Sunflowers (Tournesols) II 19 страница

He smiled and stopped rubbing his knee, instead placing that hand on my back. "I felt the youngest I had felt in years. Even before you came, I didn't feel age like I do now. Even when you and I were in Paris, it did not feel this pronounced, though I know it was happening. Everything now has come on very quickly, as if all the ailments of old age had been trying to get through the door all at once and were stuck for a decade. Now one has gotten in, and they've all come to visit me." He sat down on the ledge and folded his hands in front of him. I could tell he was awkward now that he didn't have the convenience of a cigarette to cling onto for conversations, or for stress, to make himself feel stronger. Already ten minutes into quitting, and he was looking around for one. He laughed at himself, and tried to remember that nothing, even quitting, was sudden. "It will take some getting used to, I suppose."

I nodded. I was just as addicted to cigarettes as he was, though for a much different reason. They seemed synonymous with Gerard. They were practically another art form for him. I was used to seeing him talking, lecturing, or even just telling me about paintings with a cigarette in his hands and smoke filling the room; if it was not there, it was as if he was missing some integral part of himself. It would take some getting used to, and I had to admit, part of me wanted to sabotage this effort. I wanted to go and buy cigarettes for myself and keep them around the house to tempt him to hopefully come back. I had already asked him if he minded if I still smoked, and though he sort of rolled his eyes and asked if I even understood what he was saying about aging and death, he eventually consented that it was fine. He was never going to prohibit my own choices, ever. I felt instantly bad after I had asked, though. I never really had a nicotine or addiction problem. Half the time I would light the damn things to watch them burn, and when I did take a breath, I kept the smoke in my mouth and rarely took it into my lungs. Just to have it near me, toxically close, had been enough.

"If you do smoke, smoke on the balcony, perhaps?" Gerard offered. "Not that it would tempt me, but if I want to do this because I don't want to get closer and closer to aging by taking smoke-filled breaths, it would make more sense to have second-hand smoke limited as well. And you know, I kind of want to keep my lungs. It means more time with you."

I nodded, biting my lip. Of course, I told myself. He wanted to not smoke to prolong his life, whatever was left of it, if the damage had not already been done. He wasn't just prolonging his life for art, but for me as well. I suddenly felt so ridiculous wanting to re-enact our old times together and to keep the art of smoking alive because it bore a vague resemblance to the artist that I loved. I was living in the past, but the past was a literal killer. It was going to take a lot of time getting used to, almost an amputation of sorts, but when he put it that way, it made sense. Neither of us needed to smoke anymore, because we had one another. I would not be walking to the corner store that evening to pick up a pack to have, just in case, because it was a redundant act.

Instead I would work on forming a new image of the artist in my mind.

I turned to see him next to me on the bench, just as the sun emerged from behind clouds and made his gray hair look silver. I got used to this, I told myself and I touched the back of his neck and linked my fingers through his mane. I got used to him not dying his hair, being thinner, and older, and I could get used to this man without a cigarette. He only seemed remarkably different because I had not been paying attention, I told myself, and I wanted to pay attention again, to remake him again. He closed his eyes as I touched the nape of his neck for a moment, then he turned his gaze towards me. He touched my chin, and then went up my jawline and brought me forward. Neither of us had shaved, and while my beard was growing lightly, his was non-existent. Our rough skin clashed together as our mouths met. He tasted like cigarettes, and I sucked and breathed him in, trying to preserve the moment. I touched his chest, sliding my fingers between button holes, his back over his spine, and ran my fingers through his hair, constructing what I could. I wanted to keep the moment as it was, forever, so we could stay perfect as we were and not worry about ever dying, ever again. Gerard kissed and touched me back with equal vigour. He ran his tongue along my neck to my ear, nipping at the lobe, and breathed over certain areas to send a chill up my spine. I wondered, only vaguely, as our bodies submitted to one another, what he was trying to preserve as well.

Though the issue was done and gone, I still felt myself thinking about aging, death, bodies, and change. I had gone to work in the darkroom for awhile, only to find old photos I had taken of Gerard smoking or just cigarettes themselves. I wondered what to do with art that had suddenly changed form and meaning in my mind. I thought these images were wonderful and beautiful, but I had loved them so much because they had been reflective of the reality I wanted. Now my reality was different; was I still allowed to think these photos were beautiful, even if Gerard admonished smoking? I bit my lip and skipped them to the end of the pile, unsure of my conflicting emotions. I found old photos of Gerard back when I was seventeen and I found myself scanning over those for signs of aging all over again. I tried to ignore all of it, but it kept coming back, and I finally began to seek out photos to see if I had documented the deterioration that Gerard said was always happening. I had a seven year gap with him that I could only use my imagination to fill, but I had lots of photos of myself I scanned, of Vivian, and Jasmine as well. My eyes lingered the longest on her photos, and I felt a pang in my stomach.

