I couldn’t stop watching. The train zoomed off with my bag blowing in the breeze. After the day I’d had, it only made sense. I had stopped to grab a notebook someone had dropped. I watched a brown fur coat shuffle away as I turned to call to them.
“Hey! You dropped — ”
They were gone. Long gone. The doors closed with a hiss. Passersby began screaming and yanking at me. It happened so fast; I can’t even tell you what really happened. I’ve pieced together my account from terrified strangers who rescued me from sudden death. The train was going to rip you apart. You have to be more careful. What, do you have a death wish or something? Was that a suicide attempt? The latter came from an officer. His NYPD badge caused a massive skedaddle as concerned onlookers became puffs of smoke. I had watched the train take my bag. My phone, wallet, keys, and other miscellaneous items gone forever. The one upside? I left my other valuables at home.
When the police were sure I hadn’t tried to off myself, they let me go. It was Friday afternoon, and I would be without an ID for the entire weekend. Great. I thought. I’d be relegated to sober speak easy’s and my apartment. I sighed. It was fine. It could’ve been worse. My phone should be covered by the warranty. My wallet would be the most annoying loss. I had avoided a trip to the DMV so far this year. I suppose the universe had decided I was due. Not to mention the hassle of canceling credit cards, debit cards, etc. That alone was almost enough to make me wish the train had stolen me.
All I retained from the incident was the notebook of the stranger. I didn’t want to look through it. I didn’t know what I’d find. However, I wanted to get it back to them since I couldn’t get my bag back to me. I had something to offer besides a sore shoulder and some strangers fingerprints. I walked the gelid ten blocks from the train to my apartment. Up at the top, the LED lights were on. I grinned. My roommates were home. Ha. Boy did I have a story for them.
“Jordan Lloyd. You are an hour late! Explain, now!” Lyla said.
She’s an adorable, pocket sized, Latina woman from the Bronx. Her accent is heavy but not as heavy as her hand. She spoke fast and treated me like a child. I love her.
“Lyla Solano, I almost got ripped in half by a train.” I said. Lyla looked at me like I said I was a demigod who sprouted humans from sea foam. I nodded once, satisfied that I’d shut her up. I skirted around her gently before heading to the kitchen and palming a bowl for cereal. Sugar was the only cure I could think of. Not to mention, I hadn’t eaten since noon. Work beat my ass like a stepchild and the train tried to take me out. All I had to show for it was a stranger’s notebook, a fucked-up spine, and a stunned roommate. A stunned, silent, roommate. God knows that’s a miracle.
“What the hell do you mean?” She asked.
I relayed the story and watched amused as confusion turned to horror and concern. Lyla began buzzing around my body like a gnat. She lifted my shirt and examined my ribs, shoulders, and back.
“I’m fine!” I said. “I was set free before the train could really take off. I’m just a little sore from the sudden yank. That’s all.” I said.
The paramedics had checked me out while the officer was weighing the validity of my “I want to live,” speech. I didn’t. I don’t. However, I didn’t want to go to the loony bin either. At least not yet.
“Please, get a backpack. Cut it out with the archaeologist messenger bags! They’re not even comfortable.”
I can tune her out with the sound of sugary wheat flakes crunching. She smacks my shoulder lightly and I chuckle.
“That one was. Besides, I would’ve been fine had I been an asshole with no conscience.” I said.
“All the more reason for you to give up those damn bags. You will never be an asshole with no conscience.” She said.
I stood there, chewing for a few moments before nodding once.
“Fair.”
#
Lyla rubbed my back while I reiterated the happenings of my day to Charlie and Sutton. Sutton cried and Charlie laughed the moment she realized I was alright.
“How do you manage to have the oddest time everywhere you go?” Charlie asked.
I shrugged.
“Maybe life thinks I’m boring.” I said.
My roommates grew quiet and exchanged looks.
“I am not boring!” I said.
Silence.
“Hello?”
Condescending silence.
“Screw you guys.” I said, climbing off the table.
