Rancher Daddy

by Lexi Whitlow

  I stride in to the class with my usual swagger and practiced artifice of the highest degree. The kids look like design school kids just about anywhere. There’s a contingent of preps, destined to work as art directors in big agencies, selling their souls for the almighty dollar, branding dish soap and erectile dysfunction pharmaceuticals. There are the mid-grade talents who will go on to be solid worker-bees at regional shops. They’ll spend their best years billing hours, making vast sums of money for their bosses, working eighty hour weeks, burning out before they hit forty. Some of them will have second careers in real-estate or insurance. There’s a smaller group who will make it as independent contractors, illustrating comic books, magazine covers, or going to Hollywood to do title designs and computer games. And then there’s Chloe, sitting on top of a desk at the back of the classroom. She’s either going to crash the world wide open with a brand-new approach, or crash and burn-out before anyone knows her name.

  My first class of juniors are no less enamored of the fact that their professor is young. I take the same tack with them as I did my sophomores, producing my copy of the Fontbook, giving them the same assignment I gave the sophomores.

  In the back of the classroom, I see Chloe roll her eyes.

  She’s done this.

  The other assignments are a variation on the theme, with just enough added complications to keep it challenging, pushing them harder than they’ve ever been pushed before.

  When I dismiss the class, I ask ‘Miss Harvey’ to stay behind.

  She approaches me cautiously, standing miles away as the other students move along.

  “I had a look at your book,” I say. “It’s good. Like you said, better than the others, by far.”

  Chloe makes no response. She won’t look at me. She’s gazing at the ceiling, looking at the walls behind me.

  Anywhere but at me.

  “You’re exempted from the font tracing work, because I know you’ve already done that.”

  This gets her attention. She looks at me.

  “You’ll have a different project.”

  Her brow furrows. Her eyes narrow.

  “I noticed you appropriated your father’s signature, the ‘gh’ ligature applied in the typography on your work. You need a new one. You can’t use his.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  Finally, she speaks.

  “Because Guy Harvey is an icon, and you are not him. You don’t need to be him. Make your own mark. Make it good. But don’t try to ride on his coat tails. You don’t need to.”

  “But that’s the Harvey & Company brand,” she protests.

  “Last I heard, Harvey & Company was dissolved.”

  “And one day I’m going to resurrect it.” Her tone is animated, digging in.

  “Then resurrect it based on you. Your talent, your vision, your skill—your name.” I offer her a half-hearted smile. “You can do it. It isn’t even that big of a challenge. But don’t copy your father just because it’s familiar. You can do better than that.”

  “Whatever. I’ll do the project because I have to. It doesn’t mean I have to use it.”

  “No. It doesn’t. But I’m going to grade you on the usability curve. If the client doesn’t buy the work, then the grade is failing.”

  I see her wheels spinning. “You’re an epic control freak,” she says. “You can’t make me use it.”

  “I can’t, I agree. “But after you develop it, labor over it a few weeks, I hope you’ll want to use it. I think you probably will. We’ll see.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Did you just roll your eyes at me? That’s incredibly disrespectful.”

  She sure doesn’t have her father’s manners.

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m just jumping through hoops to build a book and get my paper at the end of this thing.”

  She’s still angry. Even more angry than she was at thirteen.

  “There’s another thing.” I remember the scene from earlier. “I saw you sleeping in the studio this morning. You can’t do that. Liza’s on the war path about students moving into their studios. If she catches you, she’ll banish you from the studio for the whole term.”

  “Liza Johnson is a hack with a serious Napoleon complex,” she spits out. “I’d like to see her try to ban me from the building with my father’s name on it. The administration might have something to say about it.”

  “She’s part of the administration,” I remind her. “They made the rule. And anyway, why is it exactly that you’re squatting in the studios and putting your stuff in storage? Why don’t you just move in to another apartment? Or the dorms?”

