by Unknown
The sun was high in the sky when I walked out of the freshly painted door, canvases under one arm and a green leather satchel in the other. My feet thudded softly against the sidewalk and hit the weathered brick road of Ybor City’s famed Seventh Avenue. Humidity hung heavy in the air, a typical day for the gulf side of Florida. Young excited artists were hurrying around the center of the city, carrying packages of all shapes and sizes. Carrying little pieces of themselves - inner secrets hidden from others who don’t understand art as a way of life, as an identity. This was the quintessential life for an artist - living in a city rich in history and culture, overflowing with renaissance thinkers. I slowly made my way through the thickening crowds towards Miss Anne Marie’s new age shop. The Crystal Owl was the only shop of its kind in Ybor City. Most people knew about it, and it drew in quite a few customers from the city and suburbs. Soccer moms came to the Crystal Owl sheepishly asking for tarot readings to find out if their husbands were cheating on them. Young college students visited the store to satisfy their fascination with the Occult, maybe purchasing an Ouija board or pendulum if they were brave enough. And sometimes people who considered themselves serious about their spiritual paths would buy an herb, crystal or book from the shop. I visited the Crystal Owl to see my friend. That was my reason.
Rounding the corner, I noticed there were already tables and displays set up outside. My dear friend was awaiting my arrival. As I strolled up to the storefront, I saw Miss Anne Marie reclining in a wicker chair under the overhang. She slightly resembled an angel, ethereal in her ivory linen dress and wide-brimmed hat that reflected the scorching sun and gave off a halo-effect.
“Ahhh, there you are my dear!” her voice resonated like a wind chime, light and airy. If I had to compare her to a celebrity, I would say she looked like Stevie Nicks from her Fleetwood Mac days. She had long, wavy blonde hair and eyes as blue as the Tampa sky. She was pleasantly plump. I say pleasantly because it was hardly noticeable over her big personality. I noticed she was reading a book about gypsy fortune-telling. If I had to guess, I would say she was in her late fifties but looked much younger and acted like she was centuries old. She seemed youthful but possessed the wisdom of a sage.
“I’m here. Shoo! It’s a hot one today. I’m glad I made it here without passing out,” I said as a bead of sweat dripped off my chin.
“Where’s Rory? You should’ve had some help, love,” she said as she shook her head in disapproval. She gave me that concerned mother look, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. That lazy-ass.
“He had practice. They’re working on a new album,” I answered. “Don’t worry. I’m just fine on my own. Look at these guns,” I pointed to my thin left bicep. She laughed then helped me unpack the supplies I’d haphazardly stuffed inside the satchel, while I began setting up the exhibit area. A tarnished silver locket dropped out of the satchel’s side pocket, hitting the sidewalk at her feet with a clink. She bent down and picked it up, turned it over a couple of times in her hands, and admired the inscribed monogram on the back. After she slipped the locket back into its leather home, she walked over and hugged me. I assumed she knew who had given me the locket. On the back it said, “To Dots, Love Dad.” She knew my Dad had been dead for years, but I didn’t like to talk about it. Even with my closest of friends.
Miss Anne Marie had the disdain of meeting Rory once and had no qualms with voicing her opinion of him. And every time I mentioned him, she either shook her head from side to side or frowned one of those deep wrinkled frowns your grade school teacher has after you failed a math exam. It was well known she wasn’t Rory’s biggest fan. He knew it and I knew it, too. Most people had a similar reaction when they met him. Maybe that was why I’d kept him around for so long – to keep everyone else at arm’s length. I liked people…from a distance. Not up close. To me, people were kind of like a Monet painting, interesting from far away but when you get close they’re a big fucking mess. And yes, I just quoted Alicia Silverstone’s character in Clueless. I am a 90’s child, after all.
“I’m not putting this one up. It’s a bit too emo, don’t you think?” I pointed to the It’s Never Playtime painting that Rory so openly despised. I knew exactly what she was going to say. That was probably why I asked her.
