by Jenna Payne
The shouting comes from the lower level of the garage. In a blink the man is inches in front of me. My body freezes. Each of my joints locks in their places. As the adrenaline courses through me, I am caught in his line of sight and he freezes, too. “You’d better delete that photo,” his voice rumbles, “if you know what’s good for you.”
The shouting follows him up the stairs. I can see behind him that it is the police—two officers, a man and a woman. They’re after him, and he’s trapped between us. The man’s eyes bolt from my bag to my eyes and he runs toward the fire escape on the edge of the roof.
At first the officers barely give me a glance as they chase him to the scaffold. By the urgent gaze they share, I know that the artist is getting away. The female officer dashes past me and down the stairwell, sprinting the length of the alleyway after the artist. The other officer watches her from the edge of the roof and then approaches me.
“Were you with that man?” he asks, hands out as if I might be some kind of danger.
“No, sir,” I say. I notice that my fingers are subconsciously grasping my book bag, that I don’t want the officer to ask me about the photograph.
“He was vandalizing this garage,” he says. “We’ve seen a lot of him lately. Involved with a few other local thieves. On top of the little gallery they’ve been making out of the Culver area, we suspect this guy is also linked to a number of small crimes around here.”
My fingers shake and teeth chatter. My hands feel cold around the straps of my bag. “I can walk you to your car if you’d like, miss,” the officer continues.
“No, thank you,” I say, in a trance. “I have a bus to catch.” I start back for the stairwell, trying to nonchalantly walk around the man, but he stops me. With him standing over me, looking down, I feel intimidation setting in, as if he were interrogating me.
“Be careful out there,” he says, eyeing my bag. “It’s getting dark.”
***
Once I reach the ground level of the garage, I turn and barge right for my bus stop. There are few lights in the alley but I can see the shine of Culver Square at the end of the dark corridor. Why is it that dumpsters always give off a sketchy vibe at night? I pick it up to a jog but can’t help but look over my shoulder. Behind me, there is nothing but the ghostly silhouette of the parking garage, and the faces of the two Stooges, which I can no longer make out in the shadow.
There are people clamoring around, the Sunday nightlife just blossoming. As I step out of the alley I’m stopped when my hand is grabbed, jerking me back. Instantly I go breathless. At this point my body has had too much shock for one day.
“Vylette, chill,” the voice says. My eyes go from my hand and up the arm of the artist. His hand is warm, his fingers pressing firm against the innermost triangle of my palm.
“Who are you?” I shriek, trying to free my hand. He releases it without struggle.
“Come on, girl,” he says, his voice full of bass. “Don’t you know? I’ve seen you naked.” My face goes numb and the sensation follows suit down to my feet. Why does my body refuse to run? Is this what it’s like when an animal in the wild becomes prey? My knees buckle and as I stumble over, the artist catches me in his arms.
I honestly don’t know what to think; every part of me feels useless. “Vylette,” the artist says, and pulls down the dark purple bandana to reveal his face. The first thing I see is the scar running down from his ear, and then I realize that the artist is the guy from my class—Roman. “I got them in a loop,” he says, and I sense his urgency. “You can follow me and we can lay low, or you can go.”
I’m struck, his chestnut eyes surveying me up and down, left to right. My lips and eyebrows tremble in search of a reaction, but when he looks back, he sees the lady cop from earlier. “Vylette,” Roman repeats. “I need to know right now. Are you down?”
He takes my hand again, heading back to the belly of the alleyway. This is the moment of truth. Am I down? I exhale and in the next moment I’m trailing behind him, our hands coupling, our arms like a chain. Now it feels like my life is stuck on rewind, with no choice but to go back down the alley. Roman takes a sharp right down an even darker alley—more like a three-foot space between two buildings. This tunnel feels like I’m going down the rabbit hole, and as we exit the crevice there is a door blended in with the rust colored brick. Without letting go of my hand, Roman pulls me forward. I look back through the narrow passage and all I see is blackness, like a void. He opens the door and we enter into an ember chamber of a room with another door. In here, there is a golden plaque on the door that I can barely make out before the second door closes. It reads, Eighty8 Lounge.
