Chapter Nine
Nine
Lucy
When I arrive at my destination, I triple-check the piece of paper with the address scribbled on it to make sure I’m at the right place. It’s not a restaurant, or a bar, or even someone’s house—it’s an arena. The same one where some of my favorite bands have come to play a show.
I hope I get to see inside the green room. Maybe I’ll even get some free concert tickets out of this miserable job. I push the call-box button and huddle under the awning to stay dry as the rain picks up again. It doesn’t take Anna long to come get me.
“You must be Sam. I’m Anna, marketing manager for the Rainiers,” she says, greeting me at the door. “Come in.” She ushers me through a lobby with photos of musicians, sports teams, and special events hung on the walls. The receptionist welcomes me with a cheery hello.
“Actually, I’m Sam’s shop assistant, Lucy. She had something come up, so she assigned the project to me.” I run my fingers through my hair trying to tame the bird’s nest of knots at my nape, but it’s useless and I decide to accept the added volume.
The overhead fluorescent lights reflect off Anna’s shiny black hair, which is clearly her natural color judging by the health of her ends. She looks like a personable daytime talk show host in her fashionable oversize two-piece suit and white leather sneakers. I almost want to get on a couch with her and confess my deeply buried emotions and pent-up anxiety surrounding painting, but I bite my tongue.
As I take in my new surroundings, I notice I can’t stop itching my neck and hands. It must be a symptom of my hangover, which is officially kicking into full gear. I am an unrelenting combination of hunger, dehydration, and exhaustion. It’s not a pleasant blend with my existing anxiety—still I soldier on. I interlock my hands behind my back to restrain myself from scratching, but my body is still flush.
“Hmm, can you paint?” Anna holds a large metal door open for me and we head into the building’s office space.
“Yes, better than Sam. Don’t tell her I said that.” I follow Anna to a large open lunchroom. I almost pocket a snack or drink as we pass by, but I figure the first day on the job is a poor time to start stealing things.
“Good. As long as you don’t fuck this up, I don’t really give a shit. Things around here have been a literal dumpster fire, and I don’t have the energy to deal with any more last-minute problems,” she says, her bluntness catching me off guard.
Anna looks like a sweet young woman, like the type of friend who tells you when you have something stuck in your teeth and remembers your middle name. I didn’t peg her for the type to curse at work, but who am I to judge what is or isn’t workplace appropriate when I pulled up here with a terrible case of sex hair.
“Do not fuck up. Got it?”
Anna is starting to sound like my boss.
“Got it.” Before I have a chance to ask her any follow-up questions, she’s cutting me off.
“Good, because I literally just found out that I have HPV and that my dog needs to get his teeth removed. All of them. Did you know it costs two thousand dollars for a dog tooth extraction?” Anna asks without pausing long enough for me to offer up a response. “And then I’m supposed to come into work and forget about my issues and deal with the fact that some overpaid baby who can’t be bothered to call an Uber drunkenly fell off a scooter. The guy could hardly skate backward—what gave him the impression he could operate a scooter?” Anna vents, and the pace at which she speaks increases along with her steps; I’m speed-walking to keep up.
I want to tell her that everyone gets HPV, but it sounds like that’s not even her biggest issue this week. “I’ll do a good job. I’ll make you look good, I promise,” I say instead.
I immediately regret the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. I was planning on half-assing this mural to get it over with as quickly as possible, but instead I’ve agreed to give it my all. I’m not sure I’m even capable of painting at a high caliber anymore.
Anna leads me through the arena’s main concourse, down an elevator, and through more halls and doors until there’s no way I will ever find my way back out of the building. It isn’t until we stop at locked double doors with a sign overhead that says Restricted Area: Rainiers Personnel Only that I remember Seattle has an NHL team. This must be where they play.
Anna pulls out the badge attached to her hip to unlock the doors. This time we wander down a hall padded with rubber floors, until we stop down a quiet narrow corridor.
“Here it is. This is your canvas.” Anna points to a large beige cement wall anticlimactically.
“It’s a wall all right,” I say, because what else am I supposed to say about a beige wall?
“The players come through this tunnel on their way out to the ice. We would like them to pass something more inspirational than this.” She motions again to the canvas.
“That shouldn’t be hard.” I would have thought the millions of dollars a year in salary would have been inspiration enough, but what do I know?
“Here.” Anna dumps a thick file folder into my arms. I briefly flip through the first few pages and find action photos of hockey players who I assume make up the Rainiers’ hockey squad.
“Feel free to use whatever photo works best for the art piece, but be sure to include everyone. There are more details in there, like our specific team colors and the team’s logo,” she explains.
