Negative space, p.7
Negative Space, page 7
***
Max exited and the bus pulled lethargically away from the curb, screeching and roaring back onto Venice Boulevard. Lost in himself, he walked, his sketchbook and two newspapers—the Chicago Sun and the Daily Arizona—tucked firmly under his arm, a plastic Taco Shack bag dangling from two fingers. There were only a few packets left. He’d have to refill during the night.
At the Sirens Shop, Max relieved Tyler Harris, who sat, feet up on the counter while scribbling furiously on a legal pad.
“Any luck with that film festival?” Max asked as he set his things down.
“We haven’t submitted yet,” Tyler said dryly. Just recently twenty-two, the kid reminded Max of the ‘blackies’ from Rheta Art College—those not quite Gothic or Punk, but whose wardrobe was one big, black, somber shadow. “You still need to see it. I think you’ll like it. Definitely one of my better ones. I wanna turn it into a feature. It sort of reminds me of that one painting you did, a long time ago, that you never sold.”
“Rose Clown?”
“Nah, nah, the main shape was like a skull, but it was broken up into like surrealism and cubism, totally trippy. The city in the teeth, the tidal-wave tongue....”
“Ah.... Geometric Sk—”
“Geometric Skull! That was it!” Tyler clapped his hands. “Yeah, my film’s called Dead Two Walkers. Zombies with crutches. Old people with flamethrowers. It’s awesome. I’ll bring it in when I’m done tweaking it.”
Max hardly understood the connection between his canvas and what Tyler described, but offered a smile. “Do that.”
“All right, dude, I’m off. I’m meeting Sandy for chow.”
“Have fun.”
“Will do.” Tyler gathered up his things, strung his backpack over one shoulder. “Get some good work done tonight.”
“Already have.”
Outside, the night sank deeper into the city. Max assumed his position behind the counter, tossing Tyler a flippant wave as the kid left the shop.
***
Almost two hours into his shift, Max had dressed over twenty pages of his sketchbook with faces, both fabricated and real, as well as idle gesture drawings of the occasional customer.
Forty minutes shy of midnight, a man entered. Strikingly familiar. Max studied him from the corner of his eye. The man perused the fetish cassettes, gaze crawling with investigative care over the colorful spines.
Max remembered where he’d seen him. “Can I help you with something?”
“Me? Oh no, I’m fine, just kind of browsing. Seeing what’s here.”
The man pulled out one of the cassettes, glancing at the front, then the back. He shot a glance over to Max, who smiled. The guy quickly broke eye contact. Like a game of peek-a-boo or something.
The money man. The broker, the banker. What had Karen said his name was? John? Jason?
Max knew the customer also recognized him, but wasn’t sure if he’d placed him. “You look familiar. I saw you at The Schoolhouse, didn’t I?”
The man steeled. “Did you? The Schoolhouse?”
“Yeah, the club here, in Venice. I saw you there last week. Didn’t I?”
The man hesitated. “I think so. You look familiar, too. Did you have a session there?”
“Yeah,” Max said, trying to put the guy’s mind at ease. “Yeah, I had a session there.”
“Which girl?”
Now Max froze. Why did he even bother speaking? He didn’t know the real names of any of the other girls, much less their aliases. So, odd as it felt, the only one he did know came tumbling off his tongue.
“Penelope, really?” said the man. “She’s fantastic, definitely the prettiest girl there. She really knows her stuff, on both ends too! Were you a submissive or a dominant? She’s a switch, y’know.”
“Um, I was a...dominant.”
The guy chuckled. “Nice. She’s unbearably cute when she’s a submissive. But she’s so damn sexy when she’s dominating you, too. Both sides are sexy but in different ways. She’s a genius at the stuff, honestly.”
“Glad you enjoyed it.”
“Lots of these videos were produced at The Schoolhouse, right?”
“Yup. Most of them.”
“Is Penelope in any of them?”
“I don’t really know, actually. I think she’s too new a face there. She might be in the upcoming videos.”
