The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  Pulling out my phone, I sent two texts. The first was to my brother, Dylan.

  Is he still in a rut?

  The second text was to my best friend, Holly Newton, my partner in crime since fourth grade.

  You up for some shenanigans tonight?

  She answered first.

  Holly: God yeah. I need a drink and a hot date. What’d you have in mind?

  Me: Manual labor.

  I had no idea how to remove chalk from concrete, especially not something that big.

  Holly: You know how to woo a girl. Need a grave dug or something?

  The train screeched to a halt and I got off, zipping through my phone screen to Holly’s number the moment I cleared into daylight. It would be simpler to call.

  “Hey, you. What’s up?” she asked, her curiosity plain.

  I explained what was going on.

  “Ooh, intriguing,” she crooned. “Can we find this artiste so I can meet him? Maybe you should let him sweep you off your feet. If not for a lifetime, for a night, anyway.”

  “Holly,” I warned. “I need your help to remove my face from the side of a building without anyone being the wiser. I don’t want to insult the guy. I just don’t want to stare at all of Manhattan, nor do I want Dear Old Dad getting fuel for finding me.”

  Go away, kid. You look too much like her.

  My father’s voice echoed in my head, but I clamped down on it.

  “This will be like that time in high school when we stole all the flashlights in my parents’ house and dressed all in black, slinking around the block and pretending to spy on everyone.”

  I chuckled. “We didn’t pretend,” I reminded her. “We did spy, and we got caught peeping in Joey Russo’s window when he was dressed in his sister’s cheerleading outfit.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, I still think our threat to tell the kids at school was worse than his threat to call the cops and get us charged with prowling.”

  “You’re just jealous that he looked better in the skirt than you did.”

  “Ouch, asshole. Guess you don’t want my help.”

  “Okay, okay,” I conceded. “I can’t leave the drawing up, so I apologize. Besides, you know I’d find his ass more appealing than yours anyway. I was born that way. Please help me figure out a way to get rid of this drawing.” I could practically see the wicked expression on her face as she considered the dilemma.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “My eternal devotion?”

  “I already have that for being your beard all through high school.”

  She had a point. “Um, I can hook you up with a future doctor?”

  “So I can spend my prime neglected and growing cobwebs on my girl bits while he learns his specialty and builds his practice, only to be left for a younger model when he’s rolling in the dough? No way. Plus I’ve met your school friends. No thank you. Get creative.”

  “Uh, not my area, Holly.” I needed something quick. My building was up ahead and I needed to go. “I’ll do your laundry for a month.”

  “Two,” she countered. “With pickup and drop-off, and you’re on.”

  “Deal. Can you Google how to get rid of something like this? I’m almost to class and I have to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, turn off your phone. I’m on it.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Not next to you,” she replied with the same line she’d said the day we’d first spoken in fourth grade and every time I thanked her for having my back after that—which was often. I certainly owed her more than two months’ worth of laundry. “Talk to you after class, Casanova,” she cackled, then hung up before I could shut her up.

  My brother had answered my text while I’d been on the phone with Holly.

  Right where we left him.

  Relief wrapped me in soothing arms.

  I let myself into the building where my class was located, turning off my phone and refocusing my brain. Talking to Holly had stamped down the anxiety about the giant copy of my face for all to see. She always did keep me from flying apart when things got too close.

  Holly showed up at my apartment that night dressed in all black, a giant bag over her shoulder and a push broom towering over her diminutive frame. Her short hair was, as always, impeccably styled, her bangs side swept and tapering into points just below her earlobes, the ends pink on top of the black, like they’d been dipped in Pepto Bismol. She normally wore only eyeliner—which she kept trying to get me to wear too, with my eyes, but so far I’d been able to resist—and lip gloss, tinged just enough to shine her lips with color. But tonight she had camouflage paint all over her face, making her blue eyes pop even more. I blinked at her costume.

  “What the hell?” I laughed, surprised.