***
A saxophone blares in the smoky room, beams of blue and red light coalescing a steady glow as the music dissipates. Once we’re a few feet into the club, Roman’s grip grows tighter around my hand, locking his fingers with mine. The crowd of faces blur past me, their distant eyes focused at the band on stage. Not expecting this array of lights and sounds, I lose myself for a second feeling dizzy. Roman looks back to me. His eyes bring reassurance so I follow on.
Around the stage and the bar there is a hall with bathrooms, but past the bathrooms is a beaded curtain. Without a second thought Roman proceeds through the beads and they rattle as he passes. I take a breath and look to my left, where the music bellows and the crowd swings. How did I end up here? I’ve heard of secret bars in Los Angeles, but nothing like this.
Roman pokes his head back through the curtains. “You coming?” he asks with a coy smile, then disappears again beyond the beads. I take one last look to my left and then step forward, the beads cool against my face. Roman is already halfway up the flight of stairs leading to yet another door.
He stops at the door, which gives me time to catch up behind him. The stairs beneath me creak with every step and the saxophone is still audible but faded in the background. I hear the door unlock, followed by the sound of a second lock. In total Roman unlocks five of them. What kind of place is this to need five locks?
I take one step and it’s like I’m no longer breathing oxygen but some new life source—an air of lavender and lilac. Once I’m fully through the doorway, he clicks all the locks closed and in addition slides a dresser in front of the door. He unties the bandana and the garb and folds them neatly placing them on the dresser’s surface.
My heart pounds like a drum in sync with the upbeat jamboree downstairs. Roman turns his left shoulder slowly over to me, and the tissue of his scar glimmers in the moonlight from the window adjacent to him. When he is turned all the way, he has that same wide grin he wears so well.
“Roman, I don’t understand,” I manage to spit out. “The cops were…why are you trying to get caught over some…” No matter how hard I try, I can’t catch my words. He puts a hand on each of my biceps and rubs them firmly.
“Everything’s cool now, Vylette,” he says. “Relax. They won’t find us here. Take a breather. Can I get you a drink?”
“Do you live here?” I ask. “Do you like, own this place, or what?” I’m at a loss as to any reasonable deduction for the current situation. With Roman’s hands rubbing my arms up and down I can barely think straight, anyway. He just laughs again, releasing his grip.
Walking around me, I can tell he’s at home here. It’s just a simple room, damp with the musty smell of herb and a few simple pieces of furniture, but the walls are decked out with one endless painting of trees, vines, and overgrowth in vibrant greens and browns. For a second I get the feeling of being at a rain forest exhibit, and something about it makes me feel hidden from the world.
There is a bed in the corner, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. “I call it ‘The Brush’,” he says, going into the kitchenette. “I just come here to chill, get in my zone, and figure shit out.”
“The cops could come in here any minute,” I say, ignoring his self-indulgent introduction. “I don’t care how many locks you put on that door. Why are we here? Why are you running?”
I’m in his face now and he’s peering at me down his nose, keeping his chin held high. “They don’t like my work,” he says, cracking a smile, “and they don’t like the people I run with.”
“So, what?” I smile back, raising my chin in retort. “You going to make me ask who you run with? And what your work is?” Suddenly, I jump at something shocking my thigh. Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz. I don’t need to look at my phone to know that it’s Malik texting to check in on me. He expected me home hours ago.
“Hey, you got to do what you got to do,” he says, breaking our stare and reaching for glasses in the cupboard. “If you got a man, you better tell him that everything is cool and the leash is tight.”
“Leash?” I chirp, realizing my voice cracks, but I’ll make it work in favor of the attitude. “I don’t know who you think you are or what you’re getting at, but you don’t know me. And so far, as much as your game of tag-a-long has been quite the sideshow, you haven’t shown me much respect, either.”
