couldn’t turn back. The lake had made it quite clear that it would have me if I dared such a task. Numerous vacationers and lake visitors had drowned at the hand of its torrential waters. People hadn’t ever taken the lake and its undertow seriously. I didn’t want to test my fate, of course, and continued to row, closing in on the rocky shore, the island’s many pines and oaks, and whatever dangers lay ahead for me, including the mysterious and dashing Mr. Finn O’Rourke.