Dirty Money

by Michelle Love

  ‘Could he be doing the same thing for me?’ She wondered despairingly. Had she shut out the man who brought light and inspiration into her otherwise bleak and angst-ridden life?

  “I understand,” Gerald said, nodding as though he truly did understand. “I’m sorry for overstepping my bounds, that was seriously uncool and I don’t think I can apologize enough.”

  “Seriously,” Aullie said, growing exasperated and irritated with his constant apologies. “It’s fine. If you could help me take these to the show, that would be great. My poor little Accord probably can’t hold all of this.”

  “Great,” Gerald finally exhaled, looking relieved that things seemed to have settled at least a little. “Do you want to take it now? We can go set it up now, so that everything’s organized and set up to your liking at the show.”

  Aullie looked at her collection again, reflecting on all the hard work she had put into each and every painting. This was her life, her love, her dream. This was the face she was about to put forward to the world, specifically to a group of snooty critics and collectors.

  They might not like what they see.

  She didn’t care. “Yes,” Aullie said, standing up straight. “Yes, I’m ready. Let’s pack ‘em up and take ‘em in.”

  Gerald carefully picked up the two biggest canvases, a beige piece with splashes of black and red and a symbolic water-inspired piece she had done in every possible shade of blue, and carried them to the door. Aullie stacked a few smaller ones in her arms and followed him to the door.

  Bruce, eager to get his chance at the outside world, hovered by the door ready to pounce. Gerald looked at her, questioningly.

  “He’s fine, he’ll come back in,” she explained.

  Gerald nodded and swung the door open wide. Bruce darted out like his tail was on fire. Aullie followed close behind him, but Gerald stopped her before she got outside.

  “Aren’t you going to put on shoes?” he asked. “It’s pretty cold out.”

  Aullie shrugged. “I don’t want to walk down the stairs in heels with my precious cargo,” she joked.

  He smiled and said, “Alright.” Then, led her down the stairs.

  The metal of the stairs was freezing against her bare feet, the chilled wind ruffled her vintage skirt. Thankfully the full skirt was long and covered most of her legs so she didn’t flash Gerald.

  She followed him around the far corner of her building to the parking lot behind the complex. He leaned her paintings gently against a silver Prius and clicked a key fob to unlock the doors.

  “Is it ok if I stack these?” he asked, opening the door to the back seat. “That’s probably going to be the only way they’ll fit. Unfortunately, my car’s not that much bigger than yours.”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” she replied. She waited as he carefully tilted both of the bulky canvases against the seat and slid them into the car. “Can you pop the trunk for me, so I can put a few in the trunk?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he replied, opening the front door and pulling the trunk release lever. “Let me just move some stuff around real quick, make sure I don’t have anything embarrassing back there.”

  Aullie pondered what embarrassing things the teacher’s assistant could be hiding in his trunk and decided she probably didn’t want to know.

  “All clear!” Gerald called out. “Bring them over here.”

  She walked around the car, handing him the stack of smaller painting’s she had brought. The cold wind chilled her bare arms and legs and she wished she had at least brought a jacket. One by one, she handed him her big, flat treasures and watched as he carefully stacked them in the mostly empty trunk. She appreciated the extra care he took in making sure they were all balanced. After all, her paintings were like her babies.

  “I could probably fit another one or two if you’d like,” he offered.

  “No, it’s fine. I’m sure I can handle the rest. I really appreciate your help, though,” she said, honestly.

  “Yeah, of course. And, again, I am so sorry about the…”

  “No,” she cut him off. “Stop. It’s fine. You’re a great guy, it’s not you, it’s me.” As the tacky breakup excuse left her lips, she could see the sadness cloud his chocolate colored eyes behind his glasses.

  Whoa, she realized then. This guy really does like me.

  Aullie wasn’t sure how to express her guilt without making it sound like pity, so she just smiled and thanked Gerald again for all his help.