Sutton clapped me back down by both shoulders.
“You take the same route to work every day.” Lyla said.
“You eat the same cereal, every day.” Sutton said.
“Your wardrobe consists of fire ass outfits. All of them are black and you only wear two of them.” Charlie said.
“So, what? You’re saying the universe tried to kill me because I’m autistic?” I asked.
The crew guffawed. Alright, I laughed too. It was a good line.
“I’m saying maybe near death should make you want to spice up your life.” Sutton said.
I laid there with my head on my forearms. Lyla continued rubbing and the rest of the vagabonds stood a safe distance away from me.
“Oh no, you’re getting all stoic. This is either going to end in a creative eruption or the aftermath of a wrecking ball going rouge through times square.” Sutton said.
As much as I hate — and I do mean hate to admit it. My friends were right. I don’t go on dates. I don’t change my black t-shirts and black wide legged jeans. I’ve just bought a bunch of the exact same outfit. I don’t talk to strangers except for when I’m getting paid. I haven’t had any other cereal besides Frosted Flakes in two years. I couldn’t even recall the last time I didn’t get chicken tenders at a restaurant. My jaw dropped as Lyla stood in front of me.
“Oh my God.” I said. “I’m fucking boring, dude!”
No one said anything for a while. Lyla, (duh) broke the silence.
“So, what are you going to do about it?” She asked.
I stood up and grabbed the notebook I’d left on the counter. I grabbed it and wriggled it in the air.
“You’re going to — write a will?” Charlie cheered.
I flicked her off and she returned it.
“No, this is the notebook from the person on the train.” I said.
Lyla’s eyes lit up.
“Ooh, you’re going to go all detective and find out who they are?”
“Yeah, maybe they’re cool.” I said.
“Or maybe they’re a serial killer.” Sutton said.
“Look, do you want me to be exciting or not Sut?”
Sutton held up both hands defensively.
“It’s your funeral.” He said.
“You might want to write that will for real.” Charlie said.
#
The tea kettled whistled like an obnoxious child through the apartment. I ran to shush it, grabbing it from the stove to a silicone holder on the counter. The notebook — well sketchbook was beneath my arm. I hoped my pits wouldn’t make the owner want to let me keep it if I ever found them. I wouldn’t mind getting to know them. The book is filled with drawings, paintings, and other works of art I can’t describe. One image of a girl looks burnt into the paper. Another image almost looks like it could’ve been chiseled. Like The Madonna della Pieta. Whoever the artist was, they were incredible. For the first night in two years, I’d stayed up past ten. I drank black coffee and smoked a joint. Whoever they were had a difficult signature. It looked like they were signing a prescription in the top right corner of every page. What’s crazier? The signature is done in melted wax. It’s perfectly imperfect. It’s both a feat and an abomination.
The more I flipped through the pages the more I couldn’t decide if I wanted to meet the person. What if this amazing art belonged to an ordinary, sloppy, horrible person? Or worse, what if it belonged to someone so pristine, I couldn’t even speak to them if we met? What if I they accused me of stealing it? Scenario after terrifying scenario. My thoughts were spiraling into one gargantuan squiggle. I slapped the sketchbook closed and refreshed my tea. I hadn’t noticed I hadn’t taken a sip. I’d gotten lost in the images again. I don’t ever get lost.
I am the kind of person who could be in the forest and remember a specific tree, a change in the texture of the leaves, a patch of sunlight shining brighter in one spot than another. My life is detailed down to the dregs. I hadn’t noticed that was all I’d been drinking. Bottoms. Crusty, bitter, chunky bottoms. Like the sediment stuck at the end of your smoothie. Getting lost in the details was something I never did. After — the incident, I guess I zoomed in so much I lost the big picture. There was no spice to my life anymore. No excitement. Staring at the sketchbook, I got to thinking; “If this artist were to illustrate my life, what would I want my book to look like?” What would I want it to say? Who would people imagine me as? As my book stands, every page is a zoomed in image of grey and white blocks. I hate my picture book! I hate the artwork of my life!
