He’d lost his damn mind. There was no other logical explanation. Clay slammed the refrigerator door with a bit more force than necessary. It’s a date. Of all the words he could have used, he’d chosen that one. What had he been thinking? He wasn’t thinking, that was the problem. Whenever he was around Carlos, Clay couldn’t think straight.
Little Tokyo. The offer was out of his mouth before he even had a chance to consider it, and now he was saddled with playing tour guide for the day. Clay tried to be angry about that but couldn’t. He was looking forward to it.
This whole getting to know someone was doomed to fail. He of all people should remember even something as innocuous as making a new friend was another emotional trap, set to snare him if he got to close. In the end, as it always did, he’d be left feeling humiliated. That shit wasn’t going to happen this time around. The old memories tried to rush in, but Clay slammed that door shut.
He walked out of the 1970s-style breakroom complete with a two-pot coffee maker so thoroughly stained you couldn’t be sure how much coffee was in the pots unless you shook them, and a microwave that cooked like one of those ovens little girls played with. A mug of rot-gut coffee in hand, he returned to his wood laminate desk to deal with the unfinished reports that’d been gunny-sacked. It’d gotten so bad, Captain Myers placed him and Sam on desk duty until they got caught up. Clay shouldn’t complain considering the captain had given them two prior warnings.
Clay set his coffee on his desk, looked at his computer screen, and rubbed his temples with his fingers. Six straight hours of paperwork so far and his eyes were about to cross. He couldn’t imagine having a job that required him to be in an office all day, every day. He’d go insane.
With a quick look around to make sure no one was paying any attention, Clay opened his browser and typed in “Carlos Fernandez art.” He hadn’t had the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity and was eager to check out Carlos’s work for himself.
Clay was more than a little shocked when his browser was filled with results. Headlines like, “The Rising Star in Modern Impressionism,” “Impressionism for the Twenty-first Century,” “Reclusive Artist Taking the Art World by Storm.” He went ahead and clicked on a photo of one of Carlos’s paintings. His screen filled with light and bright colors.
When he’d imagined painting and artwork, Clay had a preconceived style in mind, something along the line of portraits, or mountains and scenery he’d seen in homes and on television. What did he know? He was a cop, not an art critic. But these—whoa. These were something else. These paintings jumped off the screen and grabbed him.
The brushstrokes were varied: odd and choppy in some places, or short and thin in others. The scenes weren’t quite finished in the way he expected, all polished and perfect like he’d seen on walls in homes that were crime scenes No, these were rough, without defining the facial features of the woman in the garden with her child running in the sunlight. But as course as the details were, the setting was captured perfectly. Clay could feel the warmth of the day on the little boy’s face.
The next work showed an empty lane overgrown with vegetation reclaiming what once was a paved road. The flowers seemed to rise to touch the sunlight as they swayed in the breeze.
These weren’t the calming and gentle scenes he’d imagined. They were raw and real and were stunning and unapologetic in their honesty.
“You suddenly into art?” Sam asked from behind his left shoulder. Clay had been so absorbed in the paintings he hadn’t heard his partner come up behind him.
“Maybe,” Clay replied.
Sam leaned in closer. “Carlos Fernandez. I see you’re looking into The Gates’s most recent resident.”
“I’m not looking into the guy,” Clay said while closing the browser and returning to the LAPD report screen. “He’s a painter, and I wanted to see his work. Curiosity, nothing more.”
“Looks impressive to me,” Sam said. “I still find it hard to believe those sausage fingers can create such intricate pieces.”
“Why, because he doesn’t fit the mold of an artist? Just because he’s bigger than the average person doesn’t mean he can’t create masterpieces. You of all people know it’s important to look under the surface, or you would’ve stayed away from your boyfriend, Joey.” Clay was pissed, the same as he’d been when the people on the street began staring at Carlos. No one had the right to judge him.
“Easy, buddy,” Sam said as he raised his hands and took a step back. “Glad to see you have the big guy’s back.”
“What?”
“I had to check, man.” Sam chuckled. “Joey and Carlos have become friends, and we look out for him.”
“You were testing me?” Clay asked, pissed off as all hell. “Asshole.”
“You’re not exactly known for your friendliness,” Sam huffed. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a great guy, stand-up officer and friend, but when it comes to dating, you‘re more of a love ‘em and leave ‘em type.”
“What the actual fuck you talking about, man? I don’t do that shit.”
“That, right there. That attitude. Not cool, man. Carlos is different.” Sam pointed at Clay using the file in his hand. “You can’t fuck with him like the others. He doesn’t do Grindr.”
“You’re giving me the talk?” Clay almost choked on his tongue. “We’re adults.”
“If I have to,” Sam stated. “Being adults is not an endorsement for good behavior,”
“I’m his tour guide, that’s all. You can drop the big brother routine.”
