by Anne Whitney
“Don’t you just hate uncomfortable silences?” Fitz asks. My wide-eyed state greatly entertains him. “Are you new to the art world or just new to the world in general?”
I can’t take this anymore. I left home to escape the constant feeling of inadequacy (among other reasons) and I have no intention of letting it follow me thousands of miles across the country. I down the rest of the champagne left in my glass, ignoring the burning taste in my throat.
“I just moved here and I’m afraid I’ve not had a lot of time in my life for art.”
Fitz seems a little taken back by my sudden spark of life. Good, I think. If I can keep this up, then maybe I could survive in this city.
“Well then,” he says. He suddenly goes stiff, both in mannerisms and voice. “Welcome to New York, I guess. I trust that you’ll look back on your first night in your new home, as well as your first foray into modern art, fondly.”
I move to drink another sip from my glass but quickly remember that it’s empty. A tall, skinny man walks past with a tray of glasses and Fitz swiftly moves to take the empty glass from my hand and replace it with a full one. His warm fingers brush against mine and I realize how cold I am.
“That calls for a toast, I think.” Fitz raises his glass toward mine and they clink. “To your new beginning and to me getting paid for this.”
My lips form a tight smile, but I feel like a poker player disappointed by his hand. My new beginning hadn’t quite gone as I’d imagined it would. I have never been so naive to assume that I would turn up in a brand new city and immediately fit right in and become the person I’d always dreamed of, but the reality I found myself in still made my heart clench with fear. The cards are on the table and it’s not what I wanted at all.
“So what did you think of my show?” Fitz asks off hand as he watches the reception unfold around us.
“I’m not entirely sure I’m the best person to ask,” I reply. “I don’t know much about your kind of art. Or art period, unless you count finger-painting. And I don’t think I got the part about what being naked has to do with anything.”
“But that makes it the best reason to ask you,” he says. “Art isn’t just for artists and rich assholes. It’s for everybody. It’s nice to see some new faces at these things besides the women who think I’m a free male stripper. Which I don’t mind, obviously. If you’ve got it, you might as well flaunt it, right?”
“Is that why you...” I struggle to find the words. Is that why you decided to zone in on me and practically give me a lap-dance? My mind fills in the blanks. He seems to understand what I’m trying to say and continues smirking.
“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug. “Your reactions were perfect for the piece. But don’t take it personally. I like to go for the visitors who are there mainly for the free food.”
“Oh.” The awkwardness returns. The substitute dinner I had gleefully consumed only a few minutes ago swirls in my stomach. So much for blending into the crowd.
“The Art of Gemini is about the human condition and comfort,” Fitz explains in a peculiar sing-song. “Humans like us aren’t used to nudity in public and the discomfort of a strange man’s penis hanging inches from your face. Unless you’re into that kind of thing, of course.”
“Of course.” I pray for the floor to crack open and swallow me whole.
“Hey, relax. That’s what the food’s there for. My shows would be a hell of a lot smaller and quieter if I ditched the buffets.”
“People will do anything for free food,” I mumble. “Human nature.”
He looks at me strangely, as if he’s peering into the depths of my soul, analyzing every thought I’ve ever had. If he really could see what went on in my mind, though, he would probably turn around and run away as fast as his legs could take him.
“Enough stalling.” Fitz claps his hands together as his lips quirk into a smile. “What did you think of my show? Be honest. Brutally honest if you must be. It wouldn’t be the first time someone called me an exhibitionist hack.”
I think about my answer very carefully for a few seconds. Truthfully, I don’t know how to properly talk about something like this. I had never really studied art at school and have no idea how to even begin discussing paintings and sculptures, let alone a beautiful naked man getting up close and personal with me in front of an excited crowd. Was it even art? What the hell was art? If public nudity could be art, then what else could be? The questions forming in my head just confused me further. Fitz stared at me expectantly.
“Well,” I began. “I can certainly say that I’ve never encountered anything like it before.” I pause to see if that answer is good enough for him. He gently nods, urging me to continue. “It was... Very intimate.” Of course it was intimate, you brainless twit. He was naked! “I don’t just mean the nakedness,” I quickly added. “It takes a lot of guts to put yourself out there for everyone to see everything and judge you like that.”
“See, you can talk about art!” Fitz exclaims, running his fingers through his messy chestnut hair. “Anything else? Come on, you’re on a roll.”
My mind fills with images of bare flesh adorned with tattoos achingly close to my body; the almost ticklish feeling of his hands brushing against my hair; a pleading face looking up at me from the ground, appealing for my attention. Fitz’s performance made me feel so uncomfortable, so confused and embarrassed, and yet it was truly unique. I doubt I ever would have experienced something like that in my old life.
“When you were... you know... doing all that stuff, your expression never changed until the music stopped. You were so stoic and in charge and then, all of a sudden, the lights are up, the music’s off and you looked so... I don’t know.”
“Yes?” He leans in closer, crouching so that his face is level with mine. I edge back slightly and he seems to follow my move. I thought the performance was over.
