Oliver
THE REST OF the night was spent lost in her face, or maybe more adrift in the stormy blue of her eyes. I was in familiar territory. It took me back to high school and the effect she’d had. I tried to look away from the details, like the faint freckles across her straight edged nose, the bow of her kissable lips. But there was no ignoring the colors that make her, the mahogany hair, the ivory skin, the natural blush of her cheeks. In my imagination, I’ve already mixed the paint.
I remember how it felt to have my arm around the curve of her waist and how her ass looked in those velvety pants girls used to wear. That’s as far as I got back then, just looking and a little over the bra fumbling. She blocked every attempt I made. But it was enough to kickoff my masturbatory fantasies for years when even porn came in a distant second to my innocent memories of the girl.
It was work to concentrate on the night’s conversations, to ignore her gifts and their effect. I did a lousy job of it. Because everything about Stori has been enhanced with time. I could have spent days just listening to her laugh. There’s nothing lukewarm about the woman. It wasn’t my imagination that my set in steel life plan shivered with just the sight of her.
But what difference does any of it make? It’s not 1999 and we’re hardly teenagers.
Long ago I let go of the hurt. We were kids. Unanswered letters said all I needed to know at the time. When I got older, I understood how devastating the situation must have been for her and her mother. I was the least of her worries. To this day, I think it was real love that Stori and I had as naïve as it sounds. The fact that I’ve never felt anything resembling it again only confirms my belief. In a way, I’m thankful it ended like it did. It prepared me for my future. I’ll never feel the same way and that’s a good thing, because there’s no room for love in my life. Not that kind. I’ll settle for random ships that pass in the night. They serve their purpose.
I’m happy for her success. She deserves the most life has, spending it with someone as accomplished. Maybe it’s already true. But the more we talked the easier it became to imagine her back in my life. But as a friend. Not close enough for her to see my failures, but near enough for an occasional coffee or drink. Why not? I can’t see how that would hurt. There’s an ease between us, and nothing’s false. It comes down to this—I like her. I like the way she acts, and talks, and even how she moves. I noticed she twirled a strand of her hair when we were talking. That was a great perfume she wore. Oh, fuck me.
At the end of the night we exchanged numbers. Fig and Zarah looked happy about their well-received plan, and Stori and I were promised a third surprise. They seemed more excited about this one than the first two. It’ll be delivered today. Hers to her apartment and mine to my parents’ Brownstone in Brooklyn. I’m assuming Fig remembered how dodgy my mail service can be. He had the good sense not to mention the roach motel of an apartment I live in.
The whole story is replaying in my mind as I stand on the stoop to my parents’ and ring the doorbell. My mother’s soft footsteps sound down the hall leading to the front door. It swings open.
“Hello, my love!” She wraps me in her arms and stands on tiptoes to kiss each cheek.
“Hi, Mom,” I say returning the kisses. I slip her the fifty I saved, and she pockets it without discussion.
“Come in. You hungry?”
She has this maternal compulsion to feed me.
“Yeah, what’s for lunch?”
“Grace cooked you something special.”
We walk back into the kitchen where my father sits at the old wooden table, cracking and eating walnuts. Just like his father did before him. Grace stands at the stove, stirring the big iron pot that’s held decades of family meals. She eyes me and comes over for our usual greeting.
“Hi, son,” my dad says lifting his chin.
“Joe! You’re not going to be hungry for lunch,” my mother scolds.
“Has that ever really been a problem, Maggie?” They both start laughing at the thought of my father refusing a meal.
Grace faces me and we go into our special handshake that began when she was nine and I was twelve. Three shakes, two elbow bumps, a 360 turn, a pull of each other’s hair and a slap of our right hands. She doesn’t say anything, but just gives a nod and walks back to her cooking.
“How you doin, Gracie? Like your hair style.”
She runs a hand over her side braid in acknowledgment. I guess this is a silent day.
“She’s been cooking all morning,” my father says.
I come up behind him and give him a kiss on the head hello.
“So, what is it, Stroganoff?”
Grace shakes her head.
“Chili?” I say knowing full well the smell of my favorite meal.