She had been coming and going in my thoughts a lot, especially after the dinner with my parents. That night I had had a dream about her, only bits and pieces I could remember, but I knew it had been her. It upset me, how even though I was finally sleeping with the man I had always wanted, she was showing up still. Coupled with the tension of my parents, she seemed to be around in my thoughts more and I was still trying to articulate why. I wondered if it was because of the fact that we had always appeared as a 'normal' couple. I knew that notion was absolutely laughable; not only were we never a couple, but anytime we were together, we were far from normal. We appeared straight to so many people, and it was probably one of the reasons that I fought against being identified with her. I knew that I predominantly liked women and had been with a lot, but in spite of that, I didn't feel very straight. I thought of all the college, twenty-something guys I had gone to school with. They were the ones that would drink every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night - beer, of course - and wear golf shirts and try to pick up girls with their blonde hair, tanned skin (even in the winter) and mentioning their athletic career while they were at a club that played terrible music. If this was heterosexuality, I definitely did not want to be a part of it. I was nothing like that. I liked women like they did, but that was where our similarities ended. Jasmine and I never went to clubs, we went to coffee houses and libraries, we went to one another's apartments or to the park. I liked women, but even my bedroom activities were never quite straight. I began to remember the few times it had been Jasmine who was the one to fuck me. She had purchased a sex toy when one of her friends worked at a sex shop and got a discount, and well, we used it. A lot. I doubted that any guy who went to a club called The Trash every Saturday night would be into the same things I was, and I didn't think that sharing the label of heterosexual male was quite fair or accurate. Jasmine, using her women's studies logic, would just show me the Kinsey scale and smile. "There's no accuracy in sex, you just do it," she would say and then grab the sex toy for us to adventure with. I smiled in the darkroom, remembering how awkward and hilarious it had all been. Jasmine had to keep trying to figure out how to move her body now having this hard plastic appendage at one end that she was not used to, and I had to show her how to actually get ready for something like this. The first time we did that it had been years since I had had any type of sex like that, and it had hurt and been really awkward. But we had worked at it, and that entire week we had not gone to classes at all. Even Jasmine skipped out, something she rarely did. She liked having the strap-on and it eventually became a part of her, so much that the first time we had had sex without it, it felt weird her not having this bright purple appendage between us.

But that - instances like that with Jasmine - were exactly what I meant. I didn't feel straight the way other men who liked women felt straight. I knew that you never really knew what went on between two people, and perhaps it was an unfair judgement on part of the guys I saw wearing golf shirts. Their girlfriends may fuck them as well, but from what I had seen in the media depictions of straight relationships, it was bland, boring, and normal. I wanted nothing to do with them, and had nothing in common with them.

And yet, I was thinking about Jasmine after the dinner with my parents. Maybe the illusion of normalcy was what I wanted, what I wanted to project, just for a little while so I could forget about all of the differences and inconsistent realities that seemed to flow through my blood. I had gotten so used to being invisible. I was never with anyone before Gerard, and even when I did decide to be with someone in those seven years, it gave me a non-descript identity. I could go out with Jasmine and not hear someone yell 'faggot' at me from a car window, I could pass in and out of clubs if I wanted to, and I could take out a girl from my photography class and not have to perpetually explain myself. My parents never hassled me and I never really had to think about things. Too much was happening now, and so much of the opposition was violent and overwhelming.

But then again, I caught myself in the dark room, wasn't it just possible to think about Jasmine because I missed her? We had not seen each other since that morning we had been together, and I was used to talking to her. Gerard had been talking about changing the image of himself that I had in my mind, which he was totally allowed to do, and Jasmine had been doing the same thing as well. I was remaking them both in my mind, Jasmine as the working vegan and Gerard as the aging and non-smoking artist. That was another thing in addition to being invisible. My youth was something I didn't have to think about because it didn't affect me. You never realize you have legs until you break one, and I had never broken a leg. Now Gerard said the cold made his knees ache. I had no idea what that was like, and what was I supposed to do?

I used to long for someone with the same body as my own, because then I could know their pleasures and their touch as easily as I did my own. I wanted someone like me because it seemed more beautiful to see subtle differences in chest hair and skin texture, than large difference of sexual characteristics which seemed to overpower. It was probably one of the reasons that Jasmine's strap on had been so appealing for us. It was someone with the same body, it was the same force, the same feeling that I had craved for so long. But my need now for someone with the same body was changing, morphing into something new and old at the same time. The same body meant the same aches and age. It meant the same pleasure as well as the same pain. And my mind began to slip towards Jasmine and her body, and my memories and feelings began to become tangled onto one another, and I felt lost and too visible at the same time.

