Eleven

FOR THE REST OF OCTOBER and most of November, life was defined by the coming exhibition. I had six paintings in progress. Kate was in the same situation. Even though we got special treatment at PCAD, we did have class projects and papers due. College took another interesting twist. It was more like a laboratory for our careers than a classroom. We met separately with Doc Henredon at least once a week. He cross-checked our progress on the paintings and our progress in class. My Art and Storytelling class with Dr. Bychkova was like a hybrid between his Art History class and Professor Strait’s Literary Criticism class, with a big dose of creative writing thrown in. I had a leg up because I had those theory classes last year. But I swear, Doc Henredon wanted to read each of my papers two days before they were due so he could make suggestions. That changed my work style.

I’d come back from Minneapolis with a Men’s Elite championship and Mixed Doubles Open silver medal. As a result, there was a recognition ceremony during one of SCU’s football games and a party afterward. Of course, I still had team practice two nights a week, but that was all I was playing until the art was out the door. We shipped the first batch of artwork to Georgia the fifteenth of October. That meant the Saturday and Sunday before, Jade was in the studio photographing everything we had ready to send. Clarice was adamant that nothing left our studio without being photographed first. The huge painting that my exhibition took its title from—Bacchanalia—was finished, but every so often I would spot something on it and touch the paint a little. Clarice caught me one day and watched as I tweaked the flesh-tone on one of my figures.

“Tony,” she said, “it takes two people to paint a masterpiece.”

“Huh?”

“One to put paint on the canvas and one to hang the artist. Don’t get caught in the trap of continually tweaking one painting. It’s finished. We’ve photographed it. Move on.”

Okay. Well, I got the message. And it was silly, but keeping it displayed in the studio as a reference for the smaller pieces meant it was always a temptation to do one more thing. I draped it.

“Kitten, what would you think if I sent my two paintings that are in storage down to Gerhardt?”

“Are you going to release them now?” I heard the hesitation in her voice.

“No. Nothing else that I’ve painted measures up to those two pieces. I’d ruin myself if I released them now. I was thinking of putting together a limited edition of the two pieces from Gerhardt and boxing them with the originals. I wouldn’t release any of them for several years—probably long after Gerhardt is dead, in fact.”

“You think so far ahead, Tony. I can only think as far as ‘What am I going to paint next?’ But I think you’ve got a good idea. You have people to provide for in the future. It’s different with me. Who would I need to provide for?” I took her in my arms.

“Aren’t you going to provide for me in my old age, love? I’m just a flash in the pan. You’ve got staying power. That’s what everyone thinks.”

“Oh, Tony. Does that mean I have to change your diapers when you get old?”

“Yep. But no Depends. I want something like ‘For Sure.’ No doubts.” We laughed, kissed, and generally horsed around, but she still hadn’t answered my question.

“We should call Gerhardt and lay it on the line for him. He has our first batch of paintings now and we should talk to him anyway,” Kate said. “Those paintings merit the finer work and they could only become more valuable after Gerhardt passes. But he might not like us mentioning that possibility. He’s only—what?—eighty-six?”

“Yeah. He could outlive us. But you’re right. Let’s call him. It’s already almost eight at night there.”

We called. Gerhardt immediately started talking about the work we’d sent him and the order he was planning to do the color separations. When I broached the subject of adding a couple of pieces, he said he’d be willing, but he wanted to see them before he made a final commitment. I said I’d send them with the next batch of paintings.

The next two weeks were hell. Neither of us studied for our midterms. I cut all classes and quit practicing racquetball. November third, Jade showed up at the studio for a marathon photo session that lasted two days. Monday morning, the shippers arrived and crated all our remaining artwork to take to Georgia.

In a way, it was like having finished the mural. I was a little depressed and not sure what to do with myself. I showed up for class on Tuesday and took the ribbing from my professors. “Nice that Tony could make it today.” That sort of thing. It was okay, though. They supported what I was doing. That’s one thing about an art school. You are there to start a career and when you start showing signs of success, they don’t say “Sorry, you have to finish a term paper.” There wasn’t a day that went by when someone didn’t ask us what we were still doing at PCAD. To me, it was an easy question to answer. I had more to learn. Kate might have been asking herself the same question, though.

