More Than Water

by Renee Ericson

  “Well, well, well,” Wolfgang says, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I was starting to wonder if you were alive.”

  “What are you talking about?” I remove the beanie hat from my head and shake out my recently cinnamon-tinted locks. “I texted you last night, confirming that we were in the same class.”

  “Yeah, after I haven’t heard from you for almost two weeks.”

  “It was Christmas break.”

  “So? A guy needs to know if his muse is breathing or not.”

  “Now, I’m your muse?” I shrug out of my jacket.

  “I might have been inspired by you in the past. It’s some of my best work.”

  “Of course it is. Nothing but phenomenal things comes from me. You are lucky to have a goddess like me in your presence.”

  “And there she is.” He reaches toward his feet, bringing up a cardboard carrier with two coffee drinks. Pulling the smaller cup from the pairing, he places it in front of me and says, “Small nonfat latte.”

  My hands circle around the drink. “You really are the best.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  A tall man with lemon hair falling to his shoulders enters the room with false panache, banging his shin on the small garbage can near the door. All the students grow silent as the infamous Professor Turner takes his place at the front of the room, muttering a few obscenities under his breath.

  The man is a genius in his own right, having consulted on and been commissioned for numerous sculptures on campus, in the city, and worldwide. He’s known for his eccentric attitude and lifestyle full of women, men, and lively parties. One thing he’s also known for is pushing students to their breaking points, actually causing a few in the past to have episodes of madness. The man finds boundaries and wants to break them.

  He frightens, intrigues, and inspires me, all at once. I hope to learn a great deal while in his classroom.

  “Good afternoon, people,” Professor Turner addresses the class, shuffling through his bag and pulling out a stack of papers. He hands them to a student sitting at the table nearest him and then begins to pace the room as a copy of the syllabus is divvied up to each person.

  Pausing at the front of the room, he shoves his hands in his front denim pockets and then leers at each and every one of us. He then speaks, “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Professor Turner. You can see my credentials and accolades as well as how you can reach me on the paper before you. If you’re in this class, congratulations. This is your moment of glory as an artist. Savor it because this is nothing like the real world where you will learn what it feels like to starve and have people spit on your work and your spirit. This is the pretty before the ugly. Don’t get used to it.”

  He steps between the tables, making his way down the middle of the classroom toward the back of the room. “In this class, my job is not only to make you reach beyond your comfort zones, but to also teach you how to rise from rejection and objection. If you don’t think you can handle being called a peon and a moron on a daily basis, I suggest you leave now.”

  The professor pivots on his heel, and every student follows his path as he slowly proceeds to the front of the class.

  “I will be both objective and subjective in my critiques, and I promise, I won’t be nice. If you need flowers and unicorns, the preschool is down the street. Pack your teddy bears for the trip.”

  Turning to the group of attentive students, he spreads his arms wide with an all-knowing schmuckish grin playing across his face. “So, are you in, or are you out?”

  The classroom becomes silent, and I swear, dust motes can be heard as they float around us.

  “Well?” Professor Turner probes everyone. “You had better answer. Without conviction, your work is nothing.”

  “In,” a few students mutter near the center of the room.

  “That was pathetic.”

  “In!” the entire class, myself included, says with confidence.

  He shakes his head, pacing toward the window. “You all need to work on your decision-making skills—pronto. Growing a few balls would help, too. This is going to be a long quarter. The world is becoming soft.”

  Leaning his backside on the register under the window, he crosses his arms over his chest, letting an uneasy silence rain down, like a black cloud of time ticking away with every pump of our beating hearts. We all hold still, waiting for a bomb to go off, only to be detonated by the yellow-haired man in control of our artistic destinies.

  Next to me, Wolfgang raises his hand. “Excuse me, Professor?”

  “Did you find your balls?” Professor Turner inquires, brows raised.

  “Yes. I generally keep them next to my dick.”

  Everyone in the room audibly pulls air into their mouths.

  “Finally,” the professor proclaims, approval lacing his tone. “Someone with gumption and worth talking to. What was your question?”

  “Is the syllabus supposed to be blank?”

  Like everyone else in the room, I scan the handout. The front is a printout of information about the professor and pertinent information like office hours, a phone number, and an email address are listed. I turn over the page to find it empty, excluding the word Syllabus at the top.

  “Yes.” Professor Turner pushes himself off his haphazard seat and begins to roam about the room. “You only have one assignment in here, but I’m not going to tell you what that is. That’s for you to decide. This is an upper-level class, and it’s up to you to find your own path. I will only be here to advise you. For this class, you will choose and work on one project of your liking. It can be whatever you want and with any medium. You have freedom to choose. Let your mind and talents guide you. The only stipulation is that it has to make a statement of some kind—whether that is about you, the world, poverty, hunger, the universe, or iced tea. I don’t care. Just show me your passion. I need to see it and feel it. Make me cry.”

  He pauses, picking up one of the handouts from a nearby student, and he shows us the empty page. “This,” he states, “is like a blank canvas. Tell me a story, one that intrigues me.”

