Jenson

 

“Jenson, hi! It’s been a while.”

I look up as I’m digging in my pocket for my keys, noting Sandra, my single neighbor, is conveniently leaving her place at the same time I’m arriving at mine. Third time this week, only I usually get inside faster than she can step out. She must be catching on. Unfortunately, she was one of the victims of a badly executed rebound scheme. I’m not proud of it, but old habits die hard. It was a weak moment after I’d recently given up drinking, and I hadn’t yet found something constructive to fill my idle time. Sandra was an innocent bystander, which is the only reason I bother to answer her instead of ducking into my apartment.

“Hey. How are you?” I say once I’ve found my keys and taken the mail out of my mouth.

“Good. Busy, you know. Work, life. . .” The way she plays it off so casually says she wants me to believe she’s doing more than just watching Sex and the City on the weekends. I guess she doesn’t realize the price we pay to live here doesn’t include thicker walls.

“Don’t I know it,” I say, giving her a little wave. “Anyway, I’ve got some things to do. Good to see you.”

She opens her mouth to say more, but the shutting of my door effectively cuts her off. Narrow miss. I head directly into the kitchen and to the coffee maker. I guess you could say I haven’t completely traded in my vices. Caffeine is one habit I can’t totally kick, and I still have the occasional cigarette. Lindsey left, but my affinity for coffee stuck around.

I forgo the creamer and drink it black, settling at the bar to go through my mail. My days are significantly less chaotic, but I’m learning to find the beauty in that. Like the peaceful act of drinking coffee at the breakfast bar while opening mail with my pocket knife.

Bill, bill, credit card application, bill. I leave the black envelope for last. It’s more foreboding than any piece of correspondence should be.

The return address is blank, so I have no idea what I’m getting myself into. I slide my blade beneath the flap and pull the heavy card stock out to get whatever this is over with. It’s an invitation, but not to a wedding. It’s for a special presentation in three weeks’ time at a place called Forever Life. Why does that name sound so familiar? Skimming the rest of the details, my eyes land on the address. Denver, Colorado. There’s only one person living in Denver who comes to mind, but there’s no reason Landon Farrar would invite me anywhere, much less his home state.

A Google search leads me to the website and contact information of Forever Life, Landon’s photography studio and gallery. I select the phone number and wait as I’m connected.

“Forever Life, how can I help you?” The voice on the other end is pleasant, female, and sounds like a smile.

“Hi, I’m. . .” What am I doing, really? I have no clue. “I’m looking for Landon Farrar. Is he around by chance?”

“He’s not, I’m sorry. I believe he’s on location at a shoot right now, but I can pass along a message if you’d like.”

I should’ve known it was a long shot, calling a well-known photographer and philanthropist and expecting to catch him at the gallery. “Understandable. I just had a few questions about the event coming up on May twenty-sixth.”

“Oh yes, the gallery showing. I can help answer those for you, if that’s all right.”

Gallery showing. I’ve never stepped foot in a gallery, but something tells me I wasn’t invited by accident. “I’d appreciate it. Do you know what kind of showing it will be? Who will be there?”

“The emphasis won’t be on the artists, per se, but about passion. The work is a collection from many local artists including photographers, painters, and sculptors. It’s all about capturing passion and displaying it as art. The contributing artists themselves will all remain anonymous until the work is purchased. It’s all about buying what speaks to you. It’s . . . fascinating. I can promise you it will be incredible, and all the proceeds will go to local charities.”

“That is fascinating,” I agree. Her explanation doesn’t fully satisfy my curiosity, but it is an interesting concept. “Thank you for your time, Miss. . .”

“Lola. Just Lola. And you’re welcome.”

I hang up and stare at the blank phone screen for a while. My reflection stares back. What could my attendance at an art show possibly do to help Landon? I’ve got a familiar name, sure, but the attendees wouldn’t be going because of me. Maybe I’ll send a monetary donation. That’s what I’ll do. It is for charity.

Scrolling through the website for a donation link, I accidentally select the address, which redirects my phone to my maps app. The GPS tells me next to nothing—I’ve only been to Denver for a few shows and didn’t have time to learn its streets—except that it’s located in the RiNo district and it’ll take a whopping sixteen hours to get there if I were to drive.

Then I’m searching for this RiNo district, because I have no idea what the hell that means. The results yield photo upon photo of color—crazy little shops, bright street art, nineteenth-century brick buildings, and rugged restaurants. I’m not going to lie, the place looks like a great time. I guess I don’t have a reason not to go, except to save a couple hundred dollars on a plane ticket. But I’m driving the same vehicle I drove in high school, and aside from rent and music equipment, I don’t spend money on much.

Ten minutes later and I’ve booked a round-trip flight to Denver. I guess this thing is happening—I’ll even make a vacation out of it. What can a little adventure hurt?

