Page 10 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
Armed with Windex and paper towels, I cleaned the hot pink Lucite cubes displaying “wearable art”—sky-high stiletto canvas boots I’d hand-painted with a black and white checkerboard design.
“What’s holding you back?” Simone asked, sensing my hesitation.
“I don’t know.” I chewed on my lip, trying to figure out why I wasn’t jumping at the chance. I dropped out of Columbia last year to pursue art but so far, all I had to show for it was student loans for an Ivy League degree I’d never earned and the collagedwalls in my apartment. I wasn’t exactly taking the art world by storm.Yet.
“I guess I’m worried that if I go down that road, I’ll end up abandoning my art.”
“That’s nonsense. It will only fuel your creativity. Besides, it’s not that much different than what you’re already doing. You have a good eye.” She put her hands on my shoulders and gave them a little squeeze. “I have complete faith that you’ll do a good job.”
Simone believed in me and had from the first day I walked into her boutique asking for a job at sixteen. Over the years, she’d always encouraged me to pursue my art.
My graffiti covered the dressing rooms and two of my collages hung on the walls.
A few years ago, I’d even designed a collection of T-shirts. Kissing Doesn’t Kill: Greed, Discrimination, and Ignorance Does.
We donated all the profits to AIDS, and it had felt good to do my part, if only a small one.
But I always thought this job would be temporary. A means to an end until I exhibited my own work in galleries. I didn’t want to get too comfortable.
On my lunch break, I stopped at an ATM for some cash.Insufficient funds. I slammed my palm against the display screen but shockingly, the machine didn’t cough up any cash.
I couldn’t even get twenty bucks out of the damn cash machine.
I sat on a bench in Washington Square and counted the money in my wallet. One crinkled dollar bill and twenty-seven cents. I pulled my bucket bag into my lap and dug around in the bottom, searching for some loose change.
I found a wintergreen lifesaver covered in lint, two bobby pins, a can of pepper spray, and a condom in a foil wrapper.Better safe than sorry, but it wouldn’t pay for a turkey sandwich at the deli.
On my way back to work, I stopped at a newsstand and bought a Snickers bar for lunch. After I handed over my money, I turned and stared right at my father’s face splashed across the glossy cover ofAvant-Garde.
It was the seventh anniversary of his death. It was also his birthday. He would have been forty-one today.
According to the headlines, the world still mourned the loss of the legendary British rocker and enigmatic front man of the Rogue Prophets who died at 34.
In the photo, Nick Ashby wore faded denim, scuffed boots, and a wifebeater under a fur coat. His dusty blond hair kissing the collar. A cigarette clamped between his lips. He was leaning against a yellow brick wall in a cobblestoned London alley with his head tipped back, looking down his lashes at the camera.
Growing up, I’d always wanted to look more like my mom. An English rose with Elizabeth Taylor eyes. But I looked just like him. I’d inherited his grass-green eyes, his tawny coloring, and his bone structure.
I called him Nicky. He called me Baby Blue, like the song he wrote for me. I couldn’t even listen to that song. Or any of his music, really.
But I was a glutton for punishment, so I grabbed the magazine off the rack and flipped to “An Exclusive Interview with Former Rogue Prophets Bassist: Ian Rees-Jones opens up about his dear departed bandmate and self-ordained prophet.”
“We were just a bunch of lads having a laugh but then the band name stuck. We called Nicky our prophet. He always had a vision. He had a special gift for seeing things in a way no one else did. I remember one time we were supposed totake the stage at Glastonbury and Nicky was nowhere to be found. Everyone was searching for him high and low. We finally found him sitting in the middle of a muddy field just staring into space. He said, and I’ll never forget this…‘How do you do it, Ian? How do you go on when the world is just too much?’ You could tell he was struggling. I just wish I’d been a better friend…”
In every interview he ever gave, Nicky told the journalists that he wouldn’t be around for long. I guess that’s what made him such a prophet.
I jammed the magazine back into the rack and walked away, trying to shake off the heaviness that always settled on my chest whenever I was reminded of him.
He’d been gone for seven years, but my father still haunted me.
Later that night, I climbed the stairs to my apartment. We lived on the fifth floor, or as my mom always used to say, the “penthouse.”
But if you were lucky enough to snag a rent-stabilized apartment in the East Village, you didn’t complain about minor inconveniences like leaky pipes, temperamental radiators, or the clawfoot tub in the middle of the kitchen. You embraced the wood floors that groaned when you walked on them, the sagging original molding, and the cracks in the plaster.
When I reached the fourth-floor landing, the scent of Nag Champa incense wafted down the stairs. A telltale sign that Gabriel was in our apartment.
Great. Just what I needed right now.
In the past month, I’d tried to avoid him whenever possible, but Annika was always forcing us to spend time together.