  He smiled as he got into his Prius and drove away. Hoping to not be too far behind him, he did have a point she was going to have to be there early to make sure everything looked right.

  She started to really freeze and jogged up the rickety stairs to her apartment. Bruce waited for her on the landing, rubbing the door and meowing like he’d been cast out into the cold.

  “You little brat,” she said. Aullie opened the door and they both went back into the apartment.

  Grabbing a coat and slippers this time, Aullie hauled the rest of her paintings out to her car. She packed a few into the truck, a few in the middle seat, and before she realized it, she only had one painting left.

  It looked like Weston’s painting was riding shotgun, she realized, bitterly. She still wasn’t sure she even wanted to bring it, but she didn’t really have more time to come up with something else.

  She set the painting on the seat. The self-conscious part of her still recovering from her last art show flop convinced her the painting wouldn’t sell anyway, it wasn’t like she was going to lose it.

  And why did she care if she did?

  With a mix of nerves, confusion, and hurt, she made her final trip to her apartment, strapping into a pair of maroon suede high-heeled Mary Janes. She double checked her haunting, romantic charcoal eye makeup and touched up her burgundy lipstick. Aullie had to admit, she looked pretty good, and despite the drama surrounding the day and the stigma surrounding the painting, she finally felt ready.

  ‘Let’s do this’, she thought as she snatched her keys off the counter.

  Time to show the world what she, Aulora frickin’ Greene, was made of.

  Even after the hour-plus she and Gerald had spent organizing her showcase, Aullie still wasn’t completely happy with the way it looked. Something was off, but the problem was, she had absolutely no idea what it was.

  “It’s fine,” Gerald had insisted about a hundred times. “That’s how every artist feels. From an outside standpoint, it looks great. Just try to relax.”

  His soothing voice had done nothing to relax her, though, and neither had the two hours that had passed since then. Or the two and a half glasses of champagne. Even with a slight buzz, Aullie felt wildly on edge.

  She cursed herself, internally as she realized she was making the same mistakes she had at the last show. Instead of standing in the corner glowering at her own work, she should be walking around, talking, meeting other artists and trying to find and charm gallery collectors.

  ‘Alright’, she decided. Drowning the last half of her glass of champagne, she rolled her shoulders back and drummed up the courage and confidence to do what she needed to do.

  Social anxiety and introverted nature be damned, she wasn’t about to let another opportunity slip through her fingers. This was her life, her passion, and she needed to be ready to make it happen.

  Aullie placed her empty flute on a passing tray and grabbed a fresh one. She smiled a genuine smile at the poor, tray-toting waiter. I know how you feel, she wanted to tell him. She did know how he probably felt; so much running and work for so little money, so little respect, that feeling of disdained invisibility. She felt almost guilty about the surge of motivation the exchange had given her, she was one hundred and ten percent ready to be done with serving forever and her first stepping stone was right under feet.

  As she wandered through the exhibits, she felt the knots in her stomach begin to unwind. There really were some talented artists there. It must have been a real honor to be chosen to
show alongside them.

  Aullie stopped in front of a particularly interesting piece, a gigantic canvas hung unframed from a wire in the ceiling, the gentle draping of the un-stretched canvas seemed to make different pictures depending on the viewer’s perspective. She paced back and forth, admiring the impressive and extremely innovative work.

  “What do you think?”

  Aullie turned to see a short, curvaceous girl about her age with blond hair cropped to her chin and a pair of slim, black framed glasses. She wore wide-legged slacks, a colorful blouse adorned with flowers and a little bit too much flowery perfume.

  “I think it’s incredible,” Aullie said, honestly. “Such an innovative piece of work.”

  “Well, thank you,” the girl said, modestly.

  “Oh, are you the artist?” Aullie asked, hoping she hadn’t offended her.

  “Yes, I am.” She extended a hand. “I’m Maggie Griswold.”

  “Aulora Greene,” she replied, shaking her hand. Though she loathed her birth name, it was too regal and pretentious sounding, she did like the artistic uniqueness of it when it came to the creative community. “Nice to meet you, Maggie.”

