Robert went about the apartment and cleaned up his shame. The headache subsided fully, leaving him in a haze. With the bedroom tidied, the dishes in the sink, and clothes on his body, he proceeded out the door and down the stairs. Halfway down the unending slow spiral, he clicked his key fob. The security system chirped twice in response. As much as he loved his new apartment, he could not help but worry that the money he sunk into it would eventually draw the attention of some desperate drug addict or crazed ex. With the windows cracked he figured that once he had completed ‘The Ritual’ the smell of vomit and chlorine should be cleared from the premise.
The street looked a little rough, but the area was actually a middle-class neighborhood. He originally wanted a place in Mott Haven or South Bronx, Bushwick gave a decent enough balance of comfort and affordability to stretch his first big commission money as far as it could go. This morning…afternoon…the day was sunny and the noise from the light-rail seemed distant. Garbage smell was down to a whif and most everyone was indoors. Pointing his feet left, he shambled purposefully towards the corner of Bushwick Avenue. The artist turned left after the glaring display of yellow annoyance, but otherwise pleasant smelling, Brooklyn Whiskers Bakery. Here the smell of the fresh yeast rolls always seemed to help make his haze more pleasant as he passed the row of small, fenced-in front yards. There seemed to be people, but neither he nor they paid each any mind as they passed. By the time he reached the haunted-house looking relic of a redbrick home, his thoughts were mostly clear and his footsteps no longer cloudlike.
Turning right on Central Avenue, he crossed the intersection and marched on to Freedom Triangle. Here he paused, as he often did, and wondered at the tall angel statue in the center of the small park.
“Why haven’t I done a piece on this,” he thought through the fog of his hangover. “I do this every time, don’t I?”
Shaking his head, he continued on to the first stop in this routine journey. Next door to the still unoccupied medical center was Central Avenue Dollar General. A staple for any starving college student, an aspiring artist, and everything in between. Doddson was loathed to admit that though he could easily afford better, he still got the majority of his paints and supplies here. He often chalked it up to the superstition. He had used their brand of supplies when he made his first big breaks and didn’t want to chance ruin of that magic.
Paints were not on the shopping list today, however. As the air-conditioned blast into him, he reached over and snagged a bottle of DG Health brand Re-Vive. Only three dollars compared to other after-party cure-alls and it was just as effective a miracle worker. Sure it contained questionable levels of the same Ginger, Nux Vomica, Ipecac, and other random natural remedies, but it was a lot easier to find and in this neighborhood, nobody looked at you funny when you grabbed it. Even when you immediately opened the bottle on your way deeper into the store. Another perk of shopping in this chain bargain mart: 1.5 Liter sodas. Robert popped three of the charcoal tasting pills into his mouth and opened a large Pepsi. Taking three healthy swigs, the tablets went down to start their work. Reaching across the aisle he grabbed a bag of Fritos Scoops and walked back to the front of the store.
“Finish another painting Mr. Doddson?” The young black girl asked.
Robert nodded to her dimly and placed his collection on the counter in front of her. Patiently he waited for her to finish scanning his goods before he swiped his card. He had made small talk with her numerous times before. Even tried to ask her out on a much more sober encounter, as she was quite attractive, but she turned him down.
“You’re not my type.” She told him bluntly.
This was probably during another one of his ‘Rituals’. In his present state, could see how she would find him less than desirable. Thankfully she never complained about it nor his actions in the midst of it. Quietly, she handed him his receipt and bagged goods. Robert smiled, nodded, and left.
He returned to Central Avenue and proceeded towards the right. The sunshine pierced sharply at him through the light rail tracks above. Robert found that the rumble of the passing trains was much more bearable if he were riding within one already. The street passed by him in a hazy treadmill until he found himself at the steps leading up towards the Myrtle Ave/Central Ave station. He paused and blinked. The smell of laundry exhaust from The Snap was never pleasant but was never enough to bring him back to full nausea as he mounted the stair. One flight, turn, cross under (most importantly), and then the turnstile for the correct track. He mused at how many times he forgot the line number as he fished his pass from his wallet.
Doddson reckoned that it would be about thirty minutes for the cureall to really kick in. This was punctuated by the usual blackout period between the turnstile and the first bend in the tracks. He didn’t really pass out but rather entered a sort of a daze for that period. The doors opened and closed on the Broadway Station. The shakes began in full force and he hugged himself to disguise this from the rest of the passengers. Robert rarely looked up as his hands clutched his sides tightly under crossed arms. He figured that any passerby would figure him a tweaker, but they would not be far from the truth. It wasn’t that I am an alcoholic, he rationalized, I only poison myself when I am working.
