“No.” She responded flatly.
“What do you mean no?” He sputtered.
“I mean no, Robert.”
“Did you hear what I am saying?” Doddson returned. “I am only asking for a few months.”
“It takes you a few months to produce a commissioned piece. What, if anything, are you going to paint of you have no deadline?”
Robert looked down into his double quarter-pounder with cheese for a viable response. The half-eaten burger wasn’t much help.
“Look, I can tell that you have been to the Met.” Amabelle continued. “You have done this to me too many times. You go off on a bender, complete a piece, and stumble to the museum to remind yourself what you really want to do.”
“I want to create real art. Much like every other artist I know, we lose touch with who we were and why we were doing it. I want to be the one who brings it home.”
“No, you want to die alone and penniless. Did you even study up on all the artists in those avant-garde galleries you worship? Each one of them populated by people with the same hopes and dreams as yourself. Each one toiling under neurosis, intoxication, and other unsavory habits, only to keel over in a ditch without as much as a kind word. Then after many years, some rich hipster will think your work is hot shit and then you become a famous corpse. That’s good and all for you, but for those of us in the present who have to earn a buck, it doesn’t help much. How’s your petty account holding up at the moment?”
Robert looked down at the McDonalds Value Meal Number 5(site) congratulations banquet before him.
“I’m waiting for the check to clear.”
For a while there was silence. Can’t really argue much past that, he thought. Amabelle never really bitched at or condescended him, but she knew the business and made it a point to know almost everything about who she worked with. Which means she wanted routine numbers. She wanted her percentage. Robert munched on individual french fries while hushed voices talked within his cellphone. Darcy must have overheard the lecturing. Robert liked to imagine that she had a soft spot for him and was probably speaking to her wife on his behalf. The phone on the other end rustled around a few times while the muted voices continued on. After a moment, Amabelle’s voice came back to the receiver.
“I tell you what, Robert.” She began. “You are my best client, and consistently produce great work. Even if you do wait until the last minute to complete things. As YOUR agent I can’t tell you what to do, but I do so highly advise you against working on a solo project at such time. I will give you this though: If you complete this next commissioned painting by the end of THIS month, then I’ll let you go for a bit.”
Robert sighed lightly. It wasn’t a free pass, but at least he would get paid again before he began and would have two paychecks to carry him.
“You got it. What’s the gig?”
“Not so fast. You have to complete the work by the end of the month. AND you can’t drink yourself stupid just to get it done.”
Robert pulled the phone away from his ear and blinked at it.
“AND before you go on about some shit that it won’t be your best work, I don’t care. Nor do I expect you to accomplish this without busting both the time limit and the bottle. I want adequate at the least, on time, and without you buying stock in a liquor store. So do we have an agreement?”
“Yes. I’ll do it.” Robert responded.
However, it was much too fast a response. He listened silently as Amabelle went on with the finer details of the work. While his pen jotted down the requirements and requests his mind flicked back to the major problem. He had not worked sober in ages. He hated doing commission work and needed the lubricant for those gears.
“Ok, I have my notes. You want the work done by the 30th and you want me to do it dry.”
“Yep. That’s it. Anything else?”
“No, I think I got it. Tell Darcy I said ‘Hi’ and ‘Thanks’.”
“Bye, Robert.”
When the line clicked off, he finally let the full sigh out. Anxious and nervousness shot through him. Feverishly his mind replayed the entire conversation over and over. It did not help that he was still foggy from his hangover, but boiling down the actual ultimatum made him feel better. If I pulled this off, he thought, I could finally dabble in some genuine creativity. If I failed, it was business as usual.
“Damn, she’s a good agent,” Robert said, picking up his burger. “An actual win-win.”
I just have to clear my head completely and try to work as cleanly as possible, his mind continued. Remember how it was when I enjoyed working for profit. Robert cleaned up his tray and proceeded downstairs. The Third Street McDonald’s wasn’t always part of his ritual, but he frequented it as often as he did the Met. Obviously a nicer neighborhood than Bushwick, but it was still near the subway stations. Checking himself at the door, he pushed through in a glide and strolled southward.
“Today, I am going to take my time. Not even think about the job. Finish the day working on me. Tomorrow, I’ll draft and scheme. I’ll have a couple of paintings to play with by the end of the week. The final composition the week after. Just don’t think about it so much. Zone out and zen. Like being trashed without the alcohol.” Robert said to himself, quietly. “I’ve got this.”
James C Gilliam 