“I’m on a roll
I’m on a roll this time.
I feel my luck could change.”
“Lucky” ~ Radiohead
“This article.” said Barney, as he approached me sitting in my usual black leather chair at the café—my new consulting position pushed back a week. “what kind of angle would it be?”
“I don’t know.” I told him, surprised he asked. “I don’t even know if my friend would write it, but I envision it being about how you became an artist, and where some of your work can be seen.”
He looked at me pensively, rubbing his chin in quiet contemplation.
“I think I want to do the article.” he announced. “I’m having a piece of mine put on display at a new museum in Laguna Beach.”
When he mentioned Laguna Beach, memories of the weekend I spent with Anya there filled me. How much fun it would’ve been to visit a museum with her to see an artist’s work—one I personally knew. Everything that ever reminded me of her still got my heart pounding. Especially whenever she appeared as my number one friend request on Facebook, unable to give up on the dream.
“I’ll reach out to my friend.” I promised, taking out a pen from my computer bag. “Can I give him your number?”
“Sure. Sure. Treasure of the town.” He replied, reminding me of how I described him during my pitch. “I like that.”
“I think you are—not too many people have accomplished as much as you have.” I assured. “I think your work is worthy of more recognition, not just quietly put on display in a museum to be stumbled upon.”
After giving me his phone number, he shook my hand, holding onto it for almost a full minute thanking me many times before letting go. His change of heart left me wondering why he turned it down in the first place—it meant a lot to him. All I could promise Barney was that I’d make my friend aware of him, but couldn’t promise the article would be done. Compared to the usual crap featured, weddings that likely failed after a few years, my friend should jump at the chance to write it.
I was not an artsy type person in any sense of the word—only an enthusiast of people who deserved recognition for their work. You could feel the walls in the room he painted. You could see his obsession for realism spring to life through his mere color choice. He achieved realism without the use of a photograph or camera but from a brush, yet he walked by people on the streets a stranger. Barney was a “mad man”—no sane person could do what he did. What made it even worse? He was a stranger to the world he embraced.
After the excitement of landing work wore off, I worried about adjusting to a completely different life than the one I lived over the last eleven months—would my depression affect me? Even eleven months later I still found myself sleeping in late, not working out, and not eating right. Generally, not doing the things I needed to do to right the ship, but this vessel I commanded was at the bottom of the sea without preservation. Without hearing from Anya, a mental paralysis kicked in; an intense fear of making the wrong decision. As much as I still believed, even fighting with others about it, there were times when I felt forgotten, causing me to stay in bed or reach for a Vicodin to get me through it. Without Anya, I had to completely start from scratch, even reinvent myself at nearly forty years of age, and that likelihood overwhelmed me the louder her silence got. What if this anxiety paralyzed me when my consulting work became too stressful? Was I setting myself for failure if my mind wasn’t together yet?
Most nights I’d hole myself up in my apartment, becoming a full-time hermit in a desperate attempt to sort out the mess in my head before going back to work. I felt bad for Anya’s kids, more than I felt bad for myself—I didn’t fall in love with their mother to destroy their happiness. I went into our relationship thinking she would do whatever she could to make it work—that all she needed was someone to be there for her. Even eight months after departing, as lonely and as depressed I was, I still refused to accept we were through. She was the one who scolded me for not knowing a woman can change her mind in an instant. Why couldn’t she change her mind now?
Even my mother began to thaw, or maybe she just came to understand how much Anya meant to me. Or maybe, after she started losing her hair again, she had other things on her mind. On the fourth of July, I came over the house for dinner but never gazed at any of the fireworks that filled the skies above me. Knowing the fourth of July was Andrew’s birthday, I knew Anya had a party to go to, deepening my sense of loss. I just couldn’t get the scene at her home out of mind, imagining her surrounded by friends and family, providing proof of my PTSD—the Fourth of July never held this much weight upon me. Although I received invites from my friends, a single firework was now an emotional trigger as deadly as any gun to my head. While the fireworks danced without a worry in the sky, I opened up to my new closest friend.
“Do you remember the time Anya wrote me a letter to break up with me because she stumbled upon a letter written by her daughter?” I spoke. “Detailing how she had a little bit of a nervous breakdown?”
“I remember.” My mother replied, sitting up on her bed clutching her remote control.
“I think about that a lot.” I added. “I should’ve broken up with her when she gave me the chance to—she even begged me to. I should’ve just let her go.”
“Why didn’t you?” She replied, looking at me in surprise.
“Because I felt her daughter’s struggle was because of Anya’s unhappiness with her marriage. I never stopped her from not being there for her daughter—her husband’s emotional and mental abuse was the reason.” I explained. “I thought if she were with me, she could truly be there for Katie. Was I wrong for thinking that way?”
“No, I think you were right—it didn’t make sense to punish you. Her marriage was the reason her daughter struggled.” She shockingly agreed with me. “She wasn’t there for her daughter because of the unhappiness in the marriage, not because she was in love with you.”
“It kills me she’s still with him. I die a little more inside on days like these.” I continued, shaking my head before standing up from my mother’s worn pink recliner. “It’s just so hard for me to believe let alone ever accept—that she’d consider working on the marriage after all we shared.”
“She probably doesn’t wanna work on her marriage—her life has to be absolutely miserable” She reasoned, appearing startled when I rose from my seat. “He’s probably hitting her with more things than ever before.”
“As upset as I get about things at times, I’m not rooting for her misery. As much as I want her to feel what she’s left me with, it’s not about revenge for me—I love her.” I said, now pacing the room. “I just wish she’d leave him, just to show me that she had every intention to do that before agreeing to give her a chance at happiness. To give me the peace of mind that she didn’t use me or waste my time—even if she ended up with someone else. I need to know she was real.”
