by Hoang, Jamie
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nature
WHEN Michael sold Ballerinas on Skid Row, I received a bottle of 1996 Opus One, a red Bordeaux blend, from him in the mail. When he sold Boy with Pigeons, he showed up at my doorstep in Venice Beach with a bottle of vintage Chateau Margaux. The first I drank alone in my Harlem studio full of moving boxes—straight from the bottle. The second, he and I drank together out of champagne flutes I’d bought at an estate sale up the street. I’d just moved to Venice three weeks prior and still had no furniture, so we sat on the floor of my studio apartment having a drunken discussion about the perils of selling art over the $400 bottle of wine.
Just a year earlier, the Michael Sanders Gallery had been the butt of many art critics’ jokes. “They said my taste was too commercial and lacking in depth,” he confessed, referring to the work he exhibited. “So when I came across you peddling New York City skylines, I bought one just to stick it to them.” I didn’t know whether to be honored or humbled. “Don’t get me wrong,” he continued, “I loved Ballerinas on Skid Row and hoped you would be my crossover artist. And here you are.”
“So how did you sell it?” I asked.
“I didn’t.”
I looked at him, not understanding.
“I had it up near the back for several weeks and I noticed that everyone who walked past it stopped to look; but, like me, they couldn’t quite put their finger on what struck them about it,” Michael said. “Then the Gibsons walked in, and…” he paused to laugh, “she schooled me on the art of technical painting.”
“She’s always told me that I’m a good technical painter, and I never knew whether to take it as a compliment or some sort of advice,” I slurred.
“It’s both,” Michael replied. “Your paintings lack the vulnerability needed to connect with people in a broader sense. If you continued down the path you’re on now, I’m sure I could sell the shit out of your work, because it’s beautifully crafted and juxtapositions are always intriguing, but I wouldn’t mind seeing something new either. You know how to paint, but how does your work define you as an artist.”
I had always thought he wanted me to put more of myself into my work. To be like Rusty and wear my heart on my sleeve. For months, I tried to capture my fears and doubts as an artist. Then, on one of the days Eli’s statements arrived, I forgot about myself and Midnight in Paris manifested. “It’s good,” Michael said as we hung it in the gallery next to my other piece, Poverty and Gluttony, the painting of a homeless child curled up next to a trashcan in an alley behind a row of the finest restaurants in New York. I really liked the contrast of the two pieces next to each other because it was a representation of my growth—or so I thought. “It’s good,” Michael repeated. “But there is more to you than your history. Don’t be afraid to leap outside of the box completely.”
Jeff and I spent our second day in Rome touring the Vatican and standing shoulder to shoulder in an international mosh pit of tourists, all trying to get the perfect photo of Michelangelo’s famous Sistine Chapel ceiling. I, too, took quite a few photos, but when I discovered that by shifting a foot or two to my right or left I could align my ever thickening RP line with the edges of each segment, I stopped. It was like seeing normally again for a little while and I wanted to savor the time. Between the two of us, Jeff and I had a few uncomfortable moments of talking over and bumping into one other, but for the most part the awkwardness was fading. At least on my part, my anger subsided and I began falling back into friendship mode.
On the flight to Peru, Jeff was mentally somewhere else. His laptop was open with Cabana, Word, and BetaTesting, running and ready to serve, but for the most part he just stared at the bottom of the seat in front of him, zoned out. I was sure he was thinking about Veronica, but I was the last person he would open up to about her. And to be honest, I didn’t want to know.
I opened my magazine to read an article on the history of the airline, but focusing on the tiny print made my head start to pound. I tried really hard to get through the entire article but found myself re-reading the first paragraph over and over. Shifting my focus to the smiling flight attendant in the accompanying photograph, I wondered if the airline would ever consider hiring a blind flight attendant. I closed the magazine, stuffed it back in the seat-back pocket, and thought about my disease. The process of going blind was already different than what I was expecting. The thin rim that had formed in the center of my vision was like a bar that divided windowpanes, only permanently attached. My view of the world was literally changing and I pushed myself to think about collaborating with this newfound perspective. Being a blind artist would make me a minority among minorities and somewhere in that experience I hoped to find a craft. Okay RP, I thought, if we’re in this together then I can’t be the only one working here. So what’ve you got? I closed my eyes.
On the eighteen-hour flight, which included a quick layover in Madrid, I came up with exactly two benefits to going blind, and fifty-six drawbacks. One benefit was never having to drive and the other was my other senses heightening. Eating in the dark at Opaque enhanced my recognition of different flavors, which allowed me to describe what I tasted with nuanced detail. With only smell, touch, taste, and hearing, I was forced to evaluate what I was eating in a different manner than I was accustomed, and the words came from a vocabulary I rarely utilized.
I considered becoming a writer. Books were a favorite pastime of mine because the reader was such a factor in the equation. The author described the world, but it was up to the audience to complete the picture. But I knew nothing about writing. I’d been a B student at best when it came to mastering the English language, so it was something to ruminate on but far from a solution.
