That Thing Between Eli & Gwen

by J. J. McAvoy

  “Hi, do you mind screwing at a more reasonable hour? I can’t sleep listening to you people moan behind me,” I snapped back.

  “I’m a doctor, this is a reasonable hour for me,” he replied, trying to close the door.

  I stuck my hand out to stop it. “Maybe for you, but for normal human beings, not so much.”

  He shrugged. “And why should I care?”

  “Wow, are you really this much of a dick?”

  “Baby, is everything all right?” A woman with bottle number nine red hair stepped forward in what looked to be only his shirt. She wrapped her arm around his chest, glaring at me.

  “Apparently, you were too loud. My neighbor can’t sleep.”

  Her gaze focused on me, and she looked me up and down. “Sorry.”

  “Good enough, Con Artist?”

  He didn’t wait for my reply before closing the door in my face. Once again, I knocked.

  “What!”

  I looked past him to the woman and smiled. “He has chlamydia.”

  “What?”

  He stared at me, dumbfounded, but the girl seemed clueless. I laughed out loud as I headed back to my apartment. Yes, it was childish, but there was just something about him that got under my freaking skin. I want to punch his face in. At least they’ve stopped, I thought, falling onto my bed. I was there for only a moment before I heard someone knocking.

  Please don't be you. I prayed, but it did no good. I opened the door partially and the prick let himself in, now dressed in jeans and a gray shirt. He glanced around my place, which was mostly empty since I didn’t have furniture.

  “Excuse you! I don’t remember inviting you in.”

  “Chlamydia? Really? What are you, in high school?” He finally spoke, leaning against my kitchen counter.

  “Did you come here for an apol—”

  “Yes, in fact, I did. My friend left me, and I should sue you for slander.”

  “Slander? Really? Please, go ahead. As long as I get sleep, I don’t care.”

  “You paint pictures for a living. Sleep in the day.”

  I wanted to smack him.

  “Look, whatever. I’m sorry for what I said, it was rude. Please, for the sake of my sanity, please…I don’t know…don’t prop up against your bedroom wall at least. If you're civil, I’m civil, Eli.” I extended my hand toward him.

  “Fine, Guinevere.” He shook my hand and frowned.

  “Please don’t call me that, just Gwen—”

  He grinned. “All right, Con Artist, let’s be civil.” Letting go of my hand, he walked out.

  I felt the urge to smack him. There wasn’t a civil bone in his body.

  Eli

  Fixing my tie and grabbing my phone, I tried to ignore the pain in my head. I had the worst hangover. I hadn’t planned to get so drunk the night before, but I hadn’t been on call and had found myself going to the bar across the street from the hospital. Once there, I met a redhead named…Suzanna…Joanna…I couldn’t remember. Anna was in there somewhere. We were getting along fine until that woman came hammering on my door in the middle of the night.

  “Good morning,” she said cheerfully, stepping out of her apartment at the same time I did, dressed in a white oversized blazer with paint splatter on it, a tight shirt, shorts, and black military boots. She held on to the bars of her bright yellow bicycle. “You okay? You don’t look so well.”

  “What’s with the act?” I walked toward the elevator.

  “No act,” she said, shifting her helmet under her other arm. “I’m just not going to let you drag me down to your level. From now on, I will reciprocate your rudeness with kindness.”

  “You were bullied in high school, weren’t you?” I questioned as the elevator doors closed.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but just mumbled something under breath and tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear.

  “What was that?”

  She faced me and shook her head, getting off at the lobby. “Nothing. Have a good day, Dr. As—Dr. Davenport.”

  My town car was already waiting for me.

  She waved to me as she biked down away.

  “A friend of yours, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” I said, getting into the car.

  “Strange, I swear I’ve seen her before.”

  I didn’t say anything, going over my notes for the speaking engagement at NYU. Of all the doctors the hospital could have chosen to speak to students, why the hell did it have to be me? I couldn't care less what these kids decided to do with their lives.

  “My daughter tells me this event has been sold out for weeks. She’s broadcasting it over the campus radio.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

  “I don’t see why.” I leaned into the seat, watching as people walked past us. I hated traffic and we were currently moving at a snail’s pace. In this city, everyone had some place they needed to go, and quickly.

  “Graduation is in two days. I think many of them are hoping all of those speaking will tell them what to do their lives.” He laughed as we started to move again.

  “Wasn’t that the point of college? They had four years to figure that out.”

  “You know kids, always doubting. I’m sure you had moments where you doubted where your future career would take you.”

  “Never.” I shook my head. “I always knew what I was going to do with my life. It was never a question of if or how, but when. I believe everyone knows what they want to do, but they’re just too afraid they won’t be able to do it.”

  “I might just listen in as well,” the driver said, pulling up to New York University.

  He came around to my door as I fixed my jacket, nodding to him before walking up the steps. He was right; the place was filled with hopeful twenty-something’s, all gathered around the large theater.

