Fashionable Age
By Bryan May
He needed
his Beethoven. The Moonlight Sonata. Kevin had introduced
him to the pleasures of classical music long ago. What a
miraculous sculptor Kevin had become, and Aron had nothing
creative about him at all. He was left-brained in the
strictest sense, and became perplexed at the notion of
conjuring something up with your own hands. He envied his
brother, and was fascinated by him. How strange, the young
man with nothing unique to say, and nothing original to
think, could sit mesmerized by his brother’s work. Aron
studied Kevin’s movement, the way his face contorted itself
when he was displeased with the work of his hands. “Do you
tell your hands to do that? How can your hands know how a
man’s face should look?” Those were the questions that Aron
would ask of Kevin, and he would receive replies that made
it clear. “Aron, do you remember mom’s face? Do you have
to tell your brain to remember mom’s face, or do you just
know? My hands just know.”
Kevin’s
second piece was on display at the gallery that evening. It
was a Friday night, a big time Friday night where flyers had
been handed out, and fans of the art had taken trains in
from all of the surrounding states. The majority were from
Connecticut, and they were eager to make a purchase. The
strain of the work week had fatigued them, and they were
vulnerable. The wives with their plush minks, elevated
cheekbones, and purchased bosoms were perched upon the nest
of aesthetic investment, and the eggs were delicate and
engaging. Aron was not comfortable with a crowd of this
nature, and neither was Kevin, but Kevin was the featured
artist. He was unsettled and unfamiliar, but he was forced
to compromise if he and his brother were to eat. Aron
worked as a statistician’s assistant at an engineering firm
in the city. You would think because it was relatively
highly skilled employment that it would pay well. But it
did not. The education and credit card debt and sculpting
supplies had put Aron in a spot where his 50 hour work weeks
were simply enabling him to pay their rent and afford the
minimum balance on his loans and lines of credit. Yet the
thousands of dollars that Aron had put into his brother’s
passion kept them both alive. He would get off the train,
walk through the littered city streets, and look up to the
window of their fourth floor loft. The light was always on,
as Kevin was always working. Kevin used to throw his work
in the dumpster if he was displeased with its turnout, but
not now. Aron, the big brother, wept the last time Kevin
tripped into one of his fits. They were both sorrowful at
the core, but doing their best. Aron had Kevin, and Kevin
had his creations. Aron shuffled up the creaky stairs, and
walked slowly toward their door. He would purposely get
home at a different time every night, in order to maintain a
routine without pattern. His favorite part of the day was
the surprise. Each evening, he would enter the home twice.
The mirrors were placed with angular precision throughout
the loft, so that upon entering the door, Aron could see
Kevin’s face. The perpetually displeased and forever driven
countenance of a man who would succeed tremendously, but
never believe that he had done so.
On
Monday, Aron had first slipped his key in the door at 7:01,
and re-emerged at 7:06. Not that Kevin would notice the
initial intrusion, but Aron would, and that was enough. So
on Tuesday, when Aron got off the train at approximately
6:30, he stopped for some soup. Otherwise, he was in
distinct danger of arriving home right around 7:00, and he
could not have that. The soup was chicken noodle without
chicken. It always bothered him that the deli’s menu read
“chicken noodle soup,” yet it was simply broth and noodles.
They would add chicken if you spoke up, but Aron was not one
to pester. Besides, they charged an additional $1.50, and
that was not acceptable on his budget. Aron sat down with
his soup and glanced at the newspaper, only there was
nothing for him to see. Tales of despair and hopelessness,
why bother when the world was being re-born in his
apartment. Only Kevin and his work mattered. A tiny grin
came to his face. With the overtime from this week, Aron
could buy an additional week’s worth of supplies. Maybe not
a week’s worth, he thought. “But enough to make him
happy.” “Whattya say?” Kevin’s whisper had been detected.
“Enough to make who happy, kid?” “Umm, nothing.” Kevin had
not even realized that when he spoke to himself it was
audible enough for the clerk to hear. “What you mean,
nothing? Kid, I hear you talking to yourself all the time.
If you’re gonna get all clammed up about it, just think it,
don’t spray it all over.” It had been a whisper. How could
he have heard? Was he a mind reader? It wasn’t in the
realm of probability, yet Kevin could not rule it out as a
possibility. It was impossible for him to create
like his brother, so why wasn’t it possible that this
man could read his mind? “Kid, you’re in here all the
time. You think you’re whispering, but you ain’t.” He
had been whispering. He was always whispering.
It’s what he did. He was certain. If Kevin wanted to
believe something, he could not simply think it. He had to
hear himself say it in order to believe it as truth. Kevin
got up to leave, his soup steaming and the newspaper
unfolded but unread. “Where you going?” “I have to leave.
Thanks.” “But you’ve only had one spoonful of soup.
Sometimes, you’re running outta here like your dame is
waiting for you in a bubble bath inside your Penthouse, then
other times you lollygag like a Sunday afternoon loafer.”
“Because some days I have somewhere that I need to be, and
some days I don’t.” “What’s that?” Was it possible that
the man could hear Kevin’s private commentary to himself,
yet could not understand him now? Repeating himself was not
something that Kevin enjoyed. “I just, I just have
somewhere I need to be.” Kevin straightened his thrift
Goodwill suit and turned to walk away. “Well, goodnight
then. We’ll see you soon.” Al’s Deli would not be seeing
Kevin soon, not after the unsightly exchange that saw him
being infringed upon, or so he felt. “Ok. Goodnight.”
Kevin issued a makeshift wave and looked away from Al, and
toward the double glass doors. He was nervous but not
shaking, which was a good sign. Typically, his anxiety was
accompanied by an acute attack of the shakes. Maybe he was
getting better. He’d go with that. He was getting
better. Thanks to Kevin. And the glorious art. His tiny
grin emerged. “That’s when Kev will be surprised,” he
whispered.
Bryan May
bmay@emarketmakers.com
