Mixed Media

by Aniko Carmean

  “You can sell the car now,” I told the police.

  “That isn’t how the system works.”

  “I won’t be coming for it.”

  “That’s at your discretion, but you cannot get it back if it goes to auction.”

  “Good.”

  I ended the call, overflowing with plans. First, a stop by Artist’s Haven to pick up some materials, then a visit to the AA picnic, and finally a trip across town to where the internet said Sarah Noe was sharing studio space with some of the better-known local painters. There was nothing I could offer her other than my visions, and I spent the entire cab ride to the Artist’s Haven trying to come up with something to say to her that wouldn’t make me sound like a stalker.

  In the store, I gathered a few tubes of paint and a new brush. I went to the register and counted my cash. Two dollars and twenty-two cents.

  “We’re hiring, if you want a job that’ll leave plenty of time for painting,” the cashier said as she accepted my joint credit card. “Employees get a discount on supplies, too.”

  “How soon could I start?”

  “Let’s ask the manager.”

  The manager and I spoke – a brief interview at the front of the store. He was pleased when I asked for evenings and early mornings, and thrilled when I told him I could start Monday. He shook my hand and the cashier waved me back over to her.

  “Hey, co-worker, I have to give you your discount!”

  She rang down the total while I grinned. Not even the sour cabbie dulled my happiness. He glared at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Don’t spill paint on my seat,” he said.

  “I won’t open them in here.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I will kick your ass to the curb if I smell paint. And you still pay for the full ride, understand?”

  “Yes, sure. Can you take me to Lakeside Pavilion?”

  He put the taxi in gear, and I settled back into the seat until we got to the lake.

  Darla stood alone, gazing at the water. Her hair blew in the wind, glinting in the sunlight.

  “Darla,” I said.

  “Mario.” She didn’t look at me, just kept staring at the lake. “Are you ready to get help?”

  “I don’t need it.”

  Darla shook her head. “I can’t be with you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’d rather throw us away than get help?”

  “Things are different, Darla. I understand what’s happening now, and how I fit into it. I even got a job.”

  “A job.” Her words fell, as flat and heavy as badly thrown stones that never stood a chance of skipping across the water. “Where?”

  “Nowhere special.” I took the sketch I’d made of the warrior woman I saw in the Benoît and gave it to Darla. “She reminds me of you.”

  She traced my signature with her finger.

  A man approached us. “Is this Mario?”

  “Yes,” I replied for Darla.

  “I’m Levitan Doyle, psychiatrist. I specialize in sleep disorders. It’s nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, but I couldn’t bring myself to take it.

  “Doctor Doyle,” I said.

  “Call me Levitan.”

  “Levitan. Thank you for befriending Darla.”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  “I am, you know,” Darla said, looking up from the drawing.

  “That’s why I’m here. I wanted to tell you I’m okay. There’s the job, and I found someone who understands what’s happening to me.”

  “Have you been dreaming?” Levitan asked.

  “No,” I said. “But I’ve got something better.”

  A lock of hair blew across Darla’s face. I tucked it behind her ear, the last of our intimate habits. Tears moistened her cheek.

  “Psychosis is a dangerous side-effect of lack of sleep,” Levitan said.

  “I’m sorry I made you want to use.” I stepped away from Darla, saw her framed with the slate-blue water of my last dream. “Goodbye.”

  She crumpled against Levitan, and I went back to the taxi.

  The cabbie set aside his racing paper. Yawned. “Where to now?”

  “Last stop,” I said, and passed him the address of Sarah’s studio.

  ###

  “You!” Sarah wore baggy overalls, and a bandanna covered her hair. Her studio was small, but flooded with natural light.

  “I hope this is okay,” I said.

  “Okay? This is beyond okay. I couldn’t believe you left with no way for me to find you.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Security said you freaked in the souvenir shop, scared a volunteer.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “A psychiatrist just warned me that I might have psychosis.”

  Sarah hopped up and sat on the counter near her easel. “Go on,” she said. “Tell me what you see in my painting.”

  “You have to look, too.”

  “Try.”

  I looked, and gasped. “I can see it.”

  “I made it for you, so I think that makes sense.”

  “It’s me in some sort of temple,” I said.

  “Not just any sort. That’s Delphi.”

  “Why am I soaking wet?”

  “That’s how you were when I met you.”

