by Annie Jocoby
Seth knew about my extracurricular activities and seemed unconcerned about it all. “You do what you want, Dalilah,” he had said. “As long as you keep doing that thing you do with your tongue, I’m good to go.”
Permission having been granted, I had the freedom to do whatever it was that I wanted, within my budget, of course. And I took it. I was 20. If I had gone to college, I would be going to keggers and screwing random strangers, because that’s what you do in college. That’s what Alaina was doing over at NYU. So, I felt that I was somehow fulfilling what might have been expected of me had I gone the traditional route of college.
Which I didn’t. My parents let me leave the house at 16 to go and live with Uncle Nick and Aunt Scotty in Connecticut, because I had expressed a desire to get back into art in general and the art scene in New York City in particular. I think that my parents really wanted me to go to college, but they weren’t the type to demand anything from me, preferring that I learn to make my own way in life.
“That’s what you have always done, Dalilah,” mom had said. “Always. So, far be it for me to stop you now. We want you to make your own decisions about your life, because you need to own what you do. Nobody else can own your life but you. Remember that.”
That had made a lot of sense to me. They were basically saying that I needed to find my own path without their pushing me into anything. Alaina was jealous of this, of course. Her parents were forcing her to apply to every Ivy League college there was, which she did, being the ever dutiful daughter. Of course, she was really like a female Eddie Haskell, in that she was obsequious to a fault to the face of her elders, but, behind their backs, she was the wildest girl I had yet to know. And she was over 1200 miles away from her suffocating parents, who still lived in the Kansas City area, so she was pretty much into everything. Prescription drugs, alcohol, even some street stuff that I would never think about trying. I heard too many horror stories from my father to ever think about doing some of the things that Alaina was doing.
But alcohol? Oh, yeah. I was sucking that stuff down like water. Because I was still directionless. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t seem to get the muse back. So, I modeled for art classes, hoping against hope that these young students would inspire some kind of spark of creativity in me again. But they never did.
So, I pretty much did the nude modeling gigs to pay the bills and nothing more. The university gigs paid pretty low by New York City standards – only around $25 an hour. But the private gigs that I managed to score paid around $100 an hour, so I was able to maintain my financial independence from my parents, however tenuously, while I pretty much waited for my well-spring of creativity to activate in me once more.
In the meantime, I had my bottles of Cuervo and Jack, my random men, and Seth whenever I wanted him. These things kept me company. So did Alaina, who was not only experimenting with drugs but with her sexuality as well. She kissed me one drunken night at my apartment, and we ended up in bed together. It had happened three times since then, and it was…nice. I guess. About as good as Seth, really.
I changed into my robe and glared at Kyle. “What?”
“Missy, if you weren’t so goddamned physically flawless, I would have canned your sweet ass a long time ago. Now get out there.”
I rolled my eyes, and stepped out in front of the waiting class. They were buzzing restlessly. I saw quite a few canvasses with no students behind them, as the students in question obviously had gotten fed up and left. There was a guy sitting on the back table, tossing a ball in the air, while a girl sat at his feet, playing with her phone and grabbing onto his leg playfully. A few students were drawing and painting diligently, but, mainly, the students were in various stages of boredom and ennui.
I took off my robe and stood in front of the class. Immediately, the buzzing stopped, and the students’ eyes were trained on me. I sighed a little bit in relief, and laid down on the blanket that was placed on the hard surface. Within two minutes, every student was behind their canvas, painting diligently.
I wanted to address the class and apologize for my lateness. It wasn’t like me to be so disrespectful, but I had really drank to the point of blacking out the previous night, so getting up and making this 9 AM class was more than a challenge. Especially since I had to come from Queens. How I made it to Queens last night in my inebriated state was a mystery that I had not yet contemplated. I could only assume that Mystery Boy had called a cab for both of us to take from the Village bar that I was getting hammered in.
God, I hope there were condoms involved. I had no desire to end up back in the clinic to get another prescription for antibiotics or whatever it is that they give you when you end up with chlamydia. Yeah, virtually everyone I knew had that particular disease at least once, but it didn’t make it any less embarrassing. And, god forbid I get something else that wasn’t so curable. I had thus far been lucky that way, unlike Janelle, who hung out with Alaina and me. She was exposed to the herp, the gift that keeps on giving, and was constantly dealing with painful outbreaks that caused her to have to often miss class.
As I laid there, the students dispassionately staring at me, and then quickly tending to their canvases, I started to feel the familiar feeling of wanting to hurl. I really think that I was still drunk when I started this particular gig, and the alcohol had finally worked its way through my system, and all that I wanted right at that moment was some kind of bucket or something. I swallowed hard, and stared at the lights, hoping that they might distract me. I imagined that, since Kyle was already so pissed at me for being late, he probably would end up canning me if I would have puked all over the floor. And getting up and running to the bathroom was not an option. These students were in the flow, and my leaving right at that moment would be more than unfair to them.
Damn, this is the longest half hour of my life. Thank god I was a half hour late, because I literally didn’t think that I ever could have laid there for the full hour. I imagined that the students might have painted my face a bit green, then laughed to myself for thinking that.
