Men of All Seasons Box Set

by R. W. Clinger

  He stepped two feet ahead of me, fully opened both doors, reached inside the barn with his right arm, flicked on a light switch, and illuminated the barn’s interior with a rainbow of hues. Bright yellows, blues, oranges, reds, and purples filled his art studio. Glass ashtrays of assorted sizes glowed within the room, stacked upon each other. Fruit-shaped ashtrays. Bunnies. Birds. Dogs. Fish. Loaves of breads. Letters. Number-shaped ashtrays. Churches. Snow globes. Tea pots. There were over a thousand differently-shaped ashtrays of splendid color inside the studio on shelves and in stacks on the floor, just waiting to be used in his projects.

  In the center of the studio stood two unfinished and human-sized sculptures—one shaped like a blowfish and the other one a hot air balloon—both of which were works-in-progress. To the right of the pieces stood a bench with the artist’s tools and an insulated fire brick glory hole. Behind the glory hole stood an upright, front-loading annealing oven. Both units were connected to needle and butterfly valves, which were emergency off levers.

  I asked him while looking at the blowfish and hot air balloon sculptures, “Are these your two latest creations?”

  “They are. I like to work on more than one piece at a time. It keeps my mind motivated and my attention in the game.”

  “Can I touch the blowfish?”

  He nodded.

  I stepped up to the fish and rolled fingertips over its purple left fin: smooth, cold, and delicate. “It’s stunning.”

  “Majestic,” he said. “Something like you.”

  I turned to him and grinned. “Stop flirting with me. I’m trying to do a job here.”

  “Are you saying I’m distracting you from your work?”

  “You are. Not that I think you can help yourself.”

  I attempted to count the hand-blown ashtrays that comprised the piece of art, but lost track.

  He stepped up to my left side, pulled one of the ashtrays out of the sculpture, near its tailfin, and said, “There’s fifty-six ashtrays that make up the piece.”

  “Amazing and beautiful.”

  “I call it Fin Number One,” he said, chuckling.

  “Is it a sculpture for yourself?”

  “Yes. That is, unless I decide to sell it. Sometimes I get bored with them and call a gallery in New York City that I work with and—”

  “The McConnel Gallery,” I interrupted him, knowing its owner, curator, and a few artists who supplied the gallery with their works on a monthly basis, all of which sold in the high thousands.

  “That’s the place. I’ve worked with them since the beginning of my career.”

  “And your agent is Rue Downing, the beautiful blond with Marilyn Monroe looks?”

  “The one and only. She takes care of me. I have nothing but respect for her. I owe her the world. She’s been with me since the beginning.”

  “Rue has been with you for how long?” I asked.

  “Over ten years. She’s the first person I call when I want to sell a sculpture or a dozen ashtrays.”

  “Your ashtrays alone sell for seventeen thousand and up. Your sculptures sell near eight hundred thousand dollars and higher, each.”

  “On a good day,” he said. And then he asked me, “What’s your favorite color, Mr. Best?”

  “Green. Any shade. Why?”

  He walked over to a stack of L-shaped ashtrays and removed two blue ones from the top. The third one down just happened to be an emerald green hue, which he passed to me. “This is a little gift from me to you. Just so you remember your time on Haven Island with me and this interview.”

  I admired the ashtray, feeling its rounded edges in both palms, judging it at almost two pounds of glass, heavy and solid, and one of the most beautiful greens I had ever seen. Then I joked, “I could kill someone with this.”

  He chuckled. “The prized weapon. You can’t go wrong with one of my ashtrays.”

  “This is the most beautiful gift. Thank you, Finn. I really don’t know if I can accept it. Its value is high.”

  “Don’t insult me by not taking it. You’re not a smoker, though, are you?”

  “I’m not.”

  “That makes two of us. Isn’t it ironic that I’m famous for creating glass ashtrays and I’m not a smoker?”

  “It’s the epitome of ironic.”