“It was real, Honey.” she said, concerned. “It happened.”
My mother, without a single hair left on her head, smiled without my selfish misery being able to produce the same in return. Being her son, she was completely biased and likely reluctantly saw my side of things. She also knew though if she told me Anya still loved me, I’d wait forever, but little did she know, I was already prepared to—too damaged to love anyone else.
“Yeah.” I told her, unable to see the reality Barney produced so easily in his paintings.
“And besides, isn’t she holding on to the necklace you gave her?” She reminded me. “I’m sure she has other nice jewelry so she could part with it.”
“That’s true.”
“It must mean somethin’ to her.” She added, grabbing her remote control to change the channels. “And if she didn’t love you, trust me honey, she would’ve never written you back.”
“It’s not like she wrote me back to tell me she still loved me.”
“She didn’t have to tell you “I love you”—she proved it by writing you back.” She shot back at my negativity. “And why would she not still love you? You were there for her in every way her husband never was.”
On an extremely difficult day, as a hurricane of negativity stirred inside, my mother’s words soothed my scalding thoughts.
“Landy, I’m sorry if I’ve said anything to make you feel like her love wasn’t real.”
“I know it was coming from a good place, Mom.” I told her, shaking my head to let her know she didn’t have to apologize for anything.
I started to notice that whenever my mother and I disagreed lately, she would apologize, even calling me up to do so—something she’s never done before. She must’ve feared the direct correlation with the increased need for Vicodin and my depression believing Anya’s love was never real caused. Sadly, I couldn’t tell if my mother truly believed Anya still loved me or was just worried about me destroying my life—as if Cancer didn’t give her enough things to worry about.
After surviving the Fourth of July, I frequented the Good Morning Café hoping to run into Anya before starting my new job—feeling it was the last chance to run into her there. Each time though, if he wasn’t already there, Barney was the one I’d see. When Dave called him a mad man, no truer words could’ve been spoken—Barney had become obsessed with the article. I guess I should’ve seen it coming from the mind of a true artist, but he also wanted something beyond the article; the one thing I should’ve seen coming but failed to.
“I was thinking…actually, hoping.” he told me with wild green eyes.
“Oh, what’s that?”
“That you’d write the article.”
“Oh. I don’t know…my friend is a far better writer than I am.” I reasoned as anxiety washed over me. “Plus, he’s responsible for the photo spread—it’s his magazine.”
“I’m afraid the things I’m tellin’ you will only get lost in translation.” He explained, trying to build his case. “You’ve not only took in what I’ve told you but you’ve also appreciated it—that’s hard to find. I’ve already expended a lot of time and energy sharing my work with you. I’d feel more comfortable if you wrote the article.”
As Barney’s wild eyebrows furrowed with trepidation, fearing the essence of his work, and even who he was being forever misinterpreted, it left me feeling the same.
“I’ll write it.” I told him.
“Fantastic!” He replied, his fear replaced by relief.
“I’m starting a new job next week, so it’ll take some time to put together. “I advised. “I still have to convince my friend to do the feature so I can’t promise anything other than writing the article.”
“I understand.” He said, nodding. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“I would like you to do a couple of things for me.”
Uh-Oh. Here it comes. I thought.
“Please look at the painting “The Girl with the Pearl Earring. It’s a portrait of a woman with a pearl earring by Vermeer.”
“Will do.” I replied, trying not to laugh at Barney’s lack of faith in my ability to imagine what the painting likely looked like.
“It’s where I drew my art’s inspiration from.” He elaborated, smiling. “It’s also a pretty good movie that came out about five years ago.”
“I’ll be sure to check it out.”
“I also need you to call someone—the man’s name is Sal Chinchilla. He’ll give you a valuable third-party perspective.” He instructed while scribbling his name and phone number on a napkin before handing it to me. “He’ll vouch for the greatness of my work.”
“Okay, thanks.” I replied, reluctantly receiving the napkin.
“We’ll drive you out to see my work in Beverly Hills. I have a painting displayed at a Jewish Temple there.”
“Can we do it on the weekend?” I asked him, fearing this article was morphing into a special on the show Sixty Minutes.
“Unfortunately, it’s closed on the weekend.” He answered with a frantic tone. “How bout’ this Friday?”
Spending my last day of freedom with Sal and Barney before starting work again wasn’t what I had in mind. I promised Barney I’d write the article but didn’t realize all the extra work involved.
“This Friday it is.” I caved.
“I know you’ll enjoy it. I can see that you appreciate the art.”
“I do—even my mom couldn’t believe your painting wasn’t a photo.”
“She thought it was a photo, too?” he laughed. “You showed it to her?”
“Of course—it’s why I think you should be featured in the magazine.”
As giddiness gave his eyes life, his smile was unable to hide how that made him feel. I felt the same way Barney did often these days—a little madness inside. We used the passion that fueled our madness in productive ways, even at times it came from a negative place.
Planning to call Sal Chinchilla the following day, it seemed Barney wanted to speed up the process—Sal contacted me first leaving me a voice mail. After raving about Barney’s accomplishments in a three-minute message, he called me the following day to add to it. When his third call in thirty-six hours came, I quickly picked up the phone to ensure the long voice mails ceased.
“Hi, this is Landyn.”
“Landyn. Sal Chinchilla here.” His raspy voice announced. “Barney’s friend.”
“Yes, nice to meet you, Sal. How are you?”
“Excellent. Excellent. I heard you’re writing an article on Barney and I wanted to give you a little insight into who he is.”
“That’s correct, Sal.” I confirmed. “I figured I could get some info from…”
“Barney’s a ladies’ man.” he cut me off. “Him and I both have done very well with the ladies. We’ve have had some crazy nights.”
