Dray

by Tess Oliver

  Jolene seemed to be reading my thoughts. She raised her hand. “Ooh, ooh, Mr. Evans can I show the new girl where the restrooms and library are?”

  There was a small round of laughter, but Mr. Evans just shook his head. “Your new assignments have been sent to your email.” Instantly everyone pulled out their phones to check. I hadn’t even considered bringing a phone to a meeting, so I was out of luck.

  Dash lifted his phone toward me. “It looks like we’re going to an art show.”

  Jolene’s thin shoulders drooped as she rubbed her thumb across the screen of her phone. “Me too, darn it.”

  “If you have any problem with your assignment,” Mr. Evans called over the din of voices, “you can drop me a note in my ‘I don’t give a crap about your complaint’ box, and we’ll talk about it as you’re packing up your cubicle.” He found his joke quite humorous, but from the bland expressions around the table, it was obvious that the same joke came at the end of every meeting.

  ***

  When you’re in the heart of Los Angeles, the rush of people and traffic can be overwhelming, but Wilshire Boulevard suddenly seemed rather desolate and tame compared to the streets of New York. Just like in L.A., the people all seemed to be on edge, but in California, being on edge usually meant you were pissed off. Here on the east coast, people seemed to thrive on it as if stress energized them.

  Dash, Jolene and I had climbed into the backseat of the company van with our cameras and notebooks. The burly driver navigated the clogged maze of cars and taxis with the speed and ease of someone who had driven in traffic his whole life.

  Jolene had slid her wafer thin form into the window seat. Her long fingernails clacked the screen of her phone in a frenzy as she sent text after text to someone. Occasionally, a return text would make her smile and blush.

  Dash had added a black fedora to his ensemble. He yawned in boredom just as he caught one of Jolene’s reactions. He perked up from his slouch. “Let me guess— you’re talking to Rex.”

  Jolene smiled but never looked up from her phone. “Oh yeah, and he’s being particularly creative this morning.” Dash leaned forward and reached across me. “Let me see. I haven’t seen a good, raunchy sex text since Grant and I broke up.”

  Jolene pressed her phone to her chest. “Forget it. It’s for my eyes only—” she glanced at her phone again, “and some other parts too.” She sent back a quick text and tucked her phone into her purse. Jolene turned to me. “Rex is a god, a fucking god.” She scrunched up her brow. “Is there a mythological god for great sex?”

  “If there is¸” Dash spoke up, “my junior high teacher skipped that chapter of Ancient Greece.”

  “Well, if there is one, then Rex is that god.” She leaned conspiratorially close to me and lowered her voice. “One night I had five orgasms in a row. At least I think it was five, I was so damn delirious after number three—”

  Dash rolled his eyes beneath the brim of his fedora. “You don’t need to whisper, Jo. It doesn’t make it sound any more believable.”

  Jolene inclined her head toward Dash. “He’s just pissed because he hasn’t had any sex in three months.”

  “Three months and four days,” Dash said. “It’s just going to shrivel up and die.”

  “That’s a pretty visual.” Jolene twisted in her seat and turned her full attention to me. “What about you, Cassie? Anyone special in your life? I’ll bet you like the quiet, artsy type.”

  The heavy, cold feeling of homesickness pulled at my heart. I stared down at the camera in my lap. “No one special at the moment.” Then I thought of her description of my type, and I couldn’t help but smile. She seemed to realize she’d hit a nerve and relaxed back against the seat.

  I watched the buildings and people coast by. We’d turned into a neighborhood where the rundown buildings were a blur of rotting plaster and hazy windows. The walls had a layer of graffiti that was so thick, it looked nearly three dimensional. Some of it was primitive, angry almost, as if someone had just run a massive can of spray paint in every direction, but some of it was true art. One wall was cluttered with a chaotic mural of everything from a beer can to a dog holding his own leash, and, in the midst of it all, a serene, thoughtful face peered out from the graffiti with a watchful stare. The large dark eyes of the painting seemed to follow the van as we coasted along at a snail’s pace to the next traffic light.

