Chimera (2 page)

I
’m not
a big fan of pizza, or beer for that matter, but I’ll admit that Harley’s Tap Room has the best pies I’ve ever put in my mouth, and seventy-something craft beers on draft. It’s fairly low-key and off Main Street, the staff is eclectic like the beer, and overall, it’s just a friendly place to hang out. It’s more Nate’s kind of place than my own, but since he’s buying, I oblige.

The hostess seats us at a high-top near the back of the bar. Neither Nate nor myself have short legs. I stand six three to Nate’s inch taller stature. Higher tables are a godsend. While I look forward to the beer and the pizza, I don’t look forward to the interrogation or my attempt at an explanation to Nate.

The waitress is cute, tall, and thin, and although I appreciate her form and the angles her lack of weight creates, Nate prefers women with a little meat on their bones—minus all the ink this girl sports. She’s sweet and he entertains her flirting long enough to get our order in, then he promptly dismisses her and any inclination of his interest in her. He’s not an ass, but he has a way of letting you know when he’s through, even if you’re not.

“So, what gives?” he asks point-blank.

“With what?” I play coy.

“I’m not some bitch that doesn’t know you, Bastian. You’ve done nothing but barely exist in that house for years. Today I come in, and somehow, Stella got her groove back. What happened? I know you didn’t just wake up and decide, ‘fuck, it’s been a long time. I think I’ll create a masterpiece in my kitchen.’ You work from inspiration, always have, so what is it?”

“Look, I’d love to explain it to you, but you’d think I’m crazy if you even believed me, so let it go. Just be happy I threw food on my wall and got out of my ‘funk.’” I use the air quotes intentionally to piss him off.

He glares at me, hating when I use my hands to emphasize words. “Try me.”

The waitress brings us two glasses, and I wait for her to make her exit before I begin. I know this isn’t going to go well, but I can’t come up with anything to pacify him other than the truth.

“Fine.” I take a deep breath, hoping to gain courage as I inhale, but I feel totally defeated when I release the air. “I met someone.”

His face lights up like a Christmas tree. “That’s fucking awesome! Where’d you meet her?” He hesitates and confusion crosses his face. “It is a
her
, right?”

“Yes. Jesus. Look, you aren’t going to understand. Can’t we just leave it at that for now?”

“Ahh fuck. Is it more of this Facebook bullshit?” I don’t respond. I just look down at the table and he knows he hit the nail on the head. “Why, man? You know women would drool all over you if you’d just get the hell out of that coffin you call a house. Why do you insist on existing in this fictional world as if it’s reality?”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Have you actually
met
her?”

The opening of the gallery years ago doesn’t count since I don’t remember her. I just shake my head in response and refuse to make eye contact. I can’t bear the disappointment I might face.

“Okay. For once, I’m going to put my opinion aside and hear what you have to say. Tell me about her.”

Nate normally isn’t a bullshitter. He calls a spade a spade and he doesn’t sugarcoat anything. “Why?”

“Because when I walked in your house today, I saw a glimpse of Bastian in your eyes again, and
any
woman that can bring you back is worth hearing about, fictional or not.”

I hesitate knowing my approach to this is crucial. “Her name is Sera Martin. She’s a sculptor. She’s twenty-five.”

He holds up his hand to stop me. “Stop ticking off items like she’s a grocery list. What is it about
her
?”

I try to stop it. I’m not a fucking pussy, but I can’t. I look over at him as my eyes fill with tears that threaten to fall. “She looks just like Sylvie. Carbon fucking copy.”

“No shit?”

I wipe away the remnants of wetness as I nod my head, confirming what I’ve already told him. “Just like her. Could be her twin.”

“Wow. I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting that. It’s been a long time, Bastian. Maybe she just resembles her, or what you
want
to remember of her in your mind. When was the last time you even saw a picture of Sylvie?”

“I’m an artist, dickhead. I don’t have to have a photograph someone took to remember every detail of my wife’s face, the color of her hair, her eyes, the way she looked at me. That’s all etched into my brain. I see her every fucking day of my life in every room of my house, in my dreams. She’s always with me.”

“I get that, I’m just saying that our memories tend to take on a shape of their own, remembering only the good, wiping away the bad. Maybe she’s all the good you remember in Sylvie but doesn’t really resemble her all that much in reality.”

I shake my head, denying his accusation. “Exact replica.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses something on the screen before handing it to me. “Look her up. I want to see.”

Facebook glows in front of me. I type in her name and that gorgeous face fills the screen. I stare at it, probably too long, but I can’t get enough of her. The picture is like air filling my nostrils, providing life I thought I’d all but lost. I hand it back to him, waiting for his reaction.