No no but really she’s missing, right? She can’t go traipsing in front of cameras.
The man asked, “Do you know when those might come in? The new videos?”
“Not sure. I could look it up. Or ask Tyler or Danny. They’re usually the ones who sign for them. You can always ask them directly, too, whenever you’re there.”
The man kept looking over the cassette spines. “I’d love to see Penelope in a film. She’d just light up the screen. And it’s not just her smile or that...kind of bad-girlness she exudes, but the way she bubbles over with character.”
“What’s your name?” Max asked, now gesture-sketching the man and the space around him.
“James. Yours?”
“I’m Max.”
With a playful salute, James said, “Good to meet you.”
“You know, it’s too bad for the rest of us,” Max said. “Penelope has a boyfriend.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, lucky guy, huh?”
“Yes...yes, very much so.” He rubbed his chin. “How do you know? Do you talk to her outside The Schoolhouse?”
“Kind of. We talk during her sessions. Sometimes during her breaks.”
James gestured toward Max’s sketchbook. “That’s nice. Do you draw her at all? Or any of the girls there?”
“Not really.”
“I haven’t drawn in so long. But I’ve always loved art. I know some people who know some people, though, and I also still have connections from my own short-lived days as an artist. I could probably get you a big showing.”
“That’d be great.”
“Yeah, we could invite anyone and everyone. Get you exposed. That’s where it is.” James stared hard at him. “Anyone you know could come.”
The two men fell silent, the space of their conversation filled now by the soft rough scratch of Max’s sketching. A show. Wow. Nice. Was this guy serious? He certainly looked like he had the cash for it. Probably because he bullshitted for a living, and bullshitters made the most. They also, well, bullshitted, so who knew how authentic this James was.
Moments later, he presented Max his purchase: a cassette of The Basement—Mad Dr. Spankenstein! screamed the back cover, has kidnapped and shackled in his dungeon basement a trove of lovely ‘assistants’. How will they get out? Or can they?
James gave Max his card. “Call me, and we’ll talk,” he said, with rubber enthussiasm.
“Thanks.”
“Can I see what you were drawing?” James asked, craning his neck around to get a better view of the sketchbook. “Is that me?”
“Yeah, I was just warming up,” Max said.
“Cool. See, that’s what I want to be able to do. Capture that one spark of life, that jazz, so quickly. The best ones can always do it fast. They’re like artistic short-order cooks.”
With a thoughtful nod, Max approved the phrase. He handed James his change and the receipt and the bag that now contained the man’s new private fantasy. He tried not to think about what went on with those videos and with the people who bought them, but his imagination was too slippery. He would drown the unwanted imagery in sketch.
“Take it easy,” James said, scooping up his purchase. “Maybe I’ll see you at The Schoolhouse.”
***
III
Dwayne pulled up to the curb outside Higgins’ apartment complex. God, he wanted to leave. Frickin’ downtown Los Angeles. The stinking urban entrails of the city. He was reminded of New York and...and....
No stop. Don’t think about her now. Later.
From the entrance alcove burned the eyes of a small man in a black derby and tattered overcoat. They watched one another.
Higgins was due any moment.
Dusk moved in, twinkling pores opening in the sky. Seven stars visible—not bad for a big city. Astronomy had always been a keen interest of Dwayne’s, but, for lack of time and money, he did little else beyond taking occasional glimpses through his old portable telescope—useful in the star-splattered desert sky—and casual trips to various observatories. His UFO studies, involving as they did information on star distances, light years, comets, wormholes, made for a sufficient compromise.
All that good shit, as Jenny used to say.
The derby man watched Dwayne, and Dwayne watched him. Something small scurried under a dumpster just behind the complex. A rat, most likely.
Somewhere close, a siren wailed. Dwayne stared motionless at his dashboard where a color copy of John Baxter’s famous watercolor depiction of the Dover Demon stared a dead orange soul back at him.
