‘No, I just know where they are because I put them there.’ She giggles.
‘Not funny,’ he says, blowing on his hair to make sure the glue is dry.
On a ceramic plate, Boy places the newly glued hair into the metal socket on the brush. He smears more glue inside, using the needle nose pliers to clamp it shut. With the scissors, he trims the toe of the brush head, making sure the tip is even.
Human hair brush.
₪₪₪
Thursday art opening; Boy rubs his temples. NO END.
He’s sitting across the street from the gallery at a local coffee shop, looking down into a warm cup of Joe with milk wrinkles on top. Tired and fidgety from sleep deprivation, Boy stirs the wrinkles out of his coffee and licks the spoon. When Jan, the gallery manager (thin woman, piercing gray eyes, one dimple), told him Flowering was amazing, all he could do was feebly mumble thanks. He needs energy, needs to call his sister too.
His phone buzzes.
‘I’ve got good news for you,’ Friend says instead of hello.
‘What’s that? How have you been by the way?’
‘We’ll get to that in a second. First, the good news: I showed some of your art – the two pieces I have, plus some stuff you have up on Deviant Art – to this blogger I know.’
‘Since when did you know a blogger?’ Boy asks.
‘I met him at a yoga retreat. This guy, Arthur, has a really popular blog and twitter feed called Austinmade. Heard of it?’
‘No.’ Boy scribbles the name down onto a coffee-stained napkin.
‘Anyway, he published a piece about you two days ago,’ Friend says.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because Citronella and I were on a five day vow of silence, and we agreed that e-mail and texting counted as talking.’
‘Wow.’ Boy rolls his eyes. A fly lands on the table and hops over to his spoon.
‘Long story short, one of the guys who follows his blog is this New York-based Japanese-American art collector guy. I can’t remember his name. Anyway, he’s interested in meeting you tonight.’
‘Seriously? That’s awesome.’
‘Actually, it’s more than awesome,’ Friend says. ‘This guy is pretty influential apparently. He kind of preens artists…’
‘Preens artists?’
‘You ever heard of David-Mayo or Isabelle Torres? Arthur said you’d likely know them.’
‘Of course I have,’ Boy says.
David-Mayo was famous in the art world for his installation pieces and sculptures. His most memorable piece, America Forsaken Land, was a twenty-foot tall Statue of Liberty holding a gas pump in her hand and standing on a small mound of military helmets and bones. It caused controversy across the South and was declared a ‘Stain on our Nation’ by Fox News. Isabelle Torres was a painter renowned for her mixed media pieces in which she’d craft famous celebrities in ordinary settings. She’d recently made a series of movie posters for a new Warner Brothers’ movie.
‘Anyway, he’s coming tonight and he wants to meet you,’ Friend says. ‘Are you working on something now?’
‘I’m brainstorming on something big.’
‘That’s good. You should definitely tell this guy about it.’
‘So your life?’ Boy asks, excited about the new prospect but wanting to steer the conversation away from himself.
‘Everything’s good. I started my classes at the Oriental Medicine School. It’s going well. Ummmm… gearing up for ACL Fest. Texas is hot as shit. Williamson County still sits like an evil gargoyle on the outskirts of the city waiting to devour anyone who dares cross the county lines. San Marcos is still way too far away for anyone to give a shit. People are moving here in droves and fucking up the place – Austin is basically the same. What about New York?’
‘It’s New York. I like it.’
‘You got the accent yet?’
‘Working on it.’
‘And Maeve?’
‘Broke up on Monday.’
‘What? Why? What happened?’
‘She moved back in with her husband or ex-husband or whatever. I guess they had some sort of re-connection after a weekend in British Columbia or something.’
‘Damn, so what now?’ Friend asks.
‘I get to live rent-free in her old apartment for the next few months.’
‘Rent-free? Best break-up ever. Look, I’ve got to bounce. This Japanese guy tonight – bring your game face.’
Boy laughs as he tries to recall the last time he played any sort of organized sport. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Also, come to Austin sometime and kick it.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Mexico?’