“Nonsense! It’s breathtaking. Don’t sell yourself short, Dottie,” she grabbed the painting off the ground and set it up beside the other two, then dusted off her hands as if to say job well done. Something about the way she expressed herself helped to relieve my doubts. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without a friend like Miss Anne-Marie. I mean, I’ve always had my Mother to lean on, but she could never truly empathize in the way that Miss Anne-Marie could. The funny thing was I had only met her six months prior to the day of the Exhibition, but I felt like I’d known her my entire life. That kind of friendship is always the best kind. I was picky about my friends. Never really had many girlfriends, even as a little girl. The other kids in my class always said I was weird and made up rumors about me having incurable diseases or that I was really a boy wearing girls’ clothing. In reality, I was a very shy and sad little girl. These experiences didn’t help me get over my general distrust of people.
“What’s your price on these, Dottie? I’ve been looking at these other young peoples’ work, and they don’t hold a candle to yours.”
“Not much. I don’t feel right charging hundreds for something that’s merely a reflection of my inner turmoil. Makes me feel like a high-priced hooker, know what I mean?” I glanced over at the table across the street. An attractive young man wearing a beret and snake-bite piercings was hanging a sawblade onto a hook. The shiny metal piece featured a detailed mountain scene with a disheveled red barn and a pack of deer. It was old school and gorgeous. The brush strokes and use of shading were absolutely brilliant. Since that day I’d searched for that man’s work but could never find it. In hindsight I should’ve bought him out that day or at least gotten his business card.
After a few minutes of working in silence, Miss Anne Marie said matter-of-factly, “Well if you put anything less than a hundred on each of these, I’ll change the price tags myself.” She was one fiery woman, and I didn’t have enough energy to argue with her. Plus, I needed the money. There was no doubt about that.
“Okay, but they probably won’t sell anyway. I’m hoping they will, but I’m not counting on it. If the crowd slows down around four, I’ll be heading home. Rory and I are supposed to go out tonight.” I flopped into a folding chair behind the display table. Dates with Rory were sometimes amusing. Despite his asshole-ness, he had the ability to be spontaneous when he wanted to be. When he had a few drinks in him, he usually loosened up and had the potential to make me laugh. Like soda spewing from your nose kind of laugh. Something about spontaneity was a real turn on to me. The problem was when he wasn’t drinking, he was just another predictable asshole. I often debated on pouring a little vodka into his cereal bowl in the mornings, if only to lift his spirits.
The streets of Ybor City filled up by noon and more people than I expected took a serious look at my paintings, some even complimenting me on my “unique sense of the world” or my “fresh approach to abstract art.” I knew it was all fluff. People will tell you whatever they think you want to hear, it makes them feel good to make you feel good. No good deed is ever completely selfless.
Two of my pieces were purchased at the end of the day by a pretty brunette lady from New York City. Dressed to the nines in business attire, the conservative, confident woman handed me five hundred for two of my paintings. When I refused the extra money, the woman fervently insisted, “don’t do that. They’re worth more than this. Take the money, so I don’t feel like I’m ripping you off. I’d like to be able to sleep tonight.” You didn’t have to tell me twice. I took the money and thanked her.
After the New York woman’s generous purchase, the only piece I had left was the infamous It’s Never Playtime. It was early evening when I packed up my things and hugged
my friend goodbye. I promised her I’d be back in a few days for a cup of her famous herbal tea. I ran down Seventh Avenue like a kid running towards the playground, as the remaining artists packed up their artwork after a long and exhausting day. A couple tourists stuffed their faces with scones and coffee at a local cafe. The Coyote Ugly bar was opening its doors for the night. The neon Open sign was lit up and the doors were flung wide open. This place truly reminded me of a quirky fusion of the French Quarter of New Orleans and down-town Baltimore.
My stomach growled, threatening to devour its own lining if I didn’t feed it soon. It happened quite often that I would forget to eat and miss a meal or two. Usually I would get caught up in my work, hours would go by before I realized I hadn’t eaten anything and hadn’t peed in hours. Not the healthiest habits in the world, but it was common for me to put my artwork before my own needs. The base of my hierarchy of needs screamed “Art” instead of “Physiological”.