 

It doesn’t take long for me to be reminded why I’ve always preferred driving. Turbulence is a nightmare, and clouds above the city make it so I can’t even see the mountains from the air, except through drizzle when the plane descends low enough. They are just hulking, shadowy suggestions in the distance.

Without the hazy filter of alcohol, anxiety prickles in my chest. Four-months sober and I still struggle in its grasp. Grabbing my carry-on from the bin as soon as I’m allowed, I step foot in the terminal and fight the urge to fall on my knees and kiss solid ground. For all its confinement and inconveniences, there are perks to traveling by tour bus.

My hotel room offers a view of Coors field, though it’s rain-streaked. Not the greatest weather, but I suppose it doesn’t have to be for an art showing. I take a long shower to loosen the muscles that were clenched the entire time I was hurtling through the air in not much more than a tin can, then dress. Ripped jeans and tees are more my style, but I assumed something nicer was more requisite of this crowd. A black button-up and slacks is as dressy as it’s going to get.

I trim my beard to stubble and tie back my hair so I look less like a disheveled hipster, then call an Uber and head down to the lobby. It’s a short ride, but I didn’t want to show up sodden at an event I was specially invited to.

I’m dropped off on the curb in front of Forever Life, a narrow brick façade wedged between a café and a high-end furniture store. Inside, I’m offered a glass of white wine. I graciously turn it down, though the world is hell-bent on tempting me. Thankfully I’m not the spineless man I was, and I request a water instead. The woman in front of me turns, tablet in hand, as soon as she’s finished taking the names of a couple in front of me. Her name tag reads Lola, and her eyes widen in recognition.

“Jenson King, hi! I mean, sorry, I’m sure you get that a lot.” She clicks her pen in rapid succession, pale skin flushing.

“Yeah, hi. We spoke on the phone a month or so ago. I’m surprised you remember my name.”

She bites back a smile. Is it possible she’s even more flustered by humility? “I’ll just go ahead and mark you off my list, then. The guest list,” she corrects needlessly, tapping the screen. I nod kindly. “Enjoy your night, Mr. King. Here’s Landon with your water.”

At the mention of Lindsey’s cousin, I look over and see Landon striding over to me with a glass in hand.

“It’s sparkling, unfortunately. Blake thought we needed something ‘classier’ for the event.”

“From the man himself! I appreciate it.” I accept the glass and shake his hand. He looks glad to see me, which is unexpected.

“It’s the least I can do after your cross-country trek to get here. How’ve you been?”

Hollow. Listless. Alone. There are plenty of words that come to mind in response to that question, but none worth saying. “Good. I made some career changes and I’m a lot more satisfied now.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I did the same a couple years ago. Sometimes it takes a nudge, or a hard shove, in my case, to put things in perspective.” I don’t miss that his eyes follow Blake across the room. She’s electric in royal blue.

I wonder if he knows my hard shove was his cousin. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about my romantic feelings toward her, so I just nod understandingly. The reminder of her awakens all my old aches. “Are you ready for the wedding?”

“Oh yeah. I don’t know why we’re even waiting this long. Though why this woman wants to deal with me for the rest of our lives is the world’s biggest mystery.” We both share a chuckle. I guess we all have our shit, and it’s finding someone who doesn’t balk at the prospect of it that’s so extraordinary.

“Isn’t that the truth? But hey, she’s equally crazy about you, man. That was obvious the night we all went to dinner. Y’all will be okay.” I nod confidently and sip my sparkling water. It tastes like a burp.

“Speaking of dinner, you heard from Lindsey lately?”

“No, not since she left. We, uh. . .” I trail off awkwardly, not sure how much he knows. Not that there was much to know. Lindsey left angry and without a good bye. I doubt she discussed her feelings with him.

“I get it,” Landon sympathizes, giving me an all-knowing look. “Before she left, she called to get my input on this amazing opportunity she’d been given, seemingly out of the blue. She was bouncing-off-the-walls excited.” He studies me for my reaction, but I school my features into a casual expression. “You have something to do with that?”

My shoulders are on their way up in a shrug, on the verge of denial, but he claps my arm. “Whatever you did, I appreciate it. I know as well as anyone how tough it is to get noticed in that industry, and I didn’t even have to fight the social-media photographers in my early career. Any good word or recommendation is huge, and appreciated.”

“I didn’t tell her it was me. And I don’t want to.”

A look of confusion passes over his face so fast I could’ve imagined it. “I understand. She’s a proud girl, stubborn as hell. You don’t have to deny it,” he adds when I remain silent.

“She is tenacious,” I agree, and we both laugh again. At that moment, Blake appears at Landon’s elbow.

“I can’t believe you came! Good to see you,” she says genuinely, rounding him and reaching out to me for a hug.

“You too. This is amazing.” I gesture around the room, though I haven’t given our surroundings much attention.

“If Landon wasn’t talking your ear off, maybe you could take a closer look,” she chides, and they exchange a look. “What are you two discussing over here anyway?”

