The Last Romantic: Final Part
When I returned to the apartment I found Anne sleeping in the hallway. I thought about bringing her a blanket, but didn’t, because I felt angry.
I took up Chris’s offer to go out for drinks.
It was raining so bad that the subways flooded, so Anne and I had to wait over forty five minutes for an Uber to the west village that cost one hundred and twenty five dollars. There was a road closure on the street of the bar Chris told us to meet him at, so Anne got soaked from head to toe when we walked over. Her makeup seeped off and her dress stuck to her body in a vulgar way despite the raincoat and umbrella I had bought her earlier in the day. I was pretty wet too. This is all to say the night started off on an embarrassing note.
The bar was brightly lit, nearly fluorescent. Very cold. I was shivering as I pushed past the hostess– Anne followed me closely behind, apologizing to her, but smugly impressed by what she might have mistakenly perceived as my confidence. Chris was seated at a wrap-around corner table. Two empty glasses signaled that he had been waiting for some time, which surprised me, since Chris was usually fashionably late. I took the chair and had Anne sit next to him on the booth-seat.
It was hard looking at the two of them sitting together. I wished they had met each other when things were warmer– in Mykonos, by the ocean. I felt that if they had met each other then, they’d be old friends by now. Or that Chris might understand me better. But now, to introduce them to each other, I’d have to say something funny, a nod to the fact that they should have met before, that we could have all sat on the beach together all those months ago.
“So this is Anne.” I said. Chris pulled a little tight smile, then wrapped an arm around her, shaking her shoulder in an older-brother sort of fashion. It seemed like he was in a charismatic mood. I was put at ease.
“Heard a lot about you. Don’t worry, only good things.” Chris said to Anne. He stretched out his free hand to me, to shake. “You know how to pick ‘em, Mike.”
“He does.” Anne said, before I could answer. “I’m a catch.”
Chris laughed. Then he showed us how to order drinks from the QR code on the table. Chris had been drinking tequila on the rocks, so Anne took inspiration from that and ordered a paloma. When I saw that they didn’t have Diet Coke I also ordered a tequila, to match Chris. I never liked the gasoline taste but it was something I was used to drinking, depending on the situation.
“Well here’s the bad news.” Chris said. “Kyle is suing the company.”
I nodded. “Really?”
“Mhm. You know, just to add insult to injury. What’s really fucked up is that I wrote him– I wrote a very generous recommendation when he left for Meta.”
“He doesn’t work here anymore?”
“Oh yeah, he was the first to leave.” He rubbed his forehead, laughed. “Should have just told him to kill himself, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Is your company a startup?” Said Anne.
“It is, yes.” Said Chris.
“I don’t like the idea of someone going to the big guy to pick on the little guy. That feels unnecessarily cruel.” Anne said. I found that ironic considering how she picked on me. There was also a certain sensitivity in her voice that I hadn’t heard in months. Chris however didn’t seem to appreciate it– he was obviously too focused on the usage of “big guy” and “little guy”-- I could tell by the incredulous look on his face.
“Well, you know. Name of the game.” Chris said.
“That’s facts.” I said.
Anne’s eyes were trained on me. She was curious about something but I couldn’t tell what so I just chose to look away.
Our drinks arrived shortly after. Chris wanted to know how Anne was enjoying the city. He wanted to know if she had gone out anywhere fun. Any nightclubs she might like. Any restaurants she wanted to try while she was here.
“Oh you know.” Anne stirred her drink with her straw. “We’ve mainly been like, staying in. We’ve gone to a few museums. Micheal loves The Met so sometimes we meet there during his lunch break, or after work. I do want to check out some smaller galleries, though. I don’t really know where to start, haha. When Michael’s at work, sometimes I check out some of the galleries in Williamsburg. And once I took the G into Greenpoint. I literally go on Yelp to find places, haha. As for nightclubs– I love clubbing. I mean, me and Michael met at a nightclub in Mykonos. But since I’ve been here– haha– well, I’ve been so focused on the work. I have an enormous collection of sketches I want to get shown somewhere. Mm, ‘sketches’ undersells it. It’s a major body of work.”
