His childhood misbehavior had foreshadowed the times he’d gotten busted for defacing public property as a teenager. But when an artist didn’t have money for materials or a space to work in, tenement walls, dirty buildings, and sidewalks became a canvas for creativity, anger, and beauty.
Although Roberto’s art had become more abstract, I still saw evidence of the quetzal in his paintings. A bit of wise eye. A trace of wing. The colors of tail feathers. The bird was his muse, totem, and guide. But because Roberto had to work at Drayden’s to pay rent and to help his family, he wasn’t painting. It wasn’t surprising that he envied Blythe’s ability to support herself with her art.
However, at least he had a job that allowed him to express himself creatively. Drayden’s windows and displays were extremely elaborate and always changing. What kind of creative outlet did I have with my job? Sometimes I wrote my name in the cleanser before I started scrubbing.
Roberto had a unique vision and knew how he wanted to express it. When he did paint again, everything would probably just explode out of him. I envied him the way he envied Blythe. I could sketch anything. I could paint and get good grades in art classes. But everything I did was derivative of someone else’s work, and it bored me. Studying art or being expected to imitate the styles of other artists seemed like a sure way to extinguish whatever creativity I had. No matter what my uncle thought, dropping out of Pratt had been my first step toward self-preservation. I didn’t have a quetzal to inspire me, but there had to be something in the world that would help me develop an original vision.
I only half listened as the others talked about Blythe’s installation. I shifted my focus from Roberto to Melanie. Her sculptures had begun selling when we were still in high school, sometimes even before she finished them. I didn’t think she was making as much money as Blythe, but sooner or later, she probably would be. In the meantime, her parents paid for the Chelsea space where she lived and worked. She had a few neighbors who looked out for her. She was always trying to get Fred or me to hook up with them. A lot of our female friends seemed to share Melanie’s delusion that all single gay men were in desperate need of a boyfriend.
At least Kendra hadn’t tried to be my marriage broker. She was too focused on her own problems, and was struggling financially even more than I was. Even though she worked two jobs, I assumed she was always broke because she was putting herself through college. But Kendra wasn’t an artist. Her goal was to produce television shows, so going through Pratt’s Media Arts program made sense for her. Not only did she need to learn her craft, but she needed to make contacts.
As for Fred…I could stare at him as much as I wanted, since he was preoccupied with Davii. It was fun to watch him flirt. Fred lived the way most of us probably would if we believed fate was our guide. Things just worked out for him. Right now he might be pulling coffee at Starbucks, but I was sure that one day he’d luck into the perfect life for himself. Just like he’d gotten into art school through his uncle.
Or the way he’d gotten his apartment. A teacher from BHSA was on a yearlong yoga retreat in Okinawa, so Fred was living in his apartment, rent-free, to take care of his two cats. Being Fred, he’d almost turned it down because he couldn’t smoke there; then he found out it had a private rooftop terrace. The phrase that best applied to Fred’s life was one I’d learned from Aunt Gretchen: He could fall in a bucket of shit and come out smelling like a rose.
A wave of nausea washed over me, and all I wanted to do was leave. I felt selfish. Blythe was obviously in the mood to party, but I found it hard to celebrate her good fortune. When was I going to have good news to share? When would people be able to say, “Hey, Nick, that’s great news. I’m so happy for you.” I was tired of congratulating other people on their luck and was ready for some luck of my own.
The others didn’t notice how quiet I was. Or maybe they thought I was in a bad mood and wanted to give me space. I alternated between feeling sorry for myself, being angry for feeling sorry for myself, and being angry with everyone who was making me feel sorry for myself.
I mumbled something about getting a beer and left our table. Cookie tore his gaze from the basketball game on the TV over the bar when I slid onto a stool. He leaned forward with narrowed eyes, almost like he was mad at me. It was possible that I’d been wrong and he was holding a grudge.
“MGD, please,” I said.
“I told you before,” he said, “no ID, no drinks.”
“Huh?” Maybe he’d gotten me mixed up with someone else. He’d never asked for an ID from me. I glanced toward the men at the pool table, the only cops in the place. But they were off duty and weren’t looking our way.
“I can’t serve you without seeing an ID,” Cookie repeated.
“Fine.” I took out my wallet and handed him my fake ID.
“I’ll need to see that ID, too,” a man seated on the bar stool next to me said.
“Wh-wh-wh-what?” I stammered.
“Sorry,” Cookie said as the man reached over and took the ID from him.
I was such a dumbass. Of course Cookie hadn’t given a shit about my ID; he’d been trying to warn me. I should have just said I didn’t have my license with me and walked away.
“Peter?” The man squinted at the ID. “Would you care to step outside with me?”
“Outside? It’s cold outside. My coat’s over there. With my friends.” I tried to sound innocent. I glanced toward our table, unsure what they could do to help me, but at least Blythe, Davii, and Kendra were all of legal drinking age. Unfortunately, everyone at the table was oblivious to what was happening to me. I felt like I was in one of those nightmares where I screamed and no sound came out. “What are you, a cop?”
“Something like that,” he said. He gripped my arm and gave me a little push. I glanced again at my friends, but they still hadn’t noticed that I was being manhandled. I wondered why Fred had chosen this night to stop paying attention. But of course, he was. To Davii.
“Am I being arrested?” I asked.
“We’ll let them decide that at the precinct,” the man said. Then he repeated with sarcastic exaggeration, “Peter.”
The cold air blasted us as we went through the door, giving me a moment of clarity.
“Peter’s my friend,” I said. “I must have picked up the wrong license. Mine’s probably at home.”
“Like I said, we’ll let them figure that out at the precinct.”
He walked me to a van, where a uniformed cop opened a door so I could get in. Three other people barely glanced my way as I sat down. Two of them were girls with black-rimmed eyes and dye jobs as bad as Morgan’s. One of the girls was putting on dark lipstick, and the other was on her cell phone.
“Just tell Daddy to get there,” she snarled into the phone before snapping it shut.
“Hey, can I use that?” the only other guy asked. He was short, even thinner than I was, and covered with acne. Why had he imagined anyone would think he was old enough to drink?
The girl tossed him her phone with indifference. She looked at me and said, “You can use it, too. If they’re too stupid to take it away from me, I figure we can call whoever we want, right? I’m sure as shit not sitting in jail.”
“I’ve got my own,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone. I stared at it for a minute, realizing that more than anything in the world, I didn’t want to make my call.
I dialed the number and waited.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
“We’re not here. To leave a message for Daniel, press one. For Blaine, press two. For Gavin, press three. For anyone else, hang up and dial your number again.”
I pressed 2 and began, “Uncle Blaine? It’s Nick.”
Too