by Unknown
Suzanne's office was filled with an assortment of abstract art, creepy miniature sculptures, and piles upon piles of unfiled paperwork. A cracked sculpture of the Greek god Pan glared at me from the far left corner. His stone eyes seemed to follow me everywhere I went in the room. As I walked further into her office, I stepped on a wad of crumpled paper. My dear sister had always been horribly disorganized and blissfully unaware. As long as the gallery floor looked pristine, she never gave a rat’s ass about the tidiness of her working quarters. Hopefully there were no real rats’ asses scurrying around somewhere in her mess of a working space.
"What ya doing?" I asked as I walked in. Her back was facing me. She was studying a painting that leaned against a blood-red wall.
"Not thinking about Eddie,” she spoke his name with contempt. Like someone would say the name of their arch nemesis. “Hey, take a look at this would you? I had that chick from Florida ship this piece to me this morning high priority. I just had to have it. What do you think?" her bony fingers circled her chin while she scrutinized the painting in front of her. I noticed she’d worn an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans today instead of one of her usual black dresses.
Gazing over her shoulder at a three-by-five canvas, I felt myself falling backwards, losing balance. I lowered myself onto the nearest chair before my body could have the opportunity to pass out cold on my sister’s office floor. How embarrassing that would’ve been.
"Are you okay? Do you need some water or something?" Suzy stared at me incredulously, as she jumped up off the floor and bolted around piles of paper to come to my aid.
"I...I'm fine. The painting is...well, it's..." my mind couldn’t collect the words and phrase them into sentences fast enough. My head was spinning trying to make sense of the sight in front of me. She’d done it again. The Florida artist had painted my dream, and it was my exact dream from the previous night. Was I losing my sanity? Was I still dreaming? This couldn't be happening...did I tell anyone about my dream? I pinched my arm hard, just to make sure. Suzy frowned at me. A slight wrinkle gathered above the bridge of her nose. She looked more and more like Mom with each passing year.
"What's going on, Isaiah? What about the painting? Start explaining what the hell is going on,” my sister’s dark brown eyebrows furrowed even more, showing her genuine concern over my erratic behavior. It wasn’t like me to almost faint. That kind of drama was reserved for the women in the McNally family. They sure as hell brought enough drama to the table without me adding to it.
"I’m alright. Really I am. I’m just freaking out a bit, that’s all.” My mouth was finally catching up to the jumbled thoughts inside my head. At least I was able to form complete sentences.
"What's freaking you out? You're freaking me out, Isaiah. You’re not acting normal.”
I wasn’t quite ready to spill the beans until I had a little more information. "This artist. Who is she? Did you meet her personally when you were in Florida? Her name’s Dottie, right?"
"Yes, that’s the chick’s name, and yes I met her while I was down there. She lives in Tampa. Probably in her early twenties, I'd say. Sweet girl, kind of a dirty hippie-type though. Why? I'm confused what this has anything to do with you almost passing the fuck out right here in my office."
"I didn’t pass out, so just relax. Alright, you’re going to think I’m crazy. She's been painting my dreams, Suzy. That painting over there, with the green hills, the night sky, the two people on horseback. I dreamed that same thing last night. And this isn't the only painting she's done that’s mimicked my dreams. She did it once before, too.” My sister’s eyes were squinting so hard I wasn’t sure she could see through them.
I continued, “You know the one you gave me recently? It reminded me of a recurring dream that I have, and I loved it so much that I went onto her website and bought another. Each painting she's done lately has been a copy of my dreams. I don't know how she's doing it, but I’m starting to think I’m losing my mind," little beads of sweat gathered on my forehead and my hands trembled. I’d felt the same nervousness when I’d gone to take the EMT exam five years ago. Acknowledging the fact that I was nervous made me even more nervous…this wasn’t a normal reaction in my spectrum of emotions.
