Ultimatumly, your newly empowered ex-girlfriend,
Roxy
P.S. And start thinking about your July rent, too. It’s due in five days!
June 29, 2012
Dear Everett,
I’ve been wanting to thank you for bringing me fried avocado tacos from Torchy’s the other night. It was great to catch up, eat something that wasn’t liberated from the Whole Foods deli, and just spend some time together. I have to admit it’s nice sometimes to have another human soul in the house. Being suspended from work while living alone would get depressing. And thanks for helping me clean my old, broken Vespa. If I can sell that thing I can make up most of the money I’m going to lose from my unpaid leave and maybe put a dent in my credit card. But where have you been since? You are both mostly unemployed and rarely home—a mysterious combination that begs questions as to your whereabouts and activities. Because you haven’t been around, I’m forced to put pen to paper to communicate with you yet again so that I can tell you about today’s triumph!
Annie called last night just as I was getting ready to give Roscoe a bath. “Look,” she said. “I’ve been thinking. It’s really time for you to make moves, too. Have you by any chance drawn anything new lately?”
“You sound like my mother.”
“But you have some old drawings, right, from before you let that dum-dum ex-boyfriend derail you from making art?”
“What is this about?”
“Well, there’s this contest. It’s based out of Chicago, but people from all over the country can enter. It’s called the Bucknether Art Competition. It’s really prestigious and it pays out like thirty grand. And it’s for social justice, so I thought you could use those drawings I saw once with—”
“—the duck and the lamb suffering horribly in a factory farm and alternately living a happy, bucolic life?” It was part of the series that ended up in the ill-fated hands of Brant Bitterbrush. Perhaps the factory-farm part was a metaphor for the drama and suffering of our relationship.
“Yes, they’re really good, Rox.” I was touched—I could tell she wasn’t just saying it. Annie never blows smoke.
“But I hate to submit old stuff. It feels so stale.”
“Well, let’s go back to earlier in this conversation when I asked you if you have new stuff.”
“Fine, but what if they find out my work has been used to market and sell— Oh, never mind. I don’t want to talk about it again.”
“How about if you don’t do it you owe me the entry fee, which otherwise I’ll pay. It’s not a handout, it’s a bet.”
Annie knows my inner fifth grader can never resist a bet or a dare. “Fine.”
“The entry has to be postmarked by tomorrow,” Annie said. Before I could protest, she added, “So if you can’t handle that, stop by my desk tomorrow with fifty dollars. I only accept cash.”
ARGH! The joys and challenges of having such a friend.
So I did it, Everett! I didn’t fuss over it for months like I would’ve if I’d had due warning. I just pulled together my best drawings and off they went. Done. It’s not making new work, but it’s something. Since Brant stole my artwork for a terrible purpose, I’ve been completely artistically blocked. But if I win this contest, or even place, it’ll give me the kick in the pants to draw again. The top ten finalists will be announced in early September and the winner in October. Winning would give me the money to rent a studio, and even work less, and then I’ll draw and draw. I remember how I used to hurry home from the deli to sit down at my big kitchen table and work on a new drawing or painting. It all felt so effortless then, and it all feels so impossible now. I wonder if I’ll ever have that feeling again, that ink will always be flowing from my pen and it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about my creations as long as I’m creating them.
Hopefully,
Roxy
P.S. I appreciate the June rent. I really do. Now get ready to pay up for July!
P.P.S. Of course it would be pathetic to add a ground rule called “#8b, YOU WILL hang out with me at home more often,” so I’m not even considering that. But I just wanted to reiterate that it was great to chill with you the other night. ARGH! What is going on? As soon as I penned those words the very ink with which they were written smelled pathetic.
P.P.P.S. Thanks so much for picking up the tweakers’ beer cans from the backyard. I really appreciate it! But don’t think that lets you off the hook for the rent!
July 3, 2012
Dear Everett,
The last couple of days have been—thanks to you—an utter bummer. I enjoyed our Jim Jarmusch movie marathon (though I fear you intentionally sat rather close to me on the couch, creating a borderline snuggling situation), but as a result I contracted your terrible summer cold and thus will probably have to miss the Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic tomorrow. It’s a rather painful irony that I’ve actually been sick during what was meant to be festive paid sick leave. And as much as it can annoy me when you are here (particularly when you leave your dishes in the sink), your trip to visit pals in San Antonio during this time of my illness is rather irritating as well.
It would have been especially nice if you’d been here yesterday to help with Charlize Theron. She was acting weird, panting and meowing in this plaintive voice, so I finally took her to see the vet, Dr. Tristeza. Only he was out sick, too—this hideous summer cold is going around—and the receptionist said I should have called first. People and pets packed the waiting room so tightly the air conditioner couldn’t put a dent in the body heat. I thought there was no one to see Charlize. I could feel myself sort of panicking, and then getting mad out of fear, and that always stresses Charlize out.
I was standing at the reception desk when out of the corner of my eye I saw a huge brown blur running in my direction. I turned to see it was a mastiff, let off his leash and making a beeline toward me!!! Charlize, surely terrified it was her last second on earth, propelled herself up onto a big waiting room cabinet. Without thinking, I leapt up onto a chair to grab her, only to remember I was wearing a short skirt with a thong. That’s when I sneezed and lost my footing. I’d gotten ahold of Charlize, and as I fell I kind of pulled her off the cabinet. Like a cat, I landed on my feet. So did Charlize, but on top of the mastiff.
Holy hell broke loose, with every cat, dog, and rabbit going as berserk as their particular restraints and health issues allowed. Only the mastiff stayed calm. I swear, I’d totally misread him. Charlize leapt back up onto the cabinet. I wanted to climb up and get her, but of course my stupid skirt/thong situation prohibited it. So I just kept calling, “Charlize! Charlize Theron!” in a manner I hoped would coax her down. The mastiff’s owner—who had finally grabbed the dog by its collar—kind of laughed, and that’s when I saw the tattoo of Texas on his forearm and recognized him as the guy who came by the tuna burger sample table hoping for crumb cake. (As much as I protest the fact that five hundred idiots from California move to Austin every day, it’s still literally impossible for me to go anywhere in Central Austin without running into at least three people I know or—in this case—barely know. In that way, it’s still an excruciatingly small town.) Texas is cute and a vegetarian, but I remembered only too well his six-foot-tall rockabilly glamazon girlfriend and how they’d sashayed off together, laughing smugly at their happiness.