The Dover Demon was still on his list. No sightings of it had been made public for nearly thirteen years now. Probably it had been nothing more than an interdimensional traveler just passing through. In either case, it was worth a stay in Massachusetts, when he was in the area. Who knew when that would be.
Next on his list, after Twilight Falls, and once he’d sold a few more pieces in L.A., were the giant birds spotted in Washington and Vancouver, the supposed inspiration for Native American thunderbird lore. Something about them fascinated him. Those and UFOs. Maybe it was the sky. That great abyss above us. Only, unlike the sea, it didn’t really end.
He wondered what he might chase afterward.
He also knew that, sometime before he was through with this job, he would have to come clean to Max Higgins.
Movement near his van pulled Dwayne from his thoughts. It was Higgins, toting a single black duffel bag and wearing the same clothes in which Dwayne had met him—paint-ridden jeans and a worn flannel shirt with a navy-blue undershirt.
“Open up,” Max said.
Dwayne unlocked all the van doors and his guest clambered in.
“Where should I put this?” Max asked, holding up his bag. “Just under the seat?”
“Sure, that’s fine. It’ll fit.”
Max nestled into the front seat, buckled up, and sighed long and hard.
“You’re late, Maximo,” Dwayne said in dry humor. “Not by much, of course. Everything all right?”
“Eh, yeah, everything’s fine...”
“Hmm?”
“There’s a huge part of me that says this trip is a bad idea.” Max ran his hand through his hair. “But I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel anymore.”
Dwayne maneuvered the van back into the city’s concrete bloodstream.
“Keep in mind, Max,” said Dwayne. “You don’t know for sure if this guy is really your father.”
“Looks just like him.”
“Lots of people look like each another. Take a look in the Coincidences and Miracles section of volume three of The Unexplained if you don’t believe me.”
“‘Course I know there’s a chance it’s not him. But so many things seem to click into place and I don’t even think I can explain how. The man in that article, the man in my painting...I feel like...I feel like I’m the subject of someone’s sketch, slowly coming together, filling out. Trapped in a new world.”
“What about this woman we’re getting?”
“Karen? What about her?”
“I dunno, she get the same sorta feeling, too? She’s your sister, you said?”
“Half-sister, supposedly.” Max dug into his pocket and retrieved a Taco Shack packet.
“Where are we going, by the way?” Dwayne merged onto the I-10 freeway. “Where’s this chick live?”
“Santa Monica, just off Pico. I’ll show you when we get closer. For now, just get off at Overland.”
Dwayne drifted through traffic. Jerky lane changes, random punch-bursts of acceleration, the windows moving oil canvases of the city and all its glittering stipples.
On reaching Karen’s complex, they climbed out and headed upstairs to her door. Two knocks and seconds later they were staring at a strange man.
“Yes?”
Max spoke. “Yeah, is...is Karen around?”
“Karen? Think you got the wrong apartment, dude.”
“Vivian’s roommate.”
“Oh.” The guy’s eyes widened. “Ohh, okay. No, she’s not here, I don’t think. But hold on.... Vivian!”
From behind a bathroom door and the running shower, Vivian called back, “Yeah?”
“Karen! Where is she?”
“What?”
“Where is Karen?”
The guy left the door, headed toward the bathroom. He promptly returned. “She said Karen’s at work.”
“Work?” Max said. “Thought she’d be off by now.”
The man shrugged. Behind him Vivian emerged wrapped in a towel, skin glistening, wet curly hair like a pile of corkscrew pasta.
“Some client called for her,” Vivian said. “Made a special appointment. She told me to tell you to pick her up there.”
“Well, when’s she going to be done?”
“Don’t think it’ll be more than an hour. Her appointment’s at nine o’clock. It’s, what, almost 9:30 now. Who knows, she might be through with it by now.” Vivian squeezed the towel tighter around her. “I’m kind of disappointed, too, actually. We were s’posed to use up this weed my cousin hooked me up with, before she got the call.”
