The Prodigal
Thirty-seven
“TONY, YOU HAVE TO DECIDE what your final project will be and get it before the review committee.” Doc collared me after class. We were at the interesting point where we were trying to paint images on wet plaster and none of us were rushing to leave after class. It was so foreign for being just more painting.
“When do I need that, Doc?” I asked. “I don’t even have a concept.”
“The schedule is for you to file your proposal the first week that SCU is in session this fall. Classes start the sixteenth. You should file your proposal by the twentieth and present by the twenty-seventh.”
“Doc, I don’t have the foggiest idea. I’ve had exhibitions in New York and Seattle with one scheduled in Las Vegas in October and Los Angeles in December. I’ve painted a whole fucking wall at SCU. What am I supposed to do to top any of that?”
“Don’t think of it as topping what you’ve done, Tony. The purpose of the final project is to show that you understand and can integrate your two majors. Think smaller. Think of something more like Bacchanalia. It doesn’t have to be bigger and better.”
“I’m kind of dead on inspiration at the moment, Doc,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
“While you are thinking about that, think about your teaching assistantship this fall.”
“Huh?”
“Well, we’ve been having a bit of a bidding war. I want you for my TA, but Bychkova wants you, too. At the moment, he’s winning because I have an alternative and he doesn’t. Cagey old fart. I think he did that on purpose.”
“Doctor Bychkova wants me for a TA? Why?”
“He likes your storytelling and wants to keep an eye on you during your final project. Since he isn’t your advisor, he figures this is his opportunity to influence you.”
“Oh man. Am I going to have to read all those papers for Art History? I’ll just go kill myself now.”
“Well, think about it, Tony. This is a good opportunity. You and I might think of him as an old fart, but he’s well respected in the art community and academia. He’d be good to have on your resume.”
“I’d rather work for you, Doc.”
“Well, I’d rather you did, but frankly, as a TA you are second choice to Kate Holsinger. She’s my first choice.”
“I don’t know if she’ll be back, Doc. We’ve kind of lost track of her.”
“So have I, but until she withdraws from school, I’m assuming she’ll be here on September third.”
“Tony, is this okay?” Penny asked me. I’d stopped by the studio to see the last of our sportswear shipped to Raquethon. They were now the exclusive licensed vendor of Ice Queen Racquet Wear. I was glad the papers had been signed before my blow-up in South America. Raquethon had had also licensed Melody’s three newly-issued patents on the process and would be taking over the dye work as well. No more smell of bleach in the studio!
“What is it, Penny?” I asked.
“Well, we have these orders and I need to get the pieces from the vault.” I looked at the half-dozen papers, all official purchase orders from real galleries. All for Kate’s work. I called Clarice.
“Clarice, we’ve received purchase orders for some of Kate’s prints and we aren’t sure what to do with them.”
“Take a picture and email them to me so I can check them out. If they are all right, I’ll send you a ‘go’ to ship. Keep track of the shipping expenses so I can bill them as well. If they are legitimate, I still have the agency to sell Kate’s work,” Clarice said.
“I’ll leave it to you and Penny to work out the details then,” I said. Penny had already started forwarding the orders to Clarice by the time I’d finished the call.
“That’s a relief,” she said. “I didn’t want to take responsibility for shipping art unless I was sure. Now I know to call Clarice.”
“All the billing of our artwork goes though Clarice’s office,” I said. “So, nothing goes anywhere without her approval.” I looked over to my easel in the corner. I hadn’t painted anything in the studio in six weeks. “And crate that thing,” I said. “You know what to do with it.”
“Oh. I’ve enjoyed having it here. It’s so hopeful. I understand, though. I’ll get it out this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Penny. I guess I just don’t feel that hopeful anymore.”
Adolfo, Morgan, and I had plastered an entire wall and had each created two-by-two-foot frescos by the end of class on August sixteenth. Doc pronounced that he was pleased with our work and that we’d receive full credit for the class—my last requirement for graduation besides my final project.
I hadn’t played racquetball or set foot in the club in the three weeks since I got back from Colombia. Fuck it. I didn’t figure I’d be playing much anymore. I was running, though. In fact, I hardly drove my car. I ran to school and then to the studio and then home. I sure wasn’t gaining any weight. If anything, I was even thinner.