“Be thankful I’m not Miguel.”
“What’s the big deal? He’s an adult, and so am I, unless Carlos has a mental impairment I’m not aware of, we’re fine.” Clay hadn’t recognized him as having any, but you can never discount the possibility. He’d never take advantage of anyone. He knew how that felt.
“No, it’s more of social impairment. Carlos hasn’t been around the block. Hell, he hasn’t even turned the first corner.”
Clay was beginning to understand what Sam was trying to say. Don’t mess with the man’s emotions, which was easy since Clay didn’t do feelings.
“Look, I’m not trying to take the guy to bed,” Clay said a bit loudly, causing a few of their fellow officers to turn and look at them. “Fuck. I’m taking him around the city to take pictures.”
“Okay, okay, if that’s what you say, man, I believe you.” Sam leaned against Clay’s desk.
“Done all the reports already?” The captain said from behind both of them. “I’m sure if I look hard enough, I can find a few more the two of you have missed.”
Sam hung his head. “Do you have eyes everywhere?” Sam and the captain had been friends for a long time. “Or is it witchcraft? You can tell me, boss.”
“More like a quarterly review hanging over my head,” the captain said with a grumble. “When they get off my back, I’ll get off yours.”
“Fine,” Sam groaned before rounding Clay’s desk and sitting down at his own. “If I get carpal tunnel and can’t move my hand it’s on you.”
“Wouldn’t you need to start typing for that to happen?” Clay jabbed.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook, Everett,” Captain Meyers stated. “You’re only a quarter of the way through your half. There’s no time to use the PD’s computer to troll your favorite websites.”
“Yes, sir,” Clay agreed as Sam shot him an evil grin, the bastard. He liked his work colleagues and considered them friends. This back and forth banter was part of their communication. Cops. Not a touchy-feely group.
Clay pulled up the next report and began reviewing the information and comparing it to his notes. He’d ensure every “i” was dotted, and every “t” was crossed, but in the back of his mind, the few paintings of Carlos’s Clay had managed to see took up residence in his mind, and he couldn’t find the will to stop thinking about them and the man who created them.
***
With each brushstroke, Carlos’s newest painting had come to life. He’d spent days drawing the composition until his vision was clear in his mind, and then confidently, he picked up a paintbrush.
The buildings soared into the sky on either side of the pavement while people and vehicles jockeyed for position. Some features were more apparent than others as their motion dictated, and the bright, thin Los Angeles sunlight flowed over them. The feeling of abundance and happiness in the places where the Californian sunshine touched stood in stark contrast to the darker, more dramatically painted areas where the underbelly of the city lurked. All of it his impression of this single moment on a DTLA street. The feelings of wonder and fear occupied the same space on the canvas as in Carlos’s mind.
He’d move on to his second piece tomorrow, but for now he sat back staring at this first painting in a series with a critical eye. The brushes had been cleaned and carefully put away, in an attempt to discourage himself from attempting to “tweak” his work. It was an old habit, much like the others he was trying to program out of himself.
The same two voices echoed through his head on repeat and Carlos was having a hard time shutting them out. That’s not good enough. Work harder. You’re not finished until it’s perfect. If it weren’t for us, you’d have died in the gutter where we found you. Show some respect. We need more money. Work faster, you ingrate.
Carlos had tried to silence them, but with the move to a new city and a new condo, and meeting so many people, his nerves were on edge. He’d been unsuccessful in putting his mental demons back in a box. They were berating him, demanding more from him than any one person could do. His muscles tensed as the voices blended into a crushing crescendo dangling above him.
“Carlos?”
Even though the voice was familiar, it didn’t temper his response. He jumped from his chair, sending it flying out behind him and turned, arms up, fists raised. He’d die before going back.
“Easy, brother,” Miguel hollered as he quickly dodged the chair. “It’s only me.”
“Miguel?”
“Yeah, man.”
Carlos could feel the adrenaline still racing through his body as he lowered his arms. “You scared the shit out of me. What’re you doing in my apartment?”
“You left the door unlocked. Again. I called your name a couple of times from the doorway and you didn’t answer,” Miguel grumbled.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” Miguel said as he lifted the folding chair from the floor. “You trying to kill me with this?”
Carlos shook out his tense arms and said, “No. I was trying to slow down whoever was coming at me so I could defend myself.”
Miguel’s expression changed from anger to concern. “They can’t ever get near you again.”
“We hope.” There was always a chance.
“Thick metal bars assure that they won’t.”
“Not forever.” Unfortunately, there was a thing called parole.
“No, not forever, but you’re not the same person you were then.”
“Weak.”
“You were never weak,” Miguel growled. “They took advantage of you because you had no other choice. You were a child.”
Often Carlos felt more like that child than the man he’d become. Desperate for acceptance and love, but knowing he’d never receive it. True, it had been years since he’d seen his foster parents, but their memory lived on in his nightmares.