  Several blocks later, I spotted another face painted in the center of a graffiti filled wall. It was the same face, but this time it wore a slightly mysterious smile.

  I looked over at Dash, who obviously having driven along these streets before, seemed to have no interest in any scenery and least of all graffiti covered walls.

  The driver cussed at a taxi that cut him off and then he turned the corner sharply. And there it was again— the face. “Jolene,” I pointed out the window, “I keep seeing these really expertly drawn faces staring out from the middle of all the graffiti on the buildings.”

  She didn’t need to look out the window to know what I was talking about. “Where’s Walter.” Jolene and Dash answered together.

  My mouth dropped open in confusion. “Uh, I don’t know. Where is he?”

  Dash laughed. “No. That’s the nickname of the man who painted those spectral face images you see popping out of the graffiti. He is a homeless guy named Walter. He’s been living on the streets since, shit, the eighties, I think. Anyhow, you’ll see his face all over the place. According to Walter, God placed him in charge of keeping an eye on the streets of New York. So he decided—”

  “To draw himself along all the streets,” I finished for him.

  “Well, not every street, but the ones where the—,” Dash lifted his fingers in air quotes, “—street art is tolerated.”

  Jolene fussed with an errant thread hanging from the hem of her skirt. “In other words, you won’t see old Walter’s face lurking around Park Avenue.” She pulled the string, and it seemed to have no end or reasonable breaking point. “Shit,” she mumbled, “I hate it when the loose thread is one that seems to be holding the whole damn skirt together.”

  Dash and I laughed.

  She finally snapped it free and smoothed the fabric that had bunched slightly from her hasty tailoring maneuver.

  “His art is amazing,” I said. “What a great story that would make if we’re doing a piece on urban art.” I glanced at Dash and then over at Jolene. “Right?”

  “Of course,” Dash answered. “But the owner of the magazine prefers to cater to a more cultured set. True talent is trumped by what the in-crowd thinks is worth looking at. And gritty street life masterpieces are not considered worth it. At least not for the intellectual elite, extra emphasis on elite.” Dash leaned over and put his arm around my shoulder. “So wash those altruistic thoughts from your mind, Cassie. We’re here to cover mundane stories about the upper crust of New York, and poor old Walter does not fit into that mold . . .at all.”

  ***

  My cubicle felt a bit industrial and sterile, but I was sure it would be more comfy once I added some personal touches to it. My computer was fast though, and I easily uploaded the photos I’d taken at the art show. They were as unimpressive as I expected them to be, considering the starched and staid subject matter. The cocktails, which had been served in very cool, long green fluted glasses, were the highlight of the photo shoot. Elegantly dressed men and women standing for thirty minutes in front of a painting trying to decide why it was ‘simply inspirational’ had not made much of an impact on me or my camera lens.

  Dash knocked on the side of my cubicle, and the entire wall shook. “Oh, you’ve already uploaded your pictures.” I kept scrolling through the photos as he peered over my shoulder at my monitor. He wore a distinctive cologne that reminded me of furniture polish, and the potency of the fragrance hadn’t diminished since the morning.

  He sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid to even look. What a boring assignment. Jolene is in her office right now chewing
her long, fake nails trying to get something down on the keyboard.” His finger pointed at the monitor. “Look, some emotion actually broke through that woman’s Botox. She looks upset about the painting.”

  I glanced up at Dash. “I was watching her for awhile. I think she just had gas, and she was freaking out about trying to control it. But I thought her expression was worth the photo even if it was just a suppressed fart.”

  Dash’s laughter shook the cubicle. “I love you already, Cassie. You’ll have to come out barhopping with Jo and me this weekend. You’ll be a great addition. Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve been a part of a trio.” He winked at me and left.

