Three Years Ago
I’m sitting on River Street, working on a portrait of Lafayette Square. It is my favorite square in the city. Gorgeous fountain. Great view of the cathedral. Close proximity to the Flannery O’Connor Childhood Home—a historic landmark of the city and birthplace of one of my favorite authors.
In the background, I hear the saxophonist play a rendition of a Rat Pack song. I can’t quite figure out which one. But the soothing tones of the wind instrument elevate my creative cognizance. The details of this portrait are flowing from my fingertips as fluidly as the music coming from the sax.
I’m in a rhythm. A zone. I could stay in this exact spot all day and never grow tired. I only wish it could last forever. I fan out the curve of the fountain to provoke emotion. I etch the lines on the trunk of the tree to emphasize its rigidity. I smooth out clouds in the sky for contrast. Add a little more shading to the edge of the cathedral, which is peeking out ever so slightly in the background. This is the best drawing I’ve done in a while. It’s speaking to me. Singing to me. I feel its emotion.
It could have something to do with the fact that I didn’t drink myself stupid, for once, last night. Mom insisted I come over for dinner. I hadn’t seen her in a while, so I obliged and ended up staying the night. In my old room. My old bed. A very comfortable bed. It’d been a good long time since I’d slept in a bed.
I woke up refreshed and clear. I left Mom’s early. She protested and offered to make me breakfast, which was tempting—Mom’s omelets are out of this world. But I had to go. I made it back here to the riverfront just before the sun rose. I drew the sun peeking from the horizon of the water. Quite a task with black charcoal, but I think I pulled it off. I’ve done six portraits this morning, counting the one I’m finishing up now. I usually don’t finish six in a day.
As I flick around the toothpick in my mouth, I put the final strokes on the detail of the fountain. I lean back to observe. This piece feels done. I look up at the sky, and by the position of the sun, I’d say it was around noon. I don’t wear a watch, my phone is in my pocket, and my hands are too dirty to reach in to check the time. I’ve learned to rely on the sun. I stand up, stretch, and walk over to my display table. I reach underneath and grab my cleaning solution for my hands along with a towel.
Hands clean, I walk back over and pull the piece from the easel. This one is a twelve-by-sixteen. I decide to use it as one of my luring displays. I switch it out with the one I currently have of a pathway lined with oaks covered in Spanish moss. It may sound boring, but it looks majestic and is kind of a staple image when many people think of Savannah.
“They’re calling for rain today,” someone behind me calls out. I recognize the voice. I turn to see Padraig approaching me with another man. Padraig is wearing a trench coat and a tweed hat. I’m not sure he could look more Irish if you plucked him straight out of a Dublin pub. The man with him is also wearing a trench. He’s shorter. Older. Shaved head and tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt.
“What happens if it rains?” He approaches my table. “Do they all just wash away?”
“Pretty much,” I answer.
“Well, aren’t you concerned with preserving your work?”
“Nah. It’s kind of thrilling knowing that Mother Nature could just wipe it all away,” I lie through my teeth. I’ve been considering getting one of those pop-up PVC tents. But my comment sounds way more badass.
“Aye. I suppose.” He fingers through a few of my ten-by-twelves, the guy with him looking as well around Padraig’s shoulder.
“How on earth did you make such a great sunrise with just one color?” the guy asks and looks in my direction.
I shrug in response.
Internally, I swell with pride.
“Luca, this is Lars.”
I reach out to shake his hand. “Like the drummer?”
“Same name,” he says, shaking my hand.
“I’m Luca, nice to meet you. What brings you two down here, dressed like hired hands of the mob, no less?”
Shit. My stupid big mouth. What if they are hired hands of the mob? Is there a mob in Savannah? Padraig’s dad works for the city. Is that code for “mob boss”? Is he in the sanitation division? I’m such an idiot. I may have just sealed my fate to go swimming with the fishes. I swallow hard as Padraig and Lars look down at their attire. Then they look at each other and laugh.
“Like I said, it’s supposed to rain, Luca,” Padraig says, pulling at his lapel, indicating the purpose of the coats.
“Right,” is all I return.
“I wanted to introduce you to Lars. He owns the tattoo shop down the street.” Padraig points past me, down River Street.
“Am I encroaching on your business somehow?” Some of the shop owners down here are not fond of us street vendors. “If so, I apologize. I can move farther down.”
Lars shakes his head. “No, no. Not at all. Padraig showed me the picture of the cathedral window. It’s pretty extraordinary. It looks almost 3-D.”
“Thank you.”
“I thought you two should meet,” Padraig begins. He rubs the back of his neck as though he’s a little nervous or hesitant. “I know this is a long shot, but Lars here is pretty good at what he does. He’s looking to retire soon. Was hoping he could find someone to take over his shop. He doesn’t have any employees to take charge.”