  “I was not soaking.”

  “Artistic license.” She smiled, deepening her dimples. “Why are you here?”

  “Because I want to ask you on a date.”

  Sarah swung her feet, kicking them against the cabinets. “I’m waiting.”

  “Sarah Noe, graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design and sometime visiting artist of Vos Modern, would you like to go on a date with me?”

  “When?”

  “Two weeks from Monday.”

  “Why a fortnight from now?”

  “Because that’s when I get paid. I want to take you to a proper dinner. Right now, I could barely afford the dollar menu at McDonalds.”

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “She probably doesn’t want to pay for our date.”

  Sarah narrowed her eyes, playing at being mad.

  “Actually,” I continued, “Darla and I are over.”

  “Just like that?”

  I crossed the room to stand near Sarah. She smelled like honey and citrus. Then, her mouth was warm against mine, lips parting with the sweetness of a fig.

  “Are you sure you want to wait?” she whispered.

  “Even more than ever,” I said. “I want this to be perfect.”

  “Picture perfect,” she replied, and kissed me again.

  ###

  That night, I used the joint credit card to order Thai takeout. I cut the card into pieces, and left them for Darla to see. The combination of a full belly and my Sarah-induced contentment was enough for me to fall asleep. The dark tunnel of oblivion opened on a dreamscape. In it, a great swath of red carried me into the bearded mouth of a gigantic orchid flower. A moment of fear, and then I realized I was in the Vos souvenir shop. It was empty except for a round table. Darla and Sarah sat there, both dressed like fortune tellers. Darla offered me coffee. It was bitter, and Sarah offered me sugar. The sugar cubes were tiny, Delphic temples.

  ###

  Early on Sunday morning, after months of darkness, I recorded my first dream in my journal. Then I showered, shaved, and put on my best suit. There was no money for a cab, so I walked the three miles to the boutique with the Benoît.

  “Hello,” I said, approaching the man behind the counter. “Could I speak to the owner or the manager?”

  “I’m both,” he replied. “Leonard Eastman. Welcome to Boutique le Senia.”

  “I would like permission to paint here today, Mr. Eastman.”

  “To paint here?”

  “Please, take a look at my portfolio.” As Eastman flipped through it, I continued my pitch. “The Vos Gallery launched a resident artist program to get visitors involved in the
living, breathing process of creation. I would like to be your resident artist.”

  “Your work is impressive, but I’m not interested.”

  “I’ll do it for free. Just give me a spot to stand and some water to rinse my brushes. I’ll bring in people.”

  Eastman crossed his arms. “Most people aren’t buyers.”

  “True, but they have to come inside before there’s any chance they’ll become buyers. Think of the press you could get, too. Wouldn’t you like Boutique le Senia to outdo Vos?”

  He picked up my glossy print portfolio.

  “That painting on the cover won the Loughin-Dail Prize and sold for seven thousand. Maybe I’ll never paint another like it, but a working artist will bring in traffic. If that doesn’t happen, we part ways.”

  “I could send you packing now.”

  “But you haven’t.”

  Eastman tapped the cover of my portfolio. “This piece looks familiar.”

  “It should. I sold it at the shop next door.”

  “Why don’t you ask them to let you paint?”

  “Because I want to paint here.”

  Eastman shifted his attention from the portfolio to me, and a long moment passed. “One afternoon,” he said. “And you leave when I say, no argument.”

  “Deal.”

  I set my easel near Red, Encroaching on Understanding. Eastman brought a mason jar of water to me, and propped open the front door. Chilly air carried in the Sunday smells of uptown coffee and cinnamon rolls.

  ###

  The first visitor was a man in an expensive camelhair coat. He nodded acknowledgement of my presence, and then perused the Benoît. His gaze inspired me to paint blood red, unsmiling lips and two cobalt eyes so dark they looked black. The disembodied features drifted against a backdrop of undulating texture that was neither water nor sky. Virulent streaks swirled at the lower left, a storm of distortion moiling the pattern.

  “Look, Mommy, the man is painting!” A little boy led his mother by the hand into the shop. He stood behind me, his neck craned to see the picture.

  “Is this the painter’s version of a poetry slam?” the woman asked.

  “He’s providing a mind expanding experience,” the man in the camelhair coat said.

  “Well, I’ve never preferred abstract mumbley-jumbles.”