  “Nice to meet you too. Pretty name,” Maggie replied.

  “So, how long have you been doing art for?”

  And with that, the two became instant friends. One by one, they showcased, discussed, and complemented each other’s artwork before moving on to check out the competition.

  Aullie was happy to find someone to tour the exhibits with, especially since that someone also happened to be much more social. Thanks to Maggie and her almost aggressive self-marketing skills, Aullie had met several people, some of them important and some of them just good, funny company. Before long, she had four glasses of champagne down the hole and she was feeling pretty dang good.

  The pair met another artist who stood out even in a crowd of expressive artists. He had a short, neat mohawk dyed a dark navy blue, and swirls of colorful tattoos covering his lean arms. He was clearly proud of them, as he was sleeveless at what was technically a semi-formal event, and they quickly became a topic of conversation. A sparrow on his bicep carried a banner that read ‘Alberts’.

  “What’s that one for?” Maggie asked. Aullie had only known the girl half an hour, and she could already tell Maggie was crushing hard on tattoo boy.

  “Oh, that’s just my last name,” he explained. “Troy Alberts, isn’t that such a preppy name?”

  “It’s not that bad,” Maggie said with a cute little smirk.

  The girls followed him to his exhibit, an interesting collection of black and white paintings with ominous hidden skulls and roses with sharp, exaggerated thorns.

  “I don’t know what it is,” he said. “Ever since I was in high school, I’ve just always loved that sort of gothic, traditional tattoo thing.”

  “That’s super cool,” Maggie gushed. “Oh hey, Aullie look at this one!”

  She pointed to a small painting, one of the few pops of color in his collection. It had a fiery orange background and a traditional tattoo-flash style skull laid over the top, surrounded by an erratic black border. Aullie had to admit it was beautiful, striking in a way, and it reminded her of a few of her own works.

  “I just did that one for fun,” Troy said with a laugh.

  “I actually really like it,” Aullie admitted. “Your lines are so clean. I’m always so sloppy.”

  “Oh whatever,” Maggie rolled her eyes. “She’s awesome. Let’s go show him your stuff Aullie.”

  She figured she didn’t have much say in the matter and was happy to have made some friends, so she followed them through the maze of the art show. All the walls jutting out of everywhere to increase surface area made what should’ve been a short trip take forever.

  As they walked, Aullie peeked out of the corners of her eyes, checking for the little red stickers that meant a painting had been sold. They were sparse, but they were still there, and Aullie began to build up hope that maybe one or two would be stuck next to her paintings once they got there.

  As they rounded the corner to her exhibit, her heart sank a little to find there were none. Such a vain hope, she thought, discouraged.

  She tried not to let her disappointment show as Maggie gushed about Aullie’s bold color choices and expressive style.

  “I really like this one.” Troy pointed to a particularly dark piece Aullie had done. The black background was overlaid by different sizes of geometric shapes, all in dark shades of green and purple. “The way it tricks the eye and skips around, it’s really profound.”

  Aullie swigged the dregs of her fourth glass of champagne. Artists are such weird people, why do we always need to use such pretentious words to describe things? I really need to stop drinking, she thought.

  “Thanks,” she caught her slight slur and reigned it in. “It was definitely a fun one to paint. That’s the most important thing for me, really. When you make it fun, it doesn’t feel like work, you know?”

  “Yeah. I’m so ready to start selling some actual art, so I can stop my stupid job waiting tables,” Maggie said.

  “I’m a waitress too! I totally feel the same way,” Aullie said.

  Maggie said something else. Troy laughed. But Aullie couldn’t hear or speak or even breathe.

  Standing in the corner, tucked back almost out of view of her exhibit, was Weston. She was completely sure of it. He hadn’t seen her, thank god. He stood there, a rocks glass of what looked to be scotch in his hands, talking to another man.