  She rolls her eyes again, shaking her head. “Money.” Her jaw clenches. “The lack of it. I could barely afford the rent on Hanover Street, and our landlord hasn’t refunded our deposits yet. He said it’ll be at least thirty days. I’m… I’m… Never mind. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

  She squares up, pulling her bag to her shoulder.

  “That’s not an answer,” I say. “Guy was successful. Are you telling me he left you with nothing at all? What about Harvey & Company? I understood his partners bought out his share. That should have generated millions.”

  Chloe regards me with circumspection. She’s pondering what to say.

  “His estate was worth considerably more than that,” she says, measuring her words. “And my college fund was well capitalized too.” She takes a breath. “It was all left in trust, until I’m twenty-seven. I can’t touch any of it until then, and by then, I’m pretty sure there won’t be anything left to claim.”

  I don’t understand. “How can that be?”

  She shrugs. “Ask my mother. Or better yet, her sleazy lawyer boyfriend. They got control of the trust on a technicality under Virginia law last year, and they’ve been busy unwinding its assets, liquidating it piece-by-piece, ever since. The first thing to go was my college fund. I’m pretty sure that’s what they used to pay off the judge who appointed my mother Trustee.”

  This seems almost impossible to believe. What kind of parent does that to their own kid? Then I remember how I met Chloe in the first place. She only came to New York because her mother was sent to rehab. Guy even said she was a wreck. This explains everything, and it explains why Chloe is so pissed-off at the world.

  “What can I do to help?” I ask, and I mean it.

  She scowls at me, then laughs. “Cut me some slack in the pity department, and mind your own business. I don’t need your help.”

  She walks past me and away down the hall.

  I don’t know why, but this girl is under my skin. Anyone else, and I’d write her off without blinking. I should. She’s got a terrible attitude, a smart mouth, and a no respect. But she’s also incredibly talented, and she’s Guy Harvey’s daughter. That counts for something. The last one counts for a great deal. Guy wouldn’t want his daughter winding up homeless. I know this isn’t the future he imagined or even planned for her.

  I wonder what, if anything, can be done.

  I pop my headphones in and dial my mother’s number. It’s a little after six in the evening. I’ll probably catch her between work and the apartment, which ideally will keep the call brief.

  When she picks up I hear jazz music playing in the background.

  “Hayes, lovely,” she says warmly. “How is Richmond? Are you ready to come back to civilization yet?”

  “Richmond is fine,” I say. “Still getting settled in.”

  We make small talk for a few minutes. My mother likes catching me up on all the latest gossip among her huge circle of friends. It doesn’t take long for me to get my fill; I get down to business.

  “You remember Guy Harvey’s daughter, Chloe?” I ask her. “I think you met her several times.”

  “Vaguely,” she replies. “I remember she was a lovely child. Gorgeous. I tried to get Guy to let me photograph her and put her to work modeling. He wouldn’t hear of it.”

  Wise man.
/>   “She’s a student here,” I say. “My student, and she’s got some stuff going on that just seems… well… crazy. I was wondering if you could help me shed some light on it. I know you and Guy were close friends, and I know you go all the way back to your college days.”

  My mother loves talking about the good, bad old days of her wild, reckless youth. And she loves a juicy bit of gossip. This will give her something to gnaw on for a while.

  “Sweetie, I haven’t seen Chloe since the funeral, and before that, just in passing with Guy. I didn’t know her well. You knew her better than I did.”

  “Did you know her mother?” I ask.

  “Oh, I know—or knew—her mother,” she says, her tone rising with interest. “Tess Burgwyn. Beautiful girl. Classic. Tall. Perfect lines. She could make a potato sack look radiant.”

  Not what I’m looking for.

  “She also put every nickel she ever made up her nose, pissed-off half the photographers in the city, slept with the other half, and then she got her hooks in Guy Harvey. He paid that woman alimony for sixteen years, right up until the day he died. He was convinced she drank, smoked, and snorted the lion’s share of it. They should have let Guy have custody, but Virginia—oh, don’t get me started. He did everything he could.”