‘No way.’
₪₪₪
People trickle into the art opening, head straight to the bar, and once their drinks are in their hands, they begin walking around perusing the pieces. The joint showing, New in New York: A Collection, gets crowded about an hour later, after DJ Neon Black begins his minimalist set.
Boy chats with the gallery manager, Jan, and a few other people, but mostly keeps away from his piece. He doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want to fish for compliments or get stuck in an uncomfortable conversation.
Eventually, Jan leads him over to Flowering.
An added bonus of the piece that he didn’t anticipate is its location in the gallery. Placed directly in front of the central cooling unit, the edges of the hand-cut flowers sway slightly, giving the entire installation a flowing organic look. An enormous circular wall of flowers more dead than alive, breathing nonetheless.
Boy sees Chris come in with Maeve on his arm. He’s in a perfectly cut suit, a single button across his chest. Maeve’s wearing white cocktail dress, and together, the two look marginally out of place in a room full of aspiring artists and their hipster friends.
‘It’s amazing!’ she runs up to him and gives him a tight hug. He smells wine on her breath.
‘It is?’ he asks. Boy wants to say, you weren’t so enthusiastic about it while I was in the process of making it, but he bites his tongue.
‘Which one is yours?’ Chris asks, not looking up from his phone.
‘Who are you talking to?’ Maeve asks.
‘Work, Mae-vee, you know that.’ He slips his phone into his front jacket pocket. ‘Okay, let’s have a look. Now that’s a lot of flowers. That must have taken a while.’
‘That it did,’ Boy says, wanting the conversation to end.
As much as he was appreciative of living rent-free in the apartment for the next few months, he was equally excited to be free from any obligation involving Chris and Maeve. He had an itching feeling that a prolonged relationship would prove toxic. Still, it was the best break-up ever.
‘Say something more profound than that!’ Maeve punches Chris in the shoulder.
‘Like what? Nice flowers? Um, not to belittle your ex’s art or anything, but I’ve got a lot more important things going on than staring at a bunch of flowers hanging on a gallery wall. These messages I keep receiving,’ he waves his phone at her, ‘revolve around a deal that could potentially make me a five-figure bonus for this quarter. Five-figure.’
‘Not everything is about money.’ Maeve looks over to Boy for help. He indicates with a shrug that this is her argument.
‘Says the woman who doesn’t pay for a thing when she’s around me.’ Chris’s phone rings. ‘Hello, really? Okay, tell me what’s happening.’ He glides towards the door.
‘Where’s the bar?’ Maeve asks. Boy points and she disappears into the budding crowd.
He feels a tap on his shoulder.
‘Ogawa Hanzoburo,’ the man says. ‘Call me Oggie.’ He’s in a tight pair of designer jeans, a black vest over a white button-up and a skinny black tie. It’s the man Friend told him about.
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes,’ Boy says. He tries to swallow his nervousness as they shake hands.
‘Good, let’s talk.’
Oggie leads Boy over to the window. A few of the other artists watch them walk by. He can see Chris talking on the phone outside the large window. The look on his face is a mixture of anger and fear.
‘I like your work,’ Oggie says.
‘Thanks.’
‘Not this piece,’ he says, waving towards the paper flowers. ‘It’s slightly elementary in its design – paper flowers arranged in a circle? – but I do like the usage of found materials though, and I like that you are very capable with other forms. I suppose that is my criticism of this piece: it doesn’t quite show how versatile you are. Your work with oils is…’ Oggie pauses looking for the right word. ‘Unique.’
‘Thanks for saying that,’ Boy says, not sure how to take a critique that’s followed by a compliment.
‘I recently purchased your piece, Coffee and TV, from an Austin couple.’
‘You did?’ Boy tries to hide the shocked look on his face with a gulp.
‘It should arrive here on Saturday.’
Outside Chris’s face has stretched into a red band. He’s yelling into the phone now, doing a poor job of trying to keep his cool.