“Do you have pics?” Chris said. Anne took out her phone and handed it to him. I was reminded of Chris’s penis painting and had to excuse myself. I half-tripped over my chair leg as I got up– and I could hear Anne behind me: he’s been really sick recently.
I vomited as quietly as possible in the single-stall bathroom and did a bump of ketamine. It dawned on me that Chris would love Anne’s art, because Chris would find it comical. He had no discipline and no respect. And while Anne may mistakenly believe what she was making was good, Chris would mistakenly believe it was harmless. I was very alone in my convictions. My closest confidants were my spiritual enemies. Thinking of Chris in this manner made me vomit again. I rinsed my mouth out with water and tried to shake off the feeling. I had to be overreacting in some way.
I might have taken a while in the bathroom because when I returned Chris and Anne had moved onto another drink. Chris had switched over to beer. They were laughing. To the point of tears. Chris wiped his face and threw his head back. Anne had her legs tucked underneath her on the bench seat as if she was lounging at home. Maybe they were laughing at her paintings. I slid back into my seat and took a tip of my tequila. I wished I was on my second drink.
“I have a table at Maximus every friday. You and Michael should pull through sometime.” Chris said.
“Thank you Chris. We’ll definitely take you up on that.” I replied.
“It’s the least I can do man.” He looked at me, suddenly very sober. “Seriously. The least I can do.”
I figured that must have been in reference to my paychecks bouncing for the last month or so. But I hadn’t complained or brought it up to anyone (unlike Jacklyn, who was stupid), so I wasn’t sure why he was even bringing it up.
Anne nodded thoughtfully, then gave Chris a pat on the wrist.
“We appreciate everything.” She said.
“Yeah Chris, you’re the GOAT.” I said.
“When you were in the bathroom, Chris said that he can probably get some of my work shown in Chelsea. Wouldn’t that be so cool?” Anne said.
I didn’t think that was very cool at all. In fact, it annoyed me.
“Well, you’ll have to get some cleaner material.” I said.
“What do you mean?” She said.
I didn’t want to argue. “We can talk about it later, I think.”
Now, I had no idea that it was within Anne’s personality to make a scene. So far in knowing her, she had always been very apologetic, thoughtful, pragmatic, and calm. But this moment was different– her ears went red and her jaw clenched. I even think she was holding back tears. “I’m going to smoke a cigarette.” She said.
“Okay.”
She got up and left. I wondered if I’d ever see her again. Chris sat leaned back in his seat– he was really only half paying attention to the entire altercation.
“You liked her drawings?” I asked. Chris shrugged.
“They have a vibe.”
“I wish she’d focus more on making things that are beautiful.”
“Mm.”
“When I paint, I want to make things that are beautiful. Or about something.”
“Do you not want your girlfriend’s drawings of people giving head to sell for like– $500 a pop– at a stuck up gallery in Chelsea?”
I thought about this for a moment. From the corner of my eye I could see Anne outside, bumming a cigarette. Talking. “No.”
Chris laughed. “Okay, okay. That’s on you.” He paused. “Word to the wise, Michael. When you find a nice girl, you marry her. You’re like what, twenty eight? You find a girl that you get along with, that’s social, that you can take out to drinks with whatever boss you have five years from now. You don’t even have to want to–” He shrugged. “--you know. But it only… It only gets more depraved from here, bro. Trust me. So settle down now-ish before it gets worse.”
“That makes sense.” I said.
He laughed again. “I sound like fucking Obi-Wan Kenobe.”
“It’s cool to get deep.”
“Yeah.”
I glanced out the window again. Anne was gone. The rain had stopped, but now it was windy.
When I returned to the apartment I found Anne sleeping in the hallway. I thought about bringing her a blanket, but didn’t, because I felt angry.