Gerard knocked on the dark room door. "Everything okay in there? You've been in there, without movement, for over an hour."

I sighed, caught off guard, and wanting to be disturbed. Another part of me was relieved his hearing was still doing well. I stood up straighter and tried to compose myself. I suddenly felt bad, awkward, and although I hated it, guilty for thinking of Jasmine the way I had been. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Can I come in?"Gerard asked, and opened up as soon as I said sure. He walked over to me and kissed the top of my head as he placed his arms around me. "Did I upset you before?"

"No... I just..." I turned around, so we were face to face. He kept his hands on my waist, and I put mine on his chest. I ran my hands up and down, imagining the gray hair underneath. I thought of Jasmine's chest, and how she had been here a while ago, but I hadn't seen her since. I imagined taking her necklace on and off. She had changed so much in the four months I was gone, I was suddenly frantic to keep in contact with her. If Gerard stopped smoking and Jasmine became vegan, what else was going to happen?

"You want to say something. What is it? You've had this distant look recently."

"I guess it was my parents."

"Before them. They appeared as a fluke, almost. A way to distract you from what you were really concerned with. What is it?" he asked again. There was no judgement nor demand in his voice. I could have told him to fuck off and mind his own business if I wanted to. But I didn't want to. Even though he was Gerard and he was the most important person to me, I was still thinking about Jasmine. I realized, as soon as he said I had been distracted, just how much I really had been. She followed me around like his age must have followed him. It was tiring, I knew, for the both of us, holding these ideas at once.

"Jasmine," I confessed. "I miss her."

"More than usual," Gerard observed.

I questioned his gaze. Did he know anything? But he was hard to read, so I confessed: "We slept together. One night when you were at Vivian's. The night the power went out and it snowed a lot."

"That was a while ago," he said calmly.

"Yeah, I guess I'm still hung up on it. I want to see her and talk to her more, but...it's awkward."

"You should talk to her if you want to talk to her. Half of awkwardness is the worry that this is going to be awkward. People, especially someone as perceptive as Jasmine, can tell, and then start involuntarily acting awkward. Walk in with confidence that you belong there, and you may be surprised."

I nodded, agreeing with his advice, but there was something that still caught me off guard: "This is okay with you? If I go and see her?"

I knew we were together and always would be, in some way or another, and that a relationship wasn't a game so you couldn't cheat, but I was always so tangled up in expectations and perceptions. I tried to remember the pipe painting; just because something wasn't represented didn't mean it wasn't real. There was still something about Gerard and Jasmine that I needed to sort out for myself. I wanted to know who was more important, because I honestly couldn't tell anymore. When I was with Jasmine, I thought of Gerard. When I was with Gerard, I thought of Jasmine. I wanted someone to tell me 'No, stop being with that other person or you can't be with me,' but no one was telling me that. They were giving me complete freedom of my own heart and mind, and it was terrifying. My feelings overwhelmed me. They were both inhabiting equal planes in my mind, and I was not used to loving someone as much as I had both of them before. This should have been amazing, because how many people look for that one person their entire life? I had somehow managed to find two people, and I was lamenting because my chest hurt from loving them both.

In the dark room, Gerard still was giving me no instruction, but he was at least catching onto my overwhelming state of things.

"You need no proof of love," he told me. "You need no proof for something you just know. So stop trying to find evidence. It's like those people, trying to find a reason to go to Paris. Just go."

"But it's hard. I feel unstable, like I don't exist and don't belong anywhere," I expressed frantically. I was either too different or not different enough. I was either straight or gay. I either longed for the same body but with unmatching age, or a different body with matching age. For the man I had waited seven years for, or for the person I had spent those seven years with. I had no idea what I wanted; I didn't even know what to call myself anymore.

"This is life. Nothing is black and white, Frank. You just kind of make it up as you go along. Besides, why bother with black and white anyway? Pick a colour, any colour, and go with it for the day. Maybe by the end, with all your change, you'll have something gorgeous."