CRASH! I stared down at the shoddy wood floors of my apartment. My porcelain coffee mug is strewn all over. They’re like puzzle pieces. Before I know it, I’ve dropped to the ground to gather them up. I placed the pieces on the counter and selected another mug. This one a bright orange. CRASH! A teal one. CRASH! A cobalt blue one. CRASH! I smashed the mugs and gathered the pieces up. I placed them into their own piles. When that was finished, I ordered supplies from a delivery app. Once the order was headed to me, I made a call.
“Jordan! Hey, are you calling to ask me for overtime? You’re at max until like — forever. So. No.” Lauren said.
I chuckled.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could use some time off?” I asked.
Silence.
Flabbergasted silence.
“Oh my god! Yes, or no?!” I asked.
“Yes! I’m sorry! You shocked me. How much time do you need?”
“One month.” I said.
It left my mouth without me giving it permission. I held my breath while my thoughts spun in dangerous circles. One month? Do I even have that much time? No way! Lauren won’t approve that much time. Who am I kidding? I can’t do what I see in my head! Say it’s a prank!
“Okay.” She said.
My thoughts screeched to a halt like a record scratching.
“What?”
“Yes, you have the time. In the two years I’ve known you you’ve called out once.”
“That was a waste of a callout.” I said.
“You broke your wrist!”
“I had a cast.”
“Goodbye, Jordan. I will see you in a month.”
The line went dead. Someone knocked on my door. Normally when receiving delivered goods, the process goes as follows; You get the notification. You peer at the deliverer from your peephole. You watch them take a picture. You watch them walk away. You run to your window and see if they’ve gotten in their car. You wait for them to pull off. Then you safely grab your items. I threw the door open. The guy was half bent down, but straightened up when he saw me.
“Jordan?” He asked.
“Yeah. Stephen?”
“Yeah. Here you go.”
I took the bag from his hands.
“You making something?” He asked.
“Yeah.” I said.
“Cool.” He said.
I stood there for a few seconds, trying to work up the nerve to say what I needed to say.
“Hey, do you want to come in and smash some glasses with me?” I asked.
Of course! NOT! Did you just ask a stranger to come and break glass with you? Are you out of your mind? He could rob you! Kill you! He could kill you and then rob you!”
“Hell yeah!” Stephen said.
I grinned and opened the door wider for him to come in.
“I need clear glasses and we’ve been meaning to get rid of some. Just throw them at the floor as hard you can, okay?” I asked.
Stephen nodded, looking like a kid in a candy store.
“Ready. Set. Go!”
#
I hadn’t seen light in ten days. When I emerged from my cocoon of broken glass and hot glue two things were different. One; Stephen was in my living room with my roommate’s eating ramen. Two; he and Sutton were cuddling. Cute.
“There you are! We were starting to get worried!’ Lyla said, pouting.
I poked her lips with my elbow, and she swatted at me.
“Did you bring me some?” I asked.
“SLURP, microwave!” Charlie said.
I grabbed the bowl of ramen from the microwave. I was elated to feel it’s warmth. My bedroom had become a frozen wasteland so I could focus. Warmth made me sleepy. Sleep was a waste of precious time. Everyone watched me swallow my noodles whole. The chopsticks didn’t leave my hands until I put them down to inhale the broth. I set the bowl down with a resounding thump before wiping my mouth. I deadpanned to my roommates.
“Want to see what I made?”
The group wordlessly shuffled into my room. A chorus of gasps made the air thin and difficult to breathe. I wanted them to like it. Is it messy. Is it too much? Should I destroy it?
“Holy shit.” Lyla said.
“This is amazing.” Sutton said.
“Dude.” Charlie said, reaching her fist out for a bump.
“Totally worth four band aids.” Stephen said.
My masterpiece had been accepted. Across the length of my room, I’d created a 3D mosaic of the Bronx Park East train station. There was a small me and a brown coat. There was a miniature book. Into the walls of the station, I wrote I have your sketchbook. To reach the artist I would speak their language. I felt like they had sent me a message. This was my response.