  That’s more along the lines of what I was hoping to learn. So, it’s true, Chloe’s mother is really just that bad.

  “Why are you asking about Tess, dear? What’s she got to do with you?”

  I explain to my mother what Chloe told me, and further explain that she won’t take any assistance.

  “Well I know who can talk some sense into her,” my mother says. “You call Dan and Scott over at The Foundry. They’ll straighten her out. She was interning with them in the summers after Guy died when they re-launched the business. I think they’ve stayed close.”

  Makes sense. That also aligns what she said when I asked her about her background.

  “I’ll do that.”

  A few minutes more and my mother begs off. I promise to call her again in a few days.

  I find the number for The Foundry and call it, hoping that either Dan or Scott are still around. It’s after hours, but I’d be stunned if there isn’t someone there who can help me track them down, and

  I’m not disappointed. The young man who picks up recognizes my name, and then gives me both Dan and Scott’s cell numbers.

  “They headed out about twenty minutes ago,” he says. “I think they had dinner plans, but you should be able to catch one of them.”

  When Scott Brandt answers his cell, the unmistakable street sounds of New York City rise into my ears, along with his familiar voice. We chat for just a moment, catching up. It’s been years since we’ve spoken. I was in London when Guy died, and couldn’t make his funeral. A few months later I made my way to Chelsea. Scott, Dan, and a few others from the old firm shared dinner with me at The Red Cat in memory of our friend. That was the last time I saw them.

  “I’m calling about Chloe Harvey,” I say. I tell Scott what’s been going on with Chloe.

  “That’s fascinating,” Scott says. “Not shocking though.”

  Really?

  “She didn’t come this summer for her regular internship. It surprised us both. She made some excuse about just wanting to take a summer off, but she sounded weird. I told Danny I thought it was a money issue. We offered to put her up and pay her. She wouldn’t hear of it. I guess I was right. What can I do? You want me to call her?”

  “Yeah.” I’m not sure where I’m going with it. “I want you to talk to her, and tell her to eat her pride and take some help. Guilt her. Do whatever it takes. Just let me know what happens, okay?”

  We end the call and I sit back, regarding the blank wall in front of me. What should I do? The girl is a train wreck, as hard-headed and proud as they come. I need to convince her to let me help her. I also need to be patient; let Dan and Scott talk with her first.

  I don’t do patience well.

  Chapter 5

  Chloe

  “Chloe, let us send you some money,” Scott says over the long-distance line. “This is ridiculous. Guy would hang my ass out the nearest window if he knew you were in this kind of shape and I didn’t do something.”

  Danny and Scott mean well. I know it. And they’re probably right about my father. But this is my problem and I’ve got to solve it myself. If nothing else, my father instilled in me the value of independence.

  “It’s not that bad,” I say. “Really. Hayes is over-reacting. You guys know him. He always was a little bit OCD. He’s making more out of it than it is.”

  “So, you’re not homeless?” Scott asks. “Because that’s what it sounds like to me. That you’re homeless, crashing at a friend’s rented studio space on the shitty side of town. That sounds bad, Chloe.”

  “Good lord, Scott. Relax. It’s just for a little while. I’ll get this figured out.”

  “This is easy to figure out,” Scott says. “You forget, kiddo, I’ve known you and Hayes both since you were kids. OCD, he may well be, but I’ve never known him to blow things out of proportion. On the other hand, I have known you to be the most stubborn, single-minded, proud little… Listen. I’m PayPaling you two grand. If you still don’t have a place to live lined up by this time tomorrow, or if you duck my calls, or if you don’t take the money, the next thing I’m doing is getting on a plane, coming down there and fix this myself. Do you understand me?”

  “Scott, you don’t need to—”

  “Do. You. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I relent, because he’s given me no option. I hate it when he talks to me like this. He’s not my father.

