The Medium of Desire Read online

  “You guys been drinking?” the restaurateur asked.

  “No. We’ve been working,” Brett said. For the first time, he realized he didn’t know what Olivia had done all day. He wondered if she had eaten anything.

  “Well, since you’re here. Would you like a glass of wine, on the house?” the restaurateur asked.

  Brett waited a moment to see if Olivia would reply, but she didn’t move.

  “A glass of wine would be great,” Brett said.

  The restauranteur opened a glass-doored refrigerator, retrieving a sweat-drenched bottle of white wine.

  “This is a Sauvignon Blanc from Alexander Valley,” he said. “You’re going to have an impression of citrus, with nodes of melon and apple, and a hint of butter you’d usually associate with a Chardonnay, fermented in a steel barrel.” The restaurateur turned sommelier poured two generous glasses, and in a third, just a taste.

  “Cheers,” he said. He lifted the glass with the light pour, swirled it under his nose, knocked back its contents and returned the glass to the copper bar. “I’ve got some work to finish in the kitchen. I’ll leave you two to it.” Brett followed the restaurateur, and all that hair, with his eyes until he disappeared into the back, and a silence fell over the place.

  Olivia raised her head and sipped from her wine glass. Earlier today he had felt like asking her to live with him was such a natural question, as if it flowed organically from their time spent together. She had been practically living with him the past few days anyway, so what harm was there in making it official? Still, the more he thought about it the more he realized the symbolic currency of such a request. Asking her to move in with him was asking her to take another step, and this one required a marked degree of elevation from their current commitment to one another, which was implicit at best. What a dream for an aspiring artist to fall in love with an established draughtsman, he had thought, but he was being narcissistic. She probably didn’t think like that at all. They rarely talked about the future. After all, she had enjoyed a successful career in business. Maybe she wasn’t finished with Wall Street.

  But if he didn’t ask her, then what did that say about where things stood? And wouldn’t it be reasonable to think they were on the same page, that she was hoping he would ask her to move in just as much as he wanted to ask her? He liked to think bunking with him was a better alternative to crashing with her parents. He briefly thought back to his prior notion of the sanctity of the student-teacher relationship, but he was far beyond those tortured thoughts. She looked at him, and he realized there was something missing, that some critical piece of information had been missing from his analysis.

  “What?” she asked.

  It was a nice thing to ask someone to move in, right? Offers of almost any kind were nice, and she had enjoyed staying with him over the past few weeks. Maybe what she needed was a rosy turn of events to help dredge her out of the cave she was hunkered in.

  “I just … I missed you while you were gone this morning, and it got me to thinking how nice it’s been having you around, and since you’ve been staying at my place pretty much every night for the past few weeks, I was wondering … Well, I was wondering if we could make it official.”

  “Make it official. You mean like move in?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Brett, I,” Olivia said, sighed, took a deep drink from her wine glass, and dropped her forehead in her hand.

  “What? I just thought it would be nice. We’ve been spending so much time together lately, and I want to make it last.”

  “I’ve been dealing with a lot today,” she said.

  “Like what? Bring me up to speed,” Brett said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “How are we supposed to —”

  “Okay. Fine. When I went home, I got in an argument with my mom, because she doesn’t approve of me staying at your place. They’re putting a lot of pressure on me to go back to work, and, quite frankly, I need to work. I’ve been living off of my savings, but they aren’t going to last forever. I’m eventually going to have to get a job.”

  “We haven’t really talked about money before,” Brett said, scratching his chest. “But we could talk to Salina, and work it out so you get a salary and benefits.”

  “A salary to do what?”

  “To work in the studio. To be my …” Brett stopped abruptly.

  “Apprentice?”

  “I didn’t say that. Assistant. Associate. I don’t know. I’ve never worked in any sort of rigid corporate hierarchy. Call yourself whatever you’d like.”

  He was apprehensive she was going to explode, but she sat on her words, unaware whether she was summoning or swallowing the most vitriolic thought.

  “Another very flattering offer. But let’s face it. Just because I’ve taken a few art lessons doesn’t make me your apprentice. I can barely draw caricature, much less the quality of work it would require to turn an intrigue into a profession.”

  “I guarantee, with my help, you can become a professional artist.”

  “Brett, I’m moving to San Francisco,” Olivia said.

  A ball of lead hit him in the stomach. He felt nauseous at the thought of all that distance, thousands and thousands of miles of Midwestern nothingness between them. Claustrophobic redeye flights, tortured phone calls, the divergence of schedules, time changes, flirty tech billionaires in flashy cars with their know-it-all degrees and driver’s licenses; their relationship stretched thin until it snapped.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “When I left my last job, my contract had a do-not-compete clause. I wasn’t allowed to work for another hedge fund for six months, but I got a call this morning that I’ve been released, so I can start back to work anytime.”

  “But you need to get another job?”

  “I had another job lined up when I left my last job, I just realized too late I had the do-not-compete. The firm in San Francisco really likes me, though, so they agreed to wait.”

  “You never had any intention of learning to paint, of taking this seriously,” Brett said. He didn’t try to conceal the coldness that had crept into his voice.