  “Dr. Davenport.” The director of the event, Professor Mills, waved as she tried to work her way through the crowd toward me. She was a short, pale woman with big glasses that nearly took over her whole face. In her hands were all kinds of files, which she shifted to one side in order to shake my hand.

  “Welcome, sorry for the chaos. After we announced our last guest, we got an influx of students.” She smiled, showing her braces as more students passed us.

  “I was about to say, I didn’t think this many students cared about science so much.” Why not was beyond me. “Who is the next guest, a musician or something?”

  “No…wait, she was right behind me.” She turned, standing on her tiptoes, trying to look over the crowd. “Oh, there she is.”

  I followed her line of sight. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” There, taking a selfie with two students—one with dreadlocks that almost touched the ground and another with a hot pink mohawk—was the Con Artist herself.

  “Ms. Poe!” The director called to her as the campus police helped everyone get in order and move toward the hall.

  Finally free of distractions, she focused on us, her brown eyes widening when she saw me. “What are you doing here?” she questioned when she reached us.

  Why, God? Why? “I should be asking you that.”

  “You know each other?” The director clapped in joy. “This is great. I can’t wait to get this open debate underway.”

  “Debate?” the Con Artist and I said at the same time.

  “I was under the impression this was question and answer with the students,” I stated.

  “As was I,” she said.

  “Really? We let your chair know, Dr. Davenport, and your agent, Ms. Poe. The reason is that the science and art department graduates have basically been having this battle for days now. They hope you both will hammer in their points. Since you two are friends, I’m sure this will be a healthy discussion. Follow me,” Director Mills basically proclaimed in one swift breath.

  Neither of us understood what she meant until we followed her through a separate door leading to the stage where three red chairs awaited us. The crowd I had
just seen blended together outside was now divided between the arts and the professional. The difference was so clear. Even the Con Artist and I were, without realizing it, representing our teams by our outfits. I was dressed in a suit, while she had been more free-spirited in her outfit choice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. It is with great honor that I introduce our first set of speakers for the day,” Director Mills said, already sitting in her chair onstage as we waited.

  “This is a bad idea,” she whispered beside me.

  “Our first guest is currently the youngest neurosurgeon at New York Presbyterian Hospital. He graduated from our very own New York University before rising to the top of his class at Yale Medical. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Dr. Eli Davenport.”

  The left side of the room cheered for me, rising to their feet.

  “Good luck,” I said to her before walking onstage. Waving to the audience, I shook Director Mills's hand once more before taking the first seat.

  “Our second guest is also a graduate of New York University. It was at our very own art gala that she debuted her first major work, Screaming in the City. Since then, her art and photography have graced almost every corner of the world. Time Magazine called her the Anselm Kiefer of this generation. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ms. Guinevere Poe.”

  I had thought the applause given to me was shocking, but all the art students went completely wild. Stomping their feet and clapping their hands, they cheered as if she had ended world hunger or cured cancer.

  She came out, the biggest grin on her face as she waved back with both hands. She even gave a bow.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Good luck,” she mocked when, finally finished praising herself, she sat in her chair.

  I wanted to wipe that look off of her face.

  “Thank you for being here,” the director said to us as we were handed microphones.

  “No problem,” she replied gleefully.

  “I wouldn't say ‘no’ problem. I could be saving someone’s life right now, but—”

  A bunch of ohs and laughter came from my section.

  She glared at me, nodding her head as if agreeing to something.

  Let the games begin.

  Guinevere

  That’s how he wants to play? I had just made a pact not to allow him to drag me down to his level, and there I was getting into the ring with this…this thing…again. I had lived in the city for years, and never had New York felt as small as it had in the last few weeks. I just couldn’t get away from him.

  “Shall we get started?” the director asked us.

  We both nodded, turning to the students.

  “Now, please remember to keep all questions respectful. We will go back and forth, starting from the quote, professionals.”

  That got a few soft boos from what I guessed would be called the “creatives.”

  A female student, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, dressed in black slacks and a button-down blouse, stood. “My question is for Dr. Davenport.” Her gaze focused on him. “Do you not believe that, due to media, this generation is especially deluded about the life of the artist?”

  There were a few groans and mutters at her question, but they all waited for him to speak. I watched him relax in his chair as a small grin crept onto his lips.

  “Of course,” he said.

  I was tempted to close my ears to the round of trash he would most likely spit out next.

  “I mean, is it really possible for every last one of you in this room to become the next Anselm Kiefer or Lady Gaga? No. The thing about any type of art is: it’s not in your control. No matter what, your livelihood depends on whether or not you are, one: noticed, and two: popular. I’m sure there are many artists just as good as Ms. Poe, if not better, but none of them were noticed. Unlike in the professional world, where if you are the best in your field, you will get the recognition you deserve.”

  How that bullshit answer got any applause worried me for the future of our country. “Am I allowed to respond to this?” I asked the director into the mic.