My feet flew up the apartment building’s steps, with one thing on my mind – food. I had no doubt I’d have to wake Rory up from his evening nap. Band practice and smoking weed must be pretty exhausting. He always said getting high was hard work.
I swung the door open, fully expecting to see Rory comatose on the couch. But the couch was empty. The cats pounced over to me and rubbed against my calves. I called out to Rory, but there was no answer. Just the dull hum of the water heater and the relentless purring of the cats. I remember thinking he must still be at practice, which would have been odd. Practice never lasted all afternoon. It seemed a little strange that Rory would miss his nap and mealtime, so I picked up the phone and called his friend. Rory couldn’t afford a cell phone, so this was about the only way to reach him if he wasn’t with me. I contemplated whether he purposely couldn’t afford a cell phone just to be out of reach when he was needed. Then again, the guy could barely afford to contribute to the bills. This was most likely due to the fact he spent his cash on weed, fast food and video games. He was a winner.
“Oh, hey Dottie. No, he’s not here. I’d say he left about three hours ago. Should’ve been home by now.” The gruff voice at the other end of the line provided me no comfort. My day had turned upside down. I had had such a productive, successful day selling my paintings at the Exhibition. Miss Anne-Marie and I got to hang out in the sun and make money at the same time. Who could ask for anything better? That all changed after talking to Jeremy. A pervasive sinking feeling invaded my stomach. It wasn’t hunger any longer but pangs of fear and nausea. Where had he gone? In my heart, I knew he had gone on another benzo bender. He’d been clean for six months, but he could never avoid the itch for too long. Even so, I tried to convince myself he would come home. That it was all a misunderstanding.
Chapter 3
Dottie
A few days passed in which I was drowning in a murky cesspool of loathing – loathing Rory for leaving, loathing myself for caring, loathing the sound of happy people outside of my window, loathing all of it. I found myself staring blankly out the bedroom window, watching the summer rains fall and wash away the Saturday night filth on the streets below. A crushed aluminum can rolled into the storm drain on the other side of Seventh. A plastic bag floated through the air, landing on a stop sign. An empty box of condoms “ribbed for her pleasure” lay flattened in the streets. Ybor City was a cheerful, sunny place by day, but it morphed into a place of sheer debauchery by night.
I’d never participated in the debauchery, until that night Rory had left. I thought a few drinks might’ve calmed my nerves. A few drinks turned into a dozen whiskey and tonics. Before I knew it, I woke up with my head in a toilet, a raging headache and Rory’s belongings spread out on the streets below my apartment. I could only assume his t-shirts and record albums were carried away by the best of Ybor’s bums. Sweet revenge. Hell, he might have been one of the bums carrying away the shit. I could almost picture him peddling for money. I wouldn’t have put it passed him to suck dick just to get some change for a little baggie of heroin. I knew the pattern of his drug abuse like I knew the bristles on my paintbrush. His benders would commence with benzos, whatever he could get his hands on, would slide into a couple drowsy days of pain killers, and by the end he’d be broke and totally strung out on smack. With track marks up and down his arms, even on his legs and feet. He would show up looking like a human connect-the-dots coloring book. One time I counted sixty-five dots. That was also the time he paid a visit to the hospital to be treated for cellulitis. They had to put him on a month-long treatment plan of IV antibiotics to cure the nasty infection in his skin he’d gotten from using dirty needles. One doctor told him he was lucky they didn’t have to amputate his foot. And I stuck by his side throughout all of this. I was such an idiot.