I give her a big smile in anticipation. She nods and points for me to sit. Because she doesn’t like when you try to help, she serves us as we talk. Cooking is the one thing that calms her, so both my parents have gained weight over the last few years as Grace’s problems have worsened. But it’s the least of the sacrifices they’ve made for their daughter.
In the middle of our lunch the doorbell sounds, and my mother’s up and gone. Half a minute later her voice calls back.
“Oliver, come get this!”
“Maybe it’s Fig’s delivery,” I say scraping the chair back.
I can see the hefty looking box as I walk down the hallway.
“What the hell’s that?” my dad says as I carry it back into the room and place it on the counter.
“Let’s see. Grace come help me.”
She quickly gets the scissors. When she brings them to me I get a little smile.
“I hate to interrupt our lunch, but this is a surprise from my friends. You remember Fig?”
She doesn’t respond. Instead we work together to open the tightly sealed box. I lift out a multi-drawered case made of rich dark wood.
“What’s inside?” Grace asks.
All three of our heads turn towards her. We never know what’s going to prompt a response.
“Don’t know.”
I open the top drawer, remove the note, and read aloud.
To Oliver, my best friend and now my best man, my ‘testimone’. Please do us the honor of attending our wedding, July 22, in Positano, Italy. I offer you no right of refusal. Comprendi?
I look around at the three stunned faces.
“What’s he thinking?” I say under my breath. I’m kinda pissed he’d make me explain my absence. It’s not the least embarrassing thing to admit you’re short of cash every fucking time something comes up.
“Open the next drawer,” Grace says.
“My God, Oliver. This is exciting!” my mother adds, digging her nails into my arm.
The second drawer holds a thick envelope. Inside are first class round trip Air France tickets from New York to Nice, France. There’s an itinerary and another note.
In three months’ time, you’ll be on your way to Nice. Upon arrival, you’ll be picked up and delivered to Pier 44, where you’ll join Zarah and I, and Luca and Caroline. You and Stori will be traveling together from New York.
Oh, very tricky my friend. My dad sounds a loud whistle of approval.
“Stori? Your Stori?” My mother’s eyes widen. I’m sure she remembers how messed up I was when everything went down.
“There’s a blast from the past,” my dad says.
Grace recognizes the name too. I see the question in her eyes. They used to be friends when Grace was still in grammar school. The abrupt departure was hard on her too.
“She’s the maid of honor.”
They don’t need to know the details of our reconnection. I look over the tickets and dates. Eight nights. Grace reaches out and opens drawer three. Inside’s a small stack of photographs along with a note.
You’ll board the Flying Dragoni for an all-expenses paid eight-day wedding party celebratory cruise of the French Riviera, ending in Positano. Bring your bathing suit, sunglasses, and passport. Wedding attire will be provided.
My family crowds around as we look at the photos, interior and exterior shots of the most beautiful private yacht any of us have seen. A large red and black dragon in flight is painted on the stern. Or is it aft? Whatever. It’s fucking perfect. I scan the itinerary. Cannes, St. Tropez, Antibes, St. Jean Cap Ferret, and Monaco. Christ.
“My God you have to go!” My mother squeezes my arm and does an impromptu dance. Only a mother is happier for you than she’d be for herself.
Grace yanks away the picture showing the food the crew serves. Tables of lobster and sushi, rich desserts, and exotic cocktails. Bottles of the best of the best. She studies the photograph. I walk back to the table and resume my lunch.
“I’m not going.”
Shit, I can’t even afford a free gift.
“Why the hell not?” my father asks.
“All expenses paid doesn’t mean it’s not going to cost me. What about spending money? I doubt my jeans would get me inside the casino in Monaco. My best shirt’s from Old Navy.”
“Oliver!” my mother pleads.
“No. I’m going to decline. Nice, but I don’t see how I’d swing it.”
Grace takes off for who knows where while my parents try to change my mind. My dad points a finger in my direction. His eyebrows knit together and his voice rises for emphasis.
“Figure it out. We’ve got three months for all of us to pinch pennies. I’ll be damned if you’re going to miss this. I mean it, Oliver.”
“Go to a resale store. Plenty people shop there. You need to do this for yourself. And we’ll take Louise if Prue isn’t able,” adds my mother.
