Chapter 7 Daniel
Daniel
I’m extra tired the next morning as I clock in for my shift at the supermarket. Having to stay an extra two hours at the shipping warehouse really messed up my sleep, but on the flip side, that’s some extra cash I can add to this month’s earnings.
Even with a second cup of coffee, the day drags. Everything takes extra effort. Still, I don’t miss that we need to order extra chocolate cereal, or that we have some ham about to run past its best-before date. I mark the items for a discount and update the system.
Just as I hand the box to one of the other employees so they can put the ham on the shelves, my phone rings. Fishing it out of my pocket, I wonder who it might be. Molly knows my work hours, so it’s not her. Scam call or a salesman then. I guess I’m hanging up.
It turns out it’s neither, and instead of an unknown or hidden number, Cassandra’s name is flashing on my screen. Why is Salinger Gallery’s manager calling me?
“Hello,” I answer, parking myself in a quiet spot by the racks with potato. I need to count how many bags we have.
“Hi, Daniel. This is Cassandra from Salinger Gallery. How are you? I hope I’m not catching you at an inconvenient time…”
“No, no. I can talk now.”
“Good. I won’t take much of your time, I promise. I just wanted to ask if you have a portfolio?”
We’ve got seventeen bags of potatoes, so no need to order for now. And, huh? Why is she asking about my portfolio now? Surely if they had wanted to see it, they’d have asked before deciding the winners. Strange.
“I do, yeah.”
“Fantastic. Could you please send it over?”
I input the stock numbers into the system, then pause. I don’t mind showing off my best works—hell, I don’t do that as much as I should anyway—but it’s kind of weird to be asked for my portfolio after the fact, isn’t it?
“Why do you want it?” I blurt out before I can word my question better. And then, because that’s how my brain works, I add, “Is there something wrong with the mural?”
Cassandra chuckles, and I can picture her shaking her head.
“No! Of course not. The mural is gorgeous. Everyone thought so. No, I’m asking for your portfolio because…
” She hesitates, which is a bit strange because she’s not a woman who lacks confidence.
I really liked that about her. “Well, we are quite curious to see more from you. Your style is rather unique, and I’d be happy to mentor you and help you put yourself out there, if you are interested. ”
My heart leaps at her words. No way, is this really happening? Is she really offering to take me under her wing?
I can’t say yes fast enough. “Yes! That’s—” Crazy. Amazing. Is she insane? Also, I’m buzzing now, the tiredness all but forgotten. “Thank you so much for considering me! I’d love to have you as my mentor.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
I nod, grinning, even if she can’t see my joy. “Uh, so is there anything in particular you want me to send? I draw all kinds of things, but I can put something together for you that’s more specific if you want?”
“Oh, that’s actually better! I like variety. Send me a few of your best or favorite works, and a couple that you think you could’ve done better. Any theme is fine, though I’d love to see a mix.”
The excitement in her voice stirs up my own, though I’m not sure why she would want me to send something I don’t like.
Portfolios are a showcase of skill and creativity, so none of my boring, mediocre stuff has any place there.
Maybe she wants them for comparison purposes?
So she can give me feedback and see where I excel and where I could improve more?
Holy shit, she’s serious about helping me, isn’t she?
“Okay. I will do that.”
She hums approvingly. “Do you think you might be able to send your portfolio over, say, by the end of the week?”
“Of course!” I don’t think it will take me more than a day to decide what to include and, honestly, I already can’t wait to hear what she thinks, so I suspect I’m just going to skip that nap I was planning for the afternoon and get started the moment I’m home.
That way I can have my portfolio updated and ready ASAP.
“I’ll send it over to you as soon as possible. ”
“Great. I am looking forward to seeing more of your works, Daniel. Have a great rest of your day. We’ll keep in touch.”
“Thank you!”
I hold the phone to my chest, full of disbelief. Cassandra wants to see my stuff! I need to let Molly know!