“Well, to be frank…the article isn’t about Barney’s virility.” I told him. “Not trying to take anything away from you guys—I’m sure you both do well with the ladies. This article is only about his art and what inspires him to paint.”
“Oh.” he said, sounding disappointed. “Well, maybe you can find a place for it at the end or something…you know, after all it’s the artist lifestyle that mainly inspires his work.”
“Maybe I can work it in somehow.” I replied, not knowing how to fit their libidos in the article.
Now everything made perfect sense, why Barney changed his mind about being the center of attention—Sal thought it would be a great way to meet ladies. After informing Sal that Barney would be featured in a small-scale magazine and not People, I also had to disclaim there was no guarantee his friend would be featured at all. Undeterred, he agreed to meet me at the coffee shop on Friday morning at ten then have Barney drive us to the Temple in Beverly Hills.
Upon arriving at the café that Friday morning, I heard a loud voice call my name from behind a newspaper.
“Hey, where’s Vermeer at?” Barked Dave.
“He’s on his way.” I told him, shaking my head knowing this is going to cost me half of my last day of freedom. “Did he tell you we’re headed to check out one of his paintings in Beverly Hills?”
“What do you think?” replied Paul, shaking his head too. “He told everyone within earshot.”
“He’s a HOT head!” Yelled Dave, rustling the newspaper. “ALL artists are!”
Remembering the many times Barney bared down upon me with wild eyes passionately describing his work left me unable to disagree with Dave’s jab.
“His head is over a hundred degrees.” Paul supported. “Celsius!”
“What a HOT HEAD!” blared Dave. “Vermeer is FULL of himself!”
“Duly noted.” I acknowledged, finding it ironic one hothead calling out another.
When “Vermeer” did arrive, he strode up to me and vigorously shook my hand.
“You’re in for a treat—an absolute treat.” he exclaimed, tightening his grip. “You should know I don’t usually take people to see my work—anything for the article though.”
“I’m lookin’ forward to it.” I replied, hoping he’d soon release my hand from his grip.
“Sal should be here any minute and then we’ll leave. You talked to Sal, right?”
“I did.” I affirmed, knowing Sal had to have told him we talked.
“Sal will tell you all about me. He may know me better than I even know myself!” Chuckled Barney before letting go of my hand. “I’m kidding of course, but he’s a walking encyclopedia that guy. He remembers a ton of things I’ve completely forgotten about. He’s a helluva resource to have.”
“He sounded like it.” I nodded.
“Oh, speak of the devil and he appears! Fashionably late as always.”
Sal wore a dulled rainbow beret with a beige sweater and baggy tan khakis a golfer from the twenties would’ve worn. He was diminutive, standing no more than five inches beyond five feet, clean shaven with brown eyes and skin.
“Sal, this is Landyn.” he introduced, Sal’s hand extending out to me. “Landyn…Sal Chinchilla.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Landyn!” He addressed me excitedly; my shoulder nearly being pulled out of its socket by his lively handshake. “Oh boy! You’re in for a real surprise!”
“Nice to meet you too.” I told him, grateful his handshake was much shorter than Barney’s.
After greeting Sal, I saw Dave’s face sticking out from behind his newspaper, his lips quietly moving to the tune of “what the fuck” upon witnessing our introduction. At that point, it was only a matter of simple deductive reasoning—this was Sal’s maiden visit to the preferred coffee shop of the mentally insane. The only thing missing in this place was Nurse Ratched. Before heading out, Barney briefly acknowledged Dave, but he soon took it upon himself to bid us farewell.
“Have a great time! Be safe!” Yelled Dave as we stood by the café’s doors to exit. “Vermeer! Everyone! The REAL deal! The Girl AND the Pearl Earring!”
Believing Dave's insult likened the girl to be Barney and her pearl earring to be Sal, I did my best to hold in my laughter. Barney just shook his head before exiting but before opening the door to his red Nissan Sentra, he turned to face me.
“First off, it’s not “and” it’s “with” the pearl earring.” he stated, his eyes afire. “Ha! He mocks me with his Vermeer, but you’ll see my work today then understand.”
“He’s like that with everyone.” I told Barney, putting my hand on his shoulder.
“He’s just mad no one wants to write an article about him.” Piped Sal.
As Barney insisted I ride shotgun, Sal eagerly jumped into the backseat. Before sitting, Barney threw the water bottles and newspapers off the passenger seat to the vacant back seat next to Sal. When I heard the engine start, I took out a pen and notepad in preparation of gathering important information for the article.
“So how long has your work been in this particular museum?” I asked when we got on the freeway.
“Two years now.” Barney told me.
“Three, actually.” Corrected Sal, poking his head in between us.
“Really? Are you sure? It’s been three years?” wondered Barney, looking back for a second before returning his eyes back on the road.
“It went on display the same day we picked up those broads on Christmas eve two thousand six! Remember, Barno?”
“Oh yeah, you’re right!” he recalled, grinning with a sense of pride. “See, this is why I brought Sal—he remembers everything!”
Not only did I laugh in acknowledgement, but it also seemed the only thing fueling Sal’s memory was his testosterone.
“What’s your story Landyn?” asked Barney. “Did you ever hear back from your ex?”
“Oh.” Struggling to speak, caught off guard by his inquiry. “Not yet—hopefully one day.”
“What chick is this?” Sal asked, his eyes widening. “Is she hot?”
“My ex-girlfriend.” I said, bringing him into the loop. “She’s definitely hot, but she’s more on the beautiful side to me.”
“Is she ‘The Girl with the Pearl Earring’ beautiful?” asked Barney.
“Without a doubt.” I told him knowing I didn’t have to see a beautiful painting to know pure beauty when I saw it.