  He moved up to me then, grazed my T-shirt-covered chest with fingertips and admitted, “Damn, it’s hard to keep my hands off you. I did my homework on you before agreeing to you visiting Haven Island. Plus, I admit that I developed a crush on you before even meeting you.”

  “So you stalked me?”

  He chuckled and nodded. “A little. But nothing psychotic like you see in the movies or the mysteries I read.”

  I clutched the green ashtray to my chest and teased, “Good to know, Finn. I feel a little safer now and will spend the night.”

  He pried the L-shaped ashtray away from me, set it back where he found it in his studio, and said, “You can get this later. I have something else I want to show you. No one’s ever seen it before.”

  Trusting him, finding him altruistic and extraordinary, I told him, “Show me all your secrets, Finn O’Rourke. I’m dying to learn more about you.”

  On the opposite side of the studio’s doors hung a black wool curtain from a rusted, expandable curtain rod. Finn told me to follow him through the curtain and down a flight of narrow, rickety, and wooden stairs.

  Over his right shoulder, he warned, “It’s dangerous, so be careful.”

  I balanced myself by placing one hand on his strong shoulder and the other on the slim railing. Slowly, I followed him into the darkness, unafraid, trusting him, and excited all at the same time.

  “I built this myself,” he said, his voice echoing on our dark decent. “Don’t even ask me why. I just wanted to do something different.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, he flicked on a light, illuminating a glass tunnel. Seven feet of open circular space surrounded us as we stood side by side at the bottom of the wooden steps. Swirls of pink, turquoise, rose madder, and lime glass comprised the tunnel. Its surface felt smooth and chilled under my touch. Cool air blew into my face, but it wasn’t irritating or shocking.

  “What is this?” I asked, surprised with the sight around me, captivated by the underground, glass tunnel. “And how long did it take you to make?”

  He looked around at his prized creation. “It leads back to the cabin. You’ll see. I built it for more privacy. It took about seven years to complete.”

  “It’s all hand-blown by you?” I admired the bubbles and spirals of color on the tunnel walls, all smooth and soft-looking, although they were hard glass.

  “Every inch of this tunnel is my doing.”

  “I’m speechless,” I admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Come on,” he said, tugging my right arm, pulling me deeper into the tunnel. “Our travels are just getting started, my new friend.”

  The all-glass tunnel curved to the right approximately fifteen feet. Finn walked me to a patio-sized table with two chairs. The set looked constructed out of heavy and thick glass. He told me to sit down, and he had a seat across from me.

  “This is where I come to read sometimes. The light is a rainbow, so I admit that I don’t last very long here, but it’s soothing.”

  “It feels like we’re in a giant bubble of many colors,” I said, taking the curved and glass tunnel in, absorbing the many hues around us.

  “It’s my place away from the island.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so spectacular. I’m still in awe that you designed and hand-crafted this out of glass all by yourself.”

  “Trust me, it wasn’t easy. But I loved every minute while creating it. Never in my life had I felt so at peace while designing the tunnel, and I still feel at peace now, after its construction.”

  “You’re quite talented,” I told him. “I’m sort of blown away by your skills.”

  He winked at me, reached acros
s the colorful table for one of my hands, and cupped it between his own. “Ask me a few more questions.”

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re getting off on my interrogation.”

  “Some guys like to talk about themselves. Maybe I’m one of them.”

  Maybe he was, but he didn’t come across as such a man. Rather, I took him as charming, sweet, and a man who liked his privacy. He seemed flawless, actually, besides his past with drugs, alcohol, and sex. Plus, he seemed genuine, easy to talk with, and he made me feel comfortable in his presence, even when he felt it necessary to flirt with me.

  In truth, I had a boyish crush on the artist, just as he had one for me, even if we were from two different worlds, money brackets, and livelihoods. None of that seemed to matter when it came to crushes. No matter what our lives entailed, we had a connection that couldn’t be denied; an unclear but romantic spark from the very first minute when I arrived on his island and he pointed his Colt 45 at the rear of my head. Could such a rough and masculine action be considered sexy? I doubted, but that didn’t matter. We seemed to connect as the artist and the interviewer, enjoying the afternoon and evening, alone on Haven Island, just the two of us.