  Giving the paper back to the student, he takes a place at the front of the room once again. “Also, for those of you who pass this term with sufficient work, you will be eligible to install your project at the student show in my gallery downtown for display during the spring term. The final call about who has their work on display and who doesn’t will be at my discretion. Passing is not an automatic in. As many of you might already know, my gallery only does this once a year, and it’s considered to be a great privilege. Not only will many of my colleagues be there, but also buyers, sellers, and fellow artists will be present. For many students, this one show has been the springboard of their careers. In other words, if you want to make it, you’d better be in this show.”

  Hums and sighs fill the room as the gravity of our work in this class begins to set in.

  While I am on the art history path, which is engraved into my core, the thought of showing my work to others at a venue like Professor Turner’s gallery might be just what I need to prove to my family that there are opportunities for me outside of my father’s firm.

  “That’s all for today,” the professor announces, taking a seat behind the desk and shuffling through his bag. “Use your studio time wisely. I will be here during the designated class hours to answer questions, should you have any. Also, I will need you all to email me your proposal within the next week. Really think about what you want to present to the world, your message. You know how to reach me.” He waves his hand like he’s shooing a fly. “Class dismissed.”

  A few students speak quietly to one another as they’re gathering their things to leave while others line up to have a word with Professor Turner. Not giving it much thought, I collect my items, including my barely sipped coffee, and I silently head toward the door with Wolfgang by my side.

  When we are outside the classroom, I playfully backhand my friend across the bicep.
“Wolfie! Next to your dick? Seriously, when did you get so ballsy? And I’m not trying to be cute.”

  “You liked that, didn’t you?” He grins like the conniving wolf he can be.

  “I’m not so sure, but I think I’m Full of Myself Turner got a mini hard-on.”

  “Probably,” he says proudly. “But another student actually gave me a tip.”

  “To what? To talk about your schlong?”

  “No.” He guffaws. “To just say whatever the hell you want. I guess he likes it when students lose the filter.”

  “Well, there’s no doubt yours was missing.”

  “Truth.”

  Together, Wolfgang and I tread toward the building’s exit, making idle conversation about the holiday break, our class schedules, and the ludicrous weather because it’s uncharacteristically as cold as a witch’s bitch of a left tit today.

  Bundling up to brave the outdoors, I pull my beanie over my head and slip on my gloves. Wolfgang opens the door, and the chill hits my exposed skin like tiny razor blades on coarse hair. With my arms wrapped around my middle, I accompany my friend to the end of campus where we generally part ways to head back to our respective apartments.

  At the corner, waiting for the crosswalk signal to change, he asks, “So, any idea what you are going to do for your art theory project?”

  “Not really. He made it sound like it needed to be epic. I don’t know if I have epic in me.”

  “Sure you do. We all do.”

  “Oh, yeah? What do you think you’re going to do?”

  He chuckles. “I don’t know. I’m sure it will come to me when I least expect it.”

  I shake my head, slightly annoyed by his ability to take so many things in stride. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “Well, there’s no reason to make it complicated.” He faces me. “The professor said it should be something you’re passionate about while making a statement. That feeling comes from deep within. It’s already in you.”

  “Yeah, but finding that one thing…”

  “Just take a mental step back, and let it happen. It will come. Here…” He drops his bag to the ground and places both hands on my shoulders.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I laugh.

  “Go with it.” He squeezes my arms. “Now, close your eyes.”

  “This is so corny,” I object. But I do as he asked, allowing blackness to take over my vision.

  “Now, relax.”

  I exhale and release some tension from my muscles. “Done.”

  “Now, let go of all thoughts. Clear your mind.”

  “You’ve been going to too many yoga classes,” I tease.

  “Shut it.”

  “Fine. Meditation, on.”

  “Good. Now, think of warmth.”

  “I’ll do my best even though my tits could cut glass because it’s so cold.”

  “Well, that’s a vision,” he says coyly. “Not that kind of warmth though. The kind that makes your heart feel excited, like it’s racing. The kind that heats you from the inside.”

  I lick my lips, relax my brain, and listen to Wolfgang’s words, letting the feeling of passion overwhelm me, wrapping it around the blank vision in my mind.

  “Are you there?” he asks.

  “It feels like it.”

  “Okay. Now, slowly let the thoughts come in while resting in that warm space.”

  Under the darkness of my lids, a slew of colors—fiery and wet, purples and greens, yellows and pinks—all morph and swirl around one another. My hand slides along the formed and heated canvas of tones and shades, and then it’s gone, taking the more rigid shape of elements and molecules, like the ones I drew and painted not long ago in my bedroom.

  Then…

  A mouth…

  His mouth.

  Eyes…

  His eyes.

  A face…

  His face.

  Foster’s face, bright and endearing—surrounded by hexagons and octagons, representing different molecules—holds its place in my mind’s thoughts.

  “Did anything come?” Wolfgang asks, pulling me from my trance.