It was time for a different subject. Carlos had spent enough time dealing with the damage they’d done for today. “What’s up? Visiting?”
“I’ve been busy the last four days with the third floor, and I wanted to check in with you. Did you just finish this?” Miguel asked as he stepped closer to Carlos’s painting. “It’s powerful, brother.”
“What do you see when you look at it?” Carlos asked. He’d always been curious about what others saw in his paintings, why they’d want to buy them and put them up in their houses or in their collections.
Miguel took a few steps closer, and Carlos joined his brother to look at his painting. Miguel didn’t answer right away. He took his time, his head tilting in consideration of what he was seeing. Miguel had always taken Carlos’s work seriously, which made him more likely to ask his brother’s opinion. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous to hear what Miguel had to say. Carlos’s art was a part of him, like his hand or leg, physically connected in all the ways that mattered.
“I see the dichotomy between hope and the backdrop of the city’s reality all under the watchful eye of those in power.” As he spoke, Miguel gestured to the lighter areas first, then the darker ones and the tall buildings set as bookends to the subjects below. “The essence of Los Angeles, I’d say.”
Carlos couldn’t help his smile. He loved that his brother got him. Of course, he understood each person who saw the painting would come away with a different opinion and impression, but his brother understood what he saw.
“By your smile, I take it you’re happy with this one,” Miguel said while motioning between the completed work and the rough sketches strewn across the bench.
“I am,” Carlos said. The voices had gone silent, and his head felt lighter.
“If this is any indication, I’m going to like your new urban series. It’s grittier,” Miguel said. “Right up my alley.”
“Thanks, man.” His brother’s approval meant more to him than anything. “Want something to drink?”
“You got beer?” Miguel’s eyebrows shot up.
“What do you think?” Carlos laughed as he headed down the hall to his still unpacked kitchen.
“So when are you getting around to unboxing the rest of your stuff?” Miguel asked as he weaved his way through the piles.
“I’ll get to it eventually. As long as I can work, I’m happy,” Carlos answered. “I have this IPA from Firestone called Flyjack. I like it. Wanna try one?” He liked the crisp taste and how light it was, along with the hint of citrus.
“Serve ‘em up, brother.” Miguel removed boxes from the couch and chairs while Carlos grabbed two beers from his fully stocked fridge. He’d had his groceries delivered so he didn’t have to go out. Between Grubhub, Instacart, and Uber Eats, ordering groceries, cleaning supplies, and household stuff had made it possible for Carlos to avoid going out.
He knew it was cheating, considering how he’d said he wanted to step back into the world, but he had been painting and couldn’t take the time away from his work to shop for himself. Keep telling yourself that.
By the time Carlos reached the living room, Miguel had already set up the area rug, couch, and two chairs, along with the coffee table and floor lamps. The Marine couldn’t abide disorder.
“Here,” Carlos said as he held out a can of beer to his brother. “Thanks for setting this up.”
“No problem, that’s what family’s for,” Miguel said before taking a deep swig and sitting down on the couch. “Where’s your TV?”
“I don’t have one.”
“What? Why?” Miguel stuttered.
“Never had one. Don’t see the purpose. I have a laptop.” Carlos’s foster parents had a TV, but he wasn’t allowed to watch it.
He sat in one of the chairs and set his beer down on the coffee table. That he was sitting in his living room drinking a beer with his brother was a moment not lost on him.
“This is nice,” Miguel said, obviously thinking on the same wavelength.
“Something we need to do often,” Carlos agreed.
“I hear Clay’s help earlier this week went so well that the two of you are doing it again on Sunday.”
“Yeah. He’s taking me to Little Tokyo.” Carlos was looking forward to wandering through the neighborhood and had begun researching online. He wanted to dig into the culture and was surprised to learn the history of the area dated back to the late 1800s.
“Okay, but if you need me for any reason, I’m only a call away,” Miguel told him.
Carlos shook his head. “I’m a grown man, bro. Though I appreciate the offer, I’ll be fine with Clay.”
“I know you are. But you gotta admit some social situations are still difficult for you. If Clay pressures you—”
“Oh my god, if you’re about to start in with an ‘It’s okay to say no’ speech, I’m going to chuck this can at your head,” Carlos threatened.
“But—”
Carlos lifted his can.
“Okay, okay. Got it. Stay out of your personal life.”
“No. I want you in my personal life. You’re my brother, and I love you. But even though I’ve spent most of my life in solitude, that doesn’t mean I’m naïve. If I don’t want something to happen, it won’t.” He smirked. “If I do, that’s my business.”
“Understood,” Miguel said as he lifted his can. “I’d like to propose a toast. May the brothers Fernandez always stick their noses into each other’s lives even if it doesn’t belong.”
“Here, here,” Carlos raised his can in salute and took a long pull on his beer.