“It’s kinda sad, you know, how dead famous artists get all the press and no one notices living painters struggling to get by.”
“Yeah, wonder why that is?”
She seems not to hear. “And you know what’s really aggravating? Those famous artists are all mostly men.”
It’s hard sitting in this all night café hearing Andie’s struggles and pain—I want to fix her, but can’t.
To make matters worse, I’ve fallen in love with her—go figure—I’m a jerk. This girl’s been hurt before and made up her mind not to get involved with guys again.
She’s staring vacantly out the window at the rain. “I’m not bitter, I just wish I could get some sales, that way I could keep on painting, hang around for a couple of decades and maybe get noticed.”
She’s incredibly beautiful with huge brown eyes, and if you're not careful, you can just fall in. And yes, I suppose I have. Obviously, I’m obsessed, but so are a lot of other guys and that’s not the kind of attention she needs right now.
Did I tell you she’s incredibly gifted? Her paintings touch me the same way Chagall’s work does—they both paint dreams out of the poetry of their souls.
But Chagall got his recognition and now sleeps peacefully with his ancestors while Andie Sutton struggles to get by. She’s sharing a tiny apartment with a girl friend and I can’t imagine how she’s able to paint anything at all.
“I gotta go, Tucker—I’m really tired. I’ve got an appointment tomorrow afternoon at the Hershel Gallery—maybe they’ll show one or two of my canvases.”
“Well, I wish you luck. Want me to walk you home?”
“Naw, I’m good. But you look tired too—hope I didn’t wear you out with my probs. Get some sleep, Tuck.” She affectionately tousles my hair, but then her defences go back up. I see her jaw set as she does up her coat and heads out into the rain.
I wait a minute, then shadow her, keeping her in sight for a few blocks, until she finally gets to her building and is safely inside the door. I know, I know—I’m setting myself up for a lot of heartache, but I couldn’t sleep for worrying if I let her walk home alone at two am.
There’s not much difference between Andie and me. I’m a writer struggling to sell my wares, but unlike her, I don’t have to worry about supporting myself—my father left me everything in his will, and believe me, it’s a lot. I’ll never have to work again.
The problem is my father didn’t believe in me—wanted me to join his law firm—have a ‘sensible’ career, like him. So, you see, I identify with Andie, and like her, I’m struggling with my own demons.
“Look Pal, why don’t you just buy one of her paintings?”
Fletch has a mouthful of bacon, lettuce and tomato sub, but despite being garbled, I can still make out his intent.
“C’mon, you know the answer to that—I have my principles too, just like her.”
He puts down the sub, guzzles some beer, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Well, I know she wasn’t to the manner born as we are, Bud.”
I have to smile. Fletcher Courtland might be a partner in his father’s legal firm, but he hasn’t acquired the poetry of gesture that accompanies wealth and status—and that’s why I’ve chosen him as my friend.
A light goes on in Fletch’s brain and he blurts out, “Oh, I get it—you’re scared. You think Andie’s going to take you for a bundle just like Cyn did—I almost forgot about your resolution.”
He’s alluding to my ex’s attempt to fleece me for breech of promise when I broke off our engagement last December. It cost me fifty thousand to settle that claim out of court. I vowed to fly under the radar from then on, living like an ordinary working guy.
“Am I right, or am I right?” he says in a guttural slur no doubt imitating my drunken tirade on New Year’s Eve and my determination to keep from getting fleeced again.
“Ha ha, nice imitation of me, Pal—just keep on reminding me of my stupidity.”
His face falls. “Hey Man, you know it’s not like that—I’ve got your back.”
I play punch his shoulder, “I know you care, Fletch—but what I’m saying is more than that. When I started to live a more modest lifestyle, I found I was more productive artistically. I guess for me living comfortably made me way too content—I wasn’t hungry—I lost my passion for writing. Well, now I’ve got it back.”
“So, why not just come clean with Andie and help her out?”
“Because that would complicate things. I wouldn’t know if Andie really cared for me or was just grateful—and besides, there’s another factor.”
“Yeah—what’s that?”
“I think she hates men.”