  “Ooh, you guys gonna go burgle someone?” my roommate, Braden, asked with comical exaggeration. “Can I go?”

  Holly gave him a critical once-over. Braden was tall and skinny, and he wore his geekiness well, like Clark Kent. He was also completely full of himself, though somehow he managed not to annoy me. Neither did Neil, our other roommate, who was probably the smartest guy in our year and so serious we had to drag him out of the apartment every couple months. The university had set us up together with a list of places for rent close to the school. The beauty of all of us being broke was we had the motivation to throw out that list and find something cheaper than the counselors suggested. It sort of bonded us, the three orphans against the world.

  Only, they didn’t exactly know I wasn’t an orphan.

  “You’ll do, Richard,” Holly said, making me laugh. Holly called people Richard when she thought they were dicks, but was also amused by them. Braden had corrected her calling him the wrong name once, but sort of shrugged it off now, not getting it and not bothering to try. Braden was smart, confident, and a bit of a know-it-all, but he was also not difficult to figure out. It made living with him easy. “You have to wear black, and we’re not actually breaking laws, but don’t spoil my cloak-and-dagger fun, okay?”

  Braden saluted. “Got it. What about Neil?”

  Holly sighed and I grinned, entertained. Leave it to her to find an obnoxious but harmless way to put me at ease.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “Again, black uniform.”

  As Braden went to drag Neil away from the books, Holly dug in her bag, coming out with a hoodie for me. “Please tell me you have black—or at least dark—pants.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I have anyth—oh! Dark blue scrubs. Be right back.” Taking the hoodie off her hands, I disappeared into my room and emerged minutes later in the proper attire, including a black beanie. The beanie wasn’t necessary, given my dark hair, but it lent to the caper mood.

  “Perfect.” Holly grinned.

  “This is stupid,” Neil grumbled, even as he pulled on his own black sweatshirt. I thought he’d balk completely when Holly held up the camo paint, but he only sighed before taking it.

  “Of course it’s stupid. It’s also fun, ya stick in the mud,” she admonished. Braden laughed, totally getting into it as he scooped a finger of camo paint from the tin and swiped it on his cheek.

  A wave of affection for them all, including Neil, swelled in my chest, but I bit my lip on any words. My roommates didn’t know I was gay, and I didn’t want a big show of emotion to give me away. But I was flattered they were game for Holly’s adventure, even reluctant Neil, just because they liked me—and her by extension. I hadn’t had a lot of friends in my life, so when I found a couple, I was glad to have them.

  “Ready!” Braden shouted with too much enthusiasm.

  “Okay!” Holly cried. “Let’s go! Quieter than this though!”

  We laughed and trooped out the door and to the nearest subway stop, which would take us close to our destination. It felt odd taking my school route at night, especially when I was usually commuting home by then, but it was fun, the four of us joking with each other and Holly busting our balls. We got a few curious looks, but were mostly ig
nored by the other train occupants. At our stop, we piled off the train and emerged onto the street. I looked around, wondering if my artistic fan club of one was nearby.

  When we approached the concrete wall with my visage mugging for the world, the three of them released a collective exhale, eyes glued to the chalk drawing with clear appreciation for the talent displayed. After a few minutes’ silence, Neil spoke up.

  “It’s kind of a shame ruining this. Why can’t you leave it up, Dane?”

  I shivered, and not because of the chilly fall breeze. “It’s a bit… overkill, don’t you think? I mean, I’m not vain enough to think it should stay. It’s flattering, but it….”

  Holly saved me. “Wouldn’t it make you guys uncomfortable knowing a complete stranger drew your face from memory? It’s not like Dane only walks this block once a month. It’s every day. I don’t blame him for being a little nervous about that.”

  “I think you should leave it up,” Neil said with a touch of regret.

