TWO.

 

 

 

Almost three years and twelve hundred miles between us, and there was still a pit in my stomach every time I thought about her. And I thought about her a lot. Though rarely in the present tense. What I mean is, I didn’t often find myself wondering where October was or what she was doing. In my mind she existed almost exclusively in the past, in the memories I had of her, in the short time we had spent together.

For a while after I left, I chose to believe we were doomed from the start. That even if I’d stayed, everything would have eventually busted apart. I chose to believe I was doing us both a favor by taking off. I don’t believe that anymore. Not deep down, anyway. The stomach pit wouldn’t be there if I did.

Nevertheless, from day one there were obstacles, the most obvious one being that October Danko is a world-renowned artist. Granted, she’s only renowned to people in the world that know art. It’s not like she’s a household name or a celebrity. Still, she was accomplished enough when we met that, in comparison, I felt lacking.

That being said, I had never heard of her until I called about the job. The post I’d seen was elusive anyway:

Artist/Studio Assistant WANTED for film/art project(s)—beautiful redwood retreat setting (Mill Valley, CA)—salaried position w/potential to live on property—construction experience a must—call for details.

 

The location and the live/work situation caught my eye. I was still living in Berkeley and had been yearning to move back to Mill Valley, though I hadn’t pursued that desire in earnest for a couple of reasons. First, I didn’t want to deal with the emotional ramifications of living anywhere near my father. However, he had recently sold his company and retired to Vail, so I could check that excuse off my list.

Bob Harper’s departure aside, I couldn’t afford to live in Mill Valley on my own and probably would have taken the job at October’s even if it had required me to shovel shit for eight hours a day, if for no other reason than it might allow me to live among the redwoods again.

When I called the number on the ad, I reached October’s assistant, Rae. It was almost ten o’clock at night, but she answered right away, a Type-A sort of hello, sharp and no nonsense. She introduced herself and then launched into an explanation about how the position was not to replace her. She was the personal and administrative assistant, she said, and did not work on projects in the studio.

The tone of Rae’s voice told me she took herself and her job very seriously. And I could tell she was protective of her boss. Though when I made reference to her boss—because at that point I still didn’t know October’s name—she said, “I’m more like the artist’s friend who happens to organize her life, yeah?”

Rae, I would quickly come to learn, had a habit of ending the majority of her sentences with “yeah?” even if they were not questions. I can be easily annoyed, and this was a quirk that never ceased to get on my nerves.

I told Rae I was interested in the position, though I had no idea what it required.

“Like I said, you’d be the studio assistant. October needs someone to help her with a film project she’s been working on, as well as various other art and technology projects. Someone who will not be intrusive. Someone who knows how to work cameras and lighting equipment, can build things, and has a general understanding of art. Is that you, Mister what-is-your-name?”

“Harper. Joe.”

“What is your current occupation, Mr. Harper? You work in the film industry, yeah?”

“The ad didn’t say anything about that being a requirement.”

“You’re an artist then?”

I explained to Rae that I was currently employed by an organic produce delivery service called FarmHouse. My job consisted of driving around to local farms, picking up fruits and vegetables, eggs, and jars of various pickled foods, and delivering them to people’s homes. The pay was shit, but spending the day visiting farms in Northern California was more appealing than working for my dad’s construction company, which was what I’d done for almost a decade after college.

“You deliver vegetables?” Rae exhaled with obvious irritation. “You have no experience with film or art?”

I thought about being honest and telling her I was applying for the job because of the trees mentioned in the ad, but she didn’t sound like someone who would appreciate that. So I told her how I’d spent ten years working in construction, which seemed to soften her a bit, and then I added something stupid about how in high school my art teacher said I was good at drawing.

“I used to play guitar pretty well too. If you count that as art.”

Rae did not make a sound to indicate if she did one way or the other.

“I’ve built entire houses, so I’m sure I can build anything an artist might need. And I’m a quick learner.”

“That’s something,” Rae groaned. “The truth is we need someone ASAP. Our last assistant got a job on a feature film and left us in the lurch. Tell me you have an eye for composition and can decorate a set.”