“Fuck,” is all he says. He sees it, too. He can’t deny it, and therefore, has no words.

“Sylvie?” I ask.

“Sylvie.”

There’s a long pause as neither of us speaks, not knowing what to say. The silence surrounding us like a tomb amazes me when there are so many people milling about in a crowded bar behind us.

Nate speaks first. “So what are you going to do?”

He acts as if there’s anything I
can
do. “Well, I’m hoping to have the chance to get to know her. Maybe spend time with her.”

“So are you going to get to know her for her, or in an effort to make her Sylvie?”

“I’m not trying to recreate Sylvie, Nate.”

“Then what’s the fascination with her? How did she become your inspiration to paint again?”

“Look, I talked to her on instant messenger for all of three minutes. I smiled for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. When she signed off, my hand burned to paint. I’m not thinking about any of this. I’m just going with it.”

“Be careful, man. Don’t hurt her in an effort to find yourself.”

T
rue to his word
, Nate took me by the supply warehouse on our way back to my house. Either the price of oils and brushes skyrocketed in the last five years, or I’d forgotten how much this stuff costs. For a long time, I received supplies from different companies wanting me to try their products: paints, brushes, canvases, alternative materials, but I was always pretty particular about what I was willing to work with.

At one point, I was rather successful, and with my income and Sylvie’s, money was never much of a concern. Unfortunately, between funeral costs and me essentially becoming an unemployed hermit, our cumulative savings have been greatly depleted. I’m not quite at financial ruin, but I’m hanging out on the sideline about to jump into the game. Nate knows this. We’ve never talked about it, but you can’t watch your best friend not work for years, while continuing to spend money, and still not know they’re on the verge of bankruptcy. Nate handled my finances since we graduated from college. All I can say is, thank God, Sylvie paid off the house with her first big record deal.

A few hundred dollars later, and I’m back in the business of being an artist with enough supplies to keep me going for a while.

I
t appears
the supply warehouse was a total waste. Instead of coming home and getting out the canvas to work, I go right back to the kitchen. Something about the piece draws me in. I won’t be able to recreate it on canvas. Hell, I doubt I could ever recreate it in any form. Once I walk Nate out, I check my food stock and decide to make a run to the store for cream cheese, fruits, and vegetables. The colors they create are lavishly rich.

As the dawn peers through the windows in the kitchen, I take one last swipe with my fingers on the wall, essentially putting my final stroke on the piece. Stepping back, I stare at it in awe. The contrast, texture, and imagery still my heart and calm my spirit. I’m exhausted from not having slept in two days but pleased with what I’ve created after a long absence from the art world.

After I wash my hands and clean up some of the mess surrounding the wall, I hear my bed calling my name. I turn off the music and take my laptop with me, saddened there’s still no word from the beautiful Sera. After setting it down on my nightstand, I strip to my boxer briefs and climb in under the down comforter. The flannel sheets feel soft against my skin, welcoming me back like an old lover. I’m out before my head hits the pillow.

The incessant ding of the Facebook messenger drags me kicking and screaming out of my comatose state. It takes a minute for me to clear the cobwebs and realize what I’m hearing. I glance at the clock, taking note that it’s nearly four and I’ve totally fucked up my sleep schedule taking an all-day siesta. I don’t bother to sit up, just pull my laptop onto my chest, wiggle my finger on the track pad, and wait for the MacBook to come to life. My heart nearly explodes when I see her name at the top of the box.

Sera
: Hey Bastian

Sera
: I know you said you haven’t done anything related to painting in quite some time and this is probably really forward and maybe even super awkward but I thought I’d give it a shot. Do you have a minute?

Sera
: I saw you online and hoped to catch you but I guess you’re busy. It was dumb anyhow. Hope you have a great day. Catch you later.

Fuck! I see the time on the last message was ten minutes ago. I swear to Christ if I missed talking to her I’m never fucking sleeping again.

Me
: Hey there. Sorry, I was asleep and had left Facebook open. You still around?

The minutes seem to be hours, ticking away. There’s no green dot next to her name on my list so I know she’s not online. Always a day late and a dollar short. Throwing the bedspread aside, my computer follows suit, I then stomp to the bathroom to piss. I can’t believe I fucking missed her. I haven’t left that damn computer for two solid days hoping to hear from her. I finally collapse, and
that’s
when she chooses to reach out. Maybe it’s good I wasn’t readily available, but hell, I desperately want to talk to her. The thoughts race through my mind—disappointment, the realization of how ridiculous I’m being, pissed off I was asleep, and desperate to just go back to a state of unconsciousness to avoid dealing with any of the aforementioned issues.

My mental state is fragile at best, although most of the time, I refuse to acknowledge it.

