formal education but a whole lot of practice.
I sketch more often than I eat.
While other people watch TV, I paint. (I don’t have a TV anyway.)
While other people go out drinking, I go out and make street art.
I even tried to learn to knit to knit-bomb some bike racks, but it took too long and yarn’s expensive. I’ll leave that to the crafty types.
Once I made flyers for a dog that was not, in fact, lost. I got his picture from a magazine and described him—all the cool tricks he could do, that ringing phones made him go deliriously crazy barking, that he only answers to “Goofus.” I named him Rusty.
I did it because I’ve always wanted a dog. But I can’t have one.
Not with my apartment.
Not with my life.
So I make fake lost-dog signs. Fuck if that doesn’t sound painfully lonely.
I’m living by proxy.
“So, OK, you’re not classically trained. Have you done shows before? Sold pieces?”
Jeff snaps me out of my mini-pity party but I’m done with him and his little flippy notebook and his peppered questions. I rest my hands on my hips. “Why the inquisition?”
“Because I want to know if you’ll be a marketable artist, or just a curiosity.” He reached for his back pocket and digs through a fat wallet for a business card but I hold up my hand like a stop sign.
“Look, Jeff Collins from I-don’t-know-where, I’m an artist, and right now I don’t give a fuck if I’m marketable or if I have a story. If you like my work, buy it. If you don’t, walk away. But don’t come in here and try to nose into my business like the backstory matters. It doesn’t. Take it on face value or leave it.”
I hear a slow clap and I turn to the door. “You tell him, Willa.” Dave edges into the shop and I find myself actually glad to see him.
“I was just—” Jeff starts.
“Leaving,” Dave says firmly. “Give it a rest, dude. Plenty of people have been sniffing around. Give the girl some space.”
He holds open the door for Jeff, a gentlemanly gesture made absolutely forceful with his intense stare. Jeff flips his card on the counter and edges toward the door. “I want to see some of your other work. Maybe your bodyguard will let you call me.”
Dave snorts and closes the door swiftly behind him, then cracks a grin at me. “Your bodyguard. Right.”
“Well, you did act a bit macho just then.” I sweep the card into the trash without inspecting it. Another one for the pile.
“I can throw down with the best of them when the moment calls for it.” He holds up his right hand to display swollen knuckles.
I suck in a breath. “What did you do ?”
“Chief’s face got in the way of my fist. A bit of payback, maybe.”
I roll my eyes. Macho shit. “So you’re telling me you sorted your stuff out?”
“Fired our manager? Check. Figured out a new one? Maybe; Gavin’s making a call. Confronted Kristina? Done. But she won’t go without taking half my bank account. Half of everything.”
I shrug. “That’s all?”
“That’s all ? Willa, I spent seven years working on building up Tattoo Thief, and Kristina was along for the ride for six of them. And it’s been a full ride, anything she wants. She should count herself lucky to be leaving with a closet full of expensive shit.”
Again, I shrug. “There are worse things to lose than money.” Like your freedom, or your life, or love.
I turn and walk to the break room for a coffee refill and Dave follows me. Something tells me there’s no love lost with Kristina. He’s angry from the betrayal, but I don’t see the heartache of someone whose true love has betrayed them.
I pour a cup and pass him the coffee pot, forcing my tone to stay light. “It’s your call. Don’t let me tell you how to get rid of her.”
Dave shakes his head, as if shaking away the problem of her. “I’ve wasted enough brain cells on that today. Can we talk about you? Your contract?”
“As long as the shop’s empty.”
He follows me back to
I sketch more often than I eat.
While other people watch TV, I paint. (I don’t have a TV anyway.)
While other people go out drinking, I go out and make street art.
I even tried to learn to knit to knit-bomb some bike racks, but it took too long and yarn’s expensive. I’ll leave that to the crafty types.
Once I made flyers for a dog that was not, in fact, lost. I got his picture from a magazine and described him—all the cool tricks he could do, that ringing phones made him go deliriously crazy barking, that he only answers to “Goofus.” I named him Rusty.
I did it because I’ve always wanted a dog. But I can’t have one.
Not with my apartment.
Not with my life.
So I make fake lost-dog signs. Fuck if that doesn’t sound painfully lonely.
I’m living by proxy.
“So, OK, you’re not classically trained. Have you done shows before? Sold pieces?”
Jeff snaps me out of my mini-pity party but I’m done with him and his little flippy notebook and his peppered questions. I rest my hands on my hips. “Why the inquisition?”
“Because I want to know if you’ll be a marketable artist, or just a curiosity.” He reached for his back pocket and digs through a fat wallet for a business card but I hold up my hand like a stop sign.
“Look, Jeff Collins from I-don’t-know-where, I’m an artist, and right now I don’t give a fuck if I’m marketable or if I have a story. If you like my work, buy it. If you don’t, walk away. But don’t come in here and try to nose into my business like the backstory matters. It doesn’t. Take it on face value or leave it.”
I hear a slow clap and I turn to the door. “You tell him, Willa.” Dave edges into the shop and I find myself actually glad to see him.
“I was just—” Jeff starts.
“Leaving,” Dave says firmly. “Give it a rest, dude. Plenty of people have been sniffing around. Give the girl some space.”
He holds open the door for Jeff, a gentlemanly gesture made absolutely forceful with his intense stare. Jeff flips his card on the counter and edges toward the door. “I want to see some of your other work. Maybe your bodyguard will let you call me.”
Dave snorts and closes the door swiftly behind him, then cracks a grin at me. “Your bodyguard. Right.”
“Well, you did act a bit macho just then.” I sweep the card into the trash without inspecting it. Another one for the pile.
“I can throw down with the best of them when the moment calls for it.” He holds up his right hand to display swollen knuckles.
I suck in a breath. “What did you do ?”
“Chief’s face got in the way of my fist. A bit of payback, maybe.”
I roll my eyes. Macho shit. “So you’re telling me you sorted your stuff out?”
“Fired our manager? Check. Figured out a new one? Maybe; Gavin’s making a call. Confronted Kristina? Done. But she won’t go without taking half my bank account. Half of everything.”
I shrug. “That’s all?”
“That’s all ? Willa, I spent seven years working on building up Tattoo Thief, and Kristina was along for the ride for six of them. And it’s been a full ride, anything she wants. She should count herself lucky to be leaving with a closet full of expensive shit.”
Again, I shrug. “There are worse things to lose than money.” Like your freedom, or your life, or love.
I turn and walk to the break room for a coffee refill and Dave follows me. Something tells me there’s no love lost with Kristina. He’s angry from the betrayal, but I don’t see the heartache of someone whose true love has betrayed them.
I pour a cup and pass him the coffee pot, forcing my tone to stay light. “It’s your call. Don’t let me tell you how to get rid of her.”
Dave shakes his head, as if shaking away the problem of her. “I’ve wasted enough brain cells on that today. Can we talk about you? Your contract?”
“As long as the shop’s empty.”
He follows me back to
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