Everyone helped me photograph my mosaic. We managed to get all of it into one photo before doing detail shots. Towards the end of the collage I’d made, I took pictures of some of the pieces that inspired mine. We posted it to Instagram. Then I slept for three days.
#
Who really knows the recipe for going viral? Do you have to post consistently? Do you have to clickbait the hell out of people? Do you have to anger, disturb, intrigue, or confuse your audience? My answer? All of the above.
“One million likes in two days.” Charlie said, shaking her head.
“Forty thousand comments.” Sutton said.
“Ten thousand followers gained.” Lyla said.
I didn’t say anything. I was shitting myself. Something I made had never gotten that many views. Especially not after — what happened. All the sudden something I created was all over the internet. People were asking questions. How long did this take? Where have you been? Whose sketchbook is this? When’s your next piece? That question was more daunting then any of the others. I hadn’t thought about what was next. I did what I did because I wanted to. I didn’t know if I had anything left. My heart deflated and sunk to my ribs.
“No.” Lyla said.
Her hands wrapped around my shoulders and she shook me gently.
“You better not do this to yourself again, Jordan.” She said.
I looked at her. Lyla knew me better than anyone standing in that apartment. She knew what the incident did to me. She knew how swiftly success turned into a downward spiral. Before I knew it, I was destroying my art. I was using my bachelor’s degree in economics. I was chained to a desk. My spark was gone. Lyla was there. The nights I didn’t eat. The days I hadn’t slept. Sponge baths. Aromatherapy. Massage therapy. Eventually, putting my humpy dumpty self-back together became a team sport. Sutton made sure I ate. Charlie made sure I lived. Lyla made sure I saw the sun whether I went outside or not.
My ears were ringing. My palms were sweaty. The back of my neck was so hot I couldn’t breath I couldn’t think I couldn’t — I can’t I can’t I can’t —
“Jordan?” Lyla asked.
Her lips were pressed to my ear. I could hear her breathing. Breathing like Mr. Jamison taught me to. In. Out. Nose. Mouth. In. Out. Nose. Mouth. The tunnel that buried my vision cleared. I saw Lyla, Sutton, Charlie, and now Stephen. Charlie had a goofy grin on her face. Sutton was holding frosted flakes. Stephen was standing on my feet. Lyla had her palms on my face. Her forehead to mine.
“We got you. We always got you.” She said.
I enjoyed being had.
#
It was simple really. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Art reflects what you see, feel, hear, and believe. When I first realized I wanted to make things I didn’t realize it at all. I just did it. I created from an empty — no — -spacious place. I needed more room for activities. Industry City offers spaces for creatives to bring their visions to life. My next piece would require space. Negative and Positive. Two years of working while only eating frosted flakes, tenders, and whatever Lyla or Sutton cooked did my pockets well. I had some money in savings to spend. I rented out a blank room. I asked Lauren for another month. She said yes. Not only did she say yes, but she was paying me. I had the time.
The first step was creating my base. There was only one fabric that would work best for the idea I had in mind. The darkest substance on earth. The darkest fabric created by man. Do you know what that reputation means? Expensive. Luckily, Stephen was a social media whiz.
“You’ve got over two hundred thousand followers now, kid! Ask for that shit!” He said.
Over a few days, Stephen created engaging posts about my next project. It was already something people were interested in. People were frothing at the mouth. I just needed the right people to see it. When the owner of the blackest black reached out, I almost died. We created a deal that was good for both of us. A wholesale amount of fabric for a onetime agreement. The moment the fabric arrived, I got to work.
Over the course of seven days, I created my mind. I depicted a live version of my terrifying anxiety. There was a tornado ripping through an endless black exterior. I made everything as big as I could. I built the tornado by placing colored cotton over a ceiling fan. I put lights inside of it to bring depict thunder and lightning. To film, we used an industrial fan and sprinklers. That was part one. The second portion of the piece was the eye of the hurricane. I thought about my friends, and how they kept me grounded. I thought about the way they were never afraid of my storms. They got right in there with me. Eye to eye. Darkness to darkness. They were always there to bring back the sun.
