The Prodigal
Seventeen
THAT WAS WHAT I WAS EXPECTING. I’m stupid in love, but I’m not always just stupid. Ever since Washington passed the Marriage Equality Act, I’d been expecting it. When the law went into effect last weekend, the newspaper had been full of the reports of gay marriages all over the state. I’d noticed Melody more often referring to Lissa as her wife. And Lissa had been doing the same. The news didn’t seem to be affecting my cock in a negative way. I pushed at her again. “Ohh.”
“I take it from what you said previously that you intend to commit adultery at least often enough to have babies,” I whispered. “Or am I being traded for a turkey baster?”
“Tony! Oh, love, never! I want to make love with you every day for the rest of our lives. But… oh, lover… Lissa.”
“You know she wants to have a baby, too?”
“Yes. Isn’t it exciting?” I remembered the first time Lissa and I ‘practiced’. It was just before I discovered she was physically responding to Melody’s absence. She’d woken up the next morning crying that her Little One needed her. I guess that was when I had my first inkling of what the future would hold. “Tony. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea. I feel so full of love for both of you that nothing could be more right. We’ve always known that we couldn’t have a group marriage. Washington isn’t nearly that liberal, even if it did legalize same-sex marriage and pot in the same election.” We laughed and I could feel my cock moving in her again.
“You know we could both change our names to Ames when we get married. Then our children would all bear your last name. With you on the birth certificate as father and Lissa and me married, we wouldn’t have any difficulty with parental rights for all three of us. And we’d still all live together,” Melody said. She’d obviously been giving this a lot of thought. “Please tell me it’s okay, Tony?”
“I love you more than life itself,” I said. “I think it’s wonderful. I think we’re going to need a bigger house. I think I’d better start selling a lot more artwork. What does Lissa think?”
“I haven’t talked to her about it yet. I couldn’t until I talked to you. I couldn’t bear to do anything if it would hurt you. Besides, this would make it possible for you…” Melody stopped herself short.
“What, sweetheart?”
“For you to marry Kate,” she whispered. “I know you want to. I know she wants to. It’s just so obvious.”
“I don’t know, Mel. I don’t think Kate is anywhere near ready to make that kind of commitment. Maybe that’s where the two years age difference changes things. Someday, maybe. But you marrying Lissa isn’t contingent on me marrying Kate. The things that are right are right.” I began to soften at the mention of Kate. Melody noticed and moved off me to lie beside me and cuddle.
“You don’t know until you ask,” Melody said. “Don’t sell her short.”
“After what I did last night… You didn’t hear how I yelled at her, Mel. I know she says she understands and we’re all right now, but she can’t help but look at me differently. Or me to look at her differently. It wouldn’t surprise me if she and Wendy got married. Only I’m afraid that their marriage wouldn’t include me.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.”
“I hope…” What did I hope? I’d expected Melody and Lissa to get married eventually. If Washington hadn’t passed its law, I was sure they’d go to Massachusetts to do it. But would I marry Kate? Just thinking about the possibility of life without her left me empty inside.
“The order is all wrong! Don’t you people read?” I demanded. I stepped through the gallery with Melody tagging silently along behind me. Caldwell—wonder what his first name is—abandoned me to a docent who was doing his best to be obsequious and was succeeding. He was almost more irritating than Caldwell. At least the prints had arrived and were matted and framed according to my specs.
We spent the next two hours re-ordering the oils on the walls and movable partitions. You wouldn’t think it would take that long to hang twelve paintings, but since the horizon line was different for each one, you couldn’t just switch places without readjusting the hangers.
When I was satisfied that the order was good, I started moving the three mobile displays around.
“You can’t move those!” my toad shouted.
“Can’t?” I asked, looking at him sternly.
“I mean, let me get help for you, please. Mr. Caldwell positioned them so people would have access to the bar at the opening.”
“Just what I need. A bunch of drunks slobbering over my artwork. The bar will be located in the hall outside this gallery. That will encourage the drunks to look at other things in the gallery. God knows, you’d have to be drunk to buy some of that crap.” He looked at me with a horrified expression and ran to get another docent to help move the partitions. Melody kissed me on the cheek.
“You can be such a bastard,” she laughed. “That poor guy is going to get blamed for that, you know.”
“I’ll make sure I take the blame in an obvious way,” I whispered back. “Did you notice how people are leaving us alone today? After the show we’ll take Mr. Bartleby out for a drink and apologize. I won’t mind being human then.” Even the lowest level of Caldwell’s team was introduced by last name. I had a vision of walking around tomorrow night wearing a nametag that said, “Hello! My name is Mr. Ames.”
I got the partitions repositioned so that they didn’t block the view of the Bacchanalia. I wanted people to see it first, but look at everything else before they approached it.
“You know, no one’s going to buy that at that price,” Bartleby said as we looked at the new arrangement. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Caldwell drops the price fifty percent in the middle of the opening.”
