We were not the first to leave nor the last out of the loft.
Downstairs, out of the
elevator, Manny turned right and I followed. The man at the station greeted him
with, “Good morning, Mr. Davenport!” and Manny returned it with the same
inflection and the man’s name. The booth in the back was the entrance to a
large storage, a duplex with hundreds of lithograph reproductions and some
original paintings.
The man bent down and
handed him a box, from which Manny took out its contents and placed most of the
postcard size flyers into his backpack. The rest he held in his hands. We made
a left out of the building and a right when we got to Houston Street. I asked,
“Is it safe to talk now?”
“Yes.”
My words flew out of my
mouth, exposing my excitement to be part of his world. “What are you into? Why
did Cindy think I bought in? Is she your woman?”
“No, you’re my woman, at
least to them. I knew you’d eventually find me so I had to provide you a
cover.”
“Why do they want me
dead?”
“Not them personally but
there’s a reward out on your head.”
We walked Houston,
heading east.
“Why? I had nothing to do
with what happened on the campus.” He slowed to stare at me. I continued, “I
asked for your help in one thing and next thing I know a building is burning.”
We reached Second Avenue
and a rush of people moved across us in all directions. Manny didn’t address
what I said. “You showing up almost messed up this operation. But you and Edwin
played it well.” He half-handed a flyer to a young man who stopped. “If you
want a print of this, it’s ten dollars. Take this flyer to the address listed.”
The young man said, “No thank
you.” Manny gave him the flyer and we continued walking.
“What exactly is the
operation? Is it dangerous?”
“Yes, very. Now that
you’ve covered this part of my story, I need you to stay away unless I call
you.”
“What? Why?”
“What did you see last
night?”
“Drugs. Orgies.”
He cut in. “Yes and
that’s not your scene. You sleep with one you must sleep with one more to be
accepted. From there you can stay in that box or try to get deeper. The only
way to do so is to sleep with many more...”
“How deep are you in?”
“This is my third year
in.”
“I want in.”
“Aren’t you a virgin?”
“I’m not a virgin.” I
punched him on his right arm. He laughed and stopped to go into his sales
pitch. The woman gave him the ten dollars. He thanked her, signed the flyer and
gave it to her. “Is this what you do all day?”
“Is something wrong with
it?”
“No. I just never knew
this side of your life. What percentage of sales do you get?”
He slowed to stare at me
again and handed me a flyer. I looked at the postcard flyer and still did not make
the connection. “This is my art. Each week I try to finish a new piece. I walk
around and try to sell one hundred copies of it a day.”
“One hundred?”
“Yes, and I get one
hundred percent. The four of us bought the building together, and whoever
raises the capital, only through sales of their own work, can buy the others
out.”
“Doesn’t that type of
competition breed jealousy, animosity?”
“Not if you buy in.” He
paused and waited for me to question. “Plus, we have been buying property
together for years. There are hundreds of us.”
“One thousand dollars a
day?”
“I take a day off here
and there, and don’t always get to one hundred sales each day.”
“When do you get a chance
to paint?”
“After I sell at least
one hundred copies, I end my day and work if I want. If I can’t sell five
hundred copies of a piece a week, why go on to work on the next piece?”
I had never looked into
his eyes this much. I saw an innocence I had never. I loved the way he had
slowly built his hair like a crown, a fortress of spikes dangling around his
face. “Am I your woman? Am I supposed to sleep with your friends?”
“No. You were not
supposed to go to Edwin. When did you become so compliant?” Amidst a short
laugh, he put his arm behind my neck, across my shoulders. “Go home when we
reach 42nd. You’ve covered me enough. I appreciate it.”
“What, I’m the jealous
woman?”
“It’s the best story in
the world. You came looking for me and you didn’t like what you saw.” He
laughed again, removing his arm as he made another sale.
“As long as you’re honest
with me, I have no reason to be jealous. Is Cindy your woman?”
“She wants to be but I
only met her a few weeks ago.”
“Semester is just ending.
How long have you been in this loft?”
“For almost a year. This
school year, my classes were mainly studio, and didn’t require attendance.”
“No wonder I couldn’t
find you on campus. Are you going up for your graduation?”
“No.”
“Is Cindy your woman?”
He laughed. “Do you mean
if I’ve had sex with her?” I didn’t answer. “I told you what the operation is.
You’re my woman but this is not the place for you, if you can’t flow. And, I’d
prefer you not to.”
“Why? You’re jealous?”
“No. It’s just that this
is not an operation where you can jump in and jump out. People will get
suspicious, and feel their identities have been compromised. There will be
consequences.”
“Is Cindy your woman?”
“No.”
“OK, after we sell a
hundred copies. Take the Metro-North home with me. I want you to meet my
parents.”
His
loud laugh shielded him from the incredulous notion. “We’re back to this again!
Your family will not approve of me. That’s why I have never gone to meet them.
Have you even told them about me?”
My silence must have made
him think I agreed with his assessment. I calculated a counter. “Have you told
your family about me?”
“Yes, right after I met
you your freshman year.” My silence meant my mind went into the future, of our
life together, and he read it perfectly. He said, “This thing between us, it’s
not just you who feels this way. But I know what my life is like.”
We didn’t talk much the rest
of the way. He sold five prints by the time we reached East 42nd
Street. “I’m going to turn here and head to Grand Central.” I paused so he
could say something, ask me to stay, or express an emotion. But he was the
master of the stoic demeanor. “Give me a flyer so I can get in tonight.”
“Ten dollars.”
“What?”
“I don’t give credit.” I
fake stepped toward him like I would pop him one. He laughed, signed a flyer
and handed it to me. “I really don’t give credit.”
“I don’t either but you
owe me.”
He pulled me to him and
said, “You gotta kiss me to make it look good. Chances are we’re being
watched.” We had slow-kissed before but never this out in the open, under the
sunlight, on a crowded street. We kissed, the way people do when they were
about to cry. As it ended, we hugged and he whispered, “Don’t come back to the
loft!”