While he moves smoothly, pouring two glasses of bourbon, I’m stiff, and all I can do is observe what’s around me: a tan counter littered with pencils, film rolls, stacks of SD cards, old drawings, books, and a small, silver knife. When he returns to me, he’s holding out a small glass with a fair pour of honey-colored liquid and two ice cubes. “Drink slow,” he says. “This place is cool. And when I say cool, I mean those parking garage rent-a-cops won’t come looking for us here.”
“Us?” I reiterate. “I never said I was with you.”
“Well, you never said you weren’t.” Holding both glasses, his stare is patient. I take a glass and put it to my lips. The air within the glass hits my nostrils like a matchstick, and through the glass I see Roman downing his glass as well.
***
The bourbon tingles in my throat and the ice clinks in the glass when Roman takes it from my hand. “Another?” he asks, seemingly copacetic from the drink.
“I guess you’re just not going to answer my questions,” I say, “So why am I here at all? Why shouldn’t I just go home right now?”
“Where is home, Vylette?” He pours himself another, but I’m firm in shaking my head to pass on this round. It’s not like me to drink with strangers. “I can tell you’re not from here. You’re so rigid. Look at you, standing there like a mannequin.” He leans against the counter, smiling with the glass to his lips. The walls practically vibrate from the music downstairs.
The last thing I’m going to take is an insult from a smug man treating me like any other woman. I remember Malik and the phone in my pocket. I know he’s at the loft with some delicious meal prepared, listening to jazz and waiting for me. But I’ve got jazz here, and there is something else I need that Malik can’t give me.
“I look like a mannequin?” I say, raising one brow. I take the bottle of liquor and fill my glass, then reach into his freezer for two fresh ice cubes. I strut over to the dresser and pick up his head garb like its dirty laundry. “Are you trying to look like a pirate?”
I feel confident in my retort and bookend the joke with a strong swig of the bourbon. It will take a lot more than Jim Beam to get me wasted, but I’m curious to see where things go. I see right through the insult as a joke, something to lure me in. He’s already learning how I work. I would have left minutes ago if he didn’t have the wit to make me laugh. “And by the way,” I finish. “You’re not fooling me saying, ‘This is where I come to work.’ This is where you live, isn’t it?”
I look around at his artwork on the walls, pretending to be a critic at a bourgeoisie art show. I trace my fingertips along the walls, admiring how he used the long cracks in some of them to serve as outlines for trees—but I don’t reveal my admiration for the delicate brush strokes. No, I let his eyes follow me around the room while I peruse everything in the room.
“Not where I live,” he corrects. “But you could say this is where I stay. For now.” Where he stays. He sounds like me.
When I reach the edge of the bed I’m tempted to lie down and stare up at the ceiling, letting the buzz rush through me as I pretend to be engulfed by Roman’s forest. “‘The Brush’ is kind of a funny name for a cheap studio apartment,” I say, keeping my firm posture by the bedpost. Judging by the furniture I would have guessed that he hasn’t been here long—but the intricate details of the full-size mural must have taken months, if not years.
My teasing doesn’t even faze him. From across the room, I see him lean against the tan counter and absorb me with his eyes. He’s actually listening to me. I guess I’m just so used to Malik cutting me off all the time. But I can’t assume that this guy will be any different.
“So, are you going to do it?” he asks, taking a slow sip from his glass. I can hear him sift the bourbon past his tongue before swallowing. Do what? I think. Could he be trying to get it this quick? “Take out your camera,” he laughs, crunching a piece of ice with his teeth.
The first thought I have is that he wants to delete the photo I took of him in the garage, and he would be right for asking that of me, but something deep in me is attached to that photo. I haven’t even seen how it came out, yet. “Don’t you have a camera?” I answer, my mouth playing defense before my brain even has a chance to think.
His head deflates into his hand and he makes a comical, burbling noise with his lips. “Girl, having a conversation with you is like playing a game of dodge ball,” he says, rocking his head at me, our eyes linked. “Listen again. Are you going to take out your camera so that you can take pictures of me, or what? Last week for class you turned in photos of yourself posing in front of the camera. Yeah, Dr. D. made a joke about it being like a selfie, but I know how much work you put into setting up the camera, the self-timer, the focus, and the exposure. And yeah, I could tell you darkened the contrast in a little in Photoshop, but that’s not a big deal.”
