by R. R. Banks
And yet, I persist.
I tell myself that, sooner or later, I'm going to knock on the right door. Eventually, somebody will take an honest look at my work and be impressed enough to give me a chance. But more and more often these days, I'm starting to worry that I'm doomed to spend my life like my grandmother – one of obscurity.
My grandmother was a talented artist. Her works were gorgeous. She even made a bit of money at it. Enough that she didn't have to decide between food and house bills most months, but she was hardly commercially successful. She didn't make very much profit from her art, even though I think it’s among the most beautiful I've ever seen.
I know some might call me biased, and that's fine, but when it comes to art, I can be critical. I try to be as objective as possible. But, to this day, I believe that my grandmother never received proper recognition for her brilliant creative mind.
I'm sitting at the worktable in the front of my studio, soft classical music playing while I scan the community message boards. The art community in Boston isn't all that big. And for those of us on the fringe, we tend to look out for one another. We've got each other's backs. The message boards are always filled with words of encouragement, and inspirational messages that tell us that no matter what, we have to persevere. Put our heads down and just keep grinding.
And while I appreciate that, I mainly frequent the message boards for one purpose – to get the scoop on upcoming showcases or other chances to have my work displayed and seen. I'm jotting down notes on a couple of upcoming shows, when there's a knock on my studio door.
I look over at the sound curiously. I'm not expecting anybody, and honestly, I get very few visitors in my studio. It's not like this is a widely-known, well-traveled place. Getting up, I walk over to the door and open it – and am shocked to see the person standing behind it.
“Selling Girl Scout cookies?” I ask. “If you are, I'd like some of the peanut butter ones, please.”
Colin grins, and my heart melts on the spot. “Sorry, fresh out.”
As my heart stumbles all over itself, I give myself a swift mental kick, and hold the door open for him. He steps inside and looks around the place. Not expecting visitors, I haven't done much in the way of tidying up. There are boxes of supplies stacked everywhere, about a billion frames lined up against one wall, and the place smells heavily of paint and photo-developing chemicals – which reminds me to open the window. Drop cloths litter one side of the room – stacked and piled around the easel my current work in progress is resting on. It's only half-done and looks like shit in its current state. He stands there looking at it though, the expression on his face one of a man who is seeing the bigger picture. It's almost like he understands where I'm going, and what I'm trying to say on the canvas.
Or, maybe I'm just projecting, and he's actually wondering why I'm bothering wasting my time when I'm nothing but a hack.
I close the door behind him and grab the long, unwieldy pole from its hook before rushing over to open a couple of the windows set high in the wall to facilitate better airflow and help circulate the fumes out of the place.
“Sorry,” I say. “I wasn't expecting company today. I don't get very many visitors out here.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah, right,” I say and laugh.
We stand there in awkward silence for a long moment, just staring at each other. Those piercing gray-blue eyes bore into me, reaching down into my very soul. It feels like I'm being exposed.
“So, if it isn’t Girl Scout cookies, what brings you all the way out here?” I ask. “Just felt the need to slum it with the working poor today?”
The smile on his face falters for a split-second before he regains his composure. I can tell he's doing his best to bite back a snarky reply – obviously trying to avoid provoking me into another fight. Which is curious. I've always gotten the impression he enjoys verbally sparring with me.
“Actually,” he answers sheepishly. “I was kind of hoping you'd like to get lunch with me.”
My stomach threatens to fold in on itself and take my heart with it as I stand there. Colin’s asking me to lunch? He's asking me on a date? Me? It shouldn't – it really shouldn't – but him asking me out fills me with a sense of joy I can't understand, let alone explain. Not even to myself.
I should hate this man. He stands for everything I think is wrong with the world. And yet, here I am, giddy as a schoolgirl that he asked me out.
“There was something I hoped we could discuss,” he says, and then adds quickly. “A business arrangement, of sorts.”
And just like that, the warm, fuzzy feelings in me evaporate like a shallow puddle of water in the desert. A business arrangement – not a date. I'm not going to lie and say it's not a crushing shot, but at the same time, it's also saving me from a moral quagmire, I suppose. At least, I'm not going to have to choose between my convictions and being arm candy for a man like Colin Anderson.
Silver linings, right?
“What sort of business arrangement?”
He shifts uncertainly on his feet, looking a bit uncomfortable, which is odd, given that he doesn't strike me as a man who is ever uncomfortable or uncertain. About anything. At all. Ever. He comes across as a man who, when he finally comes to a decision, sticks with it, come hell or high water – and expects everybody else to do the same.
“I'd rather discuss it over lunch, if you don't mind,” he says.
“You mean – now?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. Now.”
I look at his designer suit – doing my best to not admire how it clings so well to his tight, toned body – and then down at myself. I'm wearing black leggings, tennis shoes that are spotted with paint, and a baggy, oversized sweatshirt. I have my hair in a ponytail and a blue bandana covers my head.