  We talked for the next twenty minutes. Finn did most of the questioning, reversing our roles. He asked about my city life in Columbus, my boss, and my best friend, Kade Supine. He learned what kinds of books I liked to read, my favorite meals, and where I vacationed.

  I became somewhat of a bumbling idiot regarding my answers, unconventionally buzzed from the vodka shots we had shared in his living room. My answers were long and windy, and almost sounded unnatural. But Finn didn’t care or realize just how long they really were. He glowed with a smile, caught with me in the rainbow of hues around us and interested in what I had to share with him; the gritty details of my city life, far far away from Haven Island and his glass tunnel.

  * * * *

  Eventually, our conversation ended with Finn asking me, “What do you say we go back to the cabin and have another shot of vodka?”

  “I’d rather like that,” I said, craving another drink with him. I wanted to learn everything about his artistic world, inside and out, and I enjoyed it at the same time.

  We stood from the glass table and chairs, and I followed him through the colorful chamber of glass. The tunnel curved more to the right, circling back to the cabin, or somewhere in the deep woods of the island, or to his barn-shaped studio. Honestly, I didn’t know where the underground tunnel led, but I couldn’t help from feeling giddy, intrigued, and enlightened to discover where the tunnel ended.

  Finn walked us to a set of blue and yellow glass stairs. Ten steps led to a wooden door. “Be careful. Sometimes the steps are slick. I don’t want you to fall and kill yourself.”

  I continued to trust him and followed him up the glass stairwell. Part of me felt as if I had been thrown into a J.K. Rowling or Lewis Carrol novel, in search of a magic wand or mad hatter. A rational portion of my brain clarified that the glass stairs were real, as well as Finn O’Rourke, and only I happened to be privy to his underground world.

  At the top of the stairs, Finn opened the wooden door. To my surprise, we were back inside the cabin, stepping into an opened pantry in his small kitchen, left of the table where we enjoyed his salty beef stew and chunks of thick bread as a meal.

  “Home sweet home,” Finn said, exiting the pantry and walking into the kitchen. “What did you think of that adventure?”

  “Blown away and nothing I have remotely imagined or dreamed about. It was amazing. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Your readers and the fans of my work will love it.”

  “I promise to do you justice,” I said, wishing I could have taken a few photographs of his underground glass tunnel and studio.

  “I’m sure you will.” He escorted me into his living room for another shot or two of vodka and more conversation.

  * * * *

  We spent another two hours talking about his interests and things he despised. Our conversation led to his sexual secrets, addictions, and how he sometimes didn’t like being a loner in the world, but really couldn’t help it.

  We drank more vodka shots and chatted about his artist shows in New York City, San Francisco, Miami, Paris, and other cities on the planet.

  I asked him, “Doesn’t your agent want you there?”

  He shook his head. “They sell better when I’m not around. I have a team that sells my work for me. Rue Downing is in charge of the team. There’s no need for me to leave the island. Besides, I’m so successful now, I don’t care if they sell or not. My bank account proves my accomplishments. It sounds like I’m bragging, but I’m not.”

  I understood everything he proceeded to tell me. For the last six years, he had been one of the most successful artists, earning enough to have his name in Forbes. Finn could stay in bed all day, every day, and make twice his fortune, selling his ashtrays and ashtray sculptures all around the world.

  “Do you feel that you’re humble?”

  “I really do. I’ve never taken advantage of my art and what I’ve created with glass. Some people, particularly critics, would disagree with me. But that’s why we have critics. Someone has to hate on the planet and get paid to do it, right?” He paused, consumed another shot of vodka, and blinked a number of times. “Let’s talk about you, Chad Best. What are your interests?”

  “Reading fiction in the mornings with a cup of coffee. Writing a novel that’s going nowhere. Traveling around the United States. That’s just to name a few things.”