‘I paid six times what you sold it for,’ Oggie says, answering the next question boiling in the back of Boy’s mind. ‘So let’s cut to the chase – artists struggle for a lifetime trying to get buzz and sell their pieces. Am I right?’
Boy nods, tries to contain the grin forming on his face.
‘With the proper push and a little manufactured buzz, an artist can go a long way in the art world. The twenty-first century artist exudes style diversity. They can’t be pinned down. This is what I see happening to you, given the proper push of course. This is what I would like to help you create in your reality.’ Oggie wince-smiles. ‘I hate those words together – reality creation – but that is, in a way, the root of promotion.’
‘Okay.’
‘I can see you’re skeptical, and trust me, I’ve seen this look before. David-Mayo had the same look on his face about eight years ago. I told him the same thing I am about to tell you: I want to help your career, shape it if you will. Artists have always had patrons.’
‘And what do you get out of this?’ Boy asks. Maeve is now arguing with Chris, who still has his phone pressed to his ear. He turns away from them. This is what is important, not that.
‘Good question. So, if you didn’t know, I’m already rich. My family – most of them live in Osaka – made their money during the reconstruction period after World War 2. So, I’m not so much in this for the money. I’m in this for future value and financial preservation, so I guess I am in it for the money, but future money.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Boy asks, curiously.
‘I’m suggesting that I become your sponsor, and that I have my people arrange shows and create a little buzz for you. In exchange, I get first dibs on your pieces. Two pieces a year for the next three years, and one after that for five more years, starting next year. I’ll provide you a small stipend, as well as a studio with an attached apartment in Williamsburg.
‘You’ll have complete creative control. If you make something that’s not popular, it’s on you. I’ll provide the groundwork necessary to get it in public eyes. I have contacts at Juxtapoz, Hi-Fructose, ARTnews, Metronome, Modern Painters, and others. There’s no shame in having connections – it’s how this world actually works, if you didn’t know that know already. I, of course, can terminate the contract if I see fit.
‘This is something I really think you can do. I don’t say this lightly, and I haven’t offered this contract to anyone who hasn’t later become successful. After you begin selling pieces, which you will, you’re on your own financially. People from my team will, of course, manage you and your shows once the time is right. What do you think?’
‘It sounds too good to be true.’
Boy suddenly finds it difficult to make eye contact with Oggie. He wants this to be real. He wants this to be real. It is real.
‘In a nutshell: my patronage is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Think about it, and call me in the morning.’
Oggie hands Boy his card and shakes his hand. He turns, and walks out of the gallery, past Chris and Maeve.
₪₪₪
Maeve’s apartment that very same night.
It’s late and Boy’s packing his things, preparing to move to Oggie’s studio the following Monday. He’s already made the decision to move in the hour since he left the gallery. Getting paid to create – any artist would be a fool not to take the offer.
Earlier, a sense of euphoria carried him onto the subway, out into the windy New York night, above its blazing taxis and swelling crowds of pedestrians. He wants to call and tell someone, but he doesn’t believe it’s real. He keeps expecting to wake up from a dream.
Boy finds a bottle of beer in Maeve’s refrigerator and gulps it down. He sighs deeply as the beer fills his stomach. He takes off his shirt, relaxes onto the couch. Life is changing, finally.
‘Penelope are you there?’
‘Yes,’ she says from the corner of the room.
‘We’re moving.’
‘Maybe we’re too late,’ she whispers.
‘What do you mean?’
Knock knock knock.
Boy stands and makes his way to the front door. He opens it to find Maeve tilting left and right, holding an empty wine bottle by its neck.
‘Hi…’ Before he can say another word, the empty wine bottle connects with his skull.
₪₪₪
Boy wakes to find Maeve on top of him, kissing his neck and apologizing profusely. His vision is blurred, muddy, his head throbbing. A raw pain surges through him. The right side of his face is burning.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks. Her eyes flash white as the sweetsick smell of alcohol radiates from her lips. They’re lying on the floor; the stinging sensation on Boy’s elbow and back tells him he’s lying in glass, a bed of thorns. Maeve presses her bodyweight into his, extenuating the pain.
