If (8 page)

“Of course. You are literally on the other side of the hallway. I’m fine here,” I whispered back.

Then it was just the two of us.

I started collecting the plates and loading them into the sink. Without being asked, Ash walked over to the sink, unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves, and started scraping the plates.

“You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.”

“Please, let me thank you,” he said, throwing my words at me.

“Okay, well you can scrape and pass the plates and I’ll scrub.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

When he passed the first plate to me, I observed his hands. “Your hands are clean.”

He looked at me strangely, as if he was wondering if he should be offended.

“I mean, when I last saw you, it looked like you were using spray paint.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He seemed surprised by the observation.

“Do you do graffiti?”

“Sort of. I don’t vandalize. I find big boxes, flatten them and use them as a canvas. It’s a newer medium to me. Only been using it the past year or so.”

“Newer medium? What other media do you use?”

“All kinds. Watercolor, acrylic, oil. I draw as well, charcoal and pastels. Many times I combine. But paint and canvas are expensive. I don’t really do much of anything these days anyway. I was trying with the spray paint, but it’s better I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I lost my vision.”

“What?”

“Artistic, not the eyes.”

“Oh.” As an artist myself I felt so sad for him. To lose your vision is like losing your heartbeat. It’s like an adventurer losing his compass. It made me wonder if that’s why he wandered. I looked over at him as he passed me the next plate. His big eyes, turned down slightly at the sides, made him seem both sad and young at the same time.

“So, Bird?”

“Yes?”

“I mean, the name. You told me I would get the story if I came.”

“So
that’s
why you’re here. I hate to disappoint, but it’s not worth the visit,” I said with a smirk.

“I guess I’ll have to be the judge.” It felt good that he was starting to converse with me without me having to pry every word out. Maybe all he needed was a friend or two to help him get out of his situation.

“Well, when I was little I was really skinny. I mean just bones. My knees were like two giant knuckles. And I had really skinny legs. Like a bird. And I loved to jump around and dance. So it stuck. The legs aren’t skinny anymore because of dancing, and the fact that I’m no longer ten years old, but the name stayed.” His eyes shot down to my legs, an involuntary response to my claim of leg musculature, I was sure.

“You’re a dancer?”

“Yes, though sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.”

“And what is your medium?”

I laughed softly, since people usually ask what style of dance, not medium. But it seemed intentional, like he was trying to be a little cheeky with me. “Modern, classical ballet, jazz.”

He nodded as though my answer was sufficient.

“How long have you been painting?”

“Since I can remember.”

“Are you any good?” I asked.

“Are you?” he replied, raising his eyebrow.

“I can’t find them!” Jordan shouted busting through the door like my own version of Kramer. “I think I lent them to Damien or was it Joanie? Shit.”

Trevor and Jordan cleared the table while we finished up the dishes. Between the alcohol consumption and the urgency with which he cleared out the table, I just knew Jordan was planning for us to have what we called Dance Party 2000, which is basically just us dancing like assholes all over my studio. Even though nearly a decade had passed since the year 2000, adding that number to anything still made it seem fresh and modern.

“I should head out,” Ash said as he handed me the last dish.

It felt so wrong. How could I host this person in my home, this fellow artist, and just let him go back out there, and get swallowed into the street to become another faceless homeless person? I couldn’t do anything about the hundreds I had to pass daily, but I had a chance to help him.

“It’s still early. We planned on hanging out for a while. You don’t have to go back out. You could sleep here tonight if you want. We’ll probably be up all night.”

There I went again, blurting out things that were too familiar and just idiotic. I barely knew this guy. But I trusted him, that he wouldn’t hurt me, and I had my guys here. It wasn’t like I was all alone.

“Listen, thank you for all of this. I appreciate it. But, I don’t like walls,” he said. “You could say I’m like a bird, too. I just need to get outside.”

“Are you sure?”

He focused his eyes on mine to convey his sincerity and said with emphasis: “You’ve made me feel very welcome, Bird.”

“Okay.”

I wanted to ask if I would see him again, so maybe we could be friends, but then I thought it would be weird because while in ways we were from the same world, but in other ways we were from entirely different planets. I knew I would see him again, somewhere on the street, wandering with traces of spray paint on his fingers. How could I go back to my cozy apartment and eat my meals knowing that the guy who saved my life was all alone out there? How could I just accept that he didn’t have a home, and what exactly did he mean by not liking walls? There were so many layers to him. He wasn’t the caricature of destitution so many of us create in our heads. He was complex. I could tell he had so much story to share, and I wanted to hear every word. But, I didn’t say any of that to him. I just let him leave.

BIRD

A COUPLE OF
weeks had passed since Thanksgiving, and I hadn’t seen Ash since. In a way, it was a relief. Passing him daily on the street before I knew him was easy, but now that he had saved my life, that we had shared a meal, washed dishes together, and shared glimpses of who we were, I dreaded passing him. Indifference was no longer an option. And it made me think about everyone I passed on 5
th
street on my way home.

They all had stories. They were all people who had been shoved onto this street so the rest of us didn’t have to feel the guilt or disgust or whatever unpleasant feelings were provoked by dealing with society’s rejects. But it was Ash’s story that had intrigued me most. Something told me that his was especially unique. And it was the one that happened to interject itself into my life.