I was hung over the next morning. Head pounding. Eyes crusted over. I took three Adderalls and an ibuprofen. I went for my morning run and had to step over Anne in the hallway– she was still asleep. As a truce I left the door unlocked, and low and behold when I returned I found her asleep on the futon. I didn’t wake her.
When I walked to the subway the wind had picked up again from last night. I was acutely aware of people watching me– everyone on their way to their fashion, tech, or media jobs; the subway cops; the homeless panhandlers– and this acuteness was so sharp that the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I was emotionally transported to childhood, as bizarre and pathetic as I was auditioning against my will for an elementary school play. I intrusively thought of my older sister, who could hold a note and would force me to help her run lines. Always critiquing me, and my performance, as if I was more than just a text-to-speech aid. I did a bump of ketamine on the train, which I usually reserved for my commute home, and tried to make it as secretive as possible. I hiked my knees up on the seat to cover my face and pulled my jacket over my head. I realized that this was a much smarter, more private way to do things and was shocked that I hadn’t thought of it before.
I decided that I wasn’t going to break up with Anne, despite our differences, and regardless of if she now wanted to. She was far too important to me. Chris’s words about marriage resonated with me. Anne was a keeper and part of the game is figuring out how someone can be “kept”. That was the point of all of this, wasn’t it? Anne. Mykonos. Chris. Gogh. It was all about keeping things. That’s all I truly wanted out of life.
Having Anne, indefinitely, would help me learn about myself. It would unlock the deepest, inexpressible pits of my soul. It would help me paint, that was for sure. It would strengthen my relationship with Chris– and while I wasn’t sure what Chris meant, when he said “you don’t even have to want to”– I think I had interpreted what I needed out of it. You can hate the person you love. You can let them destroy you. You can channel them to become transcendent. That’s what happened to Heathcliff when Cathy haunted him. Or maybe it was the other way around. I could barely remember any book I’ve ever read. At any rate I’d own and destroy Anne and let her do the same to me. For the sake of being a romantic.
I arrived at the office and the door was locked. Maybe it was the weekend. I figured I was suffering from losing time again. But when I checked my phone it was friday. I went to the WeWork desk attendant and asked for a spare key. After a few minutes of whispers to her boss it was given to me and I clicked open the door to Gogh 3D.
The office was a mess. Cardboard boxes everywhere. The desks pushed to one side of the room. I found my desk– I was only able to identify it because it was only half-packed. As if someone had lost their nerve. I pulled it out from the wall and back to its place. Then I unpacked it. I figured the janitors got over ambitious. I got to work but couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do– so I excused myself to the bathroom and sat on the toilet for about half an hour, not really thinking or doing anything. When I reemerged the office was still empty.
This is when I was hit with a first wave of dread– that something was terribly wrong. My first thought was that everyone on the planet had spontaneously died– or were sheltering in place because of a nuclear threat, meteorite, or terrorist attack. But when I ran to the window and looked down at the street below I could see thousands of people walking. Bicyclists. Hot dog vendors. So everyone wasn’t dead. Or maybe when I walked downstairs, everyone out there would disappear and everyone upstairs would reappear. I didn’t want to entertain the possibility. I decided to investigate the office more. Really take stock of the situation. The cardboard boxes weren’t labeled, so they were a dead end. And when I really looked at the floors it was clear no janitor was deep cleaning last night. Chris’s office had its blinds down. That dread built up again. I turned the door handle– it was unlocked– and flicked on the light.
No real changes. His desk was still neatly arranged. The chairs. But something was different. His presence, which normally lingered for hours (maybe even days), after he left was completely absent. I swallowed and noticed that my throat was very dry. And my nostrils felt hot, and my eyes sore. And all the sudden, as I was identifying these little ailments, it hit me: the painting. Behind his desk. His dick. It was gone. Everything inside me that was building up– anxiety, fear, remorse– poured out. I began to cry. Sloppily, as if I was drunk. I sat in his chair for about an hour. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
My thinking was beyond unorganized. I felt completely and utterly scattered. Like a desperate animal. Something terrible was happening. I needed to find him. I urinated all over myself and then cried again because it must have ruined his chair.