“He’ll be sued if he does,” I said calmly. “All the artwork in this room is here on consignment at his insistence. Contractually, the artist has the right to remove the piece from display rather than agree to a price adjustment. We have two weeks contracted in this room and will leave it empty rather than consent to a single price drop. Now, what time does the show open tomorrow night?”
“Seven o’clock, not that it matters.”
“Why is that?”
“The only people who are going to show up are Caldwell’s cronies. They’ll be here at five for cocktails and tie up as much of the inventory at twenty-five percent of value as they can. No one else will come. They are the only people Caldwell sent invitations to.”
I was sensing that Bartleby was about as disgusted with his boss as I was.
“Okay, Bartleby. Is that really your name?”
“Uh… no sir. Liebowitz doesn’t fly in this part of town. Mr. Caldwell assigned a name. If I quit tomorrow, the next person hired would take over my name.”
“Christ! How slimy is this business? Okay, here’s what’s going to happen tomorrow. You don’t need to tell Caldwell any of this. No one will be allowed in this room without me and no buyers until the show opens at seven o’clock. That’s in my contract. No sales will be made before the opening. At eight-thirty, I’ll begin my presentation.”
“Presentation, sir?”
“Yes. I’ll have a large screen and computer projector delivered here tomorrow morning and will be here to connect and test it at two o’clock. From that point on, either I or my representative will be here to ensure nothing is disturbed. He’s slated to arrive in half an hour, so I’ll introduce you then. An hour and a half should allow guests to be fashionably late. The presentation will be one half-hour in length. The gallery is slated to be open until eleven.”
“He never leaves it open that long. He’ll come in about eight when no one is here and tell you there’s no sense staying open any longer.”
“There’ll be people, I promise. Closing early would damage the gallery’s reputation and cause serious repercussions. At eleven o’clock we’ll disconnect our equipment. Then, Bartleby, I intend to take my good friend Liebowitz out for a drink. Got it?” The grin on Bartleby’s face rivaled what I usually get from Kate. I reminded myself not to lay it on too thick. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.
“Yes, Mr. Ames,” he said. “I’m sure Mr. Liebowitz will be delighted.”
My phone buzzed and I got a text from Bob Bowers. “Fifteen minutes away. Hope you’ve managed to keep the buzzards at bay.”
“We keep flapping our wings,” I responded. “Only last names here and don’t acknowledge Melody at all. She understands.”
“Perhaps I should be ‘Smith,’” he wrote back.
“I like that. Don’t let them know you are a critic.”
Bob arrived in a cab with only a briefcase ten minutes later. I wondered where his luggage was. He walked into the gallery and I shook his hand.
“Mr. Smith,” I said. “Good to see you.”
“Ames. I see you’ve got things under control here,” he answered.
“Bartleby, this is my associate, Mr. Smith. Bartleby has been most accommodating. Would you mind waiting with Ms. Anderson for a few minutes while I talk to my colleague?” I asked the docent. He nodded and not only joined Melody, but started up a conversation with her. Bob looked me over. I was suddenly self-conscious again. I’d managed to get used to my appearance while I was working, but now was acutely aware of what others had been seeing. Melody had me dressed in tight black leather pants with shiny boots and a black silk T-shirt that was a size too small. She’d used some mousse on my hair to make it spiky.
“Playing to their weaknesses, I see,” Bob chuckled.
“You wouldn’t believe the number of boys who have stuck their heads in the room today. Even Caldwell has stopped outside the door to stare a couple of times. I think they’re all a little jealous of Bartleby except when I go off on a tantrum. How’s Kate doing?”
“She’ll make it. I’m glad I was there. I threw a fit on her behalf. The poor girl was a wreck. They’d stuck her in a back room that was too small for even her dozen works and the prints. We at least got her moved into a decent room. Wendy is playing the role that Melody is for you. Lissa has the presence to be imposing, even to a disdainful man. She doesn’t throw a tantrum; she simply snaps her fingers and expects to be obeyed. Kate is a little overwhelmed. I think she expected people to all be looking out for her and believe me they weren’t.”
“I wish I was there with her. She brings out my protective instincts.” Bob smiled at me and nodded.
“This is nice,” Bob said as we moved from piece to piece. “Good flow. I like what you did with the prints.”
“Can you believe they wanted to hang the prints next to the original oils? I’d rather have them in a separate room.”
“Control the things you can. For instance, can the gallery be locked when we leave?”
“Yes. I’ve given strict instructions that no one is to enter it unless I am here. I’ve got a big monitor being delivered tomorrow so I can do a presentation. We will have guests, won’t we?”
“I can guarantee it, and at least three critics that I know of. New Yorker magazine, the Washington Post, and public television. Are you going to tell the story?”
“Yes. Did Doc forward it to you? What do you think?”
“I think you need to have it displayed,” Bob said. “Maybe not the whole thing, though. The placards with your name, title, medium, and price are standard. What if we added a small additional placard beneath each piece with an excerpt from the story? Just a few lines. It will pique the interest of those who are here before the story and remind people after they’ve heard it. Tomorrow afternoon, before the gallery opens to the public, let’s shoot a YouTube video of the presentation and release it around midnight. We’ll send a copy home with the public television guy.”
