Epilogue Logan #2
“Relax, dad. Just picked up a pack when I got here.” I’m not really a smoker, but there’s that addictive personality of mine I have to contend with.
Anytime big bro Winston catches wind that I’m not on the straight and narrow, he gets real nervous-like.
At least I’ve never tapped a vein, which for a needy little shit like me is pretty good.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Mase. Are you staying clean?” With our crack-addict mother and who knows who our daddies are, Winston takes it upon himself to worry about my health and well-being. It’s annoying as fuck, but we’re all each other has, so I try to cut him some slack.
With a laugh, I say, “This why you’re really calling? Worried I’m doing a bunch of blow off some stripper’s tits in Tijuana again?”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “No, I know you’re not fucking around with that shit anymore.” After a second, he asks, “Right?”
“Nah, Win, I’m clean. Painfully so. Whatever, why you really calling?”
“Just hadn’t talked to you in a while. Wanted to see how you are. Where you are.”
I take one last drag of the cigarette before putting it out, then stand and stretch to walk to a trash bin. I may be a piece of shit, but I don’t litter.
“I’m fine. Been in Spain for a few weeks. Thinking about heading back to the States soon. I don’t know. I’m still so fucking bored.” I don’t mean to say the last part, but it’s out there now.
“Well, if you’re thinking about the States, a kid I went to school with has a debut coming up.
It’s a pretty prestigious gallery. I think you know it.
They tried to get you to show once. His work is more street-style, though.
You should come. It’s a big deal for him, he’s an unknown…
anyway, maybe you’ll get some inspiration. ”
“Boston?” I step around a dude wrapped in a sleeping bag, tossing a few euros in his empty flipped hat. I navigate my way under the orange glow of the street lamps as I walk out of the park and down the darkened street.
I found an empty boat at the marina I’ve been crashing in, but I can’t go too early. If I get caught squatting, I will definitely get my ass arrested, so I pace myself. Not that I’m in a rush, anyway. No place to be.
Problem with sleeping on the streets in a city like this, people party till six am, out and about everywhere. If I’m in the mood to hang, I can swing it, but lately, I just wanna crash with the sun. Get my circadian rhythm on.
“Yeah, Boston. I know it’s not really your scene here, but this kid, Cody Ramirez, he wants to take over this big warehouse to work out of. I’m thinking about fronting him the capital. If you came… hell, he’d probably pay you to work out of there, give you a whole floor to yourself.”
That’s not appealing in the way he thinks it is. I prefer anonymity. As if reading my thoughts, Winston sighs, “Look, I didn’t tell him you were my brother. I only refer to you as Mason. He doesn’t know you’re Sawyer Cain, renowned contemporary elusive painter.”
I think it’s funny, too, hearing the amusement in his voice, but it doesn’t lighten my mood any.
“I’ll think about it. When’s the show?”
“Next month. At Stillwater Scion. I’ll text you the date.
” Stillwater is an older gallery with deep roots in New England, although now it’s owned by some French billionaire.
They rotate collections with some of the major galleries in the U.S.
Only Stillwater is privately owned and not run by a committee, so they can have showings for unknowns like this Ramirez without having to run the schedule by a board of directors.
I don’t know much about them beyond that.
I know way too much shit about the pretentious underbelly of the art world as it is.
The art director for Stillwater contacted me once before, years ago, but I ignored them.
For some reason, people give a shit about my art.
I’ve always painted, even as a little ankle-biting, snot-nosed kid.
It’s always been the first thing I thought about when I woke each morning, like an obsession, a compulsion. Painting. Creating art.
I sold my first piece when I was barely fifteen, and they’ve only gone up in price since then. Hence the minor cocaine habit of my late teens and early twenties. Having money and adults around you looking at you like you’re the next fucking Picasso is a lot of pressure.
I still have some anonymity, so I’ve been able to step back without much effort.
I’ve always gone by Mason in my private life, and I don’t allow cameras on the opening night of a show—that’s if I even show up—so my image isn’t well known.
I don’t have social media and I don’t really engage with people.
I don’t mean to be a temperamental artsy jackass, but people suck the fuckin’ life out of you if you let them.
They think if they drop a few hundred thousand—in some cases, millions—on a painting, they expect to own you.
I phase in and out of the ability to handle that shit. Lately, I haven’t been up for it.
There’s also that little temper issue of mine.
The more pissed off I get, the better the collection sells.
It burned me out, though. After getting into a fight, punching a patron at my last opening, and nearly setting the gallery on fire in London a couple of years ago, I’ve taken a break from public showings.
The break is just lasting longer than I originally intended.
It’s just as well since I haven’t been in the mood to paint.
So, I’ve been wandering around the world, looking for inspiration.
I’ve slept on trains, in homeless tent cities, and am currently squatting on someone else’s boat on the water…
I can afford to rent a flat with a view of the Eiffel tower, for fuck’s sake, but I don’t.
Having whatever I want at my fingertips has only added to the monotony.
“Look, I was calling, hoping I could get you back here. I know you’re bored, and it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.
Just… think about it. Come home for a bit.
At the very least, you’ll be just as bored here, but we can hang for a little before you go off on your next adventure or whatever. ”
He’s right. I haven’t found anything that grounds me out here.
I feel like I’m floating out to sea without an anchor.
It’s not stability I crave… I’m looking for something, anything, that sparks an interest in me.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him before we hang up the phone.
I’ll probably go, but I’m not committing to it yet.
It takes me a couple of hours to walk to the water, deserted this time of the night.
I creep along the wooden docks that slowly rock with weightlessness against the smooth ocean water, pulling my hoodie up to hide my face.
I’ll miss the sound of the waves gently lapping against the hulls and the sailboat’s sway when I leave here.
I don’t bother setting the alarm on my phone as I slip under a piece of tarp to hide and add protection against the elements. I rarely sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time. I’ll be awake long before sunrise and before any fishermen start their day’s work.
Tugging my hoodie up, I create a makeshift pillow and attempt to sleep, but my thoughts spiral. What could be worse than heading home right now to the States? Not like I’ve got anything to lose. I haven’t been able to paint, try as I have.
For the first time in my life, I’ve got no inspiration. They used to call me a prodigy. Now I’m just a washed-up asshole with nothing left inside of me worth sharing. I’m not even thirty yet. Is this all that’s left for me?
Resisting the extreme urge to climb back off the boat and grab a drink or pull out a smoke, I force my thoughts to settle and let the sound of the water pull me to sleep.