After I shoot my best friend a quick text in which I assure her I will call her as soon as I finish work, I get on with my stocktaking. I’m buzzing. This is really happening. Someone saw something in me and wants to help me get better! This kind of opportunity is a first for me.
Part of me is a little scared to put myself out there, but if someone is helping me… It makes it a little less horrifying. On top of that, it’s Cassandra. I couldn’t hope for a better mentor. She knows people, she has connections, she understands art.
Two of these things I suck at. And the truth is that the main reason I do art is because I like it, not because I wanted to be famous.
I feel safe when I lose myself to the brush, and the possibilities of the worlds I can create on a canvas are endless.
It’s all within my control, and there is freedom in that.
Even if I mess up, all I need to do is erase or repaint or start over.
But I also realize that my approach is a bit na?ve, especially if I want to make a living out of my art and fulfill my dream of traveling the world with the money I earn.
I don’t mind my two jobs, but they can really cut into my art time, and besides, I can barely make ends meet, let alone put money aside for my dream.
That doesn’t mean I’ve given up though, which is why I am grabbing this opportunity with both hands. One day I will make it all happen. I will travel the world and paint all the pretty things I see in it.
With a smile on my face, I finish my shift. I call Molly on the way home, giving her my exciting update. We contemplate a second pizza day this month as I round the corner. Then I stop dead in my tracks.
There is a car crash. It looks to be light, so thank god no one has died, but the place is already swarming with people and cameras.
My stomach drops, and prickles replace the pleasant buzz within me.
It gets harder to breathe, so I stop near a tree and hold onto it as I focus on each inhale and exhale.
I want to look away from the road where traffic is worming its way around the accident and people, but I can’t make myself do that no matter how much I try.
It’s like this sometimes. Even if the accident hasn’t hurt anyone but the cars and the wallets of the drivers, I’m transported to the past, reliving the one that took my mom and sister away from me and dad.
The cameras, the interviews, the crowded funeral where people kept coming up to me to offer their condolences because my father couldn’t function.
I was fifteen when it happened, waiting for mom to pick me up from art classes after she’d collected Hannah from her dance lessons.
I’d waited and waited, but they’d not shown up even after an hour, so I’d decided to take the bus since she hadn’t been picking up her phone either.
I stare absentmindedly at the police officer talking to the two drivers, one of them pointing at the red car that has rammed into the blue one’s side.
I think it was maybe half an hour after I’ve gotten home that dad called me from the hospital, crying as he tried to explain to me what was happening.
All I’d gotten is that mom and Hannah had been in an accident and he was waiting to hear from the doctors.
I don’t even know how I made it to the hospital, most of it is still a blur, but I clearly remember his face when I walked up to him once I’d finally arrived.
I shudder as I remember going up to the doctor to ask after my family because my dad couldn’t form a coherent word.
He’d gotten worse after, losing his job and then custody of me because he couldn’t deal with his grief and take care of his own son.
I’d skipped four months of school by the time Molly’s parents took me in, spending all my time shut in my room drawing mindlessly.
I force another deep breath and finally find my center, pushing off the tree.
There are barely any onlookers left as I walk by the scene of the accident, the two drivers already signing the insurance agreement.
The police officer has his hands on his hips as he oversees it, then hops into his vehicle parked to the side.
All three of them drive off after that, each on their way to wherever they were going.
I don’t have a driver’s license. I don’t think I’ll ever get one.
I also hate cameras. The flashes, the invasiveness and the people behind them asking me questions.
It’s my personal hell, so I’m actually glad I had to work the day of the gallery’s opening because I don’t know how I’d have made it if I had to stay for longer.
There is still tension coursing through me when I reach my building.
I’m on edge, expecting a TV crew to jump at me any moment to ask about my dad.
The way the accident happened was brutal, a truck driver overtaking where he shouldn’t and then trying to run away from the scene.
It was all over the news and it created interest towards me and dad that only made things worse.
I sometimes think that maybe if it hadn’t, I’d still have my dad.