“I remember the first time I ate out a broad.” broke Sal, his raspy voice sounding like he had a voicebox. “Oh Barno, it was a beautiful thing. She was ‘Girl with the Pearl Earring’ beautiful too.”
“That’s beautiful.” said Barney, wistfully.
“I think I gave her a matching pearl necklace too that night! Wah Hah!” Sal announced.
I laughed Sal off but he reminded me of Jackson—another man who never deserved to be in the company of a beautiful woman. Whenever I heard stories from men about their sexual conquest it made me cringe because of all the pain loving someone deeply had caused me. Or maybe I was jealous I couldn’t discard someone so easily the way Sal could. After all this was the mentality of an artist—confusing lust with love. My idea of love wasn’t jumping from partner to partner then divulging details of each relationship with them. I couldn’t deny though it sure would’ve been entertaining to hear the ‘broad’s’ side of the experience. Unable to help myself, I upped the ante on my story to see Sal’s reaction.
“I wish my ex could join us—she was so much fun.” I spoke. “She definitely would’ve joined us to the Temple in Beverly Hills—she married a Jewish man.”
“Was she married when you dated her?” Inquired Sal.
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“Oh, no. She was married to a Jewish man before we met.” I lied, afraid to inspire more tales of his sexual conquests. “She would’ve really enjoyed going to a museum with the actual artist whose work we’re going to look at.”
“You said she married a Jewish man?” Sal asked.
“Yes, but before we dated.”
“Jewish husbands are pricks.” Stated Sal, pulling on the back of my chair. “I could see why she left him—they treat their wives horribly.”
“I couldn’t say that all because he’s Jewish.” I told him to prevent a Hitler type rant. “But he definitely abused her emotionally.”
“He cheat on her?” Wondered Sal, drawing his face closer to mine.
“Yep.” I told him, pulling back.
“Doesn’t surprise me. The Jewish men I know thinks their shit smells like the finest cologne.”
I definitely couldn’t agree with him that Jackson’s ego had anything to do with his religion, but his description gave me a new appreciation for Sal.
“He definitely had a high opinion of himself. She ended up leaving him eventually.”
“Good for her.” said Sal.
While sitting in Barney’s car and lying about my past relationship, my depression seeped in from out of nowhere—how could she have chosen to marry a man like Jackson? Even making the choice to stay after having me in her life? On afternoons just like this one, Anya visited and we’d be in bed together—just so in love. On this particular afternoon, I found myself in a Nissan Sentra with essentially two different versions of Mitch—missing her like always, but feeling it more acutely than ever. As cars passed us on the freeway, my eyes searched for her license plate, hoping for just a single sign of hope. The more cars drove by, the more alone I felt even in the company of two—the reality of her conscious decision hitting me like a nuclear bomb until mercifully arriving at the Temple.
Upon our entry into the white shrine, Barney introduced himself to a white-haired wiry elderly lady at the front desk, explaining the reason for our visit. She stared at him blankly, as if this wasn’t the first time he’s made an unannounced visit, before leaving us for a moment. After a minute passed, she returned with a tall black bearded gentleman wearing a yarmulke who granted us access behind the front desk. As we made our way down a dimly lit hallway, Barney talked highly of his painting, giving us the impression of a large valuable piece requiring around the clock armed security. Fifteen steps later, we abruptly stopped in front of the only painting on the corridor’s wall. One would’ve thought we just arrived at the Sistine Chapel instead of the eight by ten painting in front of us. As Barney continued to rave about his work, the gentleman rolled his eyes before abandoning us.
“There she is.” Exclaimed Barney, outstretching his arms. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“My God. She sure is.” beamed Sal.
I nodded my head sensing there had to be someone filming us—this had to be a prank. Barney allowed me to come all the way out here with them for this? This was the museum piece?
“What is this?” I asked, looking at the painting then back at Barney.
“It’s the city of Jerusalem.” he told me, keeping his eyes on the painting the way I looked at Anya.
“I meant where’s your work?”
“Why this is it right here!” he announced, laughing along with Sal. “It’s a painting of the City of Jerusalem.”
“Oh.” I said, hoping he’d sense the disappointment in my tone.
“I like how I did that.” Barney stated, pointing at the painting. “That part of the wall right there.”
“Brilliant.” said Sal, rubbing his chin while taking it in. “Just brilliant.”
While trying to study it the same way they did, I quickly sensed they both waited for a comment from me.
“What made you choose to paint the city of Jerusalem?” I wondered. “Are you Jewish?”
“Oh no.” he softly chuckled. “It’s God’s city—something I just had to paint. Oh…I just noticed something. See that, Landyn?”
“See what?”
“See how the shadows lay upon the wall.”
“Yes.” I replied not knowing the significance.
Barney just nodded, rubbing his chin unable to provide any clarification.
“Brilliant, Barno.” Chimed Sal. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I hated to even think it, but there was better artwork displayed in a dentist office. There was no way the Temple would allow this on their wall without a monthly donation. Out of respect for Barney though, I took a closer look at the painting before asking if he had other paintings displayed elsewhere. He led me to believe his art was displayed in an actual museum, not in a hidden hallway behind the front desk at a Jewish temple. It appeared Dave was right about him; Barney was bonkers.
Taking Barney’s shadows remark, I focused on the details in the painting rather than the unremarkable nature of the painting as a whole. Utilizing this different approach, I began to communicate to them what I saw in hopes of salvaging my last day of freedom.
“Your painting not only shows the sky is blue, but you can feel the air around you as well—where it’s warm and where it’s cool.” I told him. “I can see the sky without actually looking at it.”
“How is that?” Asked Barney, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.