I stare at him, my mouth open, head tilted sideways. My stomach gives a lurch as I laugh. I can’t help it, but my first thought is how preposterous Roman is. Without control, instantly an image of him flashes before my eyes, images of me behind the camera, and him laughing…
“So, obviously what I’m saying is,” he interrupts my daydream, “You can expand your portfolio by taking pictures of me. Don’t get my face, but you can get my body. I liked your work. I feel you on the vision. The teacher made it sound stupid in class, but it really isn’t.”
I exhale, and when I breathe in, that dank musty air fills my nostrils. Suddenly I’m looking around the room from a different perspective than before. Next thing I realize, my hands are going for my bag and I feel the cold plastic of the camera’s body and the scratchy surface of the strap.
“I’ve never really modeled, or whatever,” Roman says, “but I know damn well you don’t have anything prepared for class. What, were you about to turn in, a picture of Downtown CC from the roof of the parking garage? I can already imagine the flack you’ll get for that. You might as well just choose the lesser of two evils.”
He finishes his glass and sets it on the counter. Puckering his lips from the punch of the liquor, he starts walking over to the wall on my right and the other side of the bed. “I can hang a backdrop up here,” he says, “And the rest is up to you.”
The dizziness from when I first entered this place, Eighty8 Lounge, returns now. It can’t be that I’m drunk because this is nothing compared to what I go through when I’m editing photos at home. Malik’s wine supply is endless, after all. What will he think if he sees me editing pictures of Roman? My beating heart trembles as I take off the lens cap. I’ve never taken pictures of a man, not even Malik. It’s sad to say, but as much as I love photography, I’ve had little professional experience. By the time I look from my T2i and back to Roman, he already has the backdrop hung up—it’s a soft pink sheet.
With my nerves flustered about how to do this properly and professionally, I force my eyes to transfix on the thistle colored sheet. For all he knows I’m contemplating my artistic vision. “Do
you mind if I smoke?” he asks. When I look over, he’s not only holding a joint and a lighter, but he’s also shirtless.
***
The outline of his pecs form a perfect double-u, his abs and obliques underneath it etched like a statue. Scars run like a broken string of vines continue from his ear, down his back, chest, and right arm. On his tight, left chest muscle there is a tattoo of a heart, but it, too is vine-laced, forming a heart shape. The tattoo is a little on the nose, but it’s the first I make out of the dozen or so others that I see from this angle.
The fact that I didn’t even ask him to take his shirt off doesn’t occur to me until well after 10 seconds of me gawking at him, biting the insides of my cheeks. I’m so flustered, I retract my lips into my mouth just to ensure that it stays shut and I don’t make a fool of myself.
“This is awkward,” Roman says, fumbling to put the joint and lighter away. “It’s cool if you’re not down with smoking, I just like to get a little lit before working, and I’m kind of nervous so—”
“No, smoking is whatever,” I say, swallowing hard, noticing how dry my throat is. “I just didn’t expect…”
It takes him a moment to realize that I’m referring to his body, and then he looks down at himself, looks up to me, and his eyebrows hop in instant embarrassment. “Oh, fuck, I just thought,” he puts everything down and then goes for his shirt. “I just thought, since in your other photos, you were like, bare or whatever, but—”
Watching him gracelessly attempt to put his shirt back on sparks something in me, and I say, “Hey, hey, no, I misunderstood. You’re fine. You just have a really toned body, I wasn’t expecting it, so I started thinking of muscles in the human body,” I take the last sip of watery bourbon, “in an artistic way.”
Ridiculous, Vylette, I think. Sometimes it’s impossible to make the best ethical choice in a situation when every option seems so strange and new. What I know is that my cheeks tingle, and when I breathe in the air no longer feels damp, but earthy and rich.