"Wow. I'm not sure what to tell you, brother. That's some pretty crazy shit. If it’d just been one painting, maybe two, I’d say its coincidence. But you say it's been more than one in the past couple weeks? I would take that as a sign. You should go meet her. I mean, I don't think she's really your type, but who knows? Maybe your type’s all wrong anyway. I’m sure she’d love you. You're a nice guy, and I guess you're not half-bad looking either,” she winked at me like a child who’d just learned how to wink. Opened mouth and wrinkled forehead.
"I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. If I contact this woman and tell her she's been painting my dreams, she'll think I'm a total whack-job. I’ll scare her off, then she might not even sell to me anymore,” I didn’t really want to take that risk. Something about her artwork kept me wanting more. And if I lost the ability to buy more, it’d be like a foodie’s favorite food truck shutting down forever. No Bueno.
"Maybe not. She seemed like she’s pretty open-minded, and really, what've you got to lose? You could always send her an email first. You should fly down to Tampa this weekend, you could use a little mini-vacation anyway, and Tampa's a blast. You don't have the kids this weekend, right?"
"No, they're with Cynthia. This is just ridiculous though. Flying down to Tampa to meet a woman I don't know, all because she's painting my dreams?" A sigh escaped my mouth, and I stared up at the scarlet ceiling, twenty feet above our heads. I always wondered why Suzy had painted the ceiling the same blood-red color as the walls. On more than one occasion I’d walked into her office and heard the words Red Rum, Red Rum repeating over and over in my head.
"Hey, weirder things have happened. Maybe you'll really like her since you have such a hard-on for her artwork,” she was being sarcastic but also serious at the same time. She always had a knack for that. “You know art is a mirror to the soul. What if you're supposed to meet her? It might be fate, Isaiah. You don't want to turn your back on fate," she reached out and squeezed my hand, then flashed me a toothy grin. I didn’t want to admit it but she was right. Cheesy as hell, but right.
"Alright. I’ll give it a shot if it’ll make you stop talking so sappy,” I punched her lightly on the arm. “And honestly it wouldn't hurt to make a new friend and take a break from New York for a couple days."
“That’s the spirit,” she said as she walked around her desk and picked up the painting. Unexpectedly she held it out in front of her and nodded as if to say here it’s yours. I gladly accepted the gift.
“By the way, tell Eddie I’ll kick his ass again if he doesn’t straighten up his act,” I know she was tired of hearing me say this but I was prepared to say it another million times if it kept her loser-boyfriend from treating her poorly. “And go home and take a shower, Suzy. You look like crap,” I smiled at her. She rolled her eyes.
I gave her a hug and exited her messy office. On my way out, I quietly lifted some leftover muslin while no one was looking. Payback for the twenty dollar bill Suzy had slipped out of my shirt pocket the weekend before.
I stopped in the stairwell to admire the beauty of her newest painting. I could feel my heart pulsating in my chest as my eyes drifted over the emerald green hills and affixed to the two riders on horseback. It was definitely a man and a woman. Though you couldn’t see the detail in their faces, the woman was wearing a long dress that rippled in the wind, and the faceless man was wearing a shiny suit of armor. The woman in the dress had long, chestnut hair cascading down her back. It was so life-like and so much like my dream that I wanted to reach out and run my fingers through it. An inexplicable urge to pull the painted woman off her tall horse and make love to her overcame me briefly, and I forgot that I was looking at a painting in the middle of a dark New York building. I snapped myself out of it. Pull you
rself together Isaiah.
I wished the two muses had detailed faces but that wasn’t the artist’s style. Details in faces were left out, only simple figures graced the canvas. This time the difference was that one of those faceless figures was me. I gently slid the muslin over the painting as if swaddling a newborn baby. The last thing I wanted to do was smudge it with my oily fingers. Savoring the smell of the fresh paint that wafted out from under the sheet, I held it to my chest, jogged down the stairs and out the front door. The nineteen-year-old girl waving at me from the front window. Good Lord. I sure could attract the young ones. Fresh out of high school. It never failed. Yet I could never find a decent woman my age. Were they all gone? All married with kids in their late twenties? They say forty’s the new thirty…I’d seen no solid evidence of that.