Then I heard footsteps. I didn’t want anyone to see me. I crawled on my hands and knees to the glass paned window and looked through the blinds, sniffling, squinting. It was Jacklyn. She was in sweats and sneakers. Her hair was down. She was carrying a large trader-joe’s tote bag. She walked over to her desk by the wall, opened up a cardboard box on-top of it with the edge of her nails, and pulled out her laptop.
“Jacklyn.” I said, my voice barely beating a whisper. She didn’t hear. So I tried again, “JACKLYN!”
She straightened up and looked around nervously. Hiked her tote bag up to her shoulder. “H-hello?”
I crawled to Chris’s office door and opened it up. My nose was running so bad that when I wiped it I completely covered my face in mucus.
“Jacklyn.” I said, standing up. “W-What’s going on?”
She was a little slack jawed looking at me. But I knew it was impossible that I looked any worse than I felt.
“I was– I left my laptop.” She patted her bag. “It’s mine, not the company’s.”
“Okay.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I wiped my face again. “I need to– I need to see Chris.”
“Okay, okay. Yeah.”
“Do you know– he isn’t– he isn’t in his office.”
“Oh. Well.” Something internal flashed through her. I could tell she was weighing her options, whatever they might have been or have been in reference to. “He’s probably at home, Michael.”
“I don’t– I don’t know where that is.”
She walked over to me. Put her hand on my cheek. Wiped my face with her sleeve. Her eyes were wide and tender. “You could always just text him, Michael.”
“I don’t want to text him.”
She bit her lip. “You feel like you need to talk to him in person?” She knew how gentle and sensitive and desperate I was. Maybe she had always known that, but right now it was beyond evident. I wanted to collapse into her arms.
“Yes.”
“Well. He lives in Chelsea. I can… I can give you the address.” She said. I handed her my phone. “Don’t be so upset Michael. That’s– I mean. You two are basically best friends.”
She typed in the address and then disappeared. I never saw her again, but sometimes I’d think I spotted her– at the health food store, at a cafe, at a gym, or at a conference. There were so many girls like Jacklyn she was hard to differentiate. Brown hair. Nervous demeanor. Average. The only thing that could truly confirm it– a true Jacklyn sighting– would be a coffee stain, or a broken heel, or a little green feather stuck in her hair.
I called Anne. It took three times until she picked up.
“I’m sharing my location with you. I need you to come to Chelsea. You can just take the L and ride it to the last Manhattan stop, okay?”
Quiet. She sighed.
“You really pissed me off last night.”
Obviously this was the least of my worries at the moment, and I wanted to yell at her for even bringing it up. For not acknowledging, based on the tenor of my voice alone, that I was obviously in a fragile emotional state.
“PLEASE MEET ME IN CHELSEA. TAKE THE L TO THE LAST STOP AND I’LL MEET YOU, ANNE.”
“Why? Why should I do that?”
“IT’S AN EMERGENCY.”
I hung up. Then I ran to the subway like a mad man.
Crying in public was like doing bumps in public. No one cared. No one noticed on the train. I could have vomited all over myself. I could have urinated again. No one would have cared. I waited at the top of the stairs at the L. Checking my phone. It took painstakingly long for Anne to arrive. When she walked up the stairs she looked like the first human woman. I couldn’t really explain it. And everyone else parted around her, like in a movie. I don’t know. She looked angry at me. Anger stuffed behind concern stuffed behind anger. Her arms were crossed. I started to cry again.
“Did you fucking piss your pants?” She said. Not with as much vitriol as you might imagine. I grabbed her hand and started kissing it.
“I need you here with me. Right now.” I said. I was shaking so violently. “Something terrible has happened. I need you here with me. Anne.”