“How it shines on the wall. How its shadows fill the marketplace.” I clarified. “How you can feel that remarkable subtlety.”
A smile broke upon Barney’s face as Sal shook his head.
“No one’s ever seen that in my painting before.” Announced Barney, smiling broadly.
“That’s a first.” nodded Sal.
“The picture is small in scale but bountiful—so much in so little. Its man-made foundations with god like intentions—a higher source allowed you to paint this. Life itself flourishes within it.” I said, speaking the article into existence. “The painting is not just meant to be seen, but to be inhaled and exhaled. It’s constantly moving, breathing.”
“How so?” Urged Barney.
“You can hear the leaves on the trees rustling, and even see the air lifting the dirt off the ground. This picture may appear to be still, but no, it’s alive.” I coaxed, feeding the ego of the starving artist while pointing out my references with a finger. “You’re so obsessed with capturing realism in this work, that you don’t realize with every stroke your passion for realism grabs people by their jugular. Your painting is not merely a portrait of the City of Jerusalem, but a passionate rendering of life itself—it’s magnificent.”
Barney listened intently while peering into his painting with even more vigor and precision than when we arrived. He then looked over at Sal for some kind of feedback.
“He gets it.” Sal broke.
“More than anyone else has.” Stated Barney.
“You’ve never looked at art before, Landyn?” asked Sal.
“This is a first for me.”
Sure, the nurturer in me embellished a little, but he worked too hard for his work to be simply disregarded. He deserved to feel a great source of pride for something that even left me laughing at first, the same way Dave mockingly branded him as Vermeer before we left the café. It didn’t seem Barney had many genuine “feel good” moments in his life. The feeling of being called a failure struck a power chord within me; especially remembering when he shared how his family looked upon him as a failure when he quit being a medical book illustrator. After viewing his painting, I knew why he chose to freelance—he refused to celebrate mediocrity. We were brought into this world to be creators, and to be ultimately destroyed by what we construct to be born again through reconstruction. Leaving the Temple there was no doubt in my mind I was in the presence on this day of a true creator—a mad man indeed.
I went home that night inspired to write the article and work on my novel, although the Vicodin might have had something to do with sparking my creative spirit. Like Barney, realism was an obsession of mine as well and Anya staying with Jackson epitomized the lie of life. It wasn’t about her being with me or not—if she loved someone else, my love for her was strong enough to let her do what made her the happiest. Her happiness was the only reason I chose to be with her and to fight for her. She led me to believe many times over our love is what made her the happiest—she couldn’t fool me. I loved Anya a lot more than I could’ve ever loved myself. There was no denying though, for her to still be with Jackson destroyed my soul because that reality stole away all the love she ever gave me. Believing in the reality of our love was the only thing getting me through my days. Without that, not even all the Vicodin in the world could save me from my end. The longer she stayed with Jackson, the more what we shared wasn’t real—only existing because it remained a secret and a love on the terms of only one, not two. Now even eight months later, Anya was still the first thing on my mind when I woke up in the morning and the last thing on my mind before falling asleep, even dreaming of her more times than I can count. I missed her just as much as I ever missed her, holding onto hope that she still loved me enough to reach out one day. Regardless of what everyone else said or tried to get me to believe. I could never accept she used me. I could never accept she loved me only when she could get away with it. And could never accept she would’ve ever dared to disrespect a loyal, faithful and loving man—not after all she went through with Jackson.
The only real thing nowadays was the pain, overbearing enough at times to leave my apartment to embark on a lonely drive to nowhere in particular, surrounded by too many memories. Things that made me feel special, even safe, now haunted me like a poltergeist. She could never know how deeply this struggle was, slowly killing myself each and every day. I had already made her feel too responsible for this and writing her another letter wasn’t the answer anymore. After writing her twice and hearing nothing back was something I had to respect regardless of the anguish it brought me. Leaving things, the way they were now, made the most sense. Her last memory of me had to be a fond one so if she did leave, she could find safety in knowing the strength of my feelings for her still existed. After sending me her daughter’s essay, she told me if she ever left that she would run to me—I didn’t want to ruin that if the chance still existed.
A change of scenery was desperately needed, my loneliness becoming more severe as time passed. Even the gym left me feeling uneasy, my motivation to be healthy dying along with my soul. There were times I’d drive out to the gym only to end up never leaving my car, afraid of what I would feel once inside. Sometimes I felt so removed from the world, I’d sweat from anxiety and not the actual workout itself. Headaches and bouts of indigestion became normal, but both never deterred me from using the drug likely causing them. There were also times when the despair became so great that real thoughts of ending my misery filled my head—even leading me to wonder what the best time was to scale the bridge so no one would make a fuss about it. How someone would see my car on the bridge and just call a tow truck. There was only one thing that stopped me—not the hope Anya still loved me, but the one who told me my life belongs to God—my mother. My fear of her suffering was the only thing keeping me from relieving mine.
On this particular night, Google informed me that Anya had run a half marathon in Palos Verdes earlier this year. I’m sure this flew over Jackson’s head, but this was of great significance—it gave her a reason to visit Abalone Cove, our beach. She wanted her ashes to be strewn where our beach met the sea—to commemorate her undying love for me. No doubt she did this particular run with Carolyn and Debbie to show them our little heaven on earth—a day I’ll never forget. When I told Anya it would only confuse her kids, she told me she didn’t care. A side of her I rarely saw in two years. Her silence though made me doubt she wanted her ashes there anymore—I just couldn’t foresee Debbie and Carolyn driving to our beach with Anya’s urn with them. I’m sure her kids and family would have something to say about that ever happening anyway. It was a beautiful thought though and the fact she even ran the Palos Verdes marathon gave me hope she still felt love for me too.