Finally, the class was over, and the students started packing up their tools and canvases. They lingered around the classroom, talking to one another, trying hard not to look at me as I stood up and put on my white robe and slippers. I quickly ran back to the back room, as the urge to vomit once again presented itself, and I finally found relief in hovering over the toilet.
Kyle came over disapprovingly. “Not preggers, I hope. Aw, but, then again, that might be interesting. Give the kids a different kind of female form to draw.”
I looked up at him. “No, not pregnant. I’m using something. Just a long night last night, that’s all.”
“How long?” he asked, his hands on his hips. Kyle could be such a queen sometimes.
“I left the strange Queens apartment at 8 this morning. Hence my being a half hour late. You know how long it takes to get here from Queens with all the transfers.”
Kyle just shook his head. “Do your parents have any idea what you’re doing? Aren’t you supposed to, you know, be an art student instead of an art model?”
“No offense, Kyle, and I hope that this doesn’t sound too arrogant. But I studied all the masters, starting when I was five years old. Between the age of 5 and 11, I was more prolific than almost any working artist you could name today. I had showings at the Luhring and the Bonakdar,” I said, referencing two Chelsea galleries that worked with artistic powerhouses from around the globe. “So I really don’t know what I could possibly learn in a classroom that hasn’t already been self-taught.”
Kyle narrowed his eyes. “You do know that I can Google what you just said, don’t you, Dalilah Gallagher?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Go right ahead. I’m not lying about that.”
He looked skeptical and brought out his phone. After a minute or so, his eyes got wide in astonishment. “You really weren’t kidding. My god, your work was so…”
“Mesmerizing and raw?” I said. “He
ard it all before.”
“You were how old when you got these showings?” he asked, as he flipped through the Google images of my work.
“I was 10 when I got my first major showing. I also got a showing at the Magda Danysz in Paris that same year.”
“10. For the love of god, what have you been doing lately?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I quit. I lost my voice and my inspiration. I found that I no longer had anything to say.”
“Nothing to say? You mean to tell me that you were a has-been by the age of 11?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. But, art has always been the only thing that interests me, so I’m desperately trying to get it back. To find my voice again. It hasn’t been easy. I thought that just being in the environment with fledgling artists, and especially being in the environment of the established ones for which I model, would inspire me to pick up my brush again. But I have found that I still go home and stare at an empty canvas night after night.”
“Oh, I see. So, you go out to the bars and get shit-faced so that you don’t have to sit home and stare at that canvas.”
I put my finger on my nose and smiled. “You catch on quickly.”
He shook his head. “Dalilah. Running from your problems isn’t going to solve them.”
“No, but getting shit-faced helps me forget about them for a least a short period of time. They’re still there, as big as life, when I’m living in reality. But, for a few hours, as I sip my Tanqueray and tonic, my inadequacies seem less so. It’s merciful, really.”
“You know, you mentioned once that you left school at age 16 and moved here. Maybe that has something to do with it, too. Why you’re wondering through life with all the direction of a feather in the wind.”
“I’m sure that didn’t help,” I said, honestly. “But school wasn’t doing me any good, either. It’s very hard to concentrate in class when you’re studying something that you’ve already mastered before the age of 7. Which would encompass most of the material in my high school courses. Even the advanced courses. I was about ready to jam my pencil into my brain, I was so bored.”
“So,” he said. “You’ve been in this city for three years then. And in that time, you’ve accomplished….”
“Let’s not go into that, okay? I’d rather not have to contemplate it.”
“You’ve answered my question,” he said.
“I’m glad,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get dressed and get on the subway and go…somewhere.” I didn’t really know where I was going to go. Seth was working, of course, and Alaina was in class. Unfortunately, today was one of the days that I didn’t have a private gig. On such days, I found myself wandering the city endlessly. More often than not, I got into trouble.
“Well, okay, then. But, little girl, tomorrow morning. 9 sharp. One more late day, and you’ll find yourself on the street. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I said.
I got dressed and went down to the street. I went up to a street vendor and grabbed a bagel and lox and sat down on a bench to eat it.
On the other bench was an extraordinarily handsome and well-dressed man. Despite the fact that it was 50 degrees, which meant that I was dressed in a cardigan, the man had on a trench coat. His black hair was slicked back, and his eyes were a cerulean blue. In spite of myself, I found myself staring at him. He looked so familiar….
I shook my head, and continued to eat my bagel. But I soon became aware that he was trying to catch my eye. I could see it in my peripheral vision. So, I looked up again.
Then it struck me. I had seen him before. Many times before, in fact. It never occurred to me that this guy seemed to be everywhere I went, for whatever reason. It just registered when I took a good look at his face.
I smiled, for he was staring at me. His stare was penetrating and cold, and it made me feel uncomfortable. He raised his cup of coffee to his lips and continued to stare.
Finally, he held out his hand for me to shake. “Blake,” he said. “Blake Nottingham.”
“Dalilah,” I said, although I had the feeling that he already knew my name. Just a hunch, but I was rarely wrong about such things. “Dalilah Gallagher.”
“Dalilah. So, what brings you to this bench in the middle of the day?”