Landon looks down at her and tenderly brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. His usual indifferent, slightly arrogant demeanor disintegrates instantly. “How I can’t wait to marry you.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re a charming liar, Ferrari. Let’s let Jenson take a look around. If you have any questions, if there’s anything we can get you, just let us know.”

I thank her, gathering my bearings as they walk away. Photographs and paintings are displayed on white walls, accentuated by track-lighting. In the center of the floor, a few sculptures rest atop pedestals, and much of the back half of the room is occupied by rich, wooden bookshelves. The stuffy atmosphere I anticipated is noticeably absent. Low chatter and music from a guitarist on one side of the room provide a warm, casual backdrop to the evening.

I gravitate toward the first set of paintings on the left. They’re impressionistic, the lines graceful and sensuous. I don’t know much about painting, but I know I prefer this over blocky, modern stuff. The canvases feed into a set of photographs that I assume, at first glance, to be black-and-white shapes—more of the same graceful lines. Then I study them closer and realize each subject is a nude male or female, tastefully posed so only the barest suggestion of features are on display. There’s the curve of a breast, the rest of the figure in shadow; the dip of a waist and the swell of a hip; a hand resting between bent legs. They are striking, understated, elegant.

Gradually I make my way around the gallery, absorbing what each of these artists depicts as passion. They are all unique in their portrayal. Then I’m at the back of the room, where the wall is noticeably blank, and I rotate slowly to make sure I’m not missing something. Five feet from the wall, the bookshelves are arranged side by side, forming an opening to a sort of hallway. I almost think nothing of it until I notice the card tacked to the end of one.

 

SMOKE & LYRICS

The Man Behind the Music

 

My breathing hitches. It could just be a coincidence. The universe’s idea of a cruel joke. But not much of my life has been ruled by coincidence, and the fingers of fate are in everything. I look around and, with nobody to observe my reaction to whatever this is, stride inside. I turn right when the shelves dogleg, passing through the tunnel of books with no end in sight. Whoever put this together must enjoy suspense.

After rounding the next corner, I stop short. Hanging from the ceiling—on fishing line so they appear to be floating—are dozens of photographs. Mini Polaroids, to be exact. I capture one between my fingers and rotate it so I can see what, or who, the subject is. Bare thighs sit astride a naked torso, my arm slung over my face. She wanted a photo of me right after we’d slept together, and I’d put my arm there to guard against the flash and obscure my identity. Anyone who knows me knows my tattoos, though, and the oak tree is in plain view. The rest are hung at irregular intervals, like rectangular snowflakes trapped mid-fall.

I glance at a few more, but with so many of them and so little patience for what I’ll find, I set my eyes ahead. At the end of all the books and floating pictures is an exhibit on black “walls” that have been temporarily erected over the bookshelves. Someone put a lot of thought into this. Funny how I know who the photographer is and yet I still won’t allow myself to believe. After all, I am alone. She isn’t here. It’s just me and, well, me. Every rendering of me you can imagine.

“Intoxicant” plays lowly from a hidden speaker—a song I wrote and gave to her as a cellphone recording. It’s not genius writing; many of the verses don’t rhyme and the tune is raw and unpolished, never meant to see the light of day. But it’s my thoughts as I thought them, a lexical poem. The melody melds seamlessly with the photographs before me, all in matte black and white. Featured in them are pieces of me. A cigarette between my lips, smoke curling out of the frame; my profile as I’m bent over my guitar, backlit by light from the window; pages of tattered papers hanging from my notebook; a view of me through a glass, distorted by whiskey; my calloused fingers holding a pen over a sheet of scribbled paper.

All the times she’d told me she was adjusting the settings on her camera, I was utterly unaware she was compiling this. The photos are arranged haphazardly, without sense or order. The result is both chaotic and compelling, and I realize it’s just as accurate a depiction of her as it is of me. Then a photo in the far corner draws my eye. It stands out, different from all the rest. First because it’s in color, and second because it’s not of me. It’s a peeling old storefront with a sign over the door reading Café de Rouge. A closer examination tells me nothing about where it’s located. The small dining area out front is fringed by red roses, and there’s a display in the window overfilled with desserts, neither of which I’ve ever seen in Nashville, or anywhere for that matter. Without worrying that I’m defacing a piece of art, I yank the photo free. 

My feet feel encased in cement as I will myself away from the exhibit, the photo clutched in my fingers, my thoughts stalled on what it could mean. Is she here, back in the States? I assume Landon could assemble everything easily enough without her. But what did she want me to take away from seeing myself through her lens? That question leads me back to the whole theme of the evening. Passion. Am I passion? Or was I her passion?

It doesn’t dawn on me until I round the corner that everything’s gone silent. The room is empty, the mic stand in the corner devoid of a musician. Then I see something beyond the shop-front windows.

Wild hair as dark as night.