Saturday the seventeenth of August, Allison, Wendy, Lissa, Melody, Damon, Drew and I boarded a plane for Nebraska.
The boys were jumping all over when they got back from Omaha with grandma and grandpa. They’d been to the Henry Doorly Zoo and the Omaha Children’s Museum. They stood beside me as I put the steaks on the grill. Timing things right was essential.
Beth had lined Melody, Lissa, and Allison up at the sweet corn patch and explained what they were to do. Wendy had a big pot of water on and a few minutes after Mom and Dad got home, she stepped out the back door and yelled “Go!” I flipped the steaks and the four girls ran into the field to choose four ears of corn each. They stripped the ears on their way to the house, scattering the husks all over the yard. They rushed into the house and Wendy pulled the lid off the big kettle of boiling water. Five minutes later we were all seated at the table with rare steaks and hot buttered corn on the cob.
“Let’s walk out to see how badly that fence needs mending,” Dad said after dinner. It was a pleasantly hot and slightly muggy evening as we walked out through the fields in companionable silence. We were nearly at the back fence-row before Dad spoke again.
“What are you going to do, son?” he asked.
“Uh… about what?”
“About your life. Are you going to play more racquetball? Are you going to paint? Are you simply going to collect more women around you and wait for life to happen?”
“Dad, isn’t this the talk you’re supposed to give me when I’m about to graduate? I’ve got a few months to go.”
“I know, Tony. I’m not trying to pressure you, but you’ve been a year or two ahead of the curve ever since you left home. You’re even ahead of your projected dual commencement. I’m worried that things are going so fast for you that you might not be thinking ahead.”
“You’re right about that. You know Lissa wants to start a baby?”
“I had a feeling that was part of the rush to get married.” We walked together out along the tractor path that bordered our property. It was nearly seven and the sun was low on the horizon. There was a windsock on a pole by the fence and Dad took out a notebook and marked the direction on it. “I’ve been thinking that if I learn to fly, I could put a grass landing strip out here.” Dad always wanted to learn to fly.
“I’m a little worried about it. Not much. I don’t mean the landing strip. I mean a baby. I never thought I’d ever be ready to have kids, but then there were Damon and Drew. Dad, I love those boys so much. I can’t see how it would be possible to love another one any more.”
“Prepare for this, son. There will never be another moment in your life like the one when the doctor puts your son or daughter in your arms. Believe me when I say you will never know such perfect love and trust in any other way.”
“I love you, Dad. I know I don’t say that often, but if I can be as good a father as you, my kids will all be okay.”
“My Tiger came out to play today,” I whispered in Wendy’s ear as we cuddled together.
“Grrr rawr rawr,” she giggled. “I ate her all up.” I laughed, trying not to disturb anyone else in the bed.
“Look,” I said, pointing at our lovers, cuddled together. Lissa and Melody had Beth and Allison sandwiched between them. “I think Lissa and Melody were a little jealous.”
“Of me?” Wendy asked. I think she was a little worried.
“No. Of Beth.” We both giggled again and I felt her pussy pulsing around my cock. Wendy had utterly devoured Beth earlier.
“Your Tiger might need a little snack later,” Wendy said.
“Wendy, I love seeing you able to be free and play. I think I was the only one who had seen the real Tiger come out before.”
“Kate did,” Wendy whispered. “I could always be a Tiger with Kate. I miss her, Tony.”
I started to say “I know,” but that seemed so weak. I couldn’t get a word out anyway because Wendy sealed my mouth with hers. When she broke away, she held her finger to my lips. “Don’t say anything, Tony. I know how much you miss her. I just wanted you to know that you aren’t hurting alone. My beloved master, we all hurt. But we all still love. I love you, master.”
I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t make my mouth form words. I couldn’t say how much I missed Kate. I couldn’t say how angry and bitter I was. But Wendy had given me something to hold onto. I knew, as we slid together and worked toward fulfillment, that I was not alone.
When we got back to Seattle, there was work to be done. We’d settled on a print run for Diva of 250. They were giclée prints from a Canon printer on fine art paper. I was amazed. This is like an inkjet printer on steroids that will print pieces up to almost five feet wide. I was told that if we wanted to, we could do full scale prints of Bacchanalia or The Wall rendering. And the quality was unbelievable. It couldn’t capture the depth I was currently putting into my oils, but Diva was acrylic and the rendition was as near perfect as I could imagine. The company pulled one print on art canvas and gave it to me as a proof. It was astounding.