I shrugged. “Don’t really have a place to go, I guess. Except home. But that’s just too depressing. What about you?”
He smiled a little. “I’m the boss. I set my own hours.” It was then that he gave me one of his cards. Blake Nottingham, CEO, Nottingham Industries, the card read. I recognized the name of the company, for it was a large software developer, with its world headquarters in Lower Manhattan.
Eh, so he’s a big wig. So what? So is my dad. But there was something in those eyes of his that were very much not like my father’s. My dad’s eyes were kind, humorous. Full of life and warmth. He never took himself all that seriously, and he had some serious passion for my mother, even after all these years. They kind of grossed me out when I lived there, because I knew that, unlike most of my friend’s parents, mine did It. A lot.
But this guy….he looked demanding. Cruel, even.
I shifted uncomfortably in my bench, and brought my bagel to my lips again. I looked over, and he was still staring at me. Lustfully. That is the only way that I could explain it. He looked like he wanted my lips to be someplace else, other than on that bagel.
Finally, I finished my bagel and looked over my shoulder and saw a bus approaching. “Well, it’s really good to meet you, Blake,” I said, gesturing to the bus. “But I have to go.”
“But you said that you didn’t have anywhere to go,” Blake said, his eyes now registering hurt. “I was hoping to get to know you better.”
Stalker. “Well,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint. I’ll uh, see you later.” And the funny thing was, I knew that I was right about that.
Somehow I was going to run into him again. He wanted something from me, that was clear.
And I had a pretty good feeling on what that was.
Chapter Three
Luke
“Oh, mother fucker, not again.” I had just arrived home, after putting in a double-shift at O’Leary’s, which was the dive bar that was directly below my Brooklyn apartment. And, of course, I came home to find out that I had been robbed. Again. It was the third time in as many months.
Goddammit. I knew that I shouldn’t have splurged and bought that big-screen television. I knew it when I bought it. Luke I had said to myself. Now you know that you’re only going to have this TV for a month at the most. So, don’t get too attached. Yeah, I didn’t much want to get attached to it, but yet I did. I somehow imagined that this might be the year when I actually could have something halfway decent. But, no. This wasn’t my year after all.
Thank god I bought the damned thing hot. Otherwise, I’d have to really hunt the bastards down and somehow get them on the subway platform and push them off. I rubbed my hands together gleefully at the thought, then felt badly for thinking this. These stupid thieves were probably trying to survive, just like me.
I didn’t even bother to call the cops. What could they do? This shit was never recovered. It would end up in some pawn shop, and I would see it there when I would bring in some things that would serve as collateral for a loan, and then get pissed when I realized that I would have to buy my own shit back.
Same as the other two times I got shit stolen. The most frustrating thing in the world is to see my stuff on the wall of some pawn shop, and know that there was no way I could get it unless I paid for it again.
Ridiculous. Ridi-fucking-culous.
Grrrrr….there were days, like today, when I questioned my sanity for blindly following my dreams to this city. Those dreams were increasingly meeting a dead end. Which wasn’t fucking fair. I was goddamned talented. I knew that I was. Yet I couldn’t get a showing if I whored myself to do it. And, trust me, there were times when I thought about doing just that. Hell,
I would even do gay-for-pay if it meant that I could get just one showing in this town.
But no. I had to make do with my measly tips at the bar, combined with the small sales that I would realize whenever I could get a booth at one of the local art fairs. I could never sell my paintings for much, of course, because I didn’t have the name. But everybody always oohed and aahed over them, so I must have been doing something right.
Even my website was generating few hits. I was just about ready to call it quits and proclaim myself an abject failure. Go home to Portland, Maine and be a fisherman. It was good enough for my old man, so it really should be good enough for me.
Frustrated, I laid down on my couch, and stared at my guitar. I picked up a Rubik’s Cube that was on the coffee table, and twisted it, as I dreamed up some lyrics. My canvas was in the middle of the room, mocking me. I flipped it off, and continued to work the cube until I solved it. Which never took me very long. I had long since mastered that thing.
Then I brought out a bong, put some pot into the slide, lit it, sucked on it, and laid back down. I felt my blood pressure diffusing as I laid on my couch and looked at the ceiling. After a few more hits, I picked up my guitar and my sheet, where I was writing down notes for one of the many songs that I had jumbled in my head, waiting to be transcribed onto the paper. I strummed a few notes, and then wrote them down on the sheet. The musical part always came easily to me. The lyrics, not so much, but I was always working on it.
I took a few more hits, and, satisfied with the amount of work that I had put into my song-writing, I got up and sat down in front of my canvas. In a few minutes, I was picturing a girl that I had seen that day on the bus. She was a pretty girl, very pretty, with red hair and gorgeous sensuous lips. She had a contemptuous look on her beautiful face, like she wasn’t having a good day. Like she perpetually wasn’t having a good day. But there was something in her beautiful green eyes that made me look a second time, and then a third time. I found myself studying her from the time that she got on, until the time that she got off, which was about a half-hour later. I had looked out the window and saw her wandering into a bar in Uptown, and, if it weren’t for the fact that I had to get to a meeting, where I hoped to get some commissioned work, I would have gotten off and followed.