Grace comes into the room carrying her wallet. She opens it and removes her entire savings, the hundred and twenty dollars folded neatly inside. I think I saw a moth fly out. She grabs my hand and tucks the bills inside. She’s gone silent again, but I get her meaning. I’ve got to take it otherwise I insult her.
An hour later as I walk towards my place, I’m more inside my head than when I left. And mostly it’s because I know Stori got the same invitation I did. If I could pull it off, I’d go. But spend enough time together she’ll see I don’t have a pot to piss in and I’ve amounted to nothing. Or worse, I won’t want to let her go. And that would be the cruelest thing I could do to either of us.
There was no mention of bringing a plus one. Fig knows my situation, but what about hers? Maybe she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Unlikely. Don’t want what you can’t have. I should have that tattooed on my ass.
I get within a half block of my apartment when I notice the slick black Mercedes sedan parked directly in front. It sticks out in the company of the beat-up cars lining the street. As I approach, the darkened back window slides down and Piper Mann’s hand with the big ruby waves me over. Her voice calls out.
“Oliver.”
“Piper. What’s up?” I lean down to address her.
“I decided not to wait for your call. I wanted to see your place,” she says nonchalantly.
An overfed miniature bulldog sits in her arms, staring stone-faced at me. It wears a black T-shirt that says Does this make me look fat?
I scramble for words. “Umm, this really isn’t a good time. Can I take you for a coffee instead?”
I don’t want this woman in my rat shit hole of an apartment. I’m not in the mood. But she ignores my suggestion and gets out of the car.
“I’m coming in. I want to see your favorite pieces. Artists always hoard those. Let’s go.”
My first inclination is to tell her to go fuck herself. But it wouldn’t be my smartest move.
“I’ve got a dog. Maybe you should leave yours . . .”
She cuts me off. “Don’t worry. Hercules is a good boy.” She walks ahead of me and up the steps to the entry.
“Louise will be okay too,” I say mostly to myself.
Piper turns, and for the first time smiles at me. “Louise? Did you name her after Louise Burgeois the Brooklyn artist?”
I smile back because she’s the first to figure that out. A smirk tells me she’s pleased with herself. As we climb the stairs to the third floor, she’s taking in the scene. And now I see it as a stranger does. It’s pathetic.
“Was this really the best you could do? God, Oliver, it smells like piss in here.”
My embarrassment turns to anger. I’m about to pull the stick out of her ass.
“Well then maybe you should leave. I didn’t invite you here.” Fuck her.
She keeps climbing.
“Calm down. It was just an observation.”
“This is my floor. My voice is flat just like my enthusiasm.
She lets me go ahead as I reach for my key.
“Steady yourself. Your head’s about to blow off,” I warn.
Piper finds this funny and lets loose a sharp laugh. As soon as the key goes in the lock, Louise starts barking her hello. That sets off Hercules, whose mouth is in a growling sneer threatening the door. But he doesn’t move an inch from his human’s arms. It’s obvious he likes his throne. A dog born to the manor. Little shit. He better not go after my girl.
“Oh, stop that, baby,” she says.
It’s the first time I’ve heard that tone of voice, no command just affection. I let her pass in front of me and she enters as if she’s royalty visiting the slums. Louise is going berserk because one of her own species has made it inside. She’s bouncing against Piper’s legs, trying to get to Hercules. But for some reason the woman’s okay with that.
“Hello, little one. I brought you a friend.”
And with that the bulldog is set down. Louise is practically frothing at the mouth with joy, circling and sniffing, whining and yapping. But Hercules is frozen in place. He stares ahead and completely ignores the nose up his ass and the shit show that’s going on around him.
“This is home,” I say.
She looks around at the hanging paintings, taking her time but saying nothing. Then she goes to the ones leaning against the walls and moves each to get a better look. I’m beginning to worry. Doesn’t look like there’s much interest on her part. Louise is jumping on and off my unmade bed trying to engage Hercules in play. It’s a no go. I swear the bulldog has turned into a statue. There’s no blinking. Out of the corner of my eye Mr. Magoo moves into place, watching.
“Are these all you have?”
“Here.”
“Where are the others?”
“I rent a studio six blocks east. It’s a shared space.”
She turns and looks me in the eye. “Well that’ll have to stop.”