#
I posted part one and two one week apart. I included images from the sketchbook that inspired me. In the caption I wrote I still have your sketchbook. The response was massive. Hashtag Bronx sketchbook began trending online. The problem? I was getting hundreds of messages per day of people trying to claim the book. Fraudulent opportunists sent in artwork ranging from mediocre to dumbfounding. Yet, none of them quite captured me like the ones in the sketchbook. So, arrived my next piece.
The artist’s wax signature played at the top of my mind. It wasn’t just a stamped signature. No. It was calligraphy written in thick, multicolored, wax. I couldn’t understand how they’d been able to keep it from drying. How did they get it to be so perfectly human? I knew I wouldn’t try to replicate their signature. That would give people a guide. I managed to keep the signature out of the images. I hadn’t been ready to share it yet. I loved it that much. However, despite not wanting to replicate the signature, I decided to give those trying to claim the sketchbook a hint.
Encaustic paintings are paintings made from wax. They can be abstract, contemporary, street, or whatever else comes to mind. I knew what I needed to talk about. I knew what I needed to say. However, it was the hardest thing I would ever do. I painted a visual representation of a secret in wax. The way it almost always bursts from your lips but gets held back by fear. The way it manages to trouble your waters on your calmest day. The way it confuses you. Saddens you. Angers you. Sometimes love is the best kept secret. Sometimes it’s the worst. Sometimes it’s just a thing you tuck beneath your ribs, so you know you’re alive.
#
The posts went up three days later. I captioned the photo with a challenge. There is a thing you do that amazes me. I don’t know how you make it so perfectly awful. If you can replicate the thing, you do so well, I will return your book to you. There were thousands of replies, but no one was correct. Everyone painted their own photos, some knew it was wax painting and replicated that.
I was sitting in my room, fielding messages when someone knocked on my door. I knew who it was. Of course I did.
“Come in.” I said.
Lyla poked her head in with a half grin.
“Hey.” She said.
“Hey,” I said.
My heart was in my throat.
“Can we — are you busy?” She asked.
I shook my head. She sat on top of my desk and stared at me. My palms grew sweaty and my throat was dry.
“Say it.” She said.
“Say what.”
“What you need to say to me.”
“I did.”
“In words.”
“You have eyes.”
“I need to hear it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to let me respond. So, say it.” She said.
How do you tell the girl you’ve known since kindergarten you love her? How do you say the words? How do you jump into the bush instead of dancing around it. Lyla leaned in and grabbed my face so fervently my eyes teared up.
“You say it with your chest. That’s how.”
I was melting. Dying. Burning. Everything. At one time. Yet, time was standing still. Lyla’s hands softened as she caressed my face.
“Please. Say it. Say it so I can say it back.”
Say it — back?
“Lyla,” I said.
“Jordan.”
“I — ”
“Yes?”
The more words I said, the closer her lips. The warmer her breath. The stronger her scent.
“Lyla, I — I love you.” I said.
Then she was kissing me. She was asking; how long? When did you know? Why didn’t you say anything? But most of all, she was saying; I love you. I love you with no “too,” at the end. She was not just agreeing with my declaration. She was making one of her own and I got to taste the sun.
#
Leona Bordeaux was a red headed woman on Instagram. A blond on Facebook. A bald girl on Pinterest. You only ever saw her choppy bangs and thick eyebrows. Perhaps a slender neck. Do you know what else you always see in Leona Bordeaux photos? A brown, fur coat. It took two weeks for her to find me. Two weeks before I received a message. Lyla was sitting in my lap, distracting me in ways only she knew how. Leona sent an image. A 3D wax painting of the train station that intertwined our fates. Are you looking for me? She asked in her message.
