If (11 page)

BIRD

I WENT TO
both performances of Jordan’s show, and both were gorgeous. In true Jordan fashion, it was not your average Christmas show. Somehow, given a small budget, he turned it into high art. The story of the Nativity I had seen what felt like hundreds of times had a become a revelation through movement. I wasn’t alone in this feeling. The show even got some good coverage in the LA Times. For a local theatre production, it gained some pretty good buzz. In addition to both showings, I also partook in the subsequent celebrations. With an early wakeup on Monday, I decided to hang at home alone on Sunday evening, while Jordan had spent the night at Trevor’s.

I used the downtime to do some cleaning. The one benefit of a studio apartment was that cleaning was a breeze. The easel stood exactly where Ash left it, and I smiled at the speckles of paint on the floor beneath it. I had a hunch it would be a while before I would see him again. As skillful as his creation was, he seemed more upset than happy that I had pushed him to paint. Since that day, I had been so busy, I didn’t have much of a chance to think about what he told me about his synesthesia. So finally, after I lit some candles to top off my newly freshened apartment, I sat with my laptop and did some research.

Honestly, the phenomenon sounded so unbelievable I wanted to make sure it was really a thing.

Well, it was a thing. And Ash’s version, the intensity with which he described it, and the various combinations, was extremely unique.

I began to envy him a little. Most of us had our five senses, each limited to their respective lanes—eyes see reflections of light, ears hear sound waves, touch feels the physical world, the nose picks up scent.

But Ash could taste touch, see sound, feel emotion on his fingertips. How amazing it must be to feel the world with such a diverse palette. In a way, he was like a superhero with special powers. But like most superheroes, he was troubled. Something burdened him, and I think that was why he was where he was.

Ash intrigued me like no one else had before. I had Jordan, but Jordan had Trevor. And that was a great thing, but I was lonely. I wanted someone who I could peer into and discover. Ash seemed like that person. He seemed like he was storing a treasure chest of thoughts and creativity inside of him. I wanted to get past that quiet exterior and learn about this mysterious artist who wandered the streets.

Oh, and he was attractive. Intrigue plus attraction usually equaled something I couldn’t consider with him. The reality was, he seemed to have no future, no place in society. I was poor now, but I had vision. Ash had lost his. Like Jordan said, the streets are fucked up, and more often than not, so are the people who live on them.

As I was browsing the web for more articles on synesthesia, my phone rang and I was shocked to see my caller ID display: Ash.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant.

“I’d like to try painting again if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course,” I sat up in my seat. “When were you thinking?”

“I’m in the neighborhood.” Which I believe was code for his usual spot.

“Well, I’m just home hanging out.”

“I’ll come over then.”

He was at my door within minutes. When I let him in, I was shocked to see he had almost completely shaven this time, with just a light stubble fanning his face.

“You look so young . . .” I said, as I let him in.

“Did I look older before?”

“Not considerably. It’s just that every time, you shave a little more, and it makes you look a little younger each time. You definitely look like someone who is barely into his twenties. The beard hid a lot.”

“That’s the point,” he said, sliding his bag to the floor. “And I am well into twenty, plus one.”

“What happened to the last painting?” I asked.

“What does it matter? It was shit.”

I sighed. He was determined that it was a piece of shit, and I couldn’t change his mind.

His clothes smelled freshly laundered. It’s not that he ever stunk, in fact, I assumed he had access to some place to clean up and shave, but today he smelled of fresh detergent, a scent I had always found comforting. Finally, I had the balls to ask about it.

“Where do you shave? Do you go to a shelter?”

He looked back at me over his shoulder. He had already made his way over to the easel and was messing around with a tube of blue acrylic paint. “My brother, he has a guest house. When I need somewhere to stop, he lets me shower there, do laundry, eat, sometimes sleep, but I never stay for more than one night at a time.”

“He doesn’t let you?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like walls and I don’t want to.”

It was clear that I had gone as far down that road as I could have for the time being. But the fact that his brother had enough money to have a guest house in LA while he was homeless added to the mystery.

“He’s the one who gave me the phone. He’s older, so he worries.”

Ash’s unsolicited admission surprised me.

“I have an older sister, too, who worries. I get it.”

“Plus, my sister-in-law is a little icy.”

“Huh?”

“When you asked why I don’t stay. I wouldn’t anyway, but I might spend an extra day just to shut my brother up. I can tell she doesn’t want me there though, and I’d rather just go. She gives me the nudge.”

“Oh . . .” I felt sad for him, even though he didn’t seem sad at all about his sister-in-law.

“Well,” Ash said, sliding off his canvas jacket, to reveal a white t-shirt with faded streaks of color that the detergent could not eradicate, “ready to dance?”

ASH

I found myself visiting Bird two to three times a week after that first dancing and painting session. At first I would call ahead, then one day she called me, and then call-aheads stopped all-together. I started to get a good feel for her schedule and would just show up. I knew I was pushing my limits, but the experiences we shared were so seductive. I would still hate my work, and Bird would tell me how much she loved what I drew or painted, but she didn’t understand. She had never seen what the old me was capable of. Of course, technical skills are a requirement in art, but there’s something extra, allowing oneself to become completely lost in inspiration, and I would not allow that.

Every time I visited her, I felt giddy, happy. I hadn’t felt that in a long time, and that was intentional. Whenever I saw her, I feared this would be the day I would become a little too giddy, a little too excited, I would get caught up in the spiral that sometimes felt impossible to crawl out of. But every time it didn’t happen, I got a little more confident in seeing her, a little more expressive in each work. I always held something back though. I had to.