She didn’t respond. Her anger and concern was replaced with fear. But she nodded. She was attracted to my fragility. I think. I took her hand and made her follow me. We walked several blocks to a large apartment building that looked like a converted warehouse. It was made with big red stones like Chelsea Market. The windows were huge. The lobby was sterile. There was a doorman. Or lobby attendant, whatever. He was overweight and had a short mustache and male pattern baldness.
“Hi. I’m going up to Chris’s apartment.” I said, pulled together as much as I could be. The doorman looked me up and down.
“Apartment number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ah.” He rolled his eyes. “Okay, give me a last name and I’ll see if I can call upstairs.”
“My last name?” I said.
“No, who you’re visiting.”
“I don’t– I don’t know. Not off– not off the top of my head.”
“Chris Halvern.” Anne said. She squeezed my hand.
“Okay.” Said the doorman. “And what’s your name?”
“Mike. Michael.”
The doorman took his landline and called upstairs. He covered his mouth and talked so quietly I couldn’t hear him, which must have been an art of his trade. I realized that he had red eyes like a demon and became very afraid. Finally he hung up. He gave me another judgemental look.
“Top floor. Press the penthouse button on the elevator. Over to your right.”
I ran to the elevator with Anne.
It was mirrored completely and I became scared again and covered my eyes. Anne had to pull them from my face when the elevator opened into Chris’s apartment.
It was just as I imagined it. High ceilings. Lofted. Bright. Open kitchen. Hardwood floors. He had a gaudy tiger shaped shag rug in the living area that made me want to roll around on it. Now I felt barely alive, like I was dreaming. Or that this was the sort of place I should only be seeing after death. And then Chris emerged down the spiral railing-less staircase. He was in shorts and a tee. He was holding a coffee. His hair was sticking up in the back. He combed it down with his fingers as he reached the bottom of the staircase. Looked at me.
“Hey man.” He sighed. “How about you hop in the shower.”
I nodded. He led me upstairs, holding my back gently, like a toddler. I was waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t. He brought me to his bedroom and laid out a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt for me. He showed me how the rainshower worked. How to adjust the pressure of the side jets, how to switch to the hand faucet. He flicked on the heated floors. He gave me a fresh bar of soap. Handed me two striped towels.
I cleaned myself very thoroughly. I liked his shower and could see myself investing in one in the future, when I was ready to buy my own place.
I took half a tab of acid after I dried off. I changed into his clothing. The fabric was incredibly soft. I felt cleaner– physically, spiritually– than I had in months. But still so intensely upset. I made my way back downstairs and found Chris and Anne sitting on the living room sectional. Awkwardly. Not talking. He had given Anne a glass of water. She sipped it like a mosquito.
I sat indian-style on the rug in front of them.
“I don’t know what’s going on.” I said. My eyes were watering. Chris gave me a tight smile and leaned forward.
“Well, first of all Michael. I feel for you, because I’ve always known how much you believed in the product. Which is why I hired you.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “And I want you to know, I appreciate all that you’ve done for me, and for the company. That’s not bullshit. I respect you and I see myself in you. Actually. Again, no bullshit. So I’m doing you some solids.”
I nodded, expectantly, like a dog.
“First off, I paid off 75% of the Amex out of pocket. There’s only 15k left on it. I don’t want you getting into debt over this shit. Once you pay off your share just send me a photo of you cutting it in half.” He took out his wallet. “Second off, I want to give you a little unofficial severance. I know the job market is trash right now.” He handed me a wad of bills. “That’s 5k. I know it’s not much but I already know the IRS is going to be up my ass over all of this.”
I looked at the money. Then at Chris. “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?” Chris said.
“What’s happening?” I said.
“I mean, other than going out of business?” Chris said.
My ears began to ring. I looked at Anne, desperate for some confirmation that this was a shock. But she just nodded sympathetically. She knew. Had she been speaking to him secretly? Calling him when I was at work? That was impossible. I looked back at Chris. I felt insane. I was hard. I climbed onto the couch in between the two of them. Anne slid on the couch away from me– afraid of me. Chris stayed where he was. I wrung my hands together.