I had a lot of reasons why I believed Anya still loved me regardless of this discovery—refusing to let go even as others believed I should. The Universe had a reason for bringing Barney and even Sal Chinchilla into my life—to help me deal with the outside interference. Like Theresa, when I first saw Barney’s painting alone on an empty wall, the first thing I did was judge him. Even mocking him—the painting had no value in my eyes. But, when the depth of the painting came into focus, my vision sharpened. That was the problem with the outside running interference, wanting me to let Anya go as if she never meant a thing. Theresa, Mitch, even my own mother, never saw the depth—only seeing the sky but never feeling the air. If they looked closer, feeling the air and the coolness the shadows brought, they would understand why it was impossible to let her go. Why I held onto hope even as there appeared to be none.
There were many reasons why it was hard to believe she didn’t love me. After my letter to her, there were no more pictures of him and her together on Facebook. And the only one remaining, a picture on their company website was taken the same day she came to decipher “Toda Una Vida” to me. How could I ever believe a woman who didn’t love me deeply would whisper those words to me with our lips an inch or two apart? Even Katie never posted another profile pic of them together on Facebook after mentioning it in my letter—a sign she respected the anguish I felt upon seeing that. I needed all the empathy in the world and she lovingly gave it to me, even writing me back to tell me my letter meant a lot to her. She even sent the letter inside an envelope to remind me of her favorite color—as if I could ever forget. The Abalone Cove inspired stationary it was handwritten on said it all—she had every intention of keeping her promise. Imagining while living a hectic life, she took some time to find stationary reflecting our beach made feel both happiness and sadness. Responding to my letter the way she did, a reflection of her beauty, after sending it to her home was the surest sign yet she would never resolve her anger and do things behind Jackson’s back if she had to. And by far and away, the greatest reason why I still believed she loved me was indisputable—she still held onto the necklace I gave her. The “thingie”—the only piece of jewelry I’ve ever gotten for a woman. If Anya could be certain about one thing in life, it was that she would hold that title forever.
The outside interference could easily question why she hadn’t written me back after I sent her the music CD, but her son’s bat mitzvah was at this time. She had to keep her head in the game and likely feared doing anything to ruin this time for her son—it would be safer to run into me at the bookstore instead of writing me back. She could’ve easily returned the CD back to me, especially when the first song on the CD was “Love Will Keep Us Alive” by the Scorpions—a tune she had to know showed how I still felt about her. Anya was also entering the second year with Andrew being on the same baseball team as the son of the woman that Jackson cheated on her with—a reminder of the peace and joy stolen during her second pregnancy. With these circumstances surrounding her, it gave me hope the Universe was cooking up something I could smell but couldn’t taste yet.
Anya told me she would never resolve her anger and if Jackson knew the truth, he would tell her they were even now, forcing her to work on her marriage. But, if she refused to resolve her anger, how could this not create a larger rift between them? My mother believed she didn’t want to work on her marriage, giving me hope we would find each other again. There also undoubtedly remained a chance Jackson would confront me, and if he did, Anya would leave him. Jackson likely thought I would’ve cracked by now, but Anya’s love shielded me from his hope. Most distraught lovers, a category I fell in, called and physically stalked their exes, but I never did. Sure, the internet gave me an outlet to whet my appetite for knowledge, but it was natural to be curious—why Anya didn’t want me to hate Jackson’s for his. Although the temptation called out to me, I never once drove by her home—not because I didn’t care, but because there was nothing to gain. Not one time did I even think to follow her, him or their kids anywhere. Other than what I saw on the internet, and even as I thought of Anya all the time, I had no idea what any of them were doing. Jackson believed I would become psychotic and act out, but eight months later he still had nothing on me—or anything his wife would be willing to give him. Yes, most days I felt abnormal, walking the thin line of sanity, experiencing a madness I’ve never known. A manic depression that was symptomatic of a bipolar disorder and PTSD—nothing felt normal anymore. As a new job awaited me, I feared this strange new world would distract then lead me to my demise. In the face of great mental agony I relied on a drug to help me through the day, one by one, believing Anya’s silent love I could no longer see or feel would take me the rest of the way.
My apartment held me captive to its memories, and since I was starting at the bottom again, my new job paid considerably less than my previous one. With no real plans of meeting anyone new, a need for anything more than a bachelor pad was not practical. The memories in my bedroom made it hard to stomach lying there alone—I needed a change. Believing Anya still loved me also didn’t mean there was no chance of never seeing her again—I knew that possibility existed too. Every single day for the last eight months, while dealing with symptoms of PTSD—the severest form of mental instability—I waited for a knock on my door that never came. If I removed myself from my home of the last three years, it would be easier to understand why the knock never came, relieving me from the torment. Clearly, a change of scenery was needed to help me take that next step into the unknown. Whether I’d be around for the long haul, I struggled with that uncertainty every day. In order for me to reclaim some semblance of the life I used to have, at least financially, the straight and narrow path was a road no longer available to me. Instead of allowing others to reap the benefits of a license I worked so hard to attain, it was my duty to profit from it now—the only hope left to make the same money I lost when the partnership was taken from me. The price for believing in love in a loveless society.
My first day on the job surprised me—my mind was completely focused on the work and not all I’ve lost over the last eleven months. The Company hired three other consultants and we all shared one long desk in the same room. One consultant, who was the first consultant hired, took it upon herself to run the show. Although I took no issue with her initiative to manage the tasks, the other two consultants did. The company, a restaurant group, had franchises all over California and experienced a severe cash flow deficit. Apparently, they gave the franchisees leeway in paying their monthly franchise fees because of the recession, but their outsourced accountants failed to track the past due amounts. The group had hundreds of franchises and made their money on the monthly five percent of sales franchise fees. They brought us in to reconcile the amounts owed to them by the franchisees, enabling them to collect on the past due amounts to improve their cash position. They asked us to examine the franchise contracts, cash receipts and bank statements over the last four years to determine what was still owed. After dividing an equal amount of the franchises among us, we each set out using our own approach to calculating the amounts due.