“Sounds like fun. Do you have a video camera?”
“I’ll take care of that. We’ll have to do some editing before we release it, but I’ll try to get that done while you’re hosting your guests.”
Everything went smoothly on Friday. We installed the equipment without a hassle. When the bar arrived at five o’clock, along with a cocktail crowd of half a dozen men who wanted immediate access to the gallery, Bob simply directed them to the hall for drinks and told them the opening was at seven. Caldwell was nervous. He’d seen the review in the morning Times and had no idea he was standing in front of the reviewer. It was obvious that things weren’t going the way he intended. We arrived at a quarter till seven after a pleasant dinner. Melody carried a couple bottles of water in her purse as I had no intention of eating or drinking anything the gallery had to offer. I kept thinking of an old Celtic myth that if you ate the food of the fairies, you would be trapped in fairyland forever. Every time I thought of it, I nearly choked.
When Bob opened the door at exactly seven, there were two dozen people waiting to get in. The bartender had already ordered out for more liquor and champagne. I’d checked to make sure Caldwell was paying for the liquor and not us. That would eat into his profits. By the time I started my presentation at eight-thirty, there were nearly a hundred people milling about my exhibition and spilling over into the other galleries. The story and presentation got great applause and I introduced Bartleby as the docent who could explain any of my works and would be happy to arrange delivery. For the next two hours, we simply cruised the exhibit and talked to people who were attending. As Bob was recognized by several of his friends, all pretenses of last names only were dropped. It turned into quite a nice party. By eleven o’clock, we were all exhausted. The last guests were ushered out. An effusive Mr. Caldwell stopped me as we were leaving.
I’d researched the gallery the night before in our hotel room. Mr. Caldwell’s first name was Maurice. The Mr. Gillette, for whom the Gillette Gallery where Kate’s work was being shown was named, was Mr. Caldwell’s partner in business and in life. They jetted back and forth, maintaining two residences. There were rumors of a high life that owning a gallery or two couldn’t possibly support. I wasn’t quite sure what kind of racket they ran, but apparently selling out shows at steep discounts because nobody showed up was one of them.
“Tony, congratulations,” he said, reaching to shake my hand. “You certainly had a good New York debut. Can we talk for a few minutes before you leave?” He was pulling me into a small showing room. I grabbed Melody’s hand and dragged her in with me. Two men were in the room and we all sat in comfortable chairs. “These gentlemen are investors and we’ve been impressed with the showing this evening. We have sales recorded for three of your oils, a full suite, and a dozen individual prints. It has put us in mind to do more business with you.”
The men nodded their heads but said nothing. As effusive as Caldwell was, he was lying. I’d already talked to Bartleby and knew that we’d sold five oils, both suites, and fourteen individual prints. The total take had been $32,000, of which I would receive sixty percent. It wasn’t as big as the opening in Seattle, but we hadn’t expected it to be. No matter how many contacts Bob had, we were on foreign soil here.
“We’d like to offer you a deal to become your exclusive distributor of fine art prints. We understand, of course, that we can’t have an exclusive on your oils, but we’d like right of first refusal on any new work you bring to market. We can reach an almost unlimited market for fine art prints that will drive your sales faster than you could ever imagine. And, because we believe in you, we are willing to give you a jump in your rate of return. Instead of a 60/40 arrangement, we’ll offer you 75/25. You’ve toured the rest of our gallery, Tony. None of the artists represented out there have that kind of deal.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said. “Do you have a contract I can look at?”
One of the other guys pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me along with a pen. A nice pen.
“Sign on the last page, there, and you’ll be set for life,” the guy croaked. He sounded like a guy who had his voice box removed and talked through one of those boxes held to the throat.
I opened the one-page document and read through it.
“What’s this about the Bacchanalia?” I asked. “You misspelled it, by the way.”
“Just a transcription error,” Caldwell said. “We both know the piece is way overpriced. We matched what was paid for the large piece at your opening in Seattle—$50,000, less the gallery discount, of course.”
“Wow, that’s awfully generous,” I said. I had to sound like a rube. “And you take over all reproduction rights, too. Sounds like the U.S. Government. I’ll run this by my agent when I get back to Seattle.” I stuffed the contract and the pen in my jacket pocket and stood.
“This is a one-time offer, Tony,” Caldwell said. “It’s only good if you take it now.”
Melody stood.
“He’ll take it to his agent,” she said, pulling at me. I grinned.
“Who are you? Secretaries don’t tell people what to do.”
“I am the keeper of his virginity, and lover of his soul,” Melody snapped. I stood.
“Mo,” I said, “—I can call you Mo, can’t I?—all deals go through my agent. You know that. And furthermore, my daddy out on the farm in Nebraska taught me a deal that is only good if I sign immediately is really no deal at all. Thank you, gentlemen. I’m really tired now. Good night.”
Melody and I left.
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