  “Please.”

  I sighed, rolling up my sleeves. “I told myself I would try to hold back, because often when I lay down the truth, people get hurt.” I grinned at the laughter filling the room.

  “Anytime, Ms. Poe,” he said from beside me, taking a drink of his water.

  “Well, Dr. Davenport, your statement highlights the fundamental difference between us. You look for recognition in your work. And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you love what you do, but I’m also sure you don’t go into work every day hoping to save as many lives as possible. It’s about making a name for yourself. For people like me, I couldn’t give a damn if someone knows my accomplishments. My art isn’t for anyone but myself. When I paint, or take a photo, I’m expressing the innermost parts of myself. That is all the satisfaction I need. It may seem scary for all you people who need a path to walk, and the ten steps of becoming whatever, but for us, we artists make our own path, and set our own goals and limits. We are living a technicolor life, my friend.”

  “Boom!” someone yelled from my side of the hall, and I winked in that direction.

  “Next question.” The director pointed to someone from the creative side.

  He stood. “My question is for Ms. Poe,” he said when he was given a mic.

  I remembered taking a picture with him; his hot pink mohawk was hard to miss. I nodded, sitting up.

  “How do you feel about how the educational system focuses on the sciences while cutting the art budget once again?”

  “I’m ashamed. I’m living in a culture that has disillusioned itself into believing that the focus on arts is no longer needed. An artist designed that NYU shirt you are wearing, and an artist spent time creating the layout of this hall. Art is in everything, and without realizing it, the educational system is chipping away at the core of itself.”

  “I concur, to a degree.” Eli faced the student. “However, a focus on the sciences is in fact more important, not only for our economy, but also our overall status as a society. America is ranked thirty-first in mathematics and twenty-third in the sciences. How can we not place a focus on that? If you want to be an artist, fine, but why does that translate into not understanding chemistry? So many students give up and say, ‘I’m more artistic, I don’t need to learn this.’”

  “Well on that note, when was last time you painted anything or were creative, Dr. Davenport?” I cut in, forcing him to look at me. “What you are saying is that artists should be well-rounded, and I don’t find fault in that, but what about professionals? How many students take an art class for an easy A and don’t actually learn to draw? When was last time you were an artist, Dr. Davenport?”

  He nodded. “Touché.”

  “Next question.”

  Another guy stood, dressed in a sweater vest, bow tie, and glasses. “My question is for Dr. Davenport. I also want to become a doctor, though I'm not sure what I want to specialize in. I know the next four years of my life will be medical school, and after that, internships and whatnot. So I was wondering, how do you find time to date? Or is that not even a possibility until after I’m finished with school?”

  The moment he asked, my head whipped to Eli. Even though he laughed alongside a few other students, I could tell how uncomfortable he was.

  “I’m sorry, dumb question…”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s just…” Eli paused again, going off into his own world.

  “Dating is possible,” I said for him, looking to the student. “After all, he’s managed to still keep me beside him.”

  The gasps, whistles, and laughter that filled the room were deafening.

  Eli's eyes peered into mine as if I had lost my mind.

  “You two are dating?” Director Mills leaned in as if I was going to tell her a big secret. I glared at Eli, hoping he would understand what I was trying to say through my eyes.

  “Yeah, I don’t even know how it happened
. One moment we were just neighbors, then the next, we were in a relationship.” He laughed, but on the inside, I could tell he was yelling. The sarcasm in his voice was clear only to me.

  “There you have it, the left and right brain coming together,” Director Mills stated.

  “Kiss! Kiss!” they started to chant, to my horror. It was like the hole we were in kept getting bigger and bigger.

  When I turned back to Eli, he, in one swift motion, kissed me softly on the lips before sitting again and accepting the applause.

  What the hell just happened?

  Eli

  “What the hell was that?” I hollered at her when we finished, left alone in the backstage area as the students cleared.

  “I don’t know! You weren’t answering, and I felt bad—”

  “Who asked you to feel bad for me? Do I look that pitiful to you?”

  “Are you saying that dating me is pitiful?” she yelled back.

  “Yes! Especially compared to who I actually was dating! Not only was she beautiful and classy, but also extremely intelligent. How do you compare to that?” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  She looked away from me, clamping her mouth shut for a moment before lifting her head and facing me. “I get it. I’m not worth a damn, but what about you? You apparently weren’t worth her love either. It must have been that extreme intelligence that made her run so quickly without looking back once,” she whispered, brushing past me on her way to the exit.

  I’m an idiot. I had punched below the belt, and she had punched back.

  Chapter Four

  Defective Toys

  Guinevere

  “Gwen?”

  Fingers snapped in my face. Blinking, I looked up at the small cup of tea in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I whispered to Katrina’s secretary as she left.

  Katrina sat at her desk, folding her hands over the papers.

  Her office was, in a word, sleek, every surface either white or gray.