I figured I might not see him again. That we had gotten too close and he didn’t like walls, and knowing me, Jordan, and Trevor had become a wall of sorts. He was trying to disappear and I wouldn’t let him. So I assumed he found a new place to hide.

One evening, while Jordan was at a late rehearsal for a local Christmas show he was choreographing, I picked up some dinner for him after my shift at the restaurant. As I walked down the buzzing streets of downtown LA towards the rehearsal space, my mind was pleasantly empty, taking in the surrounding sensory experience.
Building. Bricks. Car horn. Two woman laughing. Art supply store.

Art supply store.

Just like the day I stepped out of the audition and saw Ash across the street, this felt like an omen. Or maybe I just saw omens where I wanted to. Either way, I found myself pushing open a glass door, a bell ringing my announcement into the quiet storefront.

Besides one art class I took in high school, this world was foreign to me. The aisles and aisles of colors, tubes, bottles, brushes and papers put me into sensory overload.

“Can I help you?” a waif of a man asked. I watched him do that thing with his eyes people do when he first noticed my scars.

“Um . . . I was thinking of getting a gift for a friend, but I know nothing about art.”

“Do you know what your friend likes to use?”

“I think he listed almost everything to me and he said he mixes things.”

“Okay . . . hmmm . . .” the man said, resting his chin in his hand. “Do you have a budget?”

“This was kind of on a whim, but not much.” From my brief time perusing the aisles on the store, Ash was right: this
is
expensive.

“Okay, well there are some things on sale over there. Have you been to his studio? Do you know what he has?”

“He doesn’t have a studio or a place to paint. I don’t think he has anything.”

“Okay . . .” I think that confused the guy even more, but I thought the background story would be too much.

“I guess the best way to explain it would be . . . if you were to start all over again, what would you need?”

That seemed to spark some ideas and he stood up tall.

“We have a lot of holiday specials, so this is a great time to stock up. He’ll need an easel, and this one is only $40 on sale.”

My stomach twisted a little. That wasn’t even the paint yet! But I nodded as he grabbed the long, narrow box.

He grabbed a huge pad of paper, that
isn’t ideal, but will work for most paints and charcoals.

As I recited all the media Ash had mentioned, the man grabbed a box of charcoals, a box of pastels, and a tray of watercolors with a couple of brushes. Finally, he placed acrylic tubes of primary colors and a few more brushes into my basket.

“This is where we stop. There is plenty for him to play with and he can mix to create colors. It’s a great starting point.”

My gut rotated about 180 degrees looking at the basket, wondering what the total might be. But everything felt important and I didn’t want to put anything back.

“What’s the return policy? Let’s say he doesn’t like something.” It was more along the lines of
let’s say I never see him again.

“30 days, unopened, with receipt.”

I took a deep breath and followed him to the counter.

“One hundred, seventy-three dollars, and thirty-one cents. You saved sixty-two dollars today with the sale.”

Actually, no, I hadn’t saved anything. This was a one-hundred percent impulse buy. An impulse I could barely afford. But it felt like the right thing to do and so I handed over my debit card, and said a little prayer that the tip gods would bless me this week for my generosity.

BIRD

I wrestled several bags and an easel tucked under my armpit into the dance studio.

And five, six, seven, eight. And one, two, three, four . . .

I watched as a pale, lithe brunette was thrust into the air by a limber man. I wished I could be in the show, but the cast had long been chosen by the time Jordan got the gig. Jordan was the replacement for the initial choreographer who had left abruptly for another gig.

I tried to be discreet, but my bags crumpled, and the wood handles of the brushes clapped inside of their bag. Jordan spun around and waved me over.

“Okay, we’re going to break for forty-five minutes for dinner, and then everyone be ready, on time!”

“Help,” I begged as Jordan slid some bags off my arms.

“What in the lord’s name is all this shit?” he asked.

“I got it for Ash.”

“Ash? Have you even seen him since Thanksgiving?”

“No, but he told me he liked to paint and I thought this would be a nice thank-you.”

“And where is he going to put all of this? In his apartment?”

I
had
thought about that. And I figured I could just hold the stuff for him and he could grab it when he needed it.

“Oh whatever, he’ll find a way. And if not, I’ll return it.”

Jordan looked at me suspiciously.

“What?” I asked, defensively. I was a little ornery from carrying all the stuff.

“I’m not gonna say what I think,” Jordan said, rolling his neck and pushing his fashionable thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Oh don’t even go there,” I sneered.

“Listen, he’s homeless and probably fucked up beyond measure, but I’m not blind and I know you aren’t either.”

“Please don’t talk to me like I’m a child when I am only five years younger than you,” I said, passing him his bag-o-food.

“Thank you,” he said, snatching it. “Well, he’s nice. Well-spoken. Don’t tell me you aren’t intrigued.”

“I want to help him because he saved me from the worst thing that could happen to a woman. That’s all. He’s homeless for Christ sakes! I think my judgment is a little better than you are giving me credit for,” I whispered angrily.