I had been consistently visiting for about three weeks. I noticed Jordan would poke his head in often to say hi. I got it. I was a bum in his eyes. Something had to be wrong with me. But after a while, Jordan stopped coming, or he would stop in to genuinely chat with us. I liked Jordan. He was big in spirit. I envied how he could be that way when I had to stay so clenched.

I came to her on a Friday night. I didn’t call, and I fully expected when I knocked on her door, she would be out with her friends. But she swung the door open with a smile, her lavender aura perfectly outlining her. Lately, I had been smelling lavender around her. That was new.

She wasn’t expecting company and she had on a loose-fitting, baby-pink tank top with no bra over some tiny white boxers. Her legs were long and shapely, and it was hard not to steal a glimpse. Heat began to dance its way down my neck. The tank pressed against the outline of her small breasts and I had to distract myself by discussing business.

“Are you down for a session?” I asked.

“Have I ever denied you?” she replied, sauntering towards the futon with a sway in her hips.

It was playful, but I didn’t allow myself to think she was flirting. I glanced over to the futon and a glass of wine was resting on the arm. She was tipsy.

I had been visiting my brother’s a lot lately, to shave and do my laundry. I wanted to be fresh for her, and she told me that she liked my facial hair trimmed. I knew deep inside that was a bad sign. I should have grown my beard and let it collect food crumbs. I should have let myself become sweaty and grimy. Not enough to sicken, but just enough to repel.

She grabbed her wine and finished it in one final gulp. “Do you want a drink? I have the finest boxed wine money can buy.”

“No thanks. I don’t drink.”
I can’t drink.

“Hey, I was wondering?” she asked, coyly.

“Yeah?”

“Could you show me how you paint? Like teach me something?”

“Uh, sure. I could teach you a technique or two.”

“Like that guy. Bob . . . something.” She lowered her voice. “A happy cloud there, a happy tree here.”

I laughed, remembering watching those shows as a kid and how his soft voice looked like cumulus clouds.

“Then maybe I could teach you how to dance a bit.”

“Not sure if you want to take on such a monumental task. Seriously, we could get severely injured.”

“Doubt it.”

Dammit, she was beautiful. Beautiful in ways I had never seen before. I hadn’t had the balls to ask, but I think she was mixed, black and white or some unusual mix. It was like some divine being took the best of both worlds and combined them to make Bird. But it wasn’t just her looks. She exuded an easiness that made me feel comfortable with her as soon as I met her.

She pulled out an Al Green vinyl and dropped the needle. This album could be played front to back without a single bad song.

Unlike Bird, who actually taught dance, I had never taught anyone else how to paint. I was selfish with my craft, but as soon as she asked, I wanted to share it with her.

“So, teach me, Mister . . . what’s your last name?”

“Thoreau,” I said.

“Of course, your last name would be Thoreau.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that it’s synonymous with intelligence. Philosophical? An old soul. Do you think you’re related?”

“No relation that I know of.”

“So Ash Thoreau?”

“Asher Thoreau, and you?”

“Annalise Campbell.”

“I like it.”

“How are we just learning each other’s full names?” she asked through a laugh.

“We knew the ones that counted. So, what do you want to paint?” I asked.

“You tell me, Teach.”

“Let’s start with something simple. How about a tree, in the fall, so you can play with color?”

She smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

“Okay, we’re going to use acrylic because if you make a mistake, you can paint over it as soon as it dries.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” she said, coming over to stand in front of me at the easel. She was so close, I could feel her warmth even though we weren’t touching. The pale glow that surrounded her now grazed me.

I squeezed out green and white and showed her how to mix for the right shade. Then I told her to lay down short, staccato thrusts, but her swipes were, frankly, juvenile and clunky.

“No, see, you are trying to draw the tree. You just need to focus on the leaf, and then pull that back to how the light hits the leaf because a leaf, even a leaf that you just see as green, is many shades of green.”

“And this is why I’m a dancer,” Bird said.

“Here,” I said, grabbing some of the brush handle from behind, “let me guide you.” It was a mistake. Her lavender scent grew strong, and I could smell her fruity shampoo on top of it, and the curves of her behind pressed against my pelvis. The heat rolled down my neck, and to my fingertips, and even though I was holding wood, I felt the warmth of the coziest blanket rubbing against them.

“Okay,” she said in barely a whisper. Her voice moved in transparent cerulean and seafoam wavelengths in my line of sight.

I slid my hands up the edge of the brush, so my hand was over her delicate hand. And shit, I am only a man and I just wanted her so bad. But, I focused on the empty sheet on the easel.

“So you start soft, tentative, until you find a rhythm.” My words were barely a breeze against her ear. “Just relax.” I gently guided her hand and she let me take over. I used the hand of my muse to fill the canvas with strokes of green. “This will be the foundation, but soon we’ll fill it with browns and oranges, even pinks.”

“We? You’re doing all the work, but I like it that way,” she said, almost woozily, as if she were in the same trance as me. She leaned back, resting her head against the front of my shoulder. My heart thudded so hard, I was afraid she would feel it. I guided her hand to a cup of water and she dropped the brush. But I didn’t let go. I didn’t want to let go, and I don’t think she wanted me to either.

“Let’s come back to this, we can work on it a little each day,” she said, turning her palm up so she could thread her fingers into mine. The heat was everywhere, like a warm rush of water, lulling me to do whatever the hell she wanted.

“Now, I show you how to dance.” She turned, using my hand, and then she was facing me. Her skin radiated through tiny freckles on her cheeks and nose.