I’m confused. “Just what is it you’re here for, Piper? Are you buying?”
“No.”
My balloon deflates.
“I’m here for a higher purpose. Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Not really. I thought you were an art lover.”
“True enough. But I’m more. I’m the kingmaker or queen, as the case may be, and if you agree to my terms, I’m going to be your benefactor.”
There’s an odd sensation in my body. Maybe I’m having a stroke. She starts to take a seat on my ancient cracked leather club chair with a hole in the seat. But she thinks better of it.
“What exactly does that mean?” I say.
“It means you’re about to become known. Google my name and read about my track record. I already know you don’t have a website, but you have a computer, right?”
“No.”
“An iPad?”
“No.”
“My God man, what century are you living in?” I don’t answer her stupid question. “Use your phone. I’m assuming you have one of those,” she says, her sarcasm amusing only her.
“No. I send smoke signals,” I say dryly.
She takes a beat, but there’s no laughter. “All right. Read up on me. Or talk with George Martin. You cleared tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll spell everything out then.” She sees the look on my face I’m sure she’s seen on others she’s worked with. It’s shock. “You’re a spectacular artist, Oliver. You’re undervaluing your worth. I’m not. My car will pick you up at twelve. Come on, Hercules.”
She picks up her inert baby and walks to the door.
“What do you get from this?” I say.
“Respect for a job well done. And whatever paintings I chose.” She gives her dog a big kiss on his head. “I think he really likes Louise. I’ve never seen him so engaged,” she says without a hint of irony.
As the door shuts behind her my dog and I stare dumbfounded. What just blew through here?
Ten seconds after she leaves I call Prue and ask her to bring over her laptop. The more we read the more exciting things get. Piper comes from money. Her father Powers is a real estate developer, married to a trophy wife forty years his junior.
Pictures of Piper as a 1989 debutante are hardly recognizable. All the sharp edges are missing, replaced by at least fifty pounds. She looked out of her element and not at all like the assured woman she is today. Somewhere between 89 and now, she found her footing.
According to the articles she’s a savvy player in New York’s art scene. She’s made a success out of every artist she promoted. The Times called it the Piper Effect. How come I’ve never heard of her? Maybe not taking the paper, or having a computer or television has something to do with it. But the most important piece of information we learned was that she’s got an uncanny ability to spot the next big thing. I guess today it’s me.
One sleepless night later, I’m in the backseat of a Mercedes being driven to Ms. Mann’s townhouse. I pick a speck of paint off my jeans and try to smooth the rolled hem of my faded shirt. My Old Navy formal wear is showing its limits. Crap. We pull up to an iron gated modern four story on the Upper East Side. Large windows line each floor and look out at the New York scene.
“This is her place?”
“Yes, sir. Let me get your door.”
I stop him before he gets out. “I got it. What floor’s she on?”
“All of them.”
I let that soak in as I get out of the car. Before I buzz, the gate swings open and a voice instructs.
“Just walk in. I’m on the terrace.”
As soon as I’m inside, I’m impressed. Light shines through the core of the house, with a soaring atrium that cuts through the floors. A quiet, neutral palate and a nearly pattern free interior has allowed the art displayed to shine, to give it power. Simple lines in her furniture balance the collection. This is how you want to live with works of art. I’d probably never leave here. Museums have narratives, but a personal collection is what you love, and it spotlights your personality. What I see tells me she’s an interesting woman, she has a sense of humor and a love of the romantic. Then there’s the pieces that have a sadness and longing in their story.
I take the staircase instead of the elevator, past the living room floor, and then a gallery. I want to stop and look at each piece, but she’s waiting. The next two floors are for the kitchen and bedrooms before the staircase leads to an iron door. It opens onto the terrace, and I hear Hercules greet me as I walk out.
“Hi,” I say to the reclining Piper and her dog. “This place is really something.”
“Thank you. Sit.”
I take a seat next to her chaise and absorb the view from this vantage. I’ve never seen a more generous terrace space in a private residence. It’s obvious the one percent know how to live. A small table with an envelope resting on it separates us. She sits up and puts Hercules down. He freezes in place for a beat before he flops hard on the blue tile. A fart escapes him with the effort. Both humans ignore the eye watering smell that follows.