‘Penelope?’ he whispers.
‘Who’s that?’ Maeve pushes herself back until she is sitting on top of him with her knees bent into the air.
‘Penelope, please,’ he says, and finding his strength, he manages to buck Maeve off.
Boy peels himself from the floor, stumbling away. To gather his wits, he sits at the edge of his couch, his whole body tender.
‘What are you doing? Be careful! You’re getting blood everywhere!’ Maeve daubs her hands across her dress and bloody streaks follow her fingertips.
‘What’s she doing?’ Boy pleads to the corner where Penelope usually stands. ‘Help me.’
‘Who are you talking to?’ Maeve asks, slinking towards him. The intonation of her voice changes. ‘I’m Penelope.’
Boy looks up at her. Glass Wings. He scrambles over the couch. Glass Wings. Glass Wings. He feels a hiccup of fear in his throat, chokes it out in a yelp. Glass Wings. Glass Wings.
The fucked monstrosity is hunched over on the floor feeding on the shattered glass where Maeve was just standing. His wings heave up and down. Growing in size. Growing in size. The sick sound of glass tearing his flesh berates Boy’s eardrums.
Boy shoves the table aside. A lamp goes clattering over. More glass. More glass. Fear paralyzes his body as the air in the room thins. If the world can tip over – it does. If the world can condense – it does. If the world can stretch itself into a strip – it does. It does. It does. It does.
Glass Wings is standing and Boy is gasping. His skin is crawling, his hands are cold, his stomach twisting. The fallen angel flexes his taffy neck, cracks his knuckles.
‘Maeve!’ He calls her name again and again as Glass Wings arches his spine, veering back to erect himself using the ends of his wings as crutches. Vile fucked monster. His tongue falls out of his mouth. Black blood drips from his tongue onto his chest. Black olive eyes. Black heart. Black fear.
Nowhere to escape. Slivers of glass fa
ll from his wings to the floor. Disco Ball World. The big screens in Times Square collapsing onto the street. Waves of glass settling. Pick legs and razor scars. The taste of terror is metallic.
Can’t fight. No baseball bat. Nothing. Broom nothing. Knife something. Kitchen. Boy must get to the kitchen!
The monster takes another step closer to him. Bigger step and a ripple effect. The carpet waves up and down and Boy can’t get away fast enough. The Red Sea parts as Glass Wings advances. His eyes are white and wet.
Glass Wings’s feet are like hooks now. They carve forward, plant themselves, roll the monster forward. Boy falls into the kitchen and catches himself on the countertop. He looks back and the apartment flashes clean. No Maeve, No Glass Wings.
‘Penelope?’
No answer.
There’s still shattered glass everywhere, but aside from that, he’s completely alone. Boy sits down on the floor and hugs his knees to his chest. He’s going crazy and it’s absolutely terrifying.
₪₪₪
Boy wakes to find Maeve’s apartment a mess. His mouth tastes like dry blood and rotten avocados. Morning has arrived. Boy is trying to fall back asleep when he hears something: the ripple of glass.
The monster lies on the floor across the room. Exhalations send a shimmer through his gigantic wings. Boy starts convulsing, drops his hands onto the ground to steady himself.
‘He’s been sleeping,’ Penelope says.
‘W-w-why is this happening to me? It can’t be real. I know it isn’t real, dammit! I know! I’m hallucinating!’
The words lose their meaning the moment Glass Wings stirs.
‘It can’t be real,’ he says. ‘Penelope, tell me this isn’t real, that I’m hallucinating! Tell me dammit!’
‘You’re hallucinating.’
‘And you? Am I hallucinating you too?’
‘You’re hallucinating me too.’
‘SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!’
Glass Wings snorts. The pubic hairs covering the lower half of his body writhe as his muscles shake alive. His wings shift and dagger themselves into the floor. His heart of darkness bubbles with fresh blood. Fire escape. Boy looks at the window. The fourth floor is too far to jump from. An Olympic vault to the building nearby is also impossible.
Boy versus Self: (A Psychological Thriller) Page 19