We chatted for a bit via text. I told her how much her art inspired me. I blabbered on and on. She was modest. Almost as if she didn’t know how wonderful she was. Almost as if she didn’t believe it. We arranged to meet in a café not too far from my apartment. Lyla insisted I go alone. It was an anxiety exercise. I kissed her, because yeah. She gets it. It didn’t take me long to arrive at the café. A crumbling green building with a rickety fire escape. I stepped in and was engulfed by the scent of expresso and various flavorings. The room smelled the way velvet feels. The way chocolates melts.
Leona was sitting in the way back. She had shades on and red gloves to compliment her brown fur coat. When she saw me, she waved like an elegant Frenchwoman hailing a taxi. I sauntered over to her, her art in my hands. I made a show of kneeling and presenting it back to her.
“Queen artiste. Wow. Just wow. You have no idea what you’ve done for me.” I said.
“What did I do?” She asked.
She did not sound like an elegant French woman. She sounded like a coy college student who nobody believed in. She sounded like me a few years ago.
“You gave me my art back. You saved me from a life where I hate my sketchbook. Hate my story.” I said.
“I did that?” She asked.
“Yes.” I said, nodding.
“For you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s funny. You did that for me.” She said.
I raised my eyebrows in stupor.
“I beg your finest pardon?”
“You don’t remember me do you?” She asked.
I wracked my brain, but no one came to mind. There were only a handful of people I committed to memory. Four out of six of them were Lyla. Leona Boredeuax removed her glasses, and it all came rushing back to me. Like a truck on a collision course.
#
October 24, 2021. It was my second art showcase. I hadn’t put anything out in over a year. Anxiety had consumed me. The show was highly anticipated. The tickets were sold out. Lyla was there. Sutton was there. Charlie was there. I remember panicking during set up. I remembered the unveiling. I usually stopped there because that is when my life changed. I was mingling with the admirers. People were telling me how beautiful the work was. Most of the feedback I received was positive. I was grinning ear to ear and hugging folks. I’d secured a glass of red wine. I was going to tell Lyla how I felt. I was going to ask her to be mine. I figured there was no way the moment could be more perfect. After all, she was the muse for the entire show. Her aura. Her smell. Her laugh. There was me of course. There were my interpretations of her. My interpretations of the world. Me. The entire showcase was me. It was the first time I had made something without wanting views or likes.
Antony McRoe was well known in the art community in the Bronx. He was a child prodigy. He had his first gallery when he was thirteen. I did not expect him to be there. When he arrived, all you could hear was the click of his Louboutin’s on the marble floor. They echoed like the ominous footfalls of a police officer walking you to your cell. Everyone gawked as he eyed my pieces. The air was pregnant with tension. When Antony was done looking, he walked off. I ran after him. I have never wished I could rewind a moment as much I wished I could’ve walked toward Lyla instead.
“Mr. McRoe?” I asked.
He turned around and looked down at me over his pointy nose.
“Yes?”
“My name is Jordan. I’m the artist. I — I wanted to know what you thought about my pieces. “I said.
Antony McRoe tore my art to shreds. He stated they lacked meaning. They lacked drive. They were flat. They were one dimensional. They were — average. I was average. He turned and walked away. I stood upright but my world was in shambles. My inspiration didn’t like my work. The person who made me want to create thought I was average. Which was next to nothing. There was someone behind me. Someone in a brown coat. I turned around and Leona Bordeaux was looking at me with water in her eyes. Her lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her. The flashback stopped and my eyes were leaking.
“You didn’t even hear me. I said so much to you that day.” She said.
“I — I had a panic attack. What — what did you say?”
“I told you not to listen to McRoe. He was a washed-up artist who peaked at fifteen and never recovered. He hadn’t created anything new in a decade!” Leona said. “Jordan, you are the reason that sketchbook exists. I did not inspire you, you inspired me. You inspired yourself.”
#
Lyla sits in my lap. Sutton and Stephen are on the couch. Charlie is posing while Leona and I paint. The room is warm. I am the space between parallel lines.