  Aullie had almost felt overdressed in her fancy frock, but Weston almost looked ridiculous in a tailored tuxedo, considering that some of the people were just wearing nice jeans.

  The man beside him was equally overdressed, he even wore an impeccably tied bow tie. The conversation between the men looked heated and got hotter when Weston’s jaw clenched and he leaned over the shorter man with a predatory scowl.

  Aullie was surprised. Not only that he was there, considering her name only appeared on the show roster a few days ago, so he had no way of knowing she was there, but because his dress and his behavior were wildly out of place. Something was very wrong.

  The man in the bowtie gritted his teeth and glared back at Weston but said nothing.

  Aullie drifted away from her acquaintances. Their shallow conversation didn’t matter to her, and she hoped the crowd would help keep her hidden as she moved closer to hopefully hear at least some of what Weston was saying.

  She hadn’t pinned him as the angry, intimidating type, but his body language was rigid and menacing and she wanted to know what was going on.

  She moved closer, closer, then stopped to pretend to admire a sculpture, so she didn’t look like a total creeper. Aullie had never really understood the huge craze about sculptures made from garbage, but that one, in particular, was kind of neat, lots of coffee filter flowers.

  Aullie walked backward, very slowly, pretending to just admire a wall of art from afar. Plus, all Weston would see, if he looked, was a skinny girl with black hair. There were a lot of those, he wouldn’t necessarily know it was her.

  ‘This is crazy’, Aullie’s conscience nagged her. Her drunken mind won out, though and she continued her slow and potentially insane venture toward a man she shouldn’t want to see, just to hear what made him so angry.

  Surprisingly, she was close enough to hear their hushed tones. She considered a painting on the wall angled near them. It wasn’t particularly moving, but it wasn’t like it mattered.

  “You fucking bastard! You absolute imbecile!” Weston spat angrily. Aullie hadn’t heard him swear that way before and his accent somehow made it sound even meaner. “I gave you very specific instructions, and I want a very good reason why you didn’t follow them.”

  “Well, uh…,” the man mumbled.

  Weston cut him off. “You know what? I don’t even want your stupid bloody excuses. Handle this, now, or I promise it will not turn out well for you.”

  The o
ther man, an ugly, chubby man with close-cropped dark hair and a hint of a Queens’s accent dropped his head in submission. “I’ll get it handled.”

  “You fuckin’ bloody well better,” Weston growled.

  Is this how he is when he’s working? Aullie thought, horrified. It probably took a decent amount of aggression and discipline to do the things he did, but damn, that was mean.

  Aullie walked away then, she’d heard enough. Weston had proven himself to be a liar and really, she shouldn’t have even been surprised that he would be so two-faced.

  When she found Troy and Maggie again, Maggie exclaimed, “There you are!”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Aullie apologized. “Had to run to the bathroom real quick.”

  “Hey, when nature calls,” Maggie said with a shrug.

  Aullie gave her best fake laugh for the lame joke and they continued their tour. As they walked away from her exhibit, she glanced back one more time.

  Still no red stickers.

  Art was discussed, people were met, hands were shaken, and truthfully Aullie was exhausted. Not only from all the social contact but because she couldn’t stop looking for Weston.

  Why was he there? Was this like that night at work, where he was going to confront her and manipulate her into another date?

  Truthfully, it seemed like some kind of weird coincidence, especially given his attire and the strangely aggressive conversation she had overheard. She was not only confused but obsessed.

  She wanted so badly for him not to see her, and almost equally badly for him to see her. Her conflicted emotions left her intensely paranoid and her peripheral vision was working overtime to make sure he didn’t sneak up on her.

  It was only nine-thirty and the show ran until eleven. ‘Damn all those crazy artsy night owls’, Aullie grumbled, hypocritically.

  This is going to be a long night.

  Aullie was drunk. Too much free champagne had her mind foggy and she wandered around the gigantic maze of a showroom. The paintings, all the bright colors seemed to blur together and it was very overwhelming. She was looking for her new friends, but couldn’t find them anywhere.