I spent the entire subway ride back in silence. There was a voice in my head that wasn’t going to let me ignore what Suzy had said. So by the time I’d gotten home, I’d made my decision. If only to get the voice in my head to shut up and get Suzy off my back. That woman didn’t just let things go. When we were in high school, Suzy made me promise I would go to the prom with her nerdy friend Jackie. Jackie was one of those girls who barely talked to anyone, scribbled all over herself and wore second-hand t-shirts and jean shorts. Underneath the nerdiness, I had a feeling Jackie was a hottie. However, a better opportunity popped up and I ended up boarding a bus to see the Sex Pistols at a rock bar called CBGB’s. Suzy didn’t let me live that one down for years. I mean for almost five years, at every family get-together Suzy would bring up the story of how I made her a promise and broke it. How I had broken Jackie’s heart and left the girl alone on her prom night. So I knew if I didn’t do what I told her I’d do, she’d bug me for an eternity. It’s best to take the path of least resistance with Suzanne McNally.
I figured why not just send an email to this artist to see if she’d meet up while I was in Tampa. Even if she said no and thought I was a total creeper, at least I’d get away and enjoy a little R and R. It’d been awhile since I’d left New York. The last time I’d gone on vacation was a trip to the Great Lakes with Cynthia and the kids. We spent two days at a cabin before Cynthia came down with a case of the “flu” and forced us to go home. Later I’d find out her case of the “flu” was really an urge to screw some other dude who’d come to town.
Choosing to play it cool and not spill any creepy romantic notions to a stranger over the internet, I opened the website and located the contact page. I lingered over her name for a minute before clicking on her email address. The blank contact form opened. Reluctance overcame me and gave way to a long pause. Just type something, Isaiah...
Hi Dottie,
I've been an admirer of your work lately and have even purchased a few of your genius paintings over the past few weeks. I'm a firefighter from New York but am a lover of art, and I will be spending the weekend in Tampa. I was hoping you might want to join me for dinner this coming Saturday night to discuss our mutual interest in the arts?
Thanks for your time,
Isaiah McNally
347-555-6594
After backspacing, retyping, debating whether I should chuck the computer out the window, and then retyping again, I figured I should just send the damn thing. Friendly and showing a common interest. Seemed normal enough. My biggest fear in this whole thing was giving this woman the wrong impression. Flashes of my face on Kathy Bates’ body in Misery ran through my head. I was hopeful she wouldn’t think I was lunatic stalker fan.
Finally, I clicked on the ominous Send button. Luckily just before the hesitation could dissolve my momentary confidence. I leaned back in my squeaky office chair and thought about cancelling the email before she could read it. My instinct stopped me from withdrawing the message. I chose to let it marinate. Besides, she could only say yes or no. If she said no, at least I gave it a shot. Meeting people over the internet isn’t totally unheard of these days, anyway. Shit, people hook up through trashy apps on their smart phones these days. Snap a selfie, post it, and wham! Next thing you know, you’re getting laid. So much easier than when I was in high school and we had to win a girl over the hard way. By carrying her books, meeting her at her locker, and eventually spending all our hard-earned money on taking her out on dates. I think that was the best way, though. Call me old-fashioned.
I stripped off my heavy clothes and kicked off my boots. The wool socks underneath were getting so old and ragged you could see the tips of my big toes. It was fall in New York, which meant the temperature had already started to drop. Flopping back into my cozy bed, I spent a few minutes trying to smooth out the sheets and comforter. It was apparent I’d had a pretty crazy bout of sleep the night before. It was also clear that I lived alone. A bachelor with a love for art but no concern for tidiness. No concern for decorating either. The walls of my apartment were an eggshell color, the same color they’d been since I’d moved in six years earlier. There were no curtains over the windows. The lamp on my nightstand was lacking a shade. My son had thrown a football at me one Sunday morning, missed my head and sent the lamp flying across the room. That happened six months before and I hadn’t cared enough to replace the shade. I would’ve rather spent my extra money on art and my children. Who did I have to impress anyway?