  That said, if I must owe someone, better Scott and Danny than anyone else. They’ve known me forever, they loved my father, and I think they love me by default. The deal is I know they don’t have a lot of extra money. It took everything they had to buy out my father’s share of the company so they could keep the clients, keep the staff, and keep the doors open. It kills me that my mother is living the big life now, spending freely with money my father earned and money his friends borrowed. It eats me up to the very core.

  Once off the phone I assess my situation. One day isn’t much time to find a place, and two thousand dollars won’t go far with the rents the way they are around here.

  I look around at this space, and it doesn’t seem half bad. It belongs to my friend Kerry who graduated last year. Now she’s working at a gallery in Shockoe Bottom while trying to do her thing as a painter. As young artists go, she’s good.

  Her studio is a makeshift space inside an old open-air warehouse; a space she shares with about fifty other artists. Nothing is up to code and I’m pretty sure the property owner doesn’t have the permits required to use the building like this, but there’s running water and electricity, and the monthly rent is cheap. Kerry said she pays four hundred a month for this spot. I can afford that. Who cares if there’s no heating or AC? There are no roaches either, as far as I’ve seen.

  The building itself isn’t awful. It’s big, damp, and drafty. It smells of mold, wet concrete, and paint. It creaks a little spookily. But it’s a roof overhead and that’s better than nothing.

  The location isn’t the greatest. Manchester is an old manufacturing center across the river from Richmond, and in traffic, by bus, it’ll take at least an hour to get to school in the morning. The area is sketchy in places. Since it’s mostly industrial, by default it’s mostly abandoned, which means there are a lot of fringe-types hanging loose around the edges. People who are down on their luck, looking for a cheap place to lay their heads.

  People like me, I realize, as soon as I think it. Yeah. That’s right. I’m one wrong step away from living under the 14th Street Bridge.

  Well I’m not there yet. I’ve got a box full of groceries and a sleeping bag, a bottle of shampoo in my bag I take with me to the gym for a hot shower. My books and what few household things I have are tucked away safely in storage, and
I’ve got clothes enough to get me through a week before I have to do laundry. Everything is self-contained, simplified, and manageable.

  It really isn’t bad at all.

  The only bad thing so far is that I ditched two classes today, but they were academic and art history classes, so no huge deal. Now I’ve got to go to work and pull a dinner-to-closing shift at the restaurant. After that it’s to my studio to crank out thirty sketches for the wall tomorrow, plus conjure up a new idea for my printmaking project. Luckily, I only have that class once a week, and not until Thursday. There’s time.

  It’s debatable whether I’ll sleep here—or anywhere—tonight. It’s going to be hit or miss straight through until the end of the term.

  I just need to remember to keep my toothbrush with me. If I can keep up with that, I’ll be fine.

  I step out of the rear entrance of the bar into the chilling night air. It hangs dense with the scent of rotting garbage and stale beer. The back lot of every restaurant and bar the world over all smell the same. The only difference is nuance. Ours is rich with overtones of refried beans, tinted with just a subtle nose of hot pepper salsa lingering in the high notes. It’s enough to make you wretch.

  I jam my hands in my pockets to keep them warm. I forgot my jacket.

  It’s not a short walk from the restaurant to school. It’s almost ten blocks. And as tired as I am, as much as my feet hurt from standing at the bar all night, I’m grateful to be outside in the fresh air. The scent of tacos and margarita mix sticks to my clothes and skin. The walk always helps air me out.

  All during my shift at work, I kept returning in my head to my project for Type class, running ideas and compositions around in my brain. Walking to school I reload them into my conscious and start refining them in my imagination, adding depth, proportion, color. Working in my studio, by three in the morning, I’ve produced thirty-five rough pencil sketches, with the three best ideas enlarged and refined; a little color added for accent, just to show the direction I’m thinking toward.