Looking past the sleeping woman in the window seat next to me, I watched as the wing of the airplane sliced through puffs of cloud. A continual river of white, dense-less condensation rolled over the plane’s wing then disappeared downstream. Suspended above the earth, being in a plane was like being given a timeout on life; too bad by the time we touched down in Cuzco I had no answers and a million more questions.
As was required for all entry to the Inca Trail, we booked with a local tour company weeks in advance. Quince Tour Group, which looked to be the smallest outfit, had ten porters (not including our tour guide). Sebastian and Sabrina, an adorable European couple who, like their names, complemented each other perfectly, had been grouped with us. They were about our age, but their English accents and swanky Under Armor attire set them apart from us in our casual outfits of shorts and tank tops. We didn’t talk much that first day because the hike itself required nearly all of our energy, and we’d all gotten up at 5:00 a.m., so everyone was understandably exhausted. I did, however, notice that Sebastian always made sure Sabrina walked on the side closest to the mountain and he often checked in on how she was doing while coaxing her to drink more water, something she didn’t seem inclined to do. Cayo, our tour guide, was a short guy who wore a New York Yankees baseball cap, red windbreaker suit, and a matching, worn, two-pocket backpack slung over one shoulder.
The entrance to the trail was marked by a simple wooden arch, carved by hand and inscribed with symbols of valleys, mountain ranges, and rivers. Groups took turns taking photos in front of the arch as we sipped coca tea made for us by our porters. The green leaves were fresh and whole, unlike the dried tea we typically drank at home.
“Every day you drink this tea, good for you,” Cayo said. “Help with altitude sickness.”
We posed together for a photo, crossed under the entrance, and the trek began. One of the last groups to take off, we walked briskly; well, as briskly as we could with backpacks weighing about twenty pounds each. The air was humid but not hot, and shades of green and brown were everywhere. Light green stems connected to forest green flower buds, faded lime bled across fallen leaves on their way to turning brown, and moss green spread across the sea of trees. Perpendicular to us was the wide Urubama River, which moved with surprising ease con
sidering its brown, clay-like appearance.
Every guidebook and online reviewer mentioned spending two full days in Cuzco adjusting to the high altitude; however, because of our schedule, Jeff and I only had about half a day before we set out on the hike. Big mistake. We drank lots of coca tea and made sure to stay hydrated, but the last couple hours of day one were a steady incline and I began to feel lightheaded. Cayo had one of the porters carry my things, and I moved at a snail’s pace behind everyone else. Luckily, I made it to the campsite before any real symptoms kicked in.
After lying down in the tent for about an hour I felt pretty good, so I decided to join the group for a meal. I sat for about four minutes before my head started throbbing and the dinner tent started spinning.
“Are you okay?” Sabrina asked.
“Yeah. I’m just feeling a little dizzy,” I replied, getting up. I got about six feet outside of the tent and the world went black.
“Jeff!” I shouted.
“Yeah,” he said, his hands resting on my shoulders. “Aubs?”
“I can’t see anything,” I said, panicking. “I can’t see anything, I can’t see anything.”
“It’s probably just the altitude,” I heard Sabrina say. “Let’s get her in the tent and have her drink some coca tea.”
I blinked quickly and moved my head about searching for something—anything. “I can’t see anything,” I whispered again. I didn’t know what else to say so I kept repeating the phrase over and over again, waiting for a different outcome. I can’t see anything…
Inside the tent, I felt the windbreaker material of my sleeping bag as I crouched down to sit. Someone gently pressed down on my shoulders to help me lean back, but I got about halfway down and panicked again. I had a sudden fear that if I leaned back any further I might fall into an abyss, or off one of the many mountainsides I’d passed earlier that day. “Stop,” I said, breathing hard. “Sorry, I just need a minute.”
“It’s okay. Take your time,” Sabrina said. “It’s pretty tight in here. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Jeff said. I started a ‘thank you’ as well but it got caught in my throat and never came out. Reaching around in the darkness until I found Jeff’s hand, I squeezed it tight, closed my eyelids, and concentrated on slowing my rapid breathing.
When I felt my heart returning to a normal pace, I slowly lifted my heavy eyelids and let out the breath I’d been holding. Things were fuzzy at first, just blotches of scattered colors and a few undefined shapes, until finally the opening of the tent came into focus and I could see the silhouette of mountains against the night sky.
Relieved, I let go of Jeff’s hand and let myself fall back onto the plush sleeping bag.
“I’m okay,” I said.
Lying down next to me, Jeff propped his head up with one hand and looked at me with such intensity that I shifted my gaze toward the flapping zipper of the tent’s entrance.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” I said. “I mean, I know I should’ve expected it. I know what’s happening. I just—the world went black.” I was having a hard time articulating the fear I’d just experienced. My lungs burned from lack of air, and no matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t seem to get myself to breathe properly. “I—”
“It’s okay, Aubs,” he whispered, cutting me off. The intense look in his eye was unwavering. But this time, I didn’t look away. I held his gaze until his lips reached mine and I felt his hand on the small of my back pulling me close. His kiss was soft but strong and I melted into his protective embrace. Our bodies were pressed together and yet I felt as if he were still too far. I closed my eyes and let my hands explore the muscular definition of his collarbone. Making my way down his arms, I felt the flex of his biceps before grazing his chest to feel the beating of his heart.
