Three Years Ago
“Get up, you fucking bum.” My body reacts in a jerky motion when something plunges into my abdomen.
“What the fuck, man?” I squint open my eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the light from the curtain Milo just slung open. I look down at my stomach where he tossed a bottle of water. I slink up on the couch and sit, opening the water and chugging almost the whole contents.
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Why are you still sleeping?” He sits in the chair to the left of the sofa and leans to rest his arms on his lap. “You have got to figure something out, man. It’s been almost three months since you and—”
I shake my head. “Don’t say her name. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Oh my God, you are so dramatic.”
I stand and stretch out the stiffness that sleeping on this couch produces every night. I give myself a scratch and make my way toward the bathroom.
“Leave me alone, man. If you don’t want me here, just say so and I’ll go.”
“I want my brother back, is all. That bitch is not worth all of this moping. You’re being an idiot. You skipped the trip you’d been wanting to take your entire life because she dumped you. You have that fancy, expensive degree and no job. You have all that talent, and you spend your days doing what? Charcoal drawings on River Street for five dollars a pop? Things need to change, man. Mom is so worried about you—”
I stand in the doorway of the bathroom and turn to him for a moment. He looks at me as I scrub my hand down my face. I know he’s right. I stalled my entire life because Mallory ripped my heart out in front of our favorite restaurant. It hurts less than it did that day, that week, last month. I need to move on and figure out how I’m going to make a living. The Europe trip was supposed to solidify an internship at an art gallery in Chicago, but I blew that to shit. All because of a stupid girl. A girl I loved so much.
I sigh, and instead of discussing these thoughts with my brother, Milo, who’s been letting me sleep on his couch for almost three months after staying at my parents’ house proved to be unbearable because of my sweet, smothering mother, I say, “Like I said, if you want me out, say the word.”
I enter the bathroom and close the door before he has a chance to respond.
I’d like to think I’m a realist. I don’t sit out here on the edge of River Street with the delusion that I’m going to make a lucrative living doing charcoal cityscapes. But my work is fairly popular with tourists and locals alike. One of the waterfront shop owners asked me to do a collection for him to sell in his store. I did and he paid me well. And unlike some of the other artistic vendors around here, I don’t have to solicit customers. They come to me. I sit out here eight, sometimes ten, hours a day and do what I love to do: express myself through art. I put a spin on all of my drawings. Apparently, it’s an appealing spin, because I have a constant group of people at my booth looking at my collection. My smallest pieces, which are four inches by six inches in size, are the biggest hit, likely because they’re the least expensive. I frequently sell my ten-by-twelve-inch size too. I have a couple of twelve-by-sixteen-inch pieces as well. I sell one occasionally, but I have them out mostly for display to attract onlookers from a distance.
I’m doing what makes me happy. I’m not going to be a millionaire from it, but I make enough money to keep myself fed and to appease Milo with some cash each month so he doesn’t feel as compelled to kick me off of his sofa. He thinks the opposite of how I feel. That I sit down here all day and try to work out some sort of depression. Is my heart shattered to pieces? Absolutely. Did I throw away my future because of it? Yep. But I’m far from depressed. Only broken, at best. Maybe I’ll stay broken. Maybe I won’t. I’m not worried about that right now. For now, I want to spend my days down by the water. Listen to the current. Feel the breeze. Work on my charcoals. I’m not doing anyone any harm. I don’t understand why my mom and Milo are on my ass so much.
Yes, you do, Luca.
“Aye,” I hear a voice say from behind me. “That is an excellent drawing of the cathedral. So much detail.”
I turn to meet the face that goes with the medium Irish accent. Tall. Five o’clock shadow. Hands shoved in his pockets nonchalantly.
“Thanks.” I point my chalk-smudged finger to my display table. “I have a few more over there. Different angles. If you want to take a look.”
He walks over to the table and takes a moment to peruse my collection. I go back to my easel. After a few minutes, he turns back toward me. “These are impressive. The way you perceived the direction of the lighting here.” He points to a painting I did of the Kehoe House. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve had some lessons in photography.”
I nod. “I have. I took three photog classes in college.”
“SCAD?” he asks.
I nod again. “Yeah. I graduated a few months ago.”
“Any of those classes with Dr. Charles?”
This question piques my interest and curiosity. “I took two of my classes with him. Composites and Perspective. Do you know him?”