  “Here,” Holly said, passing off the broom to Braden and rummaging in her giant shoulder bag. She brought out her cell phone and aimed at the wall, snapping several shots. “I think I got at least one that’s good enough to keep.” She sniffed, looking around as she took in the surroundings. A handful of people were out, but it was nearly eleven on a weeknight. Most people were settled in for the night, returning home from long, leisurely dinners, or getting ready to bed down for their early sprint through tomorrow’s rat race.

  “It’s too bad you can’t talk to the artist,” Braden said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Do you know anything about her? Maybe she would do one smaller.” Clearly he’d drawn his own conclusions.

  I shook my head, studying the detail of the drawing before we would obliterate it, remembering the woman paying ten bucks to get her face done. It was too late now, and I couldn’t justify it anyway. It was true; the artist was good, and Neil was right. It was a shame to ruin it. But I couldn’t begin to explain how this picture panicked me, how it rubbed with friction against my biggest fear: being found, exposed for what I really was, and put in very real danger. First, my roommates just didn’t know how much baggage I had, and second, I couldn’t have articulated it if I’d tried. As breathtaking as the drawing—and the gesture, if I was being honest—was, it was threatening.

  “I’ll email you guys the camera shot if you want,” Holly offered.

  “That’s kind of gay,” Neil grumbled. “Why would I want a picture of your ugly mug, Dane?”

  Shame zipped through my body like a pinball lighting up all the bells and whistles, and even in the cold, my face grew hot.

  Holly glared at him. “Because art doesn’t need a purpose to make you happy. Because gay also means happy. Because maybe fifteen years from now, you’ll appreciate having a picture of your friends from this time of your life.”

  Neil raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa, who pissed in your cornflakes?”

  “Let’s get something clear,” she said fiercely. “Gay is not a bad thing. It’s not an insult. And it’s not weak. Gay is just… not straight.” She started to turn back to the wall but then rounded on Neil again. “And while we’re at it, girly things aren’t weak either, in case you’re a misogynist as well as a homophobe. Now, if you’re not in, turn your happy ass around and go back home.”

  That was Holly. Ever my knight in shining armor.

  “Hey, okay,” Neil placated her. “Jeez. I’m sorry.”

  She continued to grumble as she dug in her bag and pulled out supplies: a ten-pack of shop towels, a giant bottle of Soft Scrub tile cleaner, two industrial packages of abrasive scrubbers, a collapsible bucket, a handheld wire brush, and a box of rubber gloves. She smacked each item to the pavement at her feet with more force than necessary.

  “Stop,” I told her, trying to erase the tension. “This is supposed to be fun. We all look ridiculous, and I really appreciate you guys helping me. Holls, give me your phone.”

  She glared and Neil sniffed, looking down the block like he was considering leaving after all. Eventually, she slapped the phone into my hand, and I grabbed her wrist and pulled her in front of me, her back to my chest. With the disparity in heights, she only came up to my clavicle.

  “Neil, Braden, get over here. Holly is right, this is fun and we’ll want to remember this someday, so let’s take a picture. That way I can keep the one of the chalk drawing, but you guys get one of all of us, and it’s just a group of friends and not so gay.” Holly chuffed with annoyance.

  Braden, who hated when people around him argued, complied quickly with a jaunty thrust of the broom, but Neil came slower and stood too far away. I tried to hold the phone out far enough to capture us all, but Neil was cut in half. I leveled him with a deadpan look.

  “Get your ass in the shot.”

  “Fine,” he bitched, his breath steaming in front of his face.

  “To the night we all got arrested,” Braden said, and we couldn’t help it; we laughed. It took us a couple hours to scrub the chalk from the building’s side, and the owner, who lived above the jewelry store the building housed, came out to help, letting us in to use the hot water in the bathroom to fill up the bucket. He said he’d planned to leave the art until it faded, but understood why I didn’t want it up.

  That night, and the picture commemorating it, would become one of my favorites, especially later, when those three would be the only friends I had in the world, and everyone else in my path would have been obliterated from my life.