With each passing day, being back at work helped keep my mind off the depression, forcing me to get out of bed in the morning. Although I used Vicodin to help deal with the stress, not having the time all day to dwell on things was a nice change of pace. With my first paycheck, I put the money into building the business, purchasing a new computer and office furniture. After my parents surprised me by framing my CPA license and Accounting degree, I hung them on the wall above the new desk—my own home office. The job put me back in the right frame of mind career wise, reclaiming a part of my old self—the version that didn’t feel like a complete failure. Now being able to focus on myself, I began eating healthy salads and soups again, even working out at five in the morning before going into work each day. The morning workout made me tired later in the day but setting my morning on the right foot just felt better overall. Of course, my depression was waiting for me when I got home, getting absorbed in its host cell—fatigue. But, I felt more in control of its management, writing in my daily journal at night to deal with any unsettled emotions.
Three weeks into the consulting engagement, the Director of Finance and the CFO called me into their office to track my progress. When they told me “you’re blowing them all away in there”, it was the last thing I expected to hear—a far cry since I was last summoned to an office. They were impressed with my presentation of the Franchise fees balances due—something the franchisees could understand. While everyone else followed the spreadsheet format of our fearless leader who arrived to work at ten and left at four, I went my own way to success. When the Director of Finance demanded they follow my reconciliation format, the consultants began graciously leaning on me for guidance. From there I gradually took on management of the project, we bonded as a group, gaining traction on a final product we could present to the franchisees. Time was of the essence as each passing day brought a major challenge of not having enough cash to wire to the main food distributors to fulfill restaurant needs. If we could start collecting three years of the uncollected franchise fees, cash flow would improve enough so the Company could stay in business. As long as we didn’t know exactly what amounts were owed by each franchisee, it was only a matter of time before the business became another casualty of the greatest recession in United States history.
I sat next to a consultant by the name of Steven White. After getting close to Kevin, there was much hesitancy becoming friends with another co-worker. Three weeks into the job, it was only natural to have a conversation. Steve was about six foot and a little overweight with short dark brown hair and a pale complexion. He shared with me how he deducts his expenses for tax purposes, tracking his mileage and meals. Since we arrived an hour early before anyone else, our talks soon became frequent, touching on all subjects, especially sports and music. One day though, he asked if I was married, leading to a discussion about past relationships. Without giving him any details, after my morning Vicodin kicked in, I revealed how difficult losing my girlfriend had been.
“Do you think she still loves you?” he asked, removing his fingers from the keyboard.
“I think she still does.”
“How come you guys broke up?”
“Bad timing.” I told him. “Just bad timing.”
“My girlfriend left me for another man—an investment banker.” he revealed, shaking his head. “She left me for money.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I replied, shaking my head too. “That’s tough.”
“She came back to me four years later, telling me she made a mistake. She even apologized.”
“Did you take her back?” I perked, feeling a sense of hopefulness.
“I couldn’t.” he answered, turning his chair to face me.
“Oh?”
“The way she left me. How cold she was—how she calculated it.” He sustained.
“Did you feel her apology was insincere?”
“The sincerity of her apology didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she begged me to take her back.” He explained. “I knew I’d only take her back to repair my ego but never forgetting what she did and how she did it. It’s easy to forgive her, but it’s impossible to forget.”
I nodded my head in acknowledgment—how could anyone truly forgive if they could never forget? Steve did her a favor by walking away.
“Would you take your girlfriend back?” He then asked.
“Well, she didn’t leave me for another man, and I’m mostly at fault for her leaving.” I told him. “I’d take her back because I could truly forget what she did. I’d just be happy she was back home and given a chance to fix things.”
“It took four years for me, but when she came back the love was gone. All that remained was closure.”
“I guess all we need sometimes is what we’ve been denied.” I said.
“No doubt.”
When he told me this story, that after four years she came back to him, the light of hope flickered allowing me to not need a pill the remainder of the day. Eight months since our parting, it was an accounting job that breathed new life into me. If Anya ever did come back to me one day, even four years later, I had to be ready. We’ve shared too much for her to never consider it. Building something to offer had to be my upmost priority, a future even grander than if I were partner. Forgiving and forgetting would be beyond easy to do if she had the courage to tell me the things Steven’s ex-girlfriend did. I put Anya in a rough spot that day, and emotions ran high, too high to be reined in. I could never punish her for that, my struggle since the day she left only confirmed living without her was a day at a time undertaking.
While the new job pieced a part of me back together, my weekend visits to The Good Morning Café pulled me back into my depression. Both Barney and Sal called me often with sound bites for the article. Each weekend at the cafe, as sure as the sun rose, no matter how I tried to time my visits to miss him, Barney would be there.
“How’s the new job working out?”
“It’s actually more of a client engagement than a typical job.” I corrected him. “It’s going really well, but I need to find more business to build this off of.”
“How are you doin’ that?”
“I’m compiling a customer list and contact info from business websites I feel could benefit from my services.” I detailed. “I’m writing direct letters to these businesses to market my services to them—it’s time consuming.”
“I can imagine.” replied Barney, looking about the café as if expecting someone. “How did you like my painting? Impressive huh?”
“I loved your painting. Very impressive. Your love for art kind of chokes me up when I think about it.”
“Why is that?” he asked with a wild look in his eyes.
