Chapter Five
I worked on autopilot. My coworkers chatted with the customers and tried to talk to me but I didn’t hear them. They were laughing and joking, and I felt like I was hovering. It was like I was watching a movie of my life and it was more boring than an infomercial. As the morning rush came, Beans and Barley was busier than usual and Anne Marie barely had the chance to flirt with the customers. The summer was in full swing, and the tourists came from all over to see the beach.
I’d give anything to be able to walk out these doors and head right for the beach, too.
“Excuse me,” a woman said. She was tanned and blonde, probably younger than me, but I had a hard time with age. Once people became adults, they all looked the same to me. The difference was the light in their eyes, and hers hadn’t been dimmed yet.
“Yeah?”
“Can you add whipped cream to my drink?” She smiled, blinking her blue eyes at me like she was asking me for the moon, and I nodded. Her already sugary drink now had a mound of whipped cream on top and she bounded away happily. How nice it would be for something as simple as whipped cream to make me happy.
Anne Marie, the new guy whose name I couldn’t remember, and I worked in unison, mixing and blending and brewing until the rush finally ended.
“Are you excited about the art show tonight?” Anne Marie asked.
“Huh?” I said, still not fully listening.
“The art show. You know, where people come to see your paintings? The thing I talked you into months ago? I swear Owen, if you forgot–”
“I didn’t. Sorry I was just zoning out. It’s here already?” I checked the date and saw that it was already Saturday. The event had three artists set up for an ocean focused exhibition; it was the perfect venue for my work and I had actually forgotten about it. They were expecting me to have at least ten pieces–enough to cover a wall–and I wasn’t sure I had enough. I’d been gaining more sales online, and maybe if I just used some of the basic ones that would work–
“You’re lost again, Mr. Harper. Go, you clearly need to get ready for the exhibition. You’re supposed to be off in half an hour anyway,” she said. I hugged her and she stiffened for a minute before returning the hug. Wasn’t that a thing friends did? It seemed right, but maybe I’d misjudged our friendship too.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to salvage the moment from being too awkward. She winked at me and nudged my shoulder, and everything was okay. We were okay.
“I’ll be there tonight, okay? I might be a little late, but I’ll be there! I can’t wait to see what you’ve made.”
Yeah, same , I thought as I headed back home. It was barely noon and the day was already a scorcher. My shoes felt like they stuck to the concrete as I walked the few blocks back to my apartment. I’d left the window open, and everything smelled like salty air. A stack of canvases leaned against the small kitchen table, and I thumbed through them to see what was completed. Most of them were, surprisingly. Or completed enough that the average guy wouldn’t be able to tell that I wanted to add more detail. They would have to do. I had a few more sketches of my mermaid that I could probably part with too–they were good, even if they were just pencil sketches.
Flipping through the pages, I watched as the mermaid splashed on the page, posed for a sun she would never feel, and pretended to smile. Her smiles always felt like they held more sorrow than joy, no matter how much I arched or curved her lips. Her mouth was made for the depths of emotions felt only in the waters, not the sunny vibes of land.
No, I couldn’t sell those.
I grabbed seven paintings, all landscapes or stills of ocean life, and then pulled one mermaid canvas. It was an older one that I never fell in love with. It was like I wasn’t painting from the heart, but like I tried to copy something already created. I didn’t of course–but her eyes held no warmth, the curves of her body and the shine of her fins seemed too dull for the mermaid I couldn’t stop painting now.
This one would sell well, and having some extra funds in my account would be good with all of the Thai food and boba I kept ordering.
I had about ninety minutes before I needed to go to the small warehouse to set up. It was a brewery that folded a few years ago–their beer all tasted like armpits, and the owners were assholes–but it found new life with a fun, artsy couple as a gallery. Carla and Liz were both artists too, but they hosted monthly exhibitions, focusing on local artists. I’d met them a few times before to get everything squared away for tonight.
After a shower and steaming the only presentable clothes I owned, it was time to get going. I called an Uber and packaged the pieces up so they’d be ready to travel. They were bulky with all of the bubble wrap around them–was this how paintings were packaged up? I didn’t even know. The sketches were in plastic sheets to keep them from smudging or getting messed up. I had a large leather bag that I got at a thrift store, and it looked the part for “starving artist.” The golden clasps were scratched and worn, and the brown leather was buttery soft with age and use. It smelled like old leather and it looked like the kind of thing that a grandfather would pass down, if I had one. Carrying the leather case always made me feel like a real artist, like this was the proof that my paint coated fingers and ink smudged hands were worthy of the title. I didn’t wash off all of the paint that was caked on me from the final touch ups–it added to the appeal.
I tossed my hair and smiled. My first real exhibition. This felt like something was starting, like maybe one day I could just be an artist full time and not feel guilty for spending my days in the sun with my canvases on the beach.
This was going to be a good day, after all.