He kissed my forehead, and then our gaze fell to one another and we exchanged smiles. I wanted to roll my eyes at him, but I held back and kissed him instead. This feeling usually happened when his ideas began to make the most sense in spite of all the logic that I wanted to impart. It was easier to laugh than to take it seriously at first. He was becoming so obscene, almost, with all the art metaphors lately, but I knew that was the only way he could understand his life. He was trying to create a rainbow, after all, and so his art permeated his life and it became a lens through which he would view the world. It was the way that most people viewed the world; everyone had their own framework to make sense of things. It was so much easier to take something and turn it into a picture, a narrative, and then analyze it from there. It made you feel safer because you were creator, not participant any longer. But no matter what, even if it just involved the picking of a colour, you were always a participant. A pipe was not a pipe, but the painter painting it knew what that pipe looked like, and it was as real as the image to him. In my own mind, the art metaphors clashed together and created a mess of feeling. I kissed Gerard, more and more, until he finally broke it off. I needed to just make a decision and go with it.

I hugged Gerard in the art room for a little while longer before I told him I had a call to make.

Finally, Jasmine answered the phone at the magazine. After calling on and off for the past few days, it was a relief to not have to hear the resonant sound of endless ringing.

"Hello Mouth Magazine, taking talk to the tips of your teeth."

"Hey! Jasmine! How are you?"

There was a long pause. I suspected after so many business calls it would be strange to hear someone being so informal and addressing her by her name. "Frank?" she finally caught on. "Is that you?"

"Yeah! I finally got through. You know, you should really have an answering machine there."

"Oh yeah, right. Sorry about that. I was in during the break and I just didn't bother with phones." Her voice had gone back to a flatten affect, very work-like tone. "What can I do for you? Does this call mean you have something for me in terms of what story you're going to work on?"

My eyes widened. I had no idea what I had done with that hardcopy. I read it over once, and struggled to remember something on it so I could bluff my way through. "Yeah, that story by Nina Simone..."

"Do you mean Nina Samson? Nina Simone is a singer, Frank."

"Yeah! That's it. Sorry, can't read exactly well right now, been spending too much time in the dark room, getting stuff ready. That story looks good. I'm sure I can help there."

Jasmine tsked tsked, clearly sceptical. "Considering that story is on trans-friendly health care and OBGYNs for trans men, I don't exactly think your usual photos will be enough, nor will you be permitted to enter most of those spaces in order to take pictures," she informed me. My face flushed and I shut my eyes. I was quiet for a long time at the other end of the line, before Jasmine finally sighed and went on. "I appreciate your enthusiasm, though, but did you really think I wouldn't know the stories well? I'm the editor. I have to."

She seemed to fall victim to the weight of her own statement as well. We were both quiet, then I finally spoke: "I'm sorry. I did read over the sheet, but I don't know where I put it. The apartment is a mess now and I honestly just wanted to call and talk to you. I miss you..."

"I miss you too, Frank," she said honestly - but she didn't let me get too excited. "I just can't deal with things that aren't work right now. I'm really busy."

"I know, I know. But what if I helped you? Tell me a story to do and I'll do it. I don't care what. I just want to be around you."

She sighed. I could hear pages rustling through the phone. "This is just business, okay?" She didn't give me a chance to respond before she continued. "I'm going to a political thing tonight. You can come, take pictures for me, and then I can write an article about it or include it in my letter from the editor or something. Sound okay?"

I didn't even think about. I agreed right away. "What time?"

More rustling, and the sound she usually made when she was thinking and mumbling under her breath. "You know what? This is actually a really good idea. The event is actually super close to your place. You know Frederick Douglass Park?"

It took me awhile to register what she meant. "The memorial park? The ones with the statues?"

"Yes, right there. It's the monument for Douglass. I'll park at your building and then come up to get you. We'll go over together."

"Sounds great!" I was perhaps too excited by my prospect of work. Jasmine reminded me once again that this was purely business for her, and she would be on the clock when she did it.

"It'll be past six, though, so that just means I get a shorter day some other time this week. I could use it for the cafe," she was thinking out loud. She had completely gone off on her own tangent, and I brought her back towards this conversation.

"So what exactly is this that I'll be going to?" I was very unfamiliar with politics; I had not even known the proper name of the park. And who did politics in a park? Was it a new form of debate? "Do I need to dress up?"

Jasmine laughed. "No, absolutely not. Just bring your camera and you'll see. But Frank -"

"Yeah?"

"Don't eat before you go. I'll be taking you out to a dinner you've never imagined before."

I waited around eagerly for six o'clock, and resisted the urge to phone around and try to figure out what on earth I had gotten myself into. Was dinner part of the function, or was that something that Jasmine had added for intrigue? Was she taking me out to dinner? Was there some budget for the magazine that involved buying food for photographers (you know, instead of actually paying them)? I had no idea and I tried to push all of these thoughts and questions away. They would only get me too excited or too disappointed for when I actually did show up. I waited by the window with my camera and longed for a cigarette to calm my nerves.

