by Sandra Moran
“You’ve done what?” I backed away from the easel and sank into the wicker chair I used to sit in and study my paintings as they dried.
“I, uh, have used several of them in my designs and they’re, well, they’re a hit,” he said and rushed on enthusiastically. “Isn’t that great? Everyone says you have a natural gift for the surreal. Especially the one with the eye. I’ve used it several times.”
Immediately, my mind returned to that night and again I saw the eye, Grace’s eye, jumping off the paper and scurrying under the bed.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Becca.” His tone was placating. “It wasn’t like I intended to sell you out. I just . . . I needed something creepy and different and I knew that was it. And then I used another one of them and then people started, I don’t know, paying attention. And then one thing led to another and pretty soon people were asking to buy them and wanting to meet the artist.”
I stared at the wall in stunned disbelief.
“Becca.”
“Don’t call me Becca,” I snapped.
“Rebecca,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry. I know it was wrong. I know it’s a violation. I know that you hate me right now and I’m sorry that I called you ‘Becca.’ But you need to listen to me. I need your help.”
My laugh was short and brittle. “You have got to be kidding me. There is no way in hell I would help you. In fact, I’m hanging up now.”
“No! Please, wait. Just hear me out. Your work, your art, is a hit. People want it. They want to pay for it. The guy—the one I told you about that hired us? He wants to buy some of your work. He’s a private collector and, well, I sort of told him that I represent you.”
“No.”
“Rebecca, I needed to make an impression—to get in good with him. I told him you had a collection—that you had other pieces for sale. I know you’ve been painting.”
“No.”
“Rebecca, please.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done—I mean, aside from violating my trust, stomping all over our friendship, and taking my most vulnerable and raw self and putting it on display for the world to see? Actually, no. You didn’t just put it on display, you auctioned it off to the highest bidder. I really am hanging up now.”
And I did.
Over the next several weeks, Roger was relentless in his attempts to convince me that he was sorry. Messages on my answering machine, messages left for me at work, and even a registered letter didn’t make a difference. I was resolved to never speak to him again. And then I had my first acid flashback.
I was sitting on the couch salvaged from our college apartment, petting Spencer, the fat, long-haired black cat that belonged to my upstairs neighbor. When he wasn’t busy patrolling the apartment complex, Spencer made it his job to visit each of the cat-friendly residents of our building. This evening, he lay purring in my lap, his tummy full of canned tuna. ER was on the television and George Clooney was acting alternately indignant and sheepish. At least, he was until his words became slow and distorted and his face went from handsome to maggot-infested and then skeletal. Panicked, I began to breathe heavily. My blood pulsed in my ears. My eyes darted around the room. The few pieces of furniture and my CD collection seemed to be as they should be. But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape about the size of my fist scuttle along the baseboard and down the hallway toward my bedroom.
“It’s your past coming back to haunt you,” said a voice. I looked down to see Spencer staring at me.
“Spencer?” I spoke his name aloud.
“I can read your thoughts,” he said, though his lips weren’t moving. “I know what you’re thinking.”
I stared at him for several seconds, unsure. “You’re a cat,” I said. “You can’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Oh, but I can,” he said. “Right now, you’re wondering what’s going on and you’re wondering how we’re talking when my lips aren’t moving.”
I stared. That had been exactly what I had been thinking.
“I’m communicating telepathically.”
“Really?” I asked. “You can do that?”
“I can. And I can also see into the future. You’re going to get a phone call.”
At that moment, my phone began to ring.
I blinked in amazement, looked over at the small table where the cordless phone was charging and then back at Spencer. “How did you know?”
“It’s all interconnected. The past, the present, the future.” I felt him mentally shrug. “You need to deal with your past so you can move on with your future.” He blinked slowly and looked over at the ringing phone. “And you need to answer that.”
I hurried over to the table, snatched the handset off the charger, and pushed the Talk button. “Hello?”
“Rebecca.” It was Roger. “Please don’t hang up. We need to talk.”
I turned away from the table and looked back at Spencer, who was curled up, his eyes closed, sound asleep. The characters on the television were once again normal. Nothing in the apartment moved. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
I suddenly became aware of Roger’s voice in my ear. “—huge mistake and I’m sorry. Your friendship means more to me than advancing my career. You were right. What I did was wrong.”
“Roger,” I said distractedly, “I can’t talk about this now. Something is wrong with me.”
“Are you okay?” His concern sounded genuine. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just . . .” It was as if the previous ten minutes hadn’t happened even though my heart continued to thump rapidly. “I think I’m going crazy.”
“What do you mean?” he asked cautiously. “What happened?”
I took a deep, calming breath. “I just was sitting here petting the neighbor’s cat and watching TV and . . . the cat started talking to me telepathically. And the people on the television, their faces began to melt off. It was like that night all over again, but I haven’t taken anything.”
Roger laughed.
“It’s not funny, Roger. I think I’ve finally—”
“You’re having an acid flashback.”
“A what?”
“A flashback. When you have a brief flash back to the acid experience.”