  My first set of pictures for the magazine, and I couldn’t have felt more deflated. I reached into my purse for my keys. During my internship, I’d been given a tiny camera the size of a flash drive to fit on my keychain. It was supposed to be used as a backup camera in the possible scenario of our equipment being confiscated. Considering some of the remote, dangerous locations we’d traveled through, it had always seemed like a distinct possibility. It had all been very James Bondish. The nearly invisible camera had made me feel stealthy like a spy out on a mission to shoot subversive photos, but today, it had come in handy as a means to capture the images of New York that I thought worthy.

  For the trip back to the magazine offices, I’d slid into the window seat. When the van was stopped in traffic, I’d taken several surreptitious pictures of Walter. I uploaded the pictures and was surprised to see that I’d managed to get some decent shots from the van. The camera was tiny, but it was shockingly good.

  The face peeking out from the dense background of graffiti had an eerie almost surreal quality, and the intensity of emotion Walter had conveyed in just a simple expression was nothing short of masterful. He might have been a homeless person, a being cast aside by conventional society, but he was an amazing artist. I saved the pictures to a file that I labeled street art. The images seemed like something Nix would appreciate. He had an eye for great art. Something told me there would be more stories out there on the sidewalks of New York, stories that were far more interesting and poignant than a group of rich art show patrons standing around sipping fancy cocktails and opining about obscure art.

  Chapter 13

  Dray

  The smell of grilled onions drifted through the open window and footsteps followed. Barrett walked inside carrying two grease stained bags. I sat up from the lumpy couch cushions and pushed the pathetic looking bag of frozen peas off my hand. “I really need a new bag of peas.”

  Barrett dropped the food onto the warped coffee table and sat down hard on the couch.

  “Dude,” I reached for a bag, “you must have been reading my mind. I was hoping some thick double cheeseburgers would walk through that cabin door. Of course, I imagined a tall, hot blonde carrying them in to me, but can’t have everything.”

  Barrett unwrapped his burger. “What do you mean? It seems like you got exactly what you were hoping for.”

  “The blonde in my burger fantasy was a double D.” I took a bite and groaned with pleasure.

  “Still fantasizing?” Barrett asked.

  “No, I’m fucking starved. I was at the gym all morning and I worked my ass off.” I reached for an onion ring. Barrett lowered his burger to get a clear view of my hand.

  “Holy shit, that thing looks twisted. Can’t hardly tell it’s a hand. You’ve got to get to a doctor.”

  Barrett was rarely one to offer practical advice and hearing it from him now only solidified the conclusion that I’d come to on the way home from Tank’s.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m waiting to talk to my mom about getting some cash. That stupid asshole, Josh, Tank’s stepson, basically blackmailed me into sparring today. Otherwise, I wasn’t going to be able to compete next week.” The shittiness of my situation felt like lead pellets in my stomach, and I put the burger down on the table. “Now my hand is so screwed up, I won’t be able to fight anyhow. Not to mention that I won’t get work either.” I leaned forward and rested my forearms on my thighs. The throbbing in my hand was as constant as my heartbeat and as relentless as the chain of bad luck. “Shit, Rett, I don’t know what I did to deserve this much crap in my life. What’s that stuff Scottie always talks about?”

  “Karma?” he muttered around a mouthful of burger.

  “Yeah, I must be wearing a black shroud of bad karma or something. I can’t seem to get out from under it. And the whole time shit rains down on me all I can think about is that Cassie is gone for good and everything seems blacker than ever.”

  “I can sympathize, Bro. After I lost my job on the crab fishing boat, I fell into a downward spiral. It sucked me so low I didn’t think I’d ever come out of it. But I did, and you will too.” He got up and walked into the galley and pulled two beers out of the fridge. He returned to the couch. “Do you know what you need?”

  “To get laid?”

  “Well, yeah, that, of course, always that, but . . .” He popped open his beer and threw it back. He gulped it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You need to go with me on that trip to Mexico I was telling you about.”

  “Shit, Rett, that’s the last thing I need right now. Besides, I don’t have any money and then there’s this.” I lifted my hand to remind him of the deformed claw at the end of my arm.