Gerard was intrigued as well. I had told him the cryptic way Jasmine had explained the assignment, and he told me that if there was free food, be sure to grab as much as I could. The free buffet was the artists' smorgasbord, and he told me some amusing anecdotes from when he was in art school and he used to purposely carry a large backpack with Tupperware any place he went so he could load up on food if need be. Another trick had been to always have a nice suit or clothing on hand, so you could walk into a gallery or a show without being noticed and eat all you could until someone realized you had not been invited. It was another reason to appreciate the art of dressing the part and Gerard reiterated his points on playing the part as well. Walk in with confidence and expect that people will treat you as if you belonged, and it may actually happen. Showing up and attitude was everything. Learn this, and the rest should be easy. It was how so much bad art got made and produced, and how so many despicable people were able to get friends and partners with no problem.

"When you walk into a place like you own it, most people believe you. It works the other way as well, for deflecting insults instead of compliments. When someone says something terrible about you, never believe it. Always act as if you're entitled, and the confidence will mask any type of despair, and people will admire you for standing strong in your vision. At least in public, at least in the art world. You may have to act extra dubious and stoic for the world of politics. I usually never partake much there myself," he added, and then kissed my forehead. "Good luck."

I thanked him, but didn't respond too much in depth. I was still getting my head around the idea of acting instead of being. I never liked being perceived as a fake or a liar, and that was usually what was going on in politics. I figured so long as I had my camera, I could retain a small segment of honesty and I would be all right. I sat on the ledge by the balcony, and when I saw Jasmine's car pull up, my heart leapt into my throat. It was apparently show time. I received another good luck kiss from Gerard, and then I was off and bounding down the stairs. I met Jasmine on the fourth floor and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Wow, you're eager to go," she commented, turning around. "It's good. You're already more energized than half my staff."

I linked my arm with hers and we began to walk. She gave me a bit of a look when I did this, but my enthusiasm and confidence was contagious. She smirked but then we began to walk, and she continued to talk about the magazine, her staff issues, and other woes that had happened during the day. I listened intently and made the appropriate ooohing and ahhhing noises, along with the "oh reallys?" and "well, that shouldn't have happened." The formulaic way I was responding made my skin crawl; a 9-5 job that required this type of repartee disguised as conversation made my skin crawl. I knew Jasmine was different and just needed to vent, so I tolerated it. My eyes scanned her body and I analyzed how she was dressed and her mannerisms, and I began to wonder how much of a part she was playing as well. She had told me she was on the clock for work, and it was clear that she had not changed since leaving the office. Was this really Jasmine I was hanging out with, or was this work-Jasmine? Did it matter? I was playing a part right then as much as she was. Maybe on the layer of performance we could engage as equals, even if ourselves remained hidden. I held the door for her as we got to the last floor, and although she seemed startled by my gesture at first, she smiled as she went through. It seemed genuine, real, and as we walked into the fading light and down the street towards the park, the real us began to poke through the fissures in our roles of make-believe.

"I'm really excited to go to this. I've never been in the winter, and I wonder if the demographic will change?" she commented.

"Is it completely outside?"

She nodded. "I hope that'll be okay for taking pictures in. There should maybe be a tent of some kind so that the food won't be exposed to the weather, but that may be it. I brought gloves, you know, in case our hands get cold from shooting. I also assumed that you have a flash camera. I should have mentioned this on the phone but I figured most cameras had a flash. I'm realizing now that I don't know much about photography."

I nodded, told her not to worry and that we needed to enjoy this as much as we could. I stood up straighter and pushed my chest forward a bit, which ended up making me look poufy with my large jacket on as we walked. It was comical, almost, this confidence that I was trying to exude, but I believed that it was working and Gerard's words played in the back of my mind. I was totally entitled to be here. So what if I didn't have very much cred as a photographer - yet? It was all about that little qualifier at the end, that wonderful yet. So what if I didn't have any political knowledge - yet? Yet yet yet. My feet seemed to say it as I trudged over snow and yet. Yet-yet, yet-yet. I was going to be great, I could feel it.

It wasn't even that cold, either, and the sun had just set. The street lights and lights from the stores and general city industrialization made walking easier. The freezing rain we had been having made the snow that still remained on the ground very hard and crunchy, but the sidewalks were no longer death-rinks. There was no wind so the cold was bearable, and the memory of those few days where it seemed like breathing was painful on the balcony were a distant memory. The ground was a blank canvas of white, hardened, and the rest of the dark night was calm, clear, and as confident as we were. The city seemed to invite us into itself as equals, and we walked towards the park on freshly salted sidewalks, as if this path had been prepared for us. As if we were the only two people in the world.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14