“Back to that night,” I said slowly.
“Yeah, unless you did acid some other time I don’t know about. You didn’t, did you?”
“So I’m not going crazy?” On the couch, Spencer, his eyes still closed, rolled onto his side and stretched his legs, toes spread, and yawned.
“It’s not typical, but it happens sometimes. It happened to me, if that makes you feel better.”
“Is it awful of me to say it does?”
Roger laughed softly. “No.”
Neither of us spoke for several seconds until Roger cleared his throat. “So, Rebecca, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that without asking you.”
I walked over to the counter that separated the kitchen area from the living room and took the lid off of the cut glass candy dish that no one else had wanted from my grandmother’s house. I picked out several blue M&M’s. On the couch, Spencer lazily began to lick his paw and rub it across his face.
“It’s still not okay,” I said with a sigh. I hated being angry with Roger. “And I’m still not over being upset with you, but I accept your apology.”
“Thank you,” I could hear the relief in his voice. “And I want you to know that I’m going to tell Daddy Warbucks that there is no collection and what he’s seen isn’t for sale. I don’t care how much he’s willing to pay for it.”
“What do you mean?” I put the candies in my mouth and tried not to crunch too loudly.
“He just really wanted the pieces. I think he thought I was playing hard to get, so he just kept raising his offer.”
More out of curiosity than actual interest, I asked, “How much?”
“Not a lot up front,” Roger said. “But when you throw in the fact that h
e wants to sponsor a show so he can get first crack at the new work and then encourage his friends to buy so the value of his investment goes up—it’s a lot of money. But I’m going to tell him ‘no.’” He was quiet for several seconds and then began a fresh assault. “It just seemed like a win-win, you know? You could make a lot of money without doing sales.”
“It’s not sales,” I said. “I’m an accounts manager. There’s a difference.”
“I know, I know. Sorry. But it’s a moot point anyway.” I heard the clink of ice and the sound of him swallowing. “So, are we good? Because, you know I love you and would hate to lose you. I’d do anything for you.”
“We’re good. It’s awful when we fight.”
“Thanks, Becca. I’ll take that as an ‘I missed you, too.’”
“Uh huh.” I reached into the candy dish and picked out three more blue M&M’s. “So, will you lose the job or project or whatever it’s called?”
“It’s not important,” he said quickly. “We’re thinking about going in a new direction, anyway. Duane is trying to incorporate a Zen dimension to our industrial aesthetic. He’s calling it Yin-Yang Industrial Fusion. Calm and edgy. Balance and all that crap.”
I laughed. “‘Balance and all that crap’ doesn’t sound very Zen. What brought this on?”
“Oh, he’s hanging around with this Tibetan monk or something, and so now everything is feng shui this and energy that.” He sighed. “I’ve been thinking about trying to scrounge up the money to go out on my own. Duane is too temperamental.”
“Gay men.”
“Gay men,” he agreed. “So, listen, I’ve got to run. We’re going out.”
“Of course you are.” I laughed. “I appreciate the apology.”
“I had it coming, baby cakes. I was an insensitive, selfish asshole. But I really have to go. Duane is giving me ‘the look.’ We’ll talk this weekend, okay?”
He hung up before I could answer.
“Asshole,” I muttered as I hit the End button with my thumb and turned to look at Spencer. He stopped licking himself long enough to regard me with wide, open eyes. “So, tell me the truth, can you really hear my thoughts?” He blinked and returned to his bath. I set the phone on the counter, walked over to the couch and settled back into my spot.
ER had been replaced by the news, so I picked up the remote and turned off the television. In the apartment above me, I could hear the squeak and thump of footsteps. I patted Spencer’s back and thought about the conversation with Roger. His explanation, although by no means a justification, made sense. He was hungry for success and I didn’t doubt that he was planning on using his half of the money to break away from Duane. And clearly he was trying to entice me with the mention of money.
Despite myself, I wondered how much. Enough that I could find a job that didn’t require as much interaction with people? Something that wasn’t sales? I shook my head at what I was considering.
“This is crazy,” I said to Spencer.
He blinked, and I wondered if he really could communicate telepathically. I tentatively searched my mind for Grace. Nothing. She had been strangely absent the past few weeks, but something told me that if what I was considering was dangerous, she would warn me, right?
“So, what do you think?” I asked Spencer as I stroked his back. “Do you think Roger’s right? I mean, it’s not like I don’t have a closet full of the stuff, right? And it’s not like I have to ever see it again. Once I sell it, it’s gone.” I searched again for Grace. Nothing.
Spencer purred under my hand and the warm rumble calmed me. I hated my job. It was exhausting to go out every day and be with people. The idea of being able to make money doing something that didn’t require the social interaction was tempting—perhaps too tempting because before I could stop myself, I stood, walked to the counter, and picked up the phone. Deep breaths, I told myself as I dialed Roger’s number.
“Roger,” I said when his machine picked up. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said and I’m not saying yes, but tell me more about what you have in mind.”