Well, I shouldn’t say “gave.” Jonathan Reichman was fronting the costs for the print run. Each print on Arches Textured Art Paper cost $69 to produce. The canvas was $90. I about choked when I realized the print run had cost about $18,000. Jonathan and Clarice had worked out a pricing schedule that put each print at $300 if sold at a performance and $400 if sold online or through a gallery. I spent an entire afternoon signing the edition.
But that wasn’t all. Jonathan had 15,000 posters printed on standard four-color presses for the show. The poster didn’t have the entire Diva image on it, but showed Allie’s head and bust. It was nicely done and Amy—our poster designer—had allowed room for the image and title of the show with a space for specific dates to be post-printed for different venues. They were only contracted for three performances over Labor Day weekend, but Jonathan believed in Allison and was already planning for shows in Portland, Chicago, and New York. He and Clarice agreed that after each Seattle performance, Allison and I would sign posters in the lobby that people could buy for only $50!
We were zeroing in on Allison’s debut and I could hardly wait.
That’s what kept me going through August.
When we got back to Seattle on the 23rd, Allison went straight to tech rehearsals. We didn’t see her again until opening night.
I had lots to do besides sign prints, though. Doc had left me a couple of messages while we were out of town. I had been assigned to Doctor Bychkova as a teaching assistant, so I was expected to participate in freshman orientation over the weekend. Bychkova’s art history class at nine a.m. on Mondays and Wednesdays was the only class I was required to attend this year. I took care of all the mundane activities like attendance and collecting the six assigned papers during the term. I’d also have to read most of the hundred essays every two weeks and put my score on them. The worst part was that Bychkova had a hard and fast rule that papers had to be received by midnight on the due date or they were counted as late. So, I’d be sitting in his office collecting papers until I closed and locked the door at exactly midnight. I didn’t like it when I was a freshman, and I wasn’t going to like it as a senior.
Doc Henredon grilled me three times during that week before classes started asking me what my final project would be. I had until the end of the first week of classes at SCU—September 20—to file my proposal. The next week I would have to present it to my committee. I could file for an extension, but Doc was pushing me to make sure I had a proposal in the right timeframe. I didn’t have the foggiest idea what I was going to do.
“What was the toughest part of freshman year for you?” the moderator asked the three of us sitting on the orientation panel. It was Friday afternoon and Allie’s show was opening tonight. I wanted out of there so I could go get a shave and a haircut and support my favorite actress. We had front row seats reserved for her eight o’clock debut. “Tony?”
“Yeah… uh… well…” I looked at the fifty or so freshmen that were in this orientation session and envisioned myself in their place three years ago. I’d already decided that coming to PCAD was a mistake and was sinking into depression. Somebody out there was probably in the same boat. “Can I speak frankly about this, Dean?” I asked. He nodded at me. I took a deep breath. “When I came here to PCAD, I moved fifteen hundred miles and didn’t know anyone here. I’d met my advisor when I visited in the summer and presented my portfolio, but when I got here, I realized I’d made a huge mistake. I felt like I shouldn’t be here at all—like I didn’t have any friends and I wasn’t anywhere near good enough to be in this kind of school. I felt isolated and my own attitude kept me that way. I nodded at other students I recognized and then I went to my dorm room. I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t go out. I didn’t party. By the end of the first semester, I sent all my stuff home by UPS and decided not to come back.” The hall was silent. I don’t think anyone expected this. I sure didn’t. But in for a penny, in for a pound.
“I came back though. I found out that I had friends here. I found out that I had talent. I found out that the faculty, my advisor, and even Dean Peterson cared about whether or not I made it. The toughest part of freshman year for me was coming back.”
“How’d that work out for you, Tony?” Dean Peterson asked.
“Dean, I’m not going to brag about what I’ve accomplished here and the opportunities that I’ve been given. I’ve been successful. But I’ve got to tell you all that I still get caught up in depression. I still question every decision I make. I’m still scared stiff that I’ll say the wrong thing or that my art won’t be good enough. Every day, Dean Peterson… every day, fellow students… every day, the toughest thing I do is come back.”
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