  He scrunched up his face. “Shit, put that away. I’m about to bring back up the burger. This trip won’t take much money except for the plane ticket. My buddies have a little hut down on the beach with what they promise me is some of the best surfing along the coast. And they said the native girls are very friendly and the beer is cheap. Seriously man, get that hand fixed, and we’ll make a plan to go. They’ll be down there for six weeks.”

  My phone rang. “That’ll be my mom. Wish me luck. I’ve got to beg for money.” I got up and went to the bedroom. “Hey, Mom.”

  “What’s the matter, Dray? You sounded funny in your message.”

  “Oh yeah, sorry. I was in pain. That’s why I called you. I broke my hand, and I was hoping you could send me some money so I could get it looked at.”

  Her tsk-tsk came through the phone like an annoying tapping sound. “I told you to get some insurance, Sweetheart.” I’d always found it strange that she called me sweetheart as if I’d been dear to her in some way.

  “Yeah, Mom, you need a steady income for that, and I’m a little short on that. In fact, if I had a steady income I wouldn’t need to be calling you for this. Trust me, it was the last thing I wanted to do.” I’d actually contemplated smacking my hand against the wall strategically so that I could shift the knuckles back into place. It had seemed far less painful than calling my mom to ask for a handout. And now, just seconds into the conversation, I was convinced that I should have gone with my gut instinct and hit the wall.

  Her irritating dear me, dear me sigh came next. “I warned you that the longshoremen positions were few and far between. And if you keep playing in these silly fights then you’ll always have injuries to deal with.”

  “Playing in silly fights?” I laughed angrily. “Never mind, Mom. I just thought that maybe you’d like to make up for the fact that you and Dad were shitty ass parents by helping me out this one time. But I don’t know why I thought that Dad’s death would have changed you. You’re still the same, just without the awful sonavabitch following you around with a clenched fist.”

  “Dray,” her voice broke, “what a horrible thing to say to me.”

  “Never mind. Forget I even called.” I hung up.

  Barrett looked at me over the back of the couch. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t help but overhear. Shit, and I thought my parents were lame.”

  “No, I definitely win the trophy for having the worst.”

  “You can still head down to the emergency room and get it looked at. Just put it on a credit card for now.”

  I stared down at my completely tweaked hand. It would never heal normally now. “I think it’s
going to need a metal plate.” I ate a cold onion ring. “Fuck, I wish I hadn’t sparred with that idiot, Woolf. I’d been doing great at keeping my hand out of the fray but then he was lying there on the mat looking up at me with that stupid, ugly face, and I forgot about the broken hand.”

  “At least you fucked it up for a good cause.”

  I laughed. “Good point.”

  “Hey, let’s go out. We could pick up a couple of cuties and bring them back here for a little impromptu and completely private party.”

  “Nah, not tonight, Rett. I’ve got to get my bones and my life back into alignment.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He stood and collected up the trash. “But get them into alignment soon. I’m bored. And think about that surfing trip.”

  “Hey, thanks for the grub.”

  ***

  Three more beers and two aspirin had produced the semi-conscious state I’d strived for. The couch had held me prisoner all night. The morning sun lit up the cabin. I lifted my head as the room tilted and a giant shadow hovered outside.

  “I’m in here,” a hoarse yell came from my throat. I rubbed my face with my good hand, but it did little to relieve the grogginess in my head.

  Clutch stepped inside and the cabin shrank instantly. He pushed his sunglasses up on his head and stared down at my hand. “Get dressed.”

  “I thought you liked me shirtless.” I stood and it took me a second to catch the rhythm of the boat.

  “Yeah, well, you thought wrong.”

  “Seriously, Clutch, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m taking you to the hospital to get that hand checked out.”

  “Rett has a big mouth. That’s cool of you, but I’ll be fine.”

  There were few men who could make me shrink back, but Clutch was definitely one of them, especially when he crossed his arms and put on what Nix and I had laughingly referred to as his Viking warrior expression. “You’re not fine. That hand is starting to look like a fucking claw. So, let’s go.”