“Honestly?” I ask.
“Always.”
“You looked as scared as I felt.”
My answer seems to give him pause for thought, and he leans back to give me more room to breathe. He’s at least a foot taller than me so I have to tilt my head to properly look him in the eye, making me feel like a scorned child.
I decide it’s time for another drink and consume about half of my glass in a quick succession of sips. As the liquid warms my mouth, I realize once more that tonight is the first time I’ve ever drunk alcohol. Surprisingly, I am suddenly a big fan.
“You want to know why I do performance art?” Fitz asks me.
I nod.
“I do it because it’s completely real and unique. I can do this kind of performance to rooms full of people every night for a year and each performance will be totally different from the previous one. No two people in that room will have identical reactions to what I do. Some will love it, some will hate it and some will just be confused by it all. Everyone has a different explanation for what they see, and they’ll all believe that their interpretation is the right one.”
“Is my interpretation right?” I ask.
“Of course it is. It’s as right as Viridian’s interpretation, or her interpretation.” He points to an older woman dressed entirely in black listening attentively to Viridian. “Or his.” His finger moves toward a scruffy young man picking at the tray of crackers. “Or my own explanation for this little show of mine.”
“So, it’s like a play. No two shows are ever the same.”
“The theater? Please,” he snorts dismissively. “This is so much more than a play. I’m not acting.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Think of it as a lifelong self-portrait, always in progress.”
I nod, although I’m still not sure I quite get it. How could it be called performance art if he didn’t consider it performing? Isn’t acting just a kind of performance? I know I’m in way over my head. Then again, maybe I don’t have to completely understand it to appreciate it.
“That or I’m just a narcissistic j
ackass who enjoys his own reflection,” Fitz adds with a shrug, and I can’t help but laugh. “Either explanation sounds about right.”
I drink another sip of champagne, having very quickly acquired a taste for it. I remind myself that it wouldn’t be the best idea to get drunk on my first night in a new city when I still have nowhere to sleep. If I have to wander the streets of New York all night, then it would be much easier to do so sober.
“So what brings you to our fair city?” He asks. Part of me wants to reveal everything to Fitz; about Spokane, about my father, and about my current predicament, but how could I unburden myself on him like that? After all, we’ve only just met, albeit under less than conventional circumstances.
“Oh, you know. Just wanted to see a new place, meet new people,” I reply vaguely.
“If I may say so, you’ve picked the perfect city. Are you staying with friends or family or something?”
“Um...” I stammer. I don’t know what to tell him. He looks at me with suspicion.
“Marina, you do have a place to stay, right?”
“I...”
“Please don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice suddenly sharp, demanding answers. I find myself completely unable to lie to him.
“No. I don’t have anywhere to stay. I only got here a couple of hours ago. I was going to call my cousin but... but I don’t know where she lives. And I don’t have her number.”
Fitz sighs, and my toes curl with embarrassment. For some reason, I feel as if I’ve let him down.
“How much money do you have on you?”
“About $6, maybe a little more.”
“Marina...”
He has that look on his face again. The same expression he had when he fell to his knees before me. He looks concerned for me, and scared. This gorgeous man, who had every man and woman in this room staring at him with adoration and desire, who literally lay naked at my feet, looked scared on my behalf. How on earth am I supposed to react to that, I think. His expression quickly returns to a more stoic one.
“Turning up in one of the busiest cities in the world with no money and no place to sleep? That’s either pretty ballsy or incredibly stupid.”
“Either explanation sounds about right,” I mumble back, clutching the glass with both hands. The rucksack on my back feels ten times heavier all of a sudden and the pitiful glass and a half of champagne I have consumed in a short amount of time has made my head pleasantly fuzzy. Coupled with the exhaustion from all that travelling, I’m not in the best shape right now. I have to be stronger than this. I have no choice.
Fitz downs the remainder of his drink and places his empty glass on the floor.
“Finish your drink,” he tells me. “You’re coming back to my place.”
“What?”
“I’m not letting you sleep rough. You got all your stuff with you?”
“Fitz, you really don’t have to do this for...”
“Yes I do,” he interrupts me. “Please don’t try to act all worthy and noble right now. You need my help and you know it. I’ve got plenty of room at my place.”
I hold back further protests and nod again. Of course I can’t refuse his offer. The fact that I have even been offered a place to stay is a stroke of luck I couldn’t begin to have hoped for when I sat on the train, counting the $6.71 in my pocket over and over again, hoping it would somehow multiply if I counted it enough. I feel completely hopeless, but the truth is, at that moment in time, I am completely hopeless. I need all the help I can get and what Fitz offers is ideal.
I leave my glass on the floor next to Fitz’s and follow him around the room as he says goodbye to several figures, including Viridian, who pulls me into a tight, affectionate hug and talks of meeting up again soon. Before I can give her a proper response, Fitz tugs at my arm and leads me outside, where he hails a cab.