I drifted back to the artist in Florida. I wondered what sort of person she was. What did she look like? Was she sweet? Funny? Down to earth? Did she have a boyfriend? Maybe she was married with children like the rest of the world. Maybe she was fat and collected fairies, and when I visit her home there won’t be a place to sit without breaking some fantasy creature figurine. These thoughts were maddening. As I laid in my empty king-sized bed, I gazed up at the ceiling. If someone could’ve read my thoughts, they might’ve guessed I was a twelve-year-old girl with a middle-school crush. Flighty and giddy. Cue the cheesy 80’s teen movie soundtrack.
Rolling my head to the left, I could make out the newest piece in my Dottie Love collection. Green With Envy is what she’d titled the haunting work of art, signing it with an oversized, romantic D for Dottie and underlining her last name with a funny little loopy-loop. Her signature took on a life of its own, as if it was a separate entity from the painting itself. She’d even signed it with an intense passion - something I hadn't noticed before.
Chapter 8
Dottie
Thursday morning pounded on my door like a lonely, drunken bridesmaid at a bachelorette party. Another one of my paintings had sold. Surprisingly, it was the painting I had created while I was flying high on Miss Anne Marie’s psychedelic herbal tea. I still couldn’t clarify whether I’d had a lucid dream, or if I had been awake, high and painting at the same time. All I know is I was never going to trust that woman in the kitchen ever again. Getting high was not my thing. I’d been around Rory in his high states enough to know I didn’t want to act like him. Had I taken part in smoking the lettuce in high school? Sure, but haven’t most people? I wasn’t dying of cancer and I didn’t have glaucoma, so there was no need for me to smoke any longer. Besides, it made me dumb and lazy. The time I should’ve spent painting would’ve been wasted on flipping through old magazines and binging on flaming hot cheese curls.
But this piece that I’d just sold was awe-inspiring, even to me. I was so accustomed to being hard on myself, so overly critical that to actually like one of my paintings was a miracle. This painting had been poured out from my untapped, collective subconscious. Positively surreal, it captured a scene that someone had lived hundreds of years ago. I was sure of it. It was like I had tapped into the sacred memory of a Celtic woman from the Middle Ages and her hunky lover. The end result was breathtaking. I had never experienced anything of such beauty. If my paintings before this one were decent, this painting had to be the Sistine Chapel of my entire career. With a price tag of five hundred, the moment I put it on my website it had sold. Some lady in New York City had made the purchase and even paid an extra eighty nine dollars in order to have it shipped to he
r business address in Manhattan the same day. People in New York knew I existed. That was bad-ass. Apparently I was making a name for myself in New York. I hoped the lucid dreams and visions would keep coming, or else I’d be out of inspiration for future paintings. And shit out of luck.
I sipped my chai tea, burning the tip of my tongue. While skimming through a mess of junk e-mail, my eyes stuck on the subject line “Big Fan of Your Work”. The email was sent by a man named Isaiah McNally. I opened it, half expecting a nude picture to pop up…not that I’d be totally opposed. How long had it been since I’d gotten any? Since before Rory had left, that was for sure. It’s not like we were on “sleeping together” terms before he bailed.
I read through a couple to-the-point sentences to learn this stranger from New York had bought my paintings and that he wanted to “meet up” with me. He was flying to Tampa and wrote he wanted to discuss our “mutual interest in the arts.” The first thought I had was a picture of me tied up at the bottom of a well with a creepy guy at the top screaming “it puts the lotion on its skin!” Was this guy a serial rapist? Serial killer? Or just a total weirdo? Chances were he wasn’t going to be the next Jack the Ripper. The little lonely voice in my head said it would kick my ass if I didn’t answer the man’s message. Rory had been gone a long time, and I needed to kick it with someone other than my cats. Maybe even a night out with a member of the opposite sex would do me some good. So was this a date or was he seriously only interested in discussing art? I wasn’t going to know unless I took a chance. What the hell. What could it hurt?
I hit the “Reply” button and typed out my message to Isaiah McNally.
Mr. McNally,
You know me well already. I would love to get together one night while you’re in town. Call me – 777-655-0000.