He somehow managed to zip the tent while removing my clothes and we moved about exploring each other’s bodies with slow, meticulous movements. Taking his time, he moved from my mouth, down to my neck, and carefully wrapped his lips around my left nipple while he squeezed my right breast in his hand. As he traveled down the rest of my body, the trail of wet kisses he left sent a tingling sensation shooting through me to the ends of my fingers and toes.
I was bursting with so much emotion that I was ready to climax the moment I felt him inside me. I kissed him hard as our bodies moved in tandem. Then, letting out a soft involuntary cry, I gave into my senses, feeling as if all of the blood in my body was rushing to meet with Jeff’s. Intertwined with him as one, I’d never felt closer to anyone in my life.
We both lay silent for a long while, before I turned to him and said, “I’m going blind.”
“No, you’re not,” he laughed.
“Yes. I am,” I replied. “The doctors told me before we left.”
Bolting upright, Jeff looked at me. His face was a mixture of concern, confusion, and resentment. “What?” he said.
“My ophthalmologist told me—” I started, but he cut me off.
“You’ve known this entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Geezus Aubs!” he nearly shouted. It looked like he had a million things he wanted to say or yell at me, but nothing else came out.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” I said.
“Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even surprised that you didn’t tell me,” he said.
“I wasn’t trying to hide it. I had just found out when you invited me to come with you and I thought it would be my last opportunity to see the world. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want it to interfere with the trip.”
“You’ve never been one to face things, Aubs,” he said.
“You’re one to talk,” I snapped.
“Right, I’m gonna take a walk before I say something I’ll regret,” he said, putting on his clothes.
When I awoke the next morning, it took me a minute to realize where I was. I could hear the other trekkers chatting outside and, like a freshman running late to my first final exam in college, I got dressed at lightning speed. I didn’t want to be the one they were waiting on.
Clumsily stepping out of my tent, I zipped the entrance closed before turning around to put on my shoes, but the view stopped me dead in my tracks. We were perched at the top of a mountain so high the clouds were literally beneath us. I knew that Cuzco was high in elevation—my body still bearing the brunt of altitude sickness—and that we’d trekked upwards for most of the day before, but I had no idea just how high we actually were. It was a spectacular view; what I had imagined Earth to look like from Heaven. The air was crisp, the ground damp, and through the thin layers of cloud I saw a lush valley covered in a solid, dark green. The tree-to-person ratio had to be something like 2000 to 1, because I felt elated by partaking in the most basic of human activities: breathing.
“Aubs, you alright?” Jeff asked from underneath the breakfast tent. I looked up and realized I was standing in an awkward position with one sock successfully on and the other in mid-attempt.
“Great!” I said with a bit too much enthusiasm. “Just, uh, taking in a breath of fresh air.”
“Did you sleep alright?” Sabrina asked.
“Good enough,” I smiled, glancing at Jeff whose eyes were now locked to his plate. “What’s for breakfast?”
“The most amazing spread,” Sebastian said in his perfectly polite manner of speaking. Yes, I was one of those foolish Americans enamored by the English accent.
“Omelets and bacon,” Sabrina finished.
“Bacon?! Seriously?” I sat down next to Jeff, taking notice of his shift to make room for me on the already-empty side of the bench. As if waiting for me to arrive, a plate of food was handed to me by a porter. “Thanks,” I said as he smiled sheepishly and slunk away to the back where the rest of the porters sat eating their own breakfast. I had expected some kind of Peruvian dish with rice and alpaca, Peru’s main source for protein, so bacon was a welcome surprise.
I loved that we were having eggs in the morning for no other reason than that they were familiar. That’s when I felt, for the first time in years, a pang of homesickness.
Not for my apartment in Venice, but for the home where I grew up, in Houston. Cheese eggs were the go-to food in our house on nights we were all too exhausted to get takeout but needed sustenance. After they passed, I spent months avoiding eggs of any kind until finally, one drunken night, I had a hankering for them. I went about making myself a plate at 3:00 a.m. on a Saturday night, and as I sobered up I thought of all the times I’d had eggs for dinner with my parents. Raising my plate in a toast to them in Heaven, eggs became my go-to food for when I missed them.
Day two of the hike was the hardest. For ten hours we climbed stair after stair, after stair. I was tired after the first hour so the last nine felt like an eternity. As we trekked, I wondered if the ancient civilizations built the stairs in a feeble attempt to reach God. From the base looking upward, the mountaintops peaked above the clouds and I could see how one might come to the conclusion that God was sitting up there waiting. I could only imagine how disappointed they were when they reached the peak and all they found was a pathway back down the other side.
God or no God, the journey was the closest I’d ever come to having a spiritual connection. The high altitude meant oxygen was thin, and after my panic attack the day before I was focused on only one thing: breathing. Cayo walked beside me as the others moved about leisurely ahead, and he made sure I stopped at the slightest hint of rapid intakes of air. As far as I was concerned, he was the Incan equivalent of a Buddhist monk. My legs were sore and sweat poured out of every pore in my body, but I found a deep calmness within, which helped me continue moving despite my physical difficulties.