“And I usually only work at the last minute.” He laughed to himself. “I just wish I knew that I had eaten the Fritos or not.”
Two more stops and the shaking began to subside. Two more and he could bear to finally look up. The harsh steel supports of Williamsburg Bridge rose and crisscrossed around the train as it continued on. East River marked the final stage of his detox like clockwork. He was no longer breathing fire, but his breath was still uncomfortably hot. Robert always caught a brief glimpse of the west bank park and apartments rising up through the trees and clean looking streets. Then the train nose-dived underground. It only began to slow when it hooked to the right. The doors opened on Laffeyette Station, and casually Robert Doddson stepped through.
A charcoal induced trip to the restroom later, he was making the underground trek to Bleeker Street Station. He snagged another Pepsi from a vending machine and waited on the northbound line. Robert’s hands were jittery now, and yes there was a difference if you asked him. The green line train arrived, and always in much better shape than the Bushwick trains. Robert glided in and took a seat near the door. In his earlier days, he would have a sketchpad and pencil with him to jot down notes or other ideas. That was before he began to despise his commissioned works. Now he bided his remaining time underground by catching up on Candy Crush on his cellphone. That and his caffeine jitters did not allow for much creative work that he didn’t despise as much as his commission. Robert mused that he was becoming a perfectionist in his old age. Like most thirty-something artists do.
Eagerly, Doddson lept to his feet when the doors opened on the 77th St Station. Shortly afterward he was topside the street itself. Ducking into Pick-a-Bagel, he emerged with a cream cheese and sausage snack to accompany him to the remainder of his hike. 77th Street was narrow and unremarkable beyond the fact the Lenox Hospital was squeezed in there. Three blocks later, both the jitters and bagel were gone. 5th Avenue was a different story, however. Central Park spread out before him in both directions. A haven for many artists, writers, photographers, and of course tourists. It seemed that to every other New Yorker it was merely a decoration. Turning northwards again, he continued on. Crossing the 79th Traverse, Robert finally arrived at his destination.
He was about twelve when his father first brought him to the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. Richard, their family had a thing for R’s, bought him a slice of pizza from a vendor outside which he had eaten in record time. Presently, Doddson climbed the steps and entered the grand hall. Without breaking stride, he made a wide arch around the crowd, ducking outside the black vinyl aisles filled with tourists and other patrons. Once he had circled around to the front of the mob, he flashed his Member’s card to the security guard near the front of the line. The gentleman motioned him through the gate, detachedly.
When Robert was first introduced to the Met, Richard allowed him free reign to wander throughout the museum. He loved the Egyptian and Medieval European exhibits the most. He wanted to be a space cowboy back then, so he really did not possess the eye for true art as he had now. They roamed around, crisscrossing from one exhibit to another. Making goofy faces at the goofy faces. Trading giggles at the nudes. They spent the entire day there until he had to be nearly carried out due to exhaustion. Today’s trip was much simpler.
Doddson strolled past the statuary and tapestries of the Medival Art Section. Made a half-left face long before the decorative fence and gates. Disregarded seven sections of ancient Roman statues and other European stonework. Only when he reached the Sol LeWitt gallery did he pause. He examined his reflection in the black marble wall to his left. Here he smoothed his shirt, ran his fingers through his hair, and made sure that there was no food in his teeth or a pimple needing addressing. Once the preening was complete, he took the first left into the Modern and Contemporary Art section.
In his mind, he played through the events of HIS opening. At the Avant-Garde Gallery, he would spend several minutes greeting his guests. There would be plenty so they would take up both sections. In the Direct Expression Gallery, he would take the podium. Here he would talk about his rough upbringing and all the other inspirations for his work. He would also make damn sure that he gives a shout out to Amabelle Lovelle, his agent, as she had more than well put up with his eccentricity. Then without further ado, he would usher the crowds into Gallery 913.
Of course, he did not rehearse this whole intercourse directly as he perused the artists that had made their mark before him. To the casual observer, he was merely another patron slowly admiring the works all about. Robert could not count the many times he had rehearsed this sequence. This was largely in part to an article he had read about success. Fake it til you make it. Surround yourself with success. Follow in the footsteps of so-and-so. Surround yourself with those more successful in your field. Mantra mantra mantra.
As he stood by the southern entrance of the Abstraction Gallery, envisioning the crowds admiring his collection, he wondered what he needed to do to break away. To truly make his mark. All of his work to date had been uninspired garbage. Logos or foyer decorations for whatever big-whig executive office needed some ridiculous show of affluence and artfulness of their work. What do I need to do, he thought to himself, to get to this point? To get here? To get this level of artistic recognition?
James C Gilliam 