“Aye. Had a few classes with him myself. He was also my mentor for my senior portfolio.”
I lean back in my chair. “Huh. How about that? Photography major, I presume?”
“That I was. Graduated in two-thousand-eleven.”
“It’s nice to meet a fellow graduate. Not many stick around Savannah once they graduate.”
“That is true,” he agrees.
I shift in my seat slightly and turn more in his direction.
“I’m Luca. I’d shake your hand, but mine are kind of indisposed currently.” I hold up my dusty, charcoal-covered hands to him.
“No problem. Nice to meet you. I’m Padraig.”
“Nice to meet you too. So how does that expensive photography degree keep you busy around here these days?”
“I do freelance work for Zephyr.”
“No shit! Wow. But wait. He’s not really into general photography.”
“No. But he uses what I shoot as inspiration for his projects. I don’t quite understand his process, but he pays me well and allows me to use my creative eye, so I don’t complain.”
“Sounds like a sweet deal.”
“It’s not too shabby.” He points his thumb over his shoulder toward the display table. “How long have you been doing the street vendor gig? Was this your plan for your expensive degree?”
“It’s a really long story that I’m not too fond of telling,” I say with a little more bite than I intend.
“I get it.” Padraig throws his hands in the air. “I’m certainly not trying to pry. I was only curious.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to be a dick. It’s just a sore subject, is all. Still fresh.”
“Okay,” he says, completely unaffected by my attitude. “How much are your drawings going for?”
“The four-by-sixes are twenty-five dollars, the ten-by-twelves are forty, and the twelve-by-sixteens are sixty-five.”
He takes another scan of what I have for sale. “I’ll take this one. And this one.” He points to two of my twelve-by-sixteens. One is of the city hall on Bay Street, and the other is of the Talmadge Bridge that spans the river from Savannah to Hutchinson Island, across the bay.
I have to admit I’m a little surprised. No one has ever bought two of my large drawings at once. I clear my throat.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. I have a perfect place for them to go.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Me father’s office.”
Of all the places I could have ever imagined he’d say he’d display my drawings, his father’s office would not have been one of them. “Um, okay. Great. Let me get my hands cleaned up, and I’ll pack them up for you.”
“He works for the city.” I pause wiping down my hands to listen. “Me dad,” he clarifies. “He’ll appreciate them a lot.”
Well, that is interesting, I guess. I don’t question sales. I finish cleaning my hands and pull out the packaging material from the bin underneath the table.
“You know, I think I’ll take this four-by-six as well.” He points to the one I did of the front circular window of the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. I’m a little obsessed with that building. The architecture fascinates me.
“Sure thing. That’s the window of the cathedral.”
“I thought so. Great lines and shading. It almost looks 3-D.”
“Thanks. I was going for that. I’m glad it translates like I’d hoped.”
I package up the two large pieces and then the small one. “So that’ll be one hundred fifty-five. I have a card reader, if you need one.”
Padraig doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls out his wallet, opens it up, and pulls out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. He hands them over to me. I take them and pull out my cash box to get change. Padraig carefully picks up his purchase and gently places them under his arm.
“Thank you much, brother. It was really nice to meet you, Luca.” He extends his hand to me. “Now that your hands are clean?” he says.
I breathe out a laugh and shake his hand. “Absolutely my pleasure Thank you for your business.”
In my other hand is his change, which I offer to him. “And here’s your change.”
“Aye. Keep it. You’re undercharging.”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t. You could get a couple more four-by-sixes if you want.”
“Yes. You can,” he says, dismissing my offer. “Are you down here often?”
“Almost every day. As long as the weather is good,” I answer.
“I’ll be seeing ya around then, Luca. Keep up that artistic spirit.”
I’m at a loss for words. He gives me a quick wink and walks away with my art in tow. I watch him for a moment. He says hello to the saxophonist a little way down and then to the lady who’s sitting on the park bench and trying to sell her handmade palm-leaf roses. Then he veers off into an alleyway, disappearing from my sight. I could have chased after him and demanded he take his change, but the whole interaction kind of has me perplexed. I give myself a pinch to see if I’m dreaming.
Nope. That hurt like hell.
Padraig was a little strange. I can’t quite put my finger on how, though. I shake my head out of the fog it’s in, put his change back into the money box, and lock it up. I put everything away underneath the table, sit down on my stool in front of the easel, and get back to work on my current drawing.