Yeah, I'm a walking fashion nightmare right now. Get me onto a Paris runway.
“I don't think I'm exactly dressed to go out in public,” I say. “I was working, and –”
“I think you look fantastic,” he says. “Beautiful.”
An inscrutable expression crosses his face, and something like panic rises in his eyes. It's like he suddenly realized he said too much. Like he just gave up some important piece of leverage in one of his business negotiations or something. He clears his throat and looks away, trying to gather himself on the fly.
Like I'm going to let him off the hook that easily.
“I'm beautiful, huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet my eyes. “I think you're a very attractive woman in a traditional sense, yes.”
“That's not what you said,” I tease him. “You said I'm beautiful.”
“Can I take you to lunch?”
“You think I'm beautiful,” I say in a sing-song voice.
Colin shakes his head and looks down at the ground, but I can see the grin on his face. And if I didn't know better, I'd say that his cheeks are flushing behind that big, thick beard of his. It's actually kind of adorable.
“What do you want me to say?” he asks, no longer bothering to hide his smile. “You're a beautiful woman. An absolute pain in my ass, but beautiful. Happy?”
I cock my head and pretend to think it over for a moment. “Okay, I'll take that.”
“So – lunch?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why not? After all, us beautiful girls need to eat too.”
He lets out a long, dramatic breath. “Such a pain in the ass.”
“I think you kinda like it though.”
I close down my computer and lock up my studio behind us. The whole time, I'm aware of Colin's eyes on me. The few times I've caught him looking at me, it's been with a look of near awe on his face – like he's admiring a beautiful work of art or something. Unlike that day in the office, when it was a smothering, suffocating pressure, something about having his eyes on me feels – sensual.
And even though I'm in leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, the way he's looking at me
makes me feel sexier than I've felt in a really long time.
* * *
“So, tell me, why exactly are you so passionate about the poor and the homeless?”
It's a curious way to start off the conversation, but I actually kind of like it that he’s taking an interest in me this way. I enjoy that he wants to know what makes me tick. And I figure the best way to get through to him is by being honest.
“I grew up dirt poor,” I say. “Never knew where my next meal was coming from, wearing hand-me-down clothes – usually, not much better than rags, really.”
He pauses with his water glass halfway to his mouth and looks at me with a stunned expression on his face. He quickly recovers and takes a drink, but the pause is telling to me. It shows me that poverty is an abstract concept to Colin. It's something he doesn't understand because he can't relate to it. Oh, he knows there is poverty in the world, and that there are poor people all around us, but he’s never had a personal connection with someone in poverty before.
Which is why I'm here to educate him.
For someone like Colin – who I can only imagine grew up extremely privileged – being poor is something that happens to other people. Not to anybody he knows. And if I had to guess, I'd say that he thinks people are poor simply because of their own choices. That they're lazy or shiftless. That they would rather sell drugs than get a job.
He doesn't understand that people sometimes wind up impoverished through no fault of their own. Yeah, some people make poor life choices, but sometimes, all it takes is a bad break to send them into the poverty spiral. And what Colin doesn't understand is that not everyone who's poor is a drunk. Or an addict. Or a criminal. Some of the poor – heck, many, if not most of the poor in this country – are stuck where they are because of a confluence of really bad luck and crappy circumstance.
“I didn't know that,” he says.
I shrug. “How could you?” I ask. “You don't really know me. But, it's why I do what I do and the reason I’m so passionate about it. I believe in giving a voice to the voiceless and fighting for equality for all.”
Having lectured him on the issue of poverty, he nods slowly, letting my words sink in. I can tell that Colin is a thoughtful man. He's not simply dismissing what I say out of hand. I can tell by the look on his face that he's actually processing it. That he's really thinking about it, rather than writing it off as some liberal hippie garbage.
I like that about him.
The waitress comes over and sets our plates down in front of us, departing with a smile. The restaurant is busy and she's running around like a chicken with her head cut off. I'd half-expected Colin to take me to some high-end, snobby restaurant. Surprisingly enough, he brought me to Bobby Boy's – one of the more popular burger joints on this side of town. As I look at him, I pick up a fry and pop it into my mouth – it's salty and crunchy on the outside but tender on the inside – absolute perfection.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, a wry grin on his face.
“I guess I'm shocked you even know this place exists,” I say, pointedly looking at his suit. “Doesn't seem to be the kind of place you'd frequent.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “As a painter, I'm surprised you’d use such broad strokes, Bailey.”
“Sometimes, broad strokes are what's called for.”
“And sometimes, you need a smaller, more refined brush for the finer details.”
“Touché,” I reply. “I just figured you'd be more comfortable in a place with linen table cloths, that serves food with names I can't even pronounce.”
He laughs. “The picture of me you have in your head must be hilarious,” he says.
Colin probably doesn’t want to know the kind of picture I have of him in my head. And as I look at him, the fantasy I'd had about him – the one I got myself off to – rises like a leviathan from the dark depths of my mind. I feel my cheeks blush as the warmth spreads through my body. I squirm in my seat, my body tingling as I start to grow wet.