Other than a perpetual cycle of binge drinking, puking and drinking some more, I’d done nothing except lay in an unkempt bed for two days. My cats stared at me from across the room, parading around their food bowls begging me for a refill. I hadn’t eaten enough. The first night I ate a piece of toast. This particular morning I drank a gallon of water and gagged on three ibuprofen in a pathetic attempt to rehydrate myself. The acidity in my stomach wasn’t having it. It all came back up in a rush of clear fluid and chalky powder. I hadn’t showered, either. I like to be clean, but I hadn’t cared enough to do anything except wallow in my own misery. The feeling of feeling overwhelmed me. Like I said, I prided myself on my means of self-defense…to ignore and shield myself from emotions. To keep people at bay meant to keep my feelings in check. If you don’t let people close to you, you don’t have to worry about them leaving you. Caring for Rory was a cardinal sin in the book of Dottie. I broke my own rules and let him get close. Apparently too close. I was a fucking mess.
The worst part about the whole situation was that I knew Rory was a loser. I just couldn’t help myself after he came crawling back on his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness. There was some sadistic part of me that relished the control it gave me. Control over Rory only lasted until he was back up on his feet again. In reality, I should’ve seen another one of his drug binges on the horizon, what with him hanging out with his bandmates almost on a daily basis. I had promised myself I wouldn’t let him hurt me again. And yet there I was, wearing dirty two-day-old clothes, mascara streaks down my cheeks, acting like a total teenage girl wading through her first heartbreak. The problem with Rory wasn’t the drugs, it was his lack of self-esteem. How can you love someone if you can’t love yourself? Dad used to say that all the time.
I could’ve guaranteed when the drugs ran out and there was nowhere for Rory to stay, he’d be back on my front doorstep with tears in his eyes. Well, I wasn’t forgiving him this time. Not ever again. For all I cared, he could rot in his opiate withdrawals. He could choke on his own vomit and die.
Minus the cat nap on my toilet seat, I hadn’t slept in two days straight. Insomnia had become my best friend. You would think doing nothing but lying in bed, I might’ve gotten some decent shut-eye, but no. It was more like a few days of light sleep and relentless nightmares. You know that in-between wake and sleep state where you feel like you’re stuck and can never get out? It’s not a refreshing feeling at all. In fact, it probably made my state of mind worse. Each time I closed my eyes I could hear him saying, “You aren’t worth it. You’re a talentless bitch.”
Acting as a sign from the Universe to pull myself together, the torrential downpours finally subsided. The sun’s rays peaked through a sliver in the clouds and sent a beam of light into my window and onto my yellowed Raggedy Ann quilt. No one knew I still had that quilt except for Rory. I caught him trying to donate it to Goodwill once. I flipped the fuck out. No one touches my quilt and lives to tell the tale.
I glanced over at the vintage Felix the Cat alarm clock hanging from the bedroom wall. It was almost noon. I needed to get my stinky ass out of bed and feed the starving cats. While mustering up the motivation to get out of bed, I remembered the one painting that hadn’t sold the
day Rory left. It was the one of which he had repeatedly voiced his discord. The painting that foretold of him leaving the third time around. He must have felt guilty looking at it, knowing he was about to go on another month-long-drug-fiesta.
Unfortunately I hadn’t painted anything in a few days so I planned to sell the last remaining painting online. My techy friend Carla had recently built me a website pro bono; which I used to sell my left-over pieces. Typically it took at least a month’s time to sell one painting on the internet, but the money was usually enough to get me through a few months’ worth of bills. I can’t lie and say I never lived up to the stereotype of “starving artist”. There is more than one memory of having enough money for only one meal. Only enough money to pay the rent, the electricity bill two months behind. Washing my clothes in the bathtub because all my laundromat change had gone towards cat food. Without the little money that Rory had been bringing home from gigs, I knew I was really going to have to step up my internet game or I’d be visiting ramen-noodle city. So I went for it. It’s Never Playtime, painting item #522, posted to the website for five hundred dollars plus shipping. I knew it would never sell for such a hefty price, but what the hell? Sometimes you have to take risks, right? Hopefully the clientele I’d built up over the years, plus a little social media marketing would help pull in the extra dough. I sent out a tweet, shared it on Facebook, Insta-grammed it, Youtubed it, and bamboozled it hoping to grab someone’s attention.