  Present Day

  The bags under Craig’s eyes as he approached the loft door made me sad. They weren’t there five days ago when I started taping notes to his door. His gait had changed too, becoming less of a liquid roll and more of a trudge designed to scuff a hole in the toes of his shoes. He was shabby, though not so much people would notice unless they knew him. Unshaven, tired, and drained of humor, it seemed.

  All because I’d made contact again.

  It tugged at my heartstrings. I’d said in the notes I wouldn’t give up, but I knew there would reach a point where, if he kept declining, I’d fade into the shadows and let him be. The tipping point would be when my wanting him to be happy outshined my wanting him to be with me. How much longer would it take? A week? Months? God forbid, a year?

  I knew there was hope. All he had to do was tell me to leave him alone. Say it out loud, leave me his own chicken scratch on the door, or text me since he had my number—Stop, Dane. Just leave me alone. But there was nothing. Five days of notes, and he hadn’t responded at all.

  So, instead of becoming insecure that he’d ignore me indefinitely, as I might have once upon a time, I was patient. Maybe it wasn’t about me at all. Maybe he needed a moment to think. Maybe he had his own reasons to take his time. If being away for so long had taught me anything, it was that everyone sees the world through their own filters. If my filters required that I surround myself with people sensitive to them, then I needed to be sensitive to their filters, too.

  When Craig got close enough to see today’s note, his shoulders slumped. But today, instead of ripping it down and wadding it, he closed his eyes and leaned forward, landing his forehead to the door’s surface like a slow-motion free fall. It killed me how much I seemed to be hurting him. If he would just let me explain some things, I thought I could at least ease his pain. Get us past it.

  No. If he needs time, you give him time. This is bigger than just you.

  Another hard-learned lesson.

  “You may as well come out, Dane,” Craig rasped. He sounded as if he hadn’t used his voice in days. “I know you’re there, same as every other day.”

  Huh. I thought I’d been pretty stealthy, if I did say so myself. Like a cat burglar. I stepped out, adopting a sheepish face and approaching him slowly, like one would a cowering animal.

  “How are you?” I asked. “You look good.”

  He snorted. “Right. You’re so full of shit.” There wasn’t much derision in h
is tone, but there was a heap of familiarity. My shoulders bled a metric ton of tension. He wasn’t going to yell at me. At least not yet. “C’mon in. Ignore the mess.”

  I followed him into what had once been our shared loft and took it in. Two years of memories did no justice to the feeling of coming home. The familiar smells of paint, turpentine, and the plug-in air fresheners he used to disguise the chemicals washed over me like an ocean breeze. The gunmetal gray afternoon muted the light streaming through the wall of windows that was the loft’s biggest asset. Walking past the foyer into that great space, it was very easy to imagine oneself entering a theater, with its soaring twenty-foot ceiling, the step down into the living room, the loft edging into the room reminiscent of a balcony with seats, and those enormous windows like a silver screen, the city beyond them where the magic happened. The kitchen was tucked unobtrusively to the left of the foyer and split from the living room by an island with a couple bar stools. A guest room and bathroom sat in a shallow hallway to the right, beside which began the steps to the loft and master bedroom and bath.

  Craig had left the walls white so nothing would dampen the natural light the windows afforded, but they were adorned with enormous paintings to showcase his work. They weren’t the same pieces he’d hung when I lived with him, but they were still uplifting, beautiful, and—as did most of his art—took my breath away.

  The furniture was new too, with a long sofa spanning the length of the living room and two chairs at the narrow wall opposite the guest room hallway. A stout, round coffee table squatted in the middle to connect them. There was a large flat-screen TV on the wall, but half of it was hidden behind a canvas the size of a door, only partially completed. I remembered clearly the living room TV only got turned on during Craig’s grumpier moments, when the painting wasn’t working right or when we had guests over to watch a game. Beside the chairs was the inconspicuous glass door in the wall of windows that led to the balcony, which Craig had ringed with plants in my absence. They operated as a buffer to keep the street sounds from permeating the glass. It was a nice touch.