  “And what about your dislikes?” He looked interested in what I had to say, wide-eyed and listening.

  “I can’t stand strawberries, rap music, and the musical Hamilton.”

  He laughed. “What about sports? Do you play anything?”

  “Some football with my buddies. A little baseball in the summer.”

  “Do you ski?”

  I shook my head. “Never. Although I love the snow, I’m not into winter sports.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Now, tell me if you think you’re humble. What’s your answer?”

  “I think I’m decent, understanding, and fair.”

  “Does that make you humble, though, Chad?”

  “As humble as the next guy, I guess.”

  He poured us another shot of vodka. “I want to make a toast.”

  “Go for it. You have me right where I want to be, and I’m all ears.”

  He lifted his shot glass to mine, steadied his view on my face, and winked at me. “To our new friendship. You and me.”

  We drank our shots, settled in our seats, and talked for another hour about my daily life in Columbus, his obsession with Margaret Atwood novels, my liking for chocolate ice cream, his weakness for swimming in the lake, and my fondness for traveling to foreign places where I didn’t know how to speak the languages.

  Again, I thought our conversation light and enjoyable, easy between us. And again, he told me that he liked me, had become attracted to me so easily, and glad that he had invited me to Haven Island and his private world.

  * * * *

  Buzzing from the consumption of too much alcohol, sweating across from Finn, I felt two things: my head spinning and my cellphone buzzing against my right hip. Excusing myself, I pulled the phone out of my pocket and saw that Kade had been trying to reach me.

  Before taking his call, I asked Finn, “Is it all right if I take this in the kitchen?”

  “Fine. No problem. Make yourself at home.”

  I walked into the small kitchen area, stood in front of its single window, looked outside and into the blackness of night, and answered Kade’s call with, “How are you doing, Kade?”

  “I should ask you the same thing.”

  “You checking up on me?”

  “Someone has to. That artist guy could be a serial killer, and no one would never know. One of my responsibilities is to look out for you,
especially when you make crazy decisions to visit a maniac on his island.”

  Somewhat drunk, blinking a number of times, I told Kade, “Finn isn’t a maniac. He’s a very nice man. Plus, he has a crush on me.”

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “Just make sure you’re careful up there. I don’t want to hear about you missing on the news, or read it on the Internet about your hacked up body being found. Just be safe, Chad. You’re a good friend and I don’t want to lose you. Nor do your parents.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “I would hope so,” he said, “It’s good to know that Mr. Artist didn’t tie you up and put you in his basement. You and I both know that artists can be extraordinarily weird, especially ones who make ashtrays for a living.”

  “Honestly, I’m having a great time. There are many sides to Finn that I’m learning and enjoying. We’re hitting it off quite well.”

  “So I don’t have to call in the FBI to save your ass. Is that what you’re saying?”

  A chuckle slipped out of me. I had always thought Kade Supine humorous, the friend who could always make me laugh, even in the worst of times, and the friend who cared enough about me to learn of my whereabouts and miscellaneous events in my life.

  “I’m glad you’re concerned about my safety, but I got this. Things are going better than I expected.” I had many stories to share with him about Finn O’Rourke, but now wasn’t the time. Later, I could sit down and have a beer or two with Kade, spilling my tales on Haven Island. For now, I ended the call with him as politely as I could. “I’m right in the middle of interviewing Finn. We’ll catch up later.”

  “Text me if you need me, guy. I’m always here for you. You know that by now, after all these years together.”

  We said our goodbyes and goodnights, and the line went dead between us.

  * * * *

  My history with Kade Supine could never be misconstrued as romantic, only fucking. Not once had our relationship ever crossed a line into the vast and confusing territory of romantic partnership. We always ended up sleeping together after a night of bar hopping, chest to chest, fucking while drunk, putting the moves on each other because of greedy emotions and longings. Our friendship had disappointed others in our circle of mutual friends because they all wanted us to be lovers. Truth told, Kade and I were opposites and not each other’s types, which kept us apart, only friends, and sex buddies, nothing more.