“So, this is how it works, Oliver. For the next year, you and I will be partners. Basically, you paint and I do everything I can to let people know what a talent you are. But don’t think painting is going to be the only thing required of you.”
“Meaning?”
“This is a business. You want to make money and you will. But that demands more effort on your part. We want to brand you so whenever someone hears the name Oliver London, they know to expect quality one-of-a-kind work. I expect you to be available anytime I choose. For important buyers, for parties that would advance our cause, for whatever I say you need to be present for. I want you to be engaged when you speak with the people I introduce you to. They’re all going to want a piece of you. Buyers love to say they know the artist. So just suck it up. I don’t want to see any flashes of anger like I’ve seen. It’s not serving you, so stop it. Listen, I know you rather hole up in your studio and paint, but it’s not how it’s going to work. Now is the time to get serious.”
“I can adjust.”
“We’ll see. Another thing. I don’t want you to price or sell any paintings right now. That’ll be a separate conversation. I need a list of all paintings you have in your apartment, at the studio, wherever. Do you have a catalogue of your work?”
“No.”
She looks disgusted. “Of course not. Why’d I even ask? Do you have any problems with anything I’ve told you?”
“No. I’d say you know what you’re doing. My way hasn’t worked, that’s pretty obvious.”
“Artists are seldom good business people.”
“Before we go further, Piper, I want to say thank you. I’m beginning to understand just how big this is.”
“Good. Just do what I say and we’ll be fine.”
“There are a few exceptions concerning my time I should mention now. And those are solid.”
“Like what?” Her mouth twists in response.
“I have a sister whose condition . . .”
“I’m aware. I did a background check.”
She sees the slightly pissed off look on my face and gets one of her own.
“Not that I need to explain myself, but what I do is done for my protection. I’m sure you can understand how a woman of my means needs to be careful who I let in my life, in my home. So, wipe that look off your face.”
I can’t fault her that. My expression fades.
“Well, you know my situation. Sometimes I’m needed and can’t refuse.”
“Understood. What else?”
“I’m going to be in Italy for a week in July. I’m the best man at my friend’s wedding.”
Surprisingly I cover my bet.
“Can’t you get out of it?”
“No.”
“Won’t you if I say so?”
“No. Plans have already been made and paid for.”
“Do you have a girlfriend, Oliver? Is that what this is about? A little romantic holiday?”
“Not that I need to explain myself to you, but no, no girlfriend,” I say using her own words against her.
She just stares.
“Don’t make the mistake of being duplicitous or disrespectful to me,” she says.
“Agreed. If you don’t make the mistake of being condescending to me.”
The staring contest that starts is short-lived, but we both make our points. Only Hercules blinked.
“I won’t be paying you for the week you’re gone. Party on your own dime.”
“Paying me?”
She takes the envelope from the table and places it in my hand.
“I don’t expect you to live like a pauper. You’ve already served your time. Five thousand a month for one year. By then you’ll need no benefactor to lift you. And you’ll have the money from your paintings, minus the ones I take. I won’t be greedy, just specific in my choices. And remember, the prices of your paintings are going to be much higher than they are now, so that’s fair. They’ll be no negotiation on that point. We don’t need to sign any contracts either. If you don’t live up to your bargain, I’ll cut you off without hesitation. I’ve done it before. And you’re free to end our arrangement any time as well.”
“I’ll live up to it.”
“Buy some new clothes. Get a haircut. Not a Supercuts special either. Go to a salon. In fact, I’ll get you an appointment at mine. You’re about to be a celebrity in the art world, Oliver. You’ve got to look like one. We’re going to use your looks and sex appeal as one of our tools. They’re fleeting qualities so let’s use them while we can. The key word is modern. Oh yes, one more thing. I don’t want to see you back at Studs or any other male strip club. Don’t even visit the place. It makes you look desperate for money, which makes people think you don’t sell many paintings.”
“I haven’t dance in years. And I was desperate. It saved my ass, and it’s nothing I’m ashamed of.”
“Good for you,” she says dryly.
She doesn’t give a shit if I’m ashamed or not. I want so badly to add, “Not that it’s any of your business”. But I don’t, I don’t.
“Now let’s talk about your new apartment and studio in Manhattan.”