Today it’s at the forefront of my mind. I’m irrational and acting like a hormonal teenager desperate to talk to a girl he doesn’t really even know. Sadly, at this stage of my life, I should be able to handle basic human interaction and the fact relationships take time to grow—be it friendship or soul mates, although that last one is grasping desperately for something that doesn’t exist for me anymore. But I can’t handle those basic concepts. I’m at a point where I need her. I need Sera to provide me a salvation and deliver me from the valley of death. I’m walking on the edge, and this is the first time I’ve even looked up to notice I might possibly crawl back out of the pit. Illogically, I’ve convinced myself she’s the rope secured to a solid foundation that will rescue me.

As I wash my hands, I look in the mirror and I barely recognize the man staring back at me. He’s old and haggard looking, not the thirty-year-old who should be there. The sadness in his dark-brown eyes is overwhelming, haunting. The skin on his face is loose from weight loss, and if I didn’t know it was the lighting in the bathroom, I would think he has jaundice. I knew the man inside died years ago, but I haven’t accepted the fact that I’m slowly killing the body on the outside.

Facebook notification.

Fuck. Messenger. Taking off in a near sprint to reach my computer, I slide across the bedroom floor and slam my shoulder into the wall. The throbbing pain doesn’t deter me from my mission as I dive across my bed to make eye contact with my screen.

Sera
: No worries. I’m sorry if I woke you up.

Me
: Nah, I needed to get up anyhow. What’s up?

Sera
: I wanted to ask you something but now it seems kind of silly.

Me
: Go ahead. Ask.

Sera
: Feel free to say no. It won’t hurt my feelings and I don’t want to upset your wife.

Right now, I think this little game is cute, but I know in time it will get on my nerves. I’ve never understood why women do that, why they need to have a man reassure them they want to hear what they’re thinking. For the love of God, just say what you want to say! But for now, it’s endearing that she’s shy and seemingly insecure.

Me
: I’m no longer married. Please ask.

Sera
: Well…I have a gallery opening next week and was going to see if you wanted to come?

Holy shit. I’m speechless. I haven’t been around anyone in the art community in so long that I likely don’t know anyone involved anymore, which could be a good thing. It’s doubtful I’ll run into anyone I know, but if I do, people will ask questions. I have no clue how to handle answering anything regarding my whereabouts in the last five years. Even worse, admitting to people I’ve done nothing in terms of work is humiliating.

Debating in my head what the actual implications of this outing could be, I apparently took too long to respond.

Sera
: Shit. I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t ask you. I’m sure you have a hundred other things to do and my gallery exhibit is not high on the priority list. Wait, you’re not married?

Me
: Sera, stop. That’s not it at all. I would love to come. No, I’m not married but would you mind if I brought someone with me?

Sera
: Oh. No. Not at all. That would be great.

Me
: Great. Can you send me the details?

Sera
: Really? Oh my gosh. Wow. Yes. That would be amazing. It’s next Thursday. 7pm at the West End Gallery.

Me
: I’ll see you then.

Sera
: I’m so excited. Thank you! I can’t believe Bastian Thames is coming to my opening.

Me
: Hey, Sera. Please don’t get excited. I’m happy to come but remember it’s been a long time since I’ve been on the art scene.

Sera
: Oh hush. You’re too modest. Thanks again for coming. I’ll see you soon!

Me
: Thursday. See you then.

There’s the elusive knock on my door. Nate. He’s going to kick my ass when I tell him what I’ve volunteered him for. I pull on sweatpants before going to answer the door while he continues to pound like he’s the police trying to wake the damn dead. Throwing the door open, I find Nate with a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“What the fuck are you so chipper about?” I ask him.

“I had an idea and took it upon myself to make some calls.” He pushes past me, making a beeline for the couch.

“Please, make yourself at home. What did you make calls about?”

“Your kitchen.”

“I hope you’re joking.”

“Not at all. I realize we have very little time before that shit starts to spoil on the wall if it hasn’t already. So, I called the Greenville Pilot and talked to the guy who heads up the community arts crap for the paper. I gave him a rundown on what you created, and asked him how we could showcase it.”

“You did what? What the hell were you thinking, Nate? That isn’t serious art in there. It’s fucking food on a goddamn wall. It’s like adult finger painting. Are you fucking insane? Please tell me you didn’t give him my name.” The look on his face answers all my questions. He’s serious. He did call, and he absolutely gave him my fucking name.

“Bastian, calm down. He was interested. Really interested.”

“Of course he was, but not for quality art. He wants the headline story on a painter who lost his ever-loving mind.”