  “I did, and I do. I just, I mean, I’m clearly not as passionate about it as you are. It’s not my trade. I respect the shit out of what you do. I wish I could do what you do, but I can’t. Spreadsheets are my art. Teasing the hidden value out of assets, that’s my calling.”

  “I see so much more in you than spreadsheets,” Brett said.

  Her view of him turned jaundiced. He’d insulted her profession, or at least shelved it lower than his own. Okay, not really an offense to apologize for, but not a land mine to be stepped on twice, either.

  “All the same, it’s who I am. It may be too late to change that now,” Olivia said.

  “I could move to San Francisco,” Brett said.

  “We both know you don’t want to leave Richmond.”

  “I could make it work. I would move to San Fran to be with you. I could set up a new studio. I could learn to paint there.”

  “I don’t think that would work, Brett.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t leave Richmond.”

  “I’d leave Richmond for you.”

  “No.”

  “Then why not?”

  “Because you’re a womanizer!” She yelled. “Because you’re a dishonest piece of shit,” Olivia said, a torrent of spit spraying from her mouth, violence flaring in her eyes.

  “Tell me what you really think,” Brett said.

  She worked herself into a fury, bolting from her bar stool towards the door. The restaurateur reappeared in the corner, looking concerned for his new digs.

  “Olivia, wait a second. Let’s talk about this,” Brett said.

  “Go to hell,” Olivia replied, escaping through the door.

  The restaurateur reclaimed his position behind the bar. A moment of silence passed before either spoke. A city bus rumbled to a halt
outside, a few passengers ambled off and went their separate ways.

  “What happened?” the restaurateur asked.

  “I asked her to move in with me,” Brett replied.

  Chapter 30

  “I really like these paintings, Brett, but …” Salina said.

  Brett took the call off speaker, holding the phone close to his ear.

  “But what?”

  “There’s no easy way to say it, but the collector canceled the order.”

  Canceled rang in his ear like a gun, fired at point-blank range, sucking all other sound into a vacuum.

  “What do you mean cancelled? Like they don’t want the paintings?”

  “I’m sorry, Brett. We’ve talked about how flighty collectors can be.”

  “But we had a contract. Most of the work’s done.”

  “You’d asked for two extensions. He had an out clause.”

  “So he decided my work was shit?”

  “My dear, it has nothing to do with the quality of your work. He’s peeved to have to wait so long for his art. He just built an 8,000-square foot house on the River. His wife, whom I personally know and who has no patience, was tired of looking at bare walls. Look, we can find another buyer. We both know these are excellent.”

  He was glad at least one of them felt that way. Brett looked at the bills that were beginning to stack up on his desk: rent, water and gas, renter’s insurance, internet, invoice from various art supply distributors.

  “Can you front me another advance?”

  “On top of the $7,000?”

  He didn’t like the way she said $7,000. Like talking about money with his business manager was inappropriate. He was not digging how this conversation was going down.

  “No, don’t worry about it. I was just wanting to buy a bunch of shit I don’t need.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yea. Listen, I gotta jump. Call me when you find a buyer. Or whatever.”

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” Salina added, but Brett ended the call.

  Salina tried him back, but he didn’t answer. He took a half-smoked joint, lit and sucked on it until he burnt his fingers. Then he started taking pulls from a bottle of Jack Daniels. He stood and scribbled in his sketch-book, creating only partial forms before turning the page, his pencil unable to keep pace with his mind. He flipped through the pages of the recent work. It was childlike, but without the imagination of a child, shoddy, as if he’d done the work when he was drunk. He laid across the couch and continued to take nips of bourbon until he fell asleep.

  He woke to red paint spilled across the floor like a murder scene. He had kicked an entire bucket of red paint over while he slept, and it was everywhere on everything. He picked himself up and sat on his couch until the paint covering his hands and arms dried, then he started over, with a fresh pallet. He managed to mix a rich array of colors but stood in front of the canvas dumbly. In moments lacking inspiration he could usually lean on technique to take him somewhere, and that somewhere could even lead to creating something inspired. But instead he stood there, motionless, uncertain whether to paint a straight or curved line, to paint a house or a city street, a man or an amalgamation of abstractions. He stared at the blank canvas for over an hour and then collapsed on his couch. Resigned to failure, he smoked cigarettes until his pack was empty. He rolled to his side for a moment and closed his eyes, hoping to wake up in a better head space.

  He awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. He dashed across the room in an uncoordinated scramble, hoping it was Olivia calling to apologize or to say she had changed her mind about moving in. But Salina’s name illuminated the screen. He didn’t want her handouts.

  He caught a glimpse of his painting of Olivia. He dragged an easel in front of the sofa, rested the Olivia painting on it, and reclined back to admire The Beauté de Vélo. The Fleeting Beauty.

  After a moment he leapt to his feet, quickly laid out some fresh paint on a clean pallet and started swiping unstructured strokes across the canvas. He intentionally disregarded technique, the colors gnashing like colliding trains. The piece left him with a metallic taste in his mouth, and, retrieving his Laguiole knife, he started slashing at the canvas, cutting the fabric, until all that was left were ribbons of cloth fluttering to the ground.