“I’ve scouted other artists around the area,” Lars adds. “But my shop is pretty run-down, and I haven’t found anyone interested. I’d really hate to see it turned into another damn souvenir shop.”
Padraig chuckles and nods.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
“I’d like to teach you how to ink, Luca.”
“What?”
“Your steady hand. Attention to detail. You’d be a perfect tattoo artist. I could teach you. You could take over my shop.”
“But you said it was run-down. Why would I want that?”
“It’s a two-level space. You could turn part of it into an art studio if you wanted,” Padraig chimes in.
I ponder a second on his response and Lars’s completely out-of-the-blue offer.
“Okay. But look,” I point to my easel. “I’m here painting charcoals for money to eat. I don’t have money to buy you out of your business.”
Lars places his hand on my shoulder, and I get a little defensive. I scrunch my face into a frown. I feel like this is some type of scam.
“Look,” he says. “Come by. Take a look. See if you’re interested. I like your work. I think you have potential.”
Potential? I have more than fucking potential. Do you not see my display table?
“Here’s my card. Give me a call or drop by whenever you’d like. I look forward to seeing you again.”
I take his card and flip it around in my hand. He reaches out for a shake.
“I’ll think about it, I guess.” I shake his hand, a slight scowl still on my face.
“Luca,” Padraig says, extending his hand as well. “I really do hope you think about it.” I shake his hand, and he gives my shoulder a firm tap.
“Me dad loves your drawings, by the way, just as I thought he would.”
His statement pulls me out of defensive mode. “That is great to know. If he’d like more, I’m happy to do custom work for him.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him and let you know.” He grabs the edge of his tweed in between his thumb and index finger and tips it at me. “I’ll see ya around, Luca.”
“See ya,” I say, but he’s already walking to catch up with Lars, who began walking a few seconds prior.
“I still owe you a few four-by-sixes. Or some change at least,” I yell out.
Padraig raises his hand in the air in a backward wave, completely dismissing my statement.
Son of a bitch, that guy is strange.
“What the hell are you doing home so early?” Milo asks me as I walk through the door.
I take my phone out of my pocket and look at the time. It’s seven o’clock at night. “What do you mean?”
Milo is sitting on the sofa—the sofa I sleep on, probably intentionally farting on the cushion where I lay my head, because he’s a sick fucker like that—stuffing his face full of corn chips.
“I mean,” he says, throwing a chip at me, “you usually traipse your ass in here at three o’clock in the morning. Did the bars run out of alcohol?”
I roll my eyes and sit down in the chair. “No. I had a long day. A good day. I spent the night at Mom’s last night.
“Yeah, I heard. So glad to have gotten an invite for dinner.”
“Shut the fuck up. You eat dinner with Mom all of the time. Without me.”
“Sure do. And she and I sit and do nothing but talk about how we’re going to deal with your slack ass.”
I lean back in my chair and focus on my phone’s screen. “Whatever, man. As I was going to say, I got a good night’s sleep and I had a good day today.”
“Does this have anything to do with the pictures you sold to the mayor?”
I look up from my phone. “What the fuck are you talking about, Milo?”
“I was in the mayor’s office today for a case. I saw two of your drawings hanging in his lobby. I wasn’t positive they were yours until I saw the signature at the bottom.”
I swallow hard and blink a few times.
“What were they pictures of?”
“What? Of the city, you idiot. You don’t remember selling your merch to the mayor?”
I shake my head.
“One was of the municipal building, and one was of the bridge. The big ones. Who did you sell those to?”
“Padraig,” I mumble to myself, but loud enough for Milo to obviously hear.
“Ha! You sold paintings to the mayor’s son, and you didn’t even know he was his son, did you?”
“I had no clue. He did mention his dad worked for the city.”
Milo shakes his head. “Figures,” he says with a mouthful of chips, crumbs falling from his lips and landing on my bed space. I roll my eyes. “He never wants anyone to know who his dad is. He wants to be an everyman. Although, he goes around passing out hundred-dollar bills to all the street peddlers. Is that what he did to you? Give you a cool, crisp hundo for your finger paintings?”
I give him a smug smile. “He gave me two, actually.”
“Damn, son! Well, I hope some of that is going toward my rent this month.”
“You are such a jackass.” I stand, not wanting to listen to his harassment any longer. “I’m going to get some dinner.” I walk toward the door.
“Don’t spend all that fancy money in one place! Rent is due, brah!” That’s the last thing I hear him say before I close the door. I walk down the hall of the apartment as I pull out Lars’s card. Maybe this is legit after all.
I can’t believe Padraig is the mayor’s son.