  My lids flutter open, refocusing to the light of day. “I’m not sure.”

  Shoving my keys into my jacket pocket, I slug my bag over my shoulder. I head through the length of the apartment, ready to leave. As I’m rounding the sofa in the living room, the entrance door opens, and Chandra appears at the threshold, her cheeks red with exertion. Clumsily, she adjusts her arms in an attempt not to fumble the bolts of fabric, her bag, and what looks like the mail. She’s having a hot-mess moment, if I’ve ever seen one.

  I drop my belongings to the ground and scurry over to assist her. “Let me help,” I say, reaching for a collection of fabrics.

  “Thanks,” she huffs, gratefully handing over a few items into my aiding arms.

  We carry her supplies further inside, sloughing them all on the couch. She steps back and regains her composure after blowing a ridiculous amount of coal hair from her face.

  “You should have told me it was supply pickup day,” I remark, staring down at the enormous amount of materials now strewed across the cushions. “I would have helped you.”

  “Jeremy was supposed to,” she says, plopping down on the red chair since all of her new belongings are taking up the rest of the seating. “He got sidetracked in the studio and forgot. I don’t know.”

  I raise a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “No, not at all. He’s great…when we actually do see one another. It’s just the beginning of the term. You know how it is.” She drops her hands to her thighs. “I’ve been swamped with classes, and so has he. I swear, senior year is sucking away my social life.”

  “Tell me about it,” I agree, thinking of how I’ve done nothing for the past week, other than go to class, do homework, research, and study.

  The cumulative teaching staff has been slamming the entire student body from the beginning of the term, and there’s no letting up in sight. I’ve even had to reduce my hours at the library, down to one day a week, to compensate.

  “I’ve barely even seen you since you got back,” I say.

  “It’s been really bad, and it looks like you are heading out now.”

  “Yeah.” I step around the sofa and pick up my bag from the floor. “I’ve got to go to work.”

  “Well, have fun.”

  “Thanks.” I position the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and make my way toward the door.

  “You got some mail, by the way,” Chandra states.

  My hand lands on the knob. “Oh, yeah?”

  She rises from her seat, collects a large envelope from the couch, and holds it in my direction. I give it a cursory glance, noting the Yale emblem in the corner. Based on its size and thickness, it’s safe to assume that the contents include an early acceptance letter. It’s arrived way ahead of schedule, and it makes me wonder if applying was even necessary, as if the institution is begging me to attend with such a blatantly advance reply.

  My parents will be pleased that their clout has won me a place they so desperately desire.

  “Can you just leave it on the counter?” I open the entrance, uninterested in dealing with that reality. “I’m going to be late.”

  “Sure thing,” she replies.

  “Thanks.”

  I exit the apartment and hurry down the steps.

  It’s been almost a week since I emailed my project proposal to Professor Turner for my art theory class.

  After speaking with Wolfgang that initial day after class, I had been unable to think about anything other than the impromptu human art project between Foster and me that had occurred over the holiday break. As much as I’d tried, I couldn’t shake the visions of molecules and his face from my mind. Soon, those images had morphed into something else, further expanding upon the idea. So, instead of trying to fight it, I’d decided to surrender and accept that a project focusing on the science of man was what I was going to depict.<
br />
  I’ve already begun research, and I have a plan of how to accomplish my artistic statement, but I would really like to get Foster involved, if possible. He’s the reason, the inspiration, and the holder of more elemental, chemical, and scientific knowledge than I could likely ever find on my own.

  This piece wouldn’t exist, even in theory, without him.

  Somehow, somewhere, and someway, Foster has become my muse, and I’ve learned over the years that it’s best not to fight profoundly speaking passion.

  Approaching the glass entrance of the engineering library, I spot Foster helping a student at the front desk. It’s been a few days since we saw one another—the last time being when I stopped by his apartment after a long day in the studio. I was beyond exhausted, yet I was drawn to his place, longing for his company. Despite waking him, he greeted me with a smile and invited me to his bed where we partook in what we usually do—sex. I stayed the night, sleeping surprisingly well at his side. It was like the restless part of my brain that always found him could be at ease from knowing he was close.

  I’m blaming it on my recent art-project obsession.

  Making a good impression with my work for Professor Turner is key to winning a spot in the student art show. Because of this, Foster now consumes many of my thoughts, day and night…and in the early morning hours.

  Setting the bag near my feet, I log in to the computer and begin the process of checking in the returns. There aren’t many, but the night is young.

  When Foster finishes helping out one last student, he rotates in his chair. “How was your day, dear?” he asks, teasing.

  “It was fine, sweet stuff,” I respond, turning in my seat toward him. “Busy as hell, as usual. And yours?”

  “The same.” He rests his elbows on his knees. “Why does it seem like I haven’t seen you in forever?”

  “It’s all your fault. I told you that you needed to give up some of your activities if you wanted to have a social life.”

  “Are you schooling me?” he asks, adjusting his dark frames.

  “Possibly.”

  “Do you want to maybe…get social with me tonight?”