The drive to his apartment in the Lower East Side takes place in near silence, with only the driver’s occasional complaints about traffic breaking the hush. My backpack fills the middle seat, providing a helpful block between Fitz and me. I want to get closer to him. He fills me with so many conflicting emotions - discomfort, intrigue, confusion, security, and something I daren’t give a name to - and I have no idea how to deal with it all. I’ve seen practically every inch of his body, but I don’t know his surname and now I’m going to be staying in his apartment. This isn’t how normal introductions are supposed to unfold.
The cab stops outside of a multi-story, red-brick building with white shutters on the windows. When I thought of New York City back in the place I used to call home, I always imagined buildings like this; not the foreboding coldness of glass and steel that made up a huge part of the skyline. I could only have dreamt of living in a place like this.
No, I remind myself. You don’t live here. This is a temporary arrangement until you find a job and get some money together. Then you can get out of Fitz’s hair and live the life you’re supposed to lead.
Fitz opens the door and leads me to the very top floor, carrying my rucksack in one hand with ease. He strides up the stairs, taking two or three at a time, and I am reminded of how unfit I am. I try not to pant too loudly as we finally reach the top, and I tentatively follow him into his apartment.
“Wow,” I say before I can stop myself. This certainly wasn’t what I expected. Fitz’s apartment is huge, with intricate designs embedded in the plaster of the ceiling and invitingly plush furnishings scattered throughout the main room. My old house could have easily fit into this apartment with plenty of room to spare. Fitz begins to pull blankets and pillows from a closet and tosses them onto the largest couch in the room. I shuffle toward him, ready to thank him when something catches my eye and makes me gasp.
“What the hell is that?” I ask a little too loudly, pointing at a large photograph on the wall. Fitz seems to find my horrified reaction hilarious, yet I cannot imagine how anyone else is supposed to react to a picture of mismatched mannequin pieces and plastic genitalia assembled together on a bed of what looks like hair. The cold, unfocused stare of the mannequin’s aged face unsettles me in a way I certainly do not find humorous, unlike Fitz.
“That, Marina,” he said through splutters of laughter, “is also art.”
“I think I disagree with you there.”
“Don’t diss it. That picture’s iconic.”
“You must be joking, right?”
“Okay, if you’re going to stay here, I think I may have to insist on some basic art history.”
The thought of staying here long enough for him to do such a thing makes my heart jump. Although I’m not sure I want to look at more photographs like the one in front of where I’ll be sleeping. Any preconceptions I had of art being old-fashioned or comprised of pretty landscape paintings have quickly been tossed out the window.
Fitz places my bag next to the couch and claps his hands.
“Right, that should be everything. The bathroom’s behind the door on the far left. Feel free to take as many towels as you need and use whatever’s in the cabinets. There’s plenty of hot water if you want to take a shower, and help yourself to anything you want in the fridge. I mean it. Don’t pull that guilt crap. I’ve no time for it, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply. “Thank you so much, Fitz.”
He smiles at me, looking so grateful, which confuses me. Surely I should be the grateful one here?
“Please don’t leave in the morning, Marina,” he says, almost inaudibly. I bite my lip, knowing full well that I’m blushing again.
“Okay.”
He turns to go into another room.
“Wait!” I blurt out. He stops in his tracks and turns back to me.
“Yes?”
“What’s your surname?”
He laughs.
“I guess it would be pretty handy for us to share that key piece of information before I let you sleep in my home. What’s your name?”
“It’s Phillips,” I tell him. “Marina Phillips.”
&
nbsp; He briefly bows to me.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Phillips.”
“And yourself?”
“Just Fitz. Like Ulay.”
My blank stare is a sufficient response.
“Or Cher. You know who Cher is, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, rolling my eyes. Even I’m not that sheltered.
“Just checking. Is that everything?”
“Well... Actually, I would really appreciate it if you... It’s just a really weird thing to have staring at me all night, you know? I hate to be so annoying...”
“Want me to cover up the photograph?”
“Yes please.”
“No problem. You’re not the first person to ask for that.”
He pulls a white sheet from a side-table and places it over the mannequin picture. Immediately I feel at ease and thank him again. We swap goodnight pleasantries and he goes to his room, leaving me to set up the couch myself. I don’t mind at all. Soon I’m curled up under a variety of colorful and elaborately designed blankets, staring at the plaster laurel wreaths and cherubs on the ceiling. The champagne has made me sleepy and I welcome the comforting darkness enveloping me. My final thought before I descend into complete unconsciousness is one of hope that I’ll be spared from my usual nightmares.
CHAPTER 4.
My dreams, as expected, had a lot to do with naked men running around or falling asleep in front of me. The dreams bordered on nightmares as the hours passed, with flashes of memories from darker days I’d rather forget. The shadowy spectrum of that which I have fought so hard to run away from hangs over me, no matter how desperately I try to push it from my mind.
As sunlight creases through the thin curtains, I feel myself rouse. The stiff throbbing of a hangover lingers in the rafters of my mind. I grumble deeply, rolling over onto my side.