I’d almost forgotten it was Election Day until Kate and Melody reminded me. Our ballots had been sent in weeks before. Washington doesn’t have polling places anymore. I assumed we’d be voting by email soon and people would see the results as they came in. “Your vote is number 262,177. Your candidate currently leads her opponent by a margin of 52 votes. Call your friends and remind them to vote!” Mark my words, it will happen this decade.

I was glad they reminded me. I’d have been completely unprepared for the chaos that was our living room when we got home. It was a mid-week party and all our friends were there for free food and to watch the election results come in on television. The big issues on the Washington ballot were the legalization of pot and gay marriage. Unrelated issues. I think. We’d skipped having a Halloween party because Kate and I were too stressed, so people were making up for it tonight. Lissa and Wendy dragged Kate and me into the bedroom as soon as we walked in the door. I was never going to live this down. Last year I’d been showing off my muscles in a slave costume that was supposed to be Spartacus. Lissa and Melody had come up with the theme for this year’s party and it was cross-dressing. They had me out of my jeans and into a dress so fast my head was swimming. They insisted that I shave before they applied makeup to me, but I drew the line at shaving my legs. They’d wisely chosen a dress that wouldn’t show my pits.

I’ve noticed that when hetero guys cross-dress, they all seem to dress like absolute sluts and can’t come close to pulling it off. I saw plenty of evidence that the girls were focusing on every dirty and disgusting thing you can imagine about guys, too. Roseanne Barr was personified in Rio who came dressed in a baseball uniform and kept grabbing her crotch and spitting. There were a couple of full beards, but they weren’t very well kept. Lots of five-o’clock-shadow and Sonia had gone so far as to paste sandpaper on her cheeks. You don’t want to imagine six-foot-three Thor in drag. My ladies were all dressed professionally and they did a makeup job on me that rivaled Kevin’s practiced perfection. Until I got a good look at Melody. She’d stuffed Lissa’s dildo down one pants leg and was bumping it up against every guy’s butt.

We didn’t start getting election results until ten, but we had a great time, mostly laughing at each other’s discomfort. There was a lot of hand-holding going on though whenever the projections regarding same-sex marriage were updated. When people finally left, we had a clear idea that the Democrats had prevailed, but it still wasn’t clear whether marriage equality or pot legalization would fly.

I woke up in the morning at the bottom of a pile of girls, bouncing and giggling. Wendy had run out to get the newspaper and the headlines declared that both issues had passed. There was a knock on the door just before it flew open and the Oregon trio stormed into our bedroom.

“Can we have Papa Oke send some of his special up from the commune?” Willow asked excitedly. We all laughed. I read out of the article.

“Apparently not,” I said. “According to this, pot use is under the same criteria as alcohol. You have to be twenty-one. And it doesn’t go into effect until December 6. However, we can all get married in any combination of twos that we want.”

“How about all the girls pair up and you can marry Willow,” Melody suggested. I think both Willow and I had the same expression on our faces.

“How about we just have coffee,” I said.

Not being home for Thanksgiving was going to seem weird. I remembered sitting in my room alone during my freshman year on Thanksgiving wishing I was home. Then last year, while we were celebrating, we got the news that Harold was dead. It was going to be difficult to not be there when Melody and her mom needed us this year. Her mom would arrive about the same time Kate and I took off on Sunday. On Saturday before we left, we decided to have an early T-Day dinner with our extended Seattle family.

The Trips helped get ready and Wendy got the day off from Carmine’s. I roasted the turkey on the grill again, though we went with a smaller bird this year. Whitney, Bree, and Allison arrived about ten and helped in the kitchen, set tables, and fell over each other trying to make hors d’oeuvres. It was total chaos until Wendy put her foot down and started telling each person what he or she was responsible for and where to work. Everyone was so surprised to have Wendy ordering them around that they snapped to it and did what she said. When Sandra, Walt, Rio, Sonia, Amy, and Thor arrived at one o’clock, Damon and Drew met them at the door—their special responsibility—took their coats, and led them to the dining room. We had the dining room table, stretched out as far as it would go with two folding tables and chairs continuing on into the living room. Sixteen of us sitting down together to eat turkey dinner is a houseful. We loved it.