Chapter 11
SOPHIE
When I stepped through the sliding glass doors, an ocean breeze cooled my face. The night smelled of jasmine with a distant tang of seaweed.
“You’re not CJ,” he said.
“No, but she did send me with food and drink.”
He patted the bench beside himself. “Then you’d best deliver it. She’s a harsh taskmaster, that one. What’s your name again?”
“Sophie.”
“I’m Frank.”
I took a seat. “This is such a beautiful spot.”
“It is. I’m so spoiled.” He gazed at the ocean. “You know how, back in the day, elderly Eskimos would climb onto an ice floe and float away?”
I didn’t mention that I thought they were called Inuit and also that I wasn’t sure if that was a myth. I just nodded.
“Me personally, I don’t like the cold. But put me on a canoe in the Pacific, with the sun shining down and the waves bobbing?” He raised his glass. “I’ll drift away on an endless supply of stiff nuts.”
“Don’t forget the empanadas.”
“CJ just had you bring those to soak up the alcohol. That girl is such a mother hen. Did she send you out here to ask me for money?”
“Well, she claims she sent me out here to ask you for advice.”
His laugh surprised me, low and easy. “She can’t help trying to help. It’s like a reflex for her. Advice about what?”
“I want to be a playwright.”
“Have you written any plays?”
“Oh, sure. Though only my most recent is any good.”
“Then you are a playwright.”
“Well, I want to be a better one?”
He took a bite of empanada. “Do you believe in your work?”
“I think so?”
“Creatives are always the last to know. Does anyone believe in your work?”
I nodded, thinking about Nicholas. “More than he should.”
“Good. Here’s my secret. All I ever really did for my artists was pretend to be in a position to validate their art. Take them seriously. The only person who could truly validate them was themselves, but creatives live in a fun house. They need other people to see them straight.”
“Huh. I think of art as being solitary.”
“That’s a hard road. Artists need people, often fairly desperately. And they need to connect their self-image to the work itself, not the reception it gets. That’s the win, right there.”
“So follow your passion and the money will follow?” I asked.
“Hah! No, for money you need to get lucky. Look at me. Luck is what paid for this view. The point is, you’re already an artist. A playwright.
You crossed that threshold. At your age, you think you have forever, but I promise you, it’s over in a heartbeat.
And that’s okay, as long as you stick to your art.
Spend your life writing jingles for radio ads, that’s fine.
There is no small art. You want to be a playwright?
You are one. I’m sorry to tell you, but you’ve already won. ”
“Well,” I said. “That’s a new way to look at it.”
He gave me a twinkling look. “Now, then. You’re raising money for who again?”