Part III:
2001–2004
Chapter 22
John Lennon had it right when he said “life happens while you’re busy making other plans.” It’s true. I had never intended to become an artist. I’m still not sure I even consider myself one. But, under Roger’s management, and thanks to Gus’s desire to make money, that’s exactly what I became.
“Never doubt the power of the gay network,” Roger said, and he was right.
Augustin Dupré, known by many simply as Gus, was the owner of several gay-exclusive nightclubs and restaurants. The product of “Old Southern money,” Gus was excused from family activities and holdings in Louisiana because of his sexual orientation and his penchant for barely legal boys. In exchange for his promise to “get gone and stay quiet,” he was provided with a sizeable allowance, which he spent freely.
He managed “gone” with great success but struggled with the “quiet” element of the agreement. Gus moved first to New Orleans and then to Los Angeles, where he quickly became a fixture in the party scene. Young, handsome, and full of Southern charm, he also possessed the family skill of recognizing opportunities and making money. What began as investments in clubs and restaurants later became outright purchases and, with complete renovations and the knack for appealing to the exclusive, chic Hollywood set, enormously successful business ventures. He had just begun his expansion into Chicago when he met Roger and Duane at a party.
“He wants to bring West Coast fabulous to the Midwest,” Roger enthused late one night. “It’s going to be amazing. And, he believes that we, well, I have just the right combination of skills and connections.”
“So, explain how I fit into this?” I asked. “I’m not even really an artist. My work is crap.”
“One man’s trash and all that,” Roger said. “Just trust me when I tell you that he saw your work, recognized it as unique, and saw an opportunity. And here’s the great part: he thought they would be the perfect addition not only to his personal collection, but also in the private suites in his new establishment.”
“What is this new establishment?” I asked.
“It’s a club,” Roger said. “An exclusive club and that’s really all you need to know. I’m going to handle all the details. All you have to do is continue to produce those amazing canvases.”
And, surprisingly, Roger did handle all the details. He negotiated the deals, handled all the shipping, and in the process, made himself a force to be reckoned with. Granted, it didn’t hurt that he also was sleeping with Gus. But still, that didn’t detract from the fact that Roger’s designs were interesting and certainly different than anything anyone else was doing.
After our initial reconciliation, Roger flew to Kansas City and spent a long weekend. We talked, laughed, and made up properly. And when he left, he also took most of the paintings from my closet. The agreement was simple. He would use what he wanted in his designs and in return, give me all the profits from their sales. Also, he would act as my manager without charge.
“You’re doing me a favor,” he said. “Gus really wants the paintings and I really want Gus. He’s willing to pay and quite honestly . . . if Gus wants it, Gus gets it. And, he makes sure other people want it.”
And he was right.
With Gus as a patron and Roger as a manager, my job was nothing more than what I had been doing previously without financial compensation. There were a few nonnegotiable rules. First and foremost, my identity could never be revealed. Roger agreed, and together we crafted an elaborate story in which I was portrayed as a reclusive, tortured genius who simply went by BEC. It seemed like the perfect cover and, aside from the genius part, not too far removed from the truth. If anything, my reclusiveness only added to my mystique. Secondly, under no circumstances would I attend a show or event. I worked alone, out of my home, and once I had relinquished a canvas, I never wanted to see it again.
&nb
sp; My mother was thrilled when I told her I was planning a career change.
“Oh, Birdie, that’s great. I never thought sales was the best fit for you.”
“It’s not sales,” I responded automatically. “But it doesn’t matter because with this new job, I don’t have to be out working with the public. I can work from home.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She was quiet and then said, “It’s just, are you sure that’s what you should be doing? I mean, you don’t really get out much as it is and—”
“Mom, please, can we not go into this right now? I know what you’re going to say, but can’t you please just be happy for me?”
“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “I am happy for you. I just worry, that’s all. I want you to be happy.” She hesitated and then said, “So, what’s this new job? Phone sales or . . .” I could imagine her sitting in the kitchen on the tall, wooden stool under the wall-mounted phone, coiling the cord around her fingers.
“It’s—” I stopped. How could I explain what I would be doing? I imagined just blurting out the truth: Well, you see, Mom, when I was in college, my friend was raped and it messed me up. So my friend Roger, the gay man, forced me to see a shrink, who suggested I paint away my fears. But I was blocked creatively, so I took a hit of LSD from this guy I met in a gay bar and when I tripped, Grace manifested herself and I started doing freaky-ass paintings of all the messed up shit in my head. Roger saw them, took them and managed to convince people they were artistic and so now I’m going to be paid to take all the crap in my head and put it on a canvas to be hung in gay bars.
I laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ve been painting some since college and Roger—”
“Painting,” my mother interrupted. “You’ve been painting? Like watercolors? Or landscapes? Or—since when have you been painting?”
“I took a class in college,” I lied. “The professor said I had talent. It’s just a hobby, really. Or, it was. But Roger’s friend, or boss, liked it and bought some pieces. And he has friends who he thinks would want to buy some, too. So, I thought I’d give it a try.”