“You just love what you do—you put your entire heart and soul into it.” I told him, speaking genuinely. “I put my heart and soul into a woman the way you did with your paintings—you deserve good things to happen—to be appreciated for it.”
“We’re both artists. We love deeply, without restraint, to create something from nothing. To love deeply, is in its very essence, art.” He explained. “You don’t have to be a painter to be an artist.”
“Well, it’s just nice to see someone put their heart and soul into something and be recognized for it.” I said, contemplating the sadness of his work never being recognized.
“How’s the article coming along?” he asked.
“I haven’t had time to work on it.” I explained, feeling badly. “I did come up with a beginning to it, though. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed with lively eyes and bringing his hands together.
“I began it with the very first thing you told me about your work—that you do things on a small scale.”
He gazed at me puzzled and unimpressed, as if to say “That’s it?”
“Alright.” He then told me instead.
“The article starts off like this “Saying Barney Vinkovich does art on a small scale is like Amadeus Mozart saying he does music only using small notes.”
After I read this to him, a wide smile broke upon his face and his eyes danced about.
“I can’t wait to hear the rest of it.”
“I’m working on it.” I told him, trying to temper his expectations. “I didn’t expect the job to take so much of my time. I’ve been sinking my money so much into the business. I’m livin’ on fumes right now. It’s been a struggle to find the time.”
“I understand” he said. “Man, I loved that.”
He deserved all the recognition in the world for his work. The love and passion he poured into his paintings deserved to be known. I didn’t know if this was the way all artists were, but he represented a dying breed in a world that now relied on photographs and not rendered paintings. My opening then inspired him to share another story for the article. While diligently taking notes, it gave me a welcomed respite from the stress of building a business to cure my quickly depleting bank account. If I didn’t finish the article, it would be a great disservice to him—his soul needing it as badly as I needed Anya’s love to be real. With each and every story he shared; it was easy to see how much it meant to him. Although he envisioned it only being a page or two, it was too few to do his work any justice. His being judged by many for leaving the medical book illustration profession to go off on his own, scalded him inside. His “hothead” persona a judgment thrown down upon him with no understanding of what drove him there. This article was a chance to let the ones who judged him know why the vision he carved for himself was not the vision others had for him. No doubt he had a mean streak in him, but didn’t we all on some level? If nothing drove us mad, then how could we be passionate about anything?
As my depression pressed on, nightly jaunts to the bookstore’s self-help section helped me find ways to better cope. Settling into my new job only allowed me more time to ruminate on all that was missing. Delving back into mental anguish, I stumbled upon an autobiography by Steven Tyler, lead singer of the group Aerosmith. As the Vicodin taken twenty minutes earlier kicked in, his claim that being sober was the best he’s felt, landed hard within. Living my life without a pill seemed like the greatest of impossibilities without Anya—the only way I could mimic the good feeling she gave me. How long and treacherous the road in front of me seemed, just to return to who I was before we met. The emptiness and despair would be unrelenting and impossible to bear—I knew I’d never make it.
I then stumbled upon another book on this night titled “Not Just Friends” about how couples deal with the fallout from an affair. It claimed if the jilted husband or wife contacted the “affair partner, it would only bring their spouse closer to the affair partner. The author then suggested the husband and wife form a “united front” against the affair partner if they planned to work on their marriage. The book also told of the unhappiness and sorrow of the affair partner; how they suffer having to heal alone. When the author also claimed that men who witnessed the birth of their child were more prone to cheating on their wives, the author lost credibility trying to justify the unjustifiable. To read about an excuse for Jackson’s behavior was beyond unsettling knowing how much agony swelled inside me for trusting in someone’s sadness. The author concludes by surmising the affair is the beginning of the end—that most extramarital relationships never save themselves even when two partners become emotionally attached or try to reconnect. After all is said and done, they come to realize how different they really are.
The book also told of another tale of woe—a woman who stuck with a married man for fifteen years before learning he was seeing someone he eventually ended up with. If that happened to me, I would’ve walked straight to the bridge then off of it. After reading that last story, it left me feeling a tad justified for forcing Anya’s hand. It was never done to hurt or scare her or her kids, but to push her into telling him she was in love with me—to nudge her into reality to know she was real. We were never just friends. The writer of the book I placed back on the shelf claimed when Anya told Jackson we were just friends, it meant she wanted to continue our relationship. At the time, it was impossible to view her words in that way—I was obsessed with her love being real. The only thing that could make it real would be the admission of her love for me.
One observation in particular, its singular truth, made me realize the reality of her situation—her marriage was in deep trouble. In no uncertain words, the author claimed the number one reason for the affair causing a divorce was if there was sexual intimacy with the affair partner. It meant the cheating spouse was in love and not just looking for kicks on a Saturday night. It even went on to state that forty-nine percent of marriages with infidelities on both sides led to divorce. Considering she kept my “thingie”, she accepted my letter even writing me back, and never returned my love music CD indicated nothing less than her still having feelings for me. It was no coincidence those holiday pics from the CPG website were removed for a reason—including the pics disappearing from her daughter’s Facebook page. Jackson could never deny the fact he needed details and Anya clearly wasn’t giving them to him, using his daughter and Company to get them from me. In my estimation, the marriage had two to three more years of life remaining, if that.
Without any reason to suspect the contrary, I decided to get online hoping to see if Anya would show as my number one Facebook friend suggestion. When she did this time though, she had a new profile picture to show the world. As my eyes absorbed it, a seemingly current portrait of her on Jackson’s lap inside a large restaurant booth, a sudden halt attacked my respiratory faculties leaving me unable to breathe. The picture showed they had formed what I read about minutes earlier; a united front against me, filling me with nothing less than a sense of impending doom. A unification meant to have no other intention than to destroy all the hope and sanity that remained.