  Once he was able to catch his breath, he started to call Paco. Brett scrolled through his contacts until he found the number, but he paused before he hit send. He hadn’t spoken to Paco since their falling out at Hardee’s. He’d been so wrapped up in running around with Olivia. Who the hell was he supposed to call when he wasn’t on speaking terms with anybody? He needed a drink. He went for the bottle of bourbon but it lay overturned on the cement floor, empty. He could go out for a drink, but after a search for his wallet, it was nowhere to be found. He gathered some change from his table of interesting things, scooping up roughly three dollars before he hit the street. He strode down to Boulevard, cars whizzing recklessly past, their noxious fumes simultaneously burning his lungs and comforting him, dragging him out of his head and into the moment. He ducked into a convenience store, where he browsed before settling on a 40-ounce Budweiser. He took his time counting out $2.87 in change for the cashier, to the dismay of the customers waiting in line behind him.

  Around the side of the building, he twisted off the cap of his Bud heavy and settled behind a dumpster, where there was a cinderblock circle and occasionally some pretty ripe homeless guys enjoying a cheap beer in their closest approximation to a café. There was only one guy back there today, Joe Brisco. Joe was a supertramp, having lived on the streets for over a decade, sleeping beneath underpasses, panhandling for his wages, never showering, beard as tattered as a rotten Brillo pad, scaring children and most adults. On his hungriest days, Joe was known to snatch food right out of a man’s hands. Luckily, that same character flaw didn’t extend to beer.

  “What are you doing, Bale?”

  “Having a beer. What’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “You look sad as fuck.”

  “I’m fine,” Brett snapped.

  “Why you being so touchy? Catch your woman fucking somebody else?”

  “Nah,” Brett said, gulping his forty. “She just doesn’t want to move in with me.”

  “Probably because you live in a dump.”

  “My place isn’t a dump. I mean, it’s no palace, but it has a big bedroom and a bathroom. The kitchen’s been updated.”

  “Really? I thought you lived at the city dump across the river.”

  “Joe, why the hell would I live in the dump?”

  “I tried to find a spot for over there myself, but the damn place is run by zombies. Eating flesh of god knows what. And all that trash,” Joe said, shivering theatrically.

  “We’re drinking beers behind a dumpster.”

  “Yea, but it don’t smell like the dump here. That dump,” Joe said, looking furtively right and left, “has some unholy smell about it. Where you laying your head?”

  “The Fan.”

  “Fancy! How you pay for that?”

  “I’m an artist.”

  “Ooo, an artist! You wear one of those tutus and coo and cah when the big fat cats come around pinching your skirt?”

  “No, Joe. I make paintings, and people buy them.”

  “And people pay you for that shit. Ain’t that something.”

  “It’s not shit.”

  “People eat your paintings?”

  “They help me eat.”

  “Indulgences.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You go to school to paint?”

  “I did.”

  “You have to go to school for that these days?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “How’d you end up in school for that?”

  “It’s what I studied.”

  “Why’d you choose it?”

  That question probed a little deeper than memory stretched.

  “I paint because it’s what I do.�
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  “I had a friend,” Joe said. “He made these little statutes. Tried to sell them on the street instead of shaking a can. He made more money shaking a can, though, so he quit making the statues.”

  “Don’t say.”

  “He weren’t as lucky as you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He didn’t have people thinking his shit was worth something.”

  Brett started to reply, but then he figured, what’s the use. Joe could keep up that verbal repartee all day, but he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy that made you feel better about yourself.

  Joe’s attention drifted elsewhere, digging through one of his repurposed shopping bags for God knows what. Brett fell back to the ground, flat on his back, squinting at the sun. The sun electrified the parted clouds like a live power line dropped in a claw foot bathtub, the purified clouds blindingly bright, the glint of the blade of the omnipotent’s knife. It was a happy mistake that happened and because of their close relation it was going to happen again, only in a million different configurations and you’d never see it the same way twice, and Brett realized how fleeting it all was. Fleeting beauty. Fleeting relationships. Fleeting existence. If people ever figured out that to see something beautiful or be startled awake, instead of buying an expensive painting, all you had to do was open your eyes.

  Chapter 31

  Brett slept on his studio couch the two following nights without a single worthy stroke of a brush. He wasn’t on speaking terms with Olivia. He wasn’t on speaking terms with Paco. Belinda’s phone went straight to voicemail. She was probably on an extended international flight. He left a message. Sometimes she took days to get back to him. Demanding work and thousands of miles could have that effect on relationships.

  On an easel rested a blank canvas and in a nearby box packed neatly were another eleven blank canvases. Around lunchtime he started to call Papa John’s again, but when he took an inventory of the empty Papa John’s boxes littering his studio, it made him sad and want real food.

  Brett had an unusual craving for a raw bar, and he immediately thought of Crustacean. The restaurant however, was all the way across the Fan, on the opposite side of Fremont Street. He might make it with a caffeine stop. He hurried along the streets on foot to a hidden coffee shop, Bituminous Coffee, when he spotted Carol spotting him. She waved. There was no avoiding her.