Page 19 of Trailer Park Billionaire
There’s no sound. I’m alone.
I think, waking up and realizing you’re on your own is a luxury of an emotion you only truly learn to appreciate once you’ve been to prison.
Like most mornings, I walk over to the window and open it. Open windows are also good; almost as good as being alone. Thenasty cold that rushes through them, less so. I wrap myself in a blanket and drop onto the sofa across from the window.
In many ways, looking through it feels like staring at an old masterpiece. In the distance, there’s even a drunk guy probably on his way home, pissing against the façade of a house.
Unfortunately, open windows are also just as expensive as an old masterpiece if I think about the energy bill, so after a minute or two, I get up and close it again.
It’s 4:29 AM. The envelope Sienna brought me last night is still on the table. I know I need to open it, to look at it, to take care of whatever needs taking care of—but I can’t bring myself to face it just yet. I know he didn’t want a proper funeral, so it’s probably not much work. I probably just need to pick up his ashes, but even thinking about it—about having to say goodbye, about him not being there anymore—makes me want to jump right through that window.
“I’ll take care of it tonight, alright?” I say to no one and get ready for work. “Or maybe tomorrow,” I add, quietly.
My lab is still as dark as night when I get there at 5:33 AM. The painting is waiting for me just as I left it yesterday—keeping me company, making me feel a little less… by myself. I’ve made good progress over the past three days, but there’s still a lot to be done.
So I get to doing. And I don’t stop until I hear the door open behind me, a couple of hours later.
Today Elaine’s voice is a little less warm, a little less gentle than the last few days. Today she means business when she asks whether I’m coming to lunch on my own volition or whether she has to make me.
I don’t bother putting up a fight. I just don’t have it in me—not after nights without proper sleep, days without healthy food, and with my grandpa’s face haunting every blink. The knot in my stomach still feels like is growing bigger and bigger.
Silently, I clean my brush in the sink and follow my boss to our usual spot in the atrium. She doesn’t say anything, either—at least until I have eaten almost all of my sub, and she’s satisfied her urge to take care of my well-being.
“There’s more,” she says, clearing the empty wrappers off the table.
“I’m full, but thank you.”
“No, not food. Work. There’s more work. Although, I do have more cookies in my office, if you’d like, but?—”
“Keep the cookies. I’ll take the work instead.”
Elaine shakes her head, clearly disapproving. “I’m only marginally insulted because I understand for some of us, work might be a way to facilitate personal growth. I get that now… I think. And as your boss, it’s my obligation to guide you on your path.” She pauses for a second. “You know, life really is like a blank canvas…”
I take a long sip of water and resist the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes it’s best to just let Elaine do the talking and silently nod along. That’s my plan right now—at least until that plan gets interrupted by someone taking a seat across from me, blocking my line of sight to the painting of Ophelia.
“Oh, and this is me guiding your brushstrokes,” Elaine whispers in my ear before turning to our intruder/guest. “Mr. Lyon, it’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” he answers, his eyes focused on me, his crow’s feet framing them perfectly. Then he looks over to Elaine. “I’m glad you were able to accommodate me again so soon. I know I must be interfering with your actual work.”
He’s talking to me—about the conversation we had when we first met.
“Oh, nonsense.” Elaine waves him off. “It’s good to have distractions as pleasant as this from time to time. In fact, Helena can’t wait to finish your tour, either. She was just telling me howmuch she was looking forward tothe work.” She pronounces the last two words ever so slightly more than the rest to let me know I’ve already agreed to do it, and that there are no take-backsies.
And again, I’m too tired to argue, too exhausted to put up a fight. Not that I feel like I need to. Mr. Lyon, despite his provenance, despite his practiced smile, despite his annoying charm was… bearable. Maybe even… nice. Kind. And I do feel like I owe him for yesterday, and the day before that. So I simply say that it’s my pleasure. We’ve already been through most of the museum anyway; the rest of our tour shouldn’t take much longer.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his brows raised. “I really don’t want to keep you from?—”
“Like Ms. Hyde said: nonsense.” I get up from my seat. “I don’t mind. We can take as much time as we need.”Probably thirty minutes. Maybe an hour if he has a lot to say about the Fig Leaf Campaign of the 16th century, or about which portrait would be most improved by adding glitter and a face tattoo.
“Marvelous.” Mr. Lyon grins. “Lead the way then.”
And that’s what I do. I lead him over to the Rococo section, where we talk a little about the subtext of Fragonard’s The Swing, and about how much everyone in the 18th century loved a good pastoral orgy. Then we pass through the Dada section, where he tells me about some long-lost Dadaist manifesto written on a bar tab, which supposedly read ‘IF YOU UNDERSTAND THIS, YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG.’ Finally, I even lead him through the contemporary wing and its installations that I had cleverly circumvented the last time.
Maybe not so much to my surprise anymore, Mr. Lyon seems to know a lot more about art than our average visitor. It’s almost like he majored in it.
When Mr. Lyon makes the argument that putting googly eyes on a painting should count as ‘restoration’, for a moment—a tiny moment—I almost forget about the emptiness. About my grandpa. About death and loneliness. About my dad and my mom. I forget about how muchbeingcan suck.
Until we stop in front of a Rothko, and it all comes crashing back. The dark indigo on even darker midnight blue reminds me of how muchnot-beingcan suck too. Mr. Lyon notices the tears streaming down my face before I do. He pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his, once again, perfectly tailored suit and steps closer. Then he whispers softly, “This is why I love art. There’s art for every emotion you feel—to mirror it, to evoke it, to soothe it.” He dabs the soft fabric against my cheek. “It holds space for the feelings we can’t—or don’t want to—put into words. It doesn’t judge or demand answers. It just exists, waiting for us to find ourselves in it.” He gives me the handkerchief, placing a warm hand on my back. “When words fail, art steps in and reminds us that we’re not alone in what we feel.”