“Gogh is going out of business?” I said. Chris patted my thigh.
“Yeah.”
So close to him I could smell his cologne. I wondered if it was the first thing he did in the morning. Before brushing his teeth. Before having his coffee. He was older than me. There were lines in his face that he chose to take care of. There was gray in his hair that he was intentionally growing out. I was so little and stupid. I wasn’t sure what I’d do tomorrow morning, if I’d start wearing cologne.
“Can I fall asleep on you?” I said. “On your lap?”
He nodded. He kissed me on the forehead. Then we kissed on the lips. I’d never kissed a man before. But I wasn’t embarrassed. I had no anxiety. No paranoia. I laid down on his lap. My eyes unfocused, fluttered open and shut, rhythmically. On the wall, parallel to me, was Chris’s painting. Suddenly it was beautiful and I understood it. I understood everything. But only for a second, before I fell asleep.
“What don’t you understand?” Chris said.
“What’s happening?” I said.
“I mean, other than going out of business?” Chris said.
My ears began to ring. I looked at Anne, desperate for some confirmation that this was a shock. But she just nodded sympathetically. She knew. Had she been speaking to him secretly? Calling him when I was at work? That was impossible. I looked back at Chris. I felt insane. I was hard. I climbed onto the couch in between the two of them. Anne slid on the couch away from me– afraid of me. Chris stayed where he was. I wrung my hands together.
“Gogh is going out of business?” I said. Chris patted my thigh.
“Yeah.”
An overwhelming feeling of hate swallowed me. True unadulterated anger. More hatred than I had ever felt for Anne. I hated myself for believing in Chris. I hated myself for falling in love with Gogh. Something that– apparently– could be so easily mismanaged by people who didn’t truly understand it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris’s painting. A testament to why we failed. I wanted to rip it apart to shreds. Then I looked at Anne. My future wife. Who was so eccentric and uncontrollable. My literal only hope. Everything clicked. Comfort. Keeping. Beauty. Controlling. Stealing. Maintaining. I climbed over to her and fucked her on the couch until she came.
What don’t you understand?” Chris said.
“What’s happening?” I said.
“I mean, other than going out of business?” Chris said.
My ears began to ring. I looked at Anne, desperate for some confirmation that this was a shock. But she just nodded sympathetically. She knew. Had she been speaking to him secretly? Calling him when I was at work? That was impossible. I looked back at Chris. I felt insane. I was hard. I climbed onto the couch in between the two of them. Anne slid on the couch away from me– afraid of me. Chris stayed where he was. I wrung my hands together.
“Gogh is going out of business?” I said. Chris patted my thigh.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I understand.”
Henry David Thoreau sometimes haunts my bedroom. I see him in my peripheral, judging me. Wanting me to look at him, man to man. Asking me why I never put the effort in to do better, to be important. To be like my father or K-Dawg or Chris. To climb a mountain in Yellowstone. When I’m alone in my bedroom, when the lights are off, I let my eyes adjust while I look at my paintings of Anne. One in Mykonos, one in New York. Henry David Thoreau will sit at my desk in the corner. He’ll type prompts for me that I can never remember in the morning. I’ll wake up and try to paint pitch-black Lake Michigan, but the water never truly blends into the horizon like it does in my memory. I try to paint the Atlantic Ocean from the vantage point of an international flight, but it always turns out inky and non-descript. Henry David Thoreau reminds me that the process is the journey not the result. But it doesn’t comfort me. Nothing seems to at all. The only thing that even gestures to a sense of fulfillment, of comfort, is the understanding that my journey is, and has always been, ascetic and pure of heart. To create something beautiful. With meaning. With earnestness. In freedom from judgment. To paint my masterpiece. Which I’ll continue leaning towards, until the Gogh software is defunct.
THE END
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Just another day for Chris