  The boy tugged at my sleeve. “Why is the lady in the picture sad?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Lady?” the man in the camelhair asked.

  “He’s talking about this one,” the woman said, pointing at my painting.

  The man in the camelhair came over to look. He swallowed hard, dabbed at his mouth with a starched handkerchief. “Why did you paint that?”

  “It’s what I saw when you looked at the Benoît.”

  “Astounding.”

  “What’s astounding about it?” the woman asked.

  “It’s what the Benoît made me think, how I’m worried about my sister.”

  Eastman joined us. “Are you saying he painted what you experienced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hah,” the woman said. “If you can do that, show me what I see.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can’t, because this is a scam.”

  “No. I can’t because you aren’t willing to participate in a conversation with the artwork. Besides, I only have this canvas, and I’ve just started.”

  The woman crossed her arms. “Does this gimmick ever work?”

  Eastman made a placating gesture. He was about to speak when the man in the camelhair interrupted. “It’s not a gimmick, but it worked; I want to buy the painting of my sister.”

  “I’ll sell it to you under one condition,” I said.

  “Name it.”

  “I am creating a collection. If I book a gallery, I would like to have this piece on loan for duration of the engagement. If you can’t agree to that, I cannot sell.”

  “We’ll need a contract, and I’ll want a cap on that obligation.”

  “That’s fair,” I said, and just as quickly addressed Eastman. “And, yes, I agree to pay you the normal gallery commission, whatever you’re charging your other artists.”

  “Do you two know each other?” Eastman asked.

  “Oh, this is rich,” the woman exclaimed. “They’re scamming you, too.”

  The man tucked his handkerchief into a pocket. “I have never met your artist. In fact, I am in town for business, and stopped in because I wanted to see the Benoît collection.”

  “My apologies, Mister…”

  “Taylor, John Taylor.”

  Eastman and Taylor shook hands. “Welcome to Boutique le Senia.”

  “Is Red, Encroaching on Understanding available for immediate purchase?”

  “Yes,” Eastman replied. “Of course it is.”

  “I’ll take it, and I’ll pay in full right now.”

  “Are you serious?” the woman asked, rolling her eyes. “Some people will buy anything.” She took her son by the hand and pulled him through the door.

  “But I want to watch the man paint!” the boy cried.

  “Well you can’t,” the woman snapped.

  The boy waved at us, his hand flapping behind him.

  “Poor kid,” Taylor said.

  I nodded.

  Unfazed, Eastman extended his arm in a grand gesture. “Mr. Taylor, sir, if you follow me to my office, we can finalize the sale.”

  “Start the paperwork without me. I want to talk with your painter. He’s performed a miracle!”

  Eastman smiled, scratching the palm of his right hand. “Yes. He certainly has.”

  “A miracle.” Taylor repeated. “How many are in your collection?”

  “This is the first,” I said.

  “What are you going to call this piece?”

  “I’d like you to name it.”

  “How about Encroaching on Mumbley-Jumble?”

  “I like that.”

  “You’ve got me at a disadvantage. You know both my name and my painting’s name. I would be honored to know yours.”

  “Mario Santa Maria.”

  “What a name for an artist of reflections, what a name!”

  Want to Know What Happens Next?

  Want to know what how things turn out for Mario and Sarah? Curious about how the world receives Mario's unusual gift? Readers asked for more, and Aniko Carmean is going to deliver! Look for the continuation of Mario's story from Odd Sky Books in 2015!

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  About Aniko

  Aniko Carmean is a Virginia girl living in Austin, Texas. She writes stories and novels in a variety of genres including horror, science fiction, and literary-artsy. Aniko is the sole proprietor of Odd Sky Books, a publication imprint dedicated to serving discerning readers of surreal fiction. Aniko's major literary influences are Italo Calvino, Shirley Jackson, Amelie Nothomb, Iris Murdoch, and Sylvia Plath. After graduating with a degree in Physic
s from a small liberal arts school, Aniko married her college sweetheart, and took a day job in software to support her writing habit.

  Aniko's favorite shoes are Doc Martens.

  Her favorite way to think is while is walking, favorite number is twenty-two, favorite month is October, and her favorite pastime is lingering over a hearty meal and talking with friends.

  Aniko has lived in more than one haunted house, which goes a long way towards explaining her fascination with the surreal.

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