“Cool.” I set the folder down and pull out my tablet. I notice my forearms are covered with red splotches coloring all of my ink with a pinkish tint. Sometimes they get like this when I’m feeling stressed out or anxious, both of which I’m feeling right now. I ignore my nerves and begin taking photos of the wall for my initial sketch.
In the distance I hear echoing whistles and loud thuds. Clapping noises sound like bang-snaps and then someone shouts, “Nice shot!”
“You’ll find contact information and your schedule in the folder as well. And girl to girl, avoid the players, if you know what I mean,” Anna warns, staring down the hall.
“I’m not really into athletes. I prefer my men with an iron deficiency and at least three phobias,” I say, distracted as I calculate what type of paint and supplies I’ll need for this job.
“No, I mean like get the hell out of their way when they’re passing through the halls. We can’t have someone tripping over a paintbrush and ending up on the IR.”
Does she mean ER? Hopefully there’s a glossary of hockey terms at the back of the folder she gave me. “Understood. Overpaid babies who should be Bubble Wrapped,” I say, trying to win her over.
“Exactly. If you need anything—don’t. Please, don’t need me. It’s officially hockey season and I have way too much to do. You’ve got this, Sam!”
Anna is already gone before I can assure her that I’ve got this mural handled or remind her of my name.
With my headphones on and music blaring, I immediately get in my creative zone. I enjoy this step of the process. The planning, the mapping, the sketching. This part of the mural feels like I’m still creating designs for tattoos, but I know eventually I will need to paint.
I reach out and touch my canvas and like hearing an old familiar song, I remember how it felt to be heartbroken. What is a father if not the first man to break your heart?
When I was a kid, I would lose myself in the canvas, painting homes from which I wish I came. Homes with wraparound decks and lush gardens. Ones with a fat cat sunbathing lazily in a windowsill.
I would fantasize a new life for myself inside each home, always calling dibs on the top-floor bedroom. I thought if I could just get the lighting right, I could make it realistic enough to make it believable. I never figured it out. I guess I never figured any of it out because my dad never cared much for my art—or me.
My dad bailed on Mom and me when I was too young to remember him leaving, and yet I still felt the loneliness. He used to show up sporadically throughout my childhood and whisk me away for an afternoon at his convenience. We would go to the movies, or some local tourist attraction. It would always start off fun. He would buy me a treat and take an interest in my life, but as the afternoon crept on our time together usually ended with a fight. Often a lopsided one where he would find something about me to pick apart. I would do something wrong—like drop my ice cream, or fall asleep during the movie, or get too scared at the top of the Seattle Great Wheel—and ruin the afternoon. I never did any of those things on purpose, but it didn’t matter how much I apologized. He would drop me off at home and I wouldn’t hear from him again for months. It felt stupid to cling to the idea that he could change, so I gave up ever having a relationship with him years ago.
The only reason I invited him to my senior art showcase was because he directly asked me to. He showed up on campus weeks before with persistency and a handwritten letter about being sorry for my childhood. He was turning his life around, he said. It was an uncharacteristic period in our relationship where he was calling with no expectations and showing up when he said he would. It obviously didn’t last long and instead culminated in an epic drunken binge. The further away he stays, the safer I am.
For this mural, I’ve been instructed to include the words “We win when we all show up,” but besides that I have free rein to figure out where to put twenty-three players on the wall. As I settle into my work, sketching an outline on my tablet, I get increasingly hotter until my lower back breaks out in beads of sweat. I feel like peeling off a layer of clothing, but I’m already embarrassingly underdressed as it is.
I set my tablet down and slip off my headphones so I can gather my composure. Even in silence, I am beyond overstimulated. I try to settle my mind by repressing the thoughts of my dad and my senior art showcase. I feel a bit faint, and a lot hungover.
Am I having a visceral reaction to painting again? My nose begins to sweat across the bridge. Disoriented, I wander down the long tunnel, following the light and sounds. My mouth is dry and chalky; there has to be a water fountain nearby. I begin to feel lightheaded, and I start to really regret not making time to stop for breakfast this morning.
The hallway suddenly opens up into a large ice rink. A chill slaps me in the face and the overhead lights blind me as I try to shield my eyes with my hand. As my vision begins to pinhole, I spot a water bottle on the bench and make my move for it. Before I can get within arm’s reach, I hear someone call out, “JJ!”
I look up to see Jaylen—Jaylen from last night, Jaylen who is only in town for one night—skating up the ice. He looks me dead in the eyes and his mouth drops. His pace slows, but his movements do not stop. He’s about to skate right past me. Close enough to reach out and touch—or better yet, punch.
In the blink of an eye, the player skating alongside Jaylen passes him the puck, but he’s not paying attention to the drill anymore because he’s staring at me. The puck deflects off Jaylen’s stick and comes hurtling toward my head. Before I have time to react, everything goes black.