East of Lincoln by Harlin Hailey

Author:Harlin Hailey [Hailey, Harlin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Indie Author Project
Published: 2019-11-15T06:00:00+00:00

The rain stayed with us into the first week of December. And just like the headlines of our day, the Artist was growing more edgy by the hour. He said as long as this “water torture drizzle” continued, he was “out of business.” No longer able to paint outside in the alley, he spent his time drinking, chewing nails, and worrying about outcomes beyond his control. It was Tuesday, the fourth of December, when I paid a visit. I got right down to it, tired of the dance.

“You make rent?”

“Not yet,” he said, nervously wiping down a metal easel with a paper towel. “I’m three hundred short.”

“Did that guy in Silver Lake come through?”

“Not yet.”

I clenched my teeth. “That tool. I swear to God, I’m gonna waterboard his ass.”

Wound tight, the Artist paced the room, saying over and over, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what I’m going to do. The landlord will for sure kick me out this time if I’m late.”

I watched him pace another minute, then tried to coax a smile.

“Hey,” I said. “Did you see that picture of Romney pumping gas in La Jolla? It was classic.”

He wasn’t listening, just raking the sides of his hair like he was crawling out of his skin. “Jesus Christ! I’m so tired of this rain! It’s been like…five days.” He turned and looked at me like a wounded animal. Sounded like one, too. “Did Beth call?”

“Not yet. But she’ll call.”

He stared off into the kitchen, perturbed. “I told you,” he said, “you never bang somebody and run. Who does that?”

I knew what was going on. He was nervous about missing rent, but he was doubly nervous about showing his work. You have to be a brave spirit to be a fine artist in Los Angeles, where the cult of fame and celebrity trumps all. It’s easy to get lost in this town of hype, pitches, and loglines. Easy to let the sarcasm chip away at your soul.

“You know,” I said, “sometimes you have to take a risk. And you have to risk failure. You have to know that going in. If people don’t look at your work and say, ‘Oh, this is a piece of crap,’ or ‘I could do that,’ then you’re not learning, man. You’re not growing as an artist.”

He kicked a newspaper on the floor. “Screw that! I’m not chasing profits.”

“Then forget the profits,” I said. “And focus on paying rent, will ya.”

It was startling how much I sounded like my father.

“Arrrgggh,” he said, running a stiff hand through his flattop. “I’m just so overwhelmed.”

By now you should know that the Artist is a proud Southern man, raised never to accept a handout. He is famous for saying, “If I ever take government cheese, put me down like Old Yeller.” So if you wanted to help him, you had to cloak your philanthropy in such a way as not to offend him. Or you had to buy one of his paintings.

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