Jesus, how can this man possibly have this effect on me?
“I found this place when I was going to BC,” he says. “I've never had a better burger. It's kept me coming back for years.”
Yeah, maybe I'm painting him with too broad a brush. I guess. He always comes off as elitist and snobby to me, like he takes being one of the one-percenters very seriously, and seems to relish the fact that he belongs to the highest social circle.
“Is it possible – and I'm just putting this out there,” he says, “that your experiences growing up, and this zeal you've formed for helping the poor, having been poor yourself, has given you a negative perception of anyone who has money? I mean, don't get me wrong, there are some real assholes with money out there. I'm not denying that. But, not all of us are evil just because we happen to be wealthy. Is it possible that your own experiences have made you so cynical that you see anybody with any sort of economic advantage as bad, as the enemy, when maybe, they actually aren't?”
I sit back in my seat and pop another fry into my mouth, pondering what he said. Colin takes a big bite of his burger and chews slowly, watching me the entire time. If I'm being honest with myself, I can't necessarily dispute what he's saying. As I sit there pondering, I think over everything Cesar said at brunch the other day – which coincides with what Colin seems to be saying. Yeah, I tend to think rich people are the devil incarnate, and I have a habit of lumping them all together.
He’s right. Maybe I'm not being fair.
“Growing up like I did, I learned what it was like to not have anything,” I say. “And I also learned that the world is divided up into two different kinds of people – the rich, and everybody else.”
“The world is a lot more varied than that,” he retorts, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Not everything is so black and white.”
“When you grow up like I did, it kind of is,” I say. “Poor kids get made fun of by the richer kids. I remember being teased relentlessly about the holes in my clothing, or the fact that I was dirty. I remember them teasing me about not having a lunch, or – anything else they could find to torment me about. It was brutal, and it was very much a case of the haves and the have-nots. Black and white.”
“I'm sorry you grew up that way,” he says, and then slowly adds, “I can see why you have the worldview you do. It makes sense.”
“You don't even know the half of it.”
“So, tell me,” he says, sincerity etched upon his face.
I take a bite of my burger and wash it down with some soda to fortify myself before launching into my tale of woe. I tell him everything, sparing no detail, and holding nothing back. Half of me expects him to get up and run out screaming. But, he doesn't. He sits there, chewing his food in silence, his eyes riveted to mine, absorbing every single word that comes out of my mouth. I can see that he's shocked, and maybe even somewhat saddened, for me.
I don't want his pity, though. I want his compassion when dealing with the issues we've fought over.
“Your grandmother sounds like an extraordinary woman,” he says.
“She was,” I say simply. “I wouldn't be who I am today without her. I don't even know where I'd be without her, to be honest.”
He sits back in his seat and chews on a fry. I can see the wheels in his head turning, as he ponders everything I just shared with him. I wish I knew what was going on inside that beautiful, frustrating head of his.
“You're an extraordinary woman, Bailey,” he finally says. “You have strength and resolve. You didn't let your background strip you of your passion. I admire that. Respect it.”
“Thank you,” I say and look away.
My cheeks flush – I've never really been good with praise. To be honest, it makes me uncomfortable. I never feel worthy of the compliments I receive. I know that's my own baggage, and my personal issues working against me, but I can't help it. It's just part of who I am.
The way he looks at me turns my insides to mush. Those ey
es of his are practically peering into my soul. I can feel them analyzing me, and breaking me down. And, for some reason, I like it.
We finish our meal with some light conversation, and I'm surprised to find that we actually have a lot in common. Once you get past all of the political and socioeconomic differences between us, we have more shared interests than I would have thought possible, given the circumstances.
When we leave the restaurant, I see Colin in an entirely different way. Or at least, I'm starting to. There's still a ways to go before that gap is completely bridged, but I think we're starting to get there. All I know is that I enjoy spending the afternoon with him. Even more, I relished the way he looked at me the whole time – like I was the only woman in the world.
By the time I get into his car to have him taxi me back to my studio, I'm practically aching for him.
* * *
I expected him to drop me off and go, but Colin follows me back into my studio. When he shuts the door behind him, I remember that we haven't gotten to the reason for this impromptu lunch date just yet – this mysterious business arrangement.
I have to say though, I'm kind of disappointed it wasn't just a date, but a business proposal that prompted him to ask me out in the first place. More so now that he and I actually had a good time out together and found a lot of common ground between us.
But, it is what it is. Sadly.
I watch Colin as he walks around my studio, checking everything out. On one of the tables, he picks up a flier for a showcase in an indie art house I'm showing at. I don't know why, maybe he thinks he's being polite, but he slips it into the pocket of his slacks. He takes off his coat, draping it over his arm, and loosens his tie. It's starting to get warm in here, so I flip on the small, portable air conditioner I have. It's not much, but it's something.