“Call?”
“Yeah, from work. Dude wanted her for a session. Paid double for her to be there.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“All right,” Max said. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
The man closed the door and Dwayne and Max set off down the stairs.
***
With wide arms and lustful zeal, James greeted Teresa, who, caught pleasantly off guard, more than reciprocated. The lovemaking was as it hadn’t been in years. A resurgent flame of their initial courting. Teresa couldn’t even remember those times being as good.
When subtly prodded about this renewed enthusiasm, James just smiled and answered in kisses.
“Do you mind if we use handcuffs or ropes?” he said at one point.
“What?”
“Handcuffs or ropes,” he said. “Maybe liven things up?”
She furrowed her brow, unsure if he was joking.
“I...no, I don’t think so,” Teresa said. “Sorry.”
Something fell in his eyes. “No problem.”
PART TWO
“A town is a colonial animal.”
~ John Steinbeck
Chapter 4
I
“This the Jersey Devil?”
Karen leaned forward, holding one of Dwayne’s personal photo albums and pointing to a blurry picture of a forest and a road and a tall, horse-like figure. The photo had been snapped at dusk, but the camera had caught a glint of the animal’s eye, creating a pivot point around which to spin into view the rest of its murky, silhouetted shape.
Eyes on the road, Dwayne darted a brief glance at the album, needing only one glance to recall the account.
Max sat in the passenger seat, shifting gazes from himself in the side mirror to the black California terrain sliding up from the sea and away toward the night.
“I think so,” Dwayne said. “I mean, I thought him to be the devil at the time. Truth be told, I don’t know what it was—could’ve been a moose or something. It was dark.”
“Doesn’t really look like a moose to me.”
“Nor to me, and it certainly didn’t look like a moose when it moved off. But I can never be sure. Tracking down the things I do, your whole experience is like a funhouse, one annoying deceptive lead after another, running into glass.”
“The Jersey Devil is supposed to have wings, right?”
“It is,” Dwayne said with a chuckle. “Though all sorts of things have been misidentified as the Devil, even cougars. You’re from the area, right? The East?”
“East Coast? Yeah. I remember my mother told me about it when I was four when we were in New Jersey. Of course, I thought I saw it everywhere.”
“Where you from again?”
Both Karen and Max replied, “Baltimore.”
“So, you a conspiracy buff, too?” Max said to Dwayne.
With a single chuckle, Dwayne said, “No. I’m not. You search this van, you won’t find any of that stuff, no moon-landing theories, no Masonry, no JFK. Some UFOs, sure. But my targets go beyond conspiracy. I love the monsters because they’re untouched by us. There’s peace in that. They’re in a world outside the petty noisy one we cooked up. What does Bigfoot care if Oswald really pulled the trigger? Peace. That’s peace.”
“Or you could just light up,” Karen said, mock-holding a joint, dragging air.
“You’re on your own there,” said Max.
“What do you mean by that?” Karen asked.
“Nothing, never mind.”
“No. What’s up, Maximo?”
“Well, I’ve never done any drug, and don’t plan to.”
“You smoke.”
“Used to. But you know what I mean.”
“Nothing wrong with that, Max,” Karen said. “It’s all overrated anyway. I wish I could remember my junior and senior years. They’re supposedly the best of high school.”
“Yeah,” said Max. “And as long as we’re at it I might as well spill the fact that I’m a virgin, too.”
“A virgin?” Dwayne said. “Don’t you work at a sex shop?”
“And...?”
“Just uh...find that a little ironic, is all. And funny—no offense.”
“None taken.”
“It’s strange, Max...” Karen said.
“What is?”
“You and me, our reactions to our mothers.”
“Our mothers?”
“Yeah. We both had very religious mothers, and we both let them influence our lives in extremes. Your mother’s shield stunted your willingness to try anything outside the realm of her permission, like she had some sort of permanent guilt machine installed in you that beeped and went nuts anytime you were tempted.