“Not at all. We spent an hour talking about your work, how you’d created it, the stuff you used, blah blah blah. He was fascinated. You don’t get it, Bastian. The art community misses you. They want to know what you’ve been doing and where you are.”

“Dream on, Nate. They want total desecration. The public feeds on seeing people fail.”

“They also feed on comeback stories, and you have the chance to make yourself into one. Stop being an ass and let me tell you what’s going to take place while I still have time.”

I throw myself down on the chair next to the couch, admitting defeat—at least, temporarily. I try to convince myself to be open-minded about whatever bullshit Nate is about to feed me.

“So I talked to this guy, Wilt. I don’t remember his last name.”

“Carter.”

“What?”

“Carter. Wilt Carter. That’s the guy at the Greenville Pilot who heads up community arts,” I say, exasperated. Nate talked to the guy for an hour and doesn’t remember his name. What the hell? For such a bright guy, he can be such an idiot.

“Yeah. Anyway. Wilt wanted to bring a photographer over here to take some shots of the wall. I emailed him the shit I had on my phone but told him it wasn’t done at the point I took them. He had planned to bring someone from the paper, but after seeing the email, he called me back and said he had contacted some guy named Ferry Koops.”

Hearing that name sends chills up my spine. “Ferry Koops, as in the photographer?
That
Ferry Koops?” He’s the biggest name to cross photography in the last thirty years. His work is edgy and positively brilliant. I’ve never seen anyone capture their subject the way he does, whether he’s working with stills, people, or landscape, and he doesn’t have an eye for one over the other. The long and short of it is that he’s a prodigy, an artistic genius.

“Yeah, do you know who that is?” Poor Nate. He’s trying to help but just has no clue. He’s so out of his league, but if he can pull off working with Ferry Koops, I might have to kiss the ugly fucker.

“Yes, jackass. Finish your story.”

“I guess Wilt called Ferry and sent Ferry the email I had sent him. Anyway, Ferry wants to do the photography of your work. Today.”

“Today? When today? Are you kidding? It’s almost six now.”

“I’m well aware. They will be here with a crew at seven, so you might want to consider getting out of that chair, shower, and shave. You look like ass. Do you ever get dressed anymore?”

“Fuck you. Christ. The place looks like shit. I don’t have time to clean up
and
get dressed.”

“Go shower. I’ll clean up…or at least hide things so it’s not quite so apparent you’ve become a hermit wallowing in self-pity.” He smirks his cocky grin at me. Part of me wants to punch that look off his fucking face, but I don’t have time.

I race off to shower and shave.

When I return from my hygiene overhaul in jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, sans shoes, Nate flabbergasts me with what he’s able to do in a mere thirty minutes. It stuns me even more to see Wilt and several other people sitting around my living room, but no sign of Ferry yet.

As I approach the group, Wilt stands with his hand extended, inviting me to reciprocate. To my amazement the formality comes back easily, and a smile crosses my face. Plastic people, plastic faces. It’s all a façade, but I’ll play the game today.

“Hey, Bastian. It’s great to see you again. I can’t wait to see this in person.”

“Nice to see you, Wilt. How’s the newspaper world been treating you?”

“It’s good. I can’t begin to tell you how excited I was to hear from Nate. I had no idea you were working again. I’m thrilled to be the one to see it first and get to spend some time with you. This is going to be huge for the community. If I make the deadline tomorrow, the story will run in the Sunday paper.”

I look at Nate, slightly bewildered. I should’ve assumed there would be a story if the paper was coming to my house, but it all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to ask for details. I try to shake off the anxiety and remember I’ve known Wilt for years. Talking to him is no different than running into an acquaintance on the street…idle chitchat for the mundane people. Taking a seat myself, I motion for Wilt to sit back down. He tells me Ferry will be here in about an hour.

“Isn’t he worried about lighting this late in the day?”

“I don’t ask questions like that. He knew the circumstances and the environment. He wanted to come. I figure he can make it work and do it well. I’m sure he’s bringing lighting with him.”

I nod in agreement. He’s right. Ferry can create a masterpiece from mud, which is a good thing because that pretty closely resembles what he’ll be doing in my kitchen. Wilt eases into the interview like a pro, making me feel as though we’re just chatting over coffee.

The real whirlwind starts when Ferry knocks on my door with his entourage. As a painter, I’ve always worked alone. Even when I have models, they’re silent participants who don’t move unless told to, so seeing this flurry of people stampeding through my door is overwhelming. It doesn’t take much for me to feel immense anxiety and panic. I’ve lived alone for five years, isolating myself from anyone and everyone that used to know Sylvie and the man I once was with her. That normalcy, that solitude, turns into fear after a while. I don’t do well in crowds and prefer the shadows of loneliness to the bustle of people.