“Sure,” I said, though I wasn’t confident that was the case.

“And you can come in for an interview first thing in the morning, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you familiar with October Danko’s work?”

“Full disclosure? I’ve never heard of her. Do I lose points for that too?”

“No. October would prefer it, actually. You should know this before you come in. She’s a very private person. Sensitive. Needs a lot of space. Her assistant has to be quiet and unobtrusive.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “I’m pretty introverted myself. Trust me, she won’t even know I’m there.”

“Also,” Rae went on, “October is not into people who make a fuss about her, so don’t come in and try to impress her with a bunch of stuff you think you know about her or you’ll be out of luck.”

“I just told you I don’t know anything about her.”

“I’ll text you the address. Be there by nine, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

 

 

The next morning I was heading west on the Richmond Bridge just after sunrise. There was an accident up ahead, and traffic was at such a standstill that I put my truck in park, reclined my seat, and scanned my brain for a positive thought on which to focus.

That day, like most days, I’d woken up with the sense that I was invisible, that I’d disappeared inside the heavy, cloudlike mass of my past, that I’d gone too far astray and was unable to get back on track no matter how hard I tried.

The city of San Francisco was to my left; to my right the fog was just starting to lift from a midpoint above the water like a big white circus tent being erected over the Bay.

I kept staring out to the north, and maybe a mile in that direction a tiny rock of a landmass off Port Richmond caught my eye. The rock was East Brother Island, a light station built in the late 1800s to guide sailors safely in and out of the Bay.

That morning I could see the light in the lighthouse blinking. Having grown up in the Bay Area, I’d driven across the Richmond Bridge more times than I could count, but I’d never noticed a light on in the tower, and for one surreal moment I wondered if I was the only person who could see it. I watched the flare trying to reach up toward the sky, barely making it through the fog, and all I could think was That’s me.

As the traffic began to lurch forward, I put the truck back into drive and did something I do when I’m feeling lost: I talked to my dead brother. That day I asked him for a sign. I needed him to remind me that I wasn’t as alone as I felt, and if he could let me know whether this job was the right move, that would be cool too.

I didn’t necessarily think Sam could hear me, let alone respond, but I figured it was slightly possible, in as much as it was highly improbable, that his energy or spirit or whatever you want to call it was out there somewhere, probably rolling its spectral eyes at me but willing to help if he could.

“The sign needs to be something unmistakable,” I said aloud, because as far as I’m concerned, interpretation is for the faithful—the skeptical and hopeless need to be hit over the head with certainty.

I asked Sam to deliver his message to me in the form of a song. The next song to come on the radio, to be exact.

Normally I listened to NPR in the morning, but I switched over to Live 105 to receive my brother’s communiqué. It was the station he’d listened to when he was alive, so I figured it would be the music he could control best as a spirit. There was a commercial on when I tuned in, and this seemed fortuitous. It meant Sam had extra time to play a mind trick on the DJ and get him to put on a relevant song after the commercial was over.

I still remember the commercial playing that morning. It was an ad for a discount diamond store that I’d been hearing since I was a kid. Now you have a friend in the diamond business.

When the commercial was over, the DJ started jabbering about a contest the station was having: Starting tomorrow, if you were the fifth caller after you heard the next song, you would win a trip to a music festival in Southern California, where this band would be playing in a couple of months.

The DJ said Cal’s name, along with something about the song being the first single off Callahan’s new, critically acclaimed third album. I changed the station straightaway because I wasn’t emotionally equipped to hear the song. And because I didn’t need to hear it to understand the point Sam was trying to make.

It was the same point Sam always made.

And when I took the East Blithedale exit into Mill Valley a few minutes later, I was thinking about Cal, and Sam, and even Bob, and my heart felt so heavy I was afraid my chest was going to collapse in on itself and kill me. I would die on some artist’s front doorstep, having never taken a real chance on anything.

I hadn’t touched my guitar in years.

I’d just broken up with a glib acupuncturist named Meadow, a well-meaning woman for whom I’d often felt an emotion akin to disdain.

And I couldn’t help but wonder what I’d be doing right now if I’d gone to Brooklyn with Cal.