Archie speaks about his job, his demeanor shifts. It’s almost as if he transforms from a person to a persona. One has feelings and funny memories. The other is regimented and rehearsed. The animation he had in his face talking about his sister and the kittens is replaced by structured sentences void of emotion. Back to the unreadable Archie from three days ago.
I do my best to circle back around to anything other than work, but he keeps asking about mine and sharing more details about his. Details about his I don’t want, and ones about mine I don’t want to share.
“So, what do you create as an artist? Obviously you paint.”
I stuff the last piece of cinnamon roll into my mouth so I can delay answering. Then I take a sip of coffee to hold off another few seconds. “I can paint, and it seems to be what I’m asked to do most, but it’s not my preference.”
“What’s your preference?”
“Graphite drawing. There’s something satisfying about the sound on the paper that I find melodic and love getting lost in the rhythm of creating.”
He studies me for a moment, stirring the remains of his oatmeal, creating a swirl of color from the mixed berries. “So why don’t you do that?”
I fiddle with my ceramic mug, trying to choke out the real answer. “There’s no money in it. Unless I want to build a career sketching tourists down at Navy Pier, it’s hard to survive on that alone.” That’s embarrassing to admit. I might as well just add that I’m obviously not as good as I thought, and my years-long education at a prestigious art school was a massive waste of money. I take another sip of coffee to shut myself up before I blurt that too.
“Adulthood has a way of destroying dreams, doesn’t it?” He gives me a weak, one-sided smile before pushing the last of his oatmeal to the side. It looks like it’s hardened to the consistency of drying cement. “What kinds of things do you paint, then?”
Another question I don’t want to answer. “A little bit of everything.” I shrug off any more details on my current work and steer our conversation in a new direction. “What about your work? What made you want to be a fire-safety inspector? I’m going to assume it’s because your allergy prevented you from getting any cats out of trees.”
Archie leans back in his chair, stretching out both arms to wrap his hands around his mug. “Well, since my kitten-rescuing days were cut short, I became a bit of a pyro. I was obsessed with starting and dowsing small fires. One got a little out of control and my brother had to call the fire department when one side of our garage went up in flames. As part of my punishment, I had to spend twenty hours at the station learning about fire safety.” Some joy returns to his face that he’d been missing while we talked about daily work demands.
My body relaxes at seeing his persona disappear. I try to keep the casual conversation going. “Sounds like you and your siblings kept your parents on their toes.”
“We did. All of us did our fair share. What about you? Any siblings?”
I smile and nod. “One big brother, Jake. He’s a dentist in my hometown. Married. First kid on the way. Living his best life.”
“Where is your hometown?” he asks, leaning back in, resting his elbows on the table.
“North Utica. I told you… small town.”
He doesn’t look surprised by my admission that I grew up one township over from him. “Wow. What are the chances? We were neighbors. Did you go to high school in Ottawa?”
“LaSalle. We were on the west side of town, so it was closer.” I look down at my mug and finally see the dark ring encircling the bottom. This little chat with Archie has been nice, but after the physical reaction I had when he touched my face, I think it’s smart for me to cut things short. My imagination can get away from me sometimes—something I used to think made me a good artist—but right now, I need to keep it under control. “Thank you for breakfast, Archie. I’ve got to get back home and get some stuff done, but I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
Before I stand, he reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. He immediately pulls it back, but the same sensation as the earlier thumb grazing has already shot up my arm.
“Sorry. I was just going to ask for your number. You know… in case I need to find the best taco place or something.”
I’m tempted to direct him to one of the many map apps he could access on his phone. But I’m also tempted to give him my number because I’m curious about him. Since we’re practically neighbors, it makes sense to have a friend in the building. Meredith from next door has at least six cats in her studio, so I’m not befriending her. Conrad, who lives next to Archie, sets all of my small-town girl alerts off. Practically, it’s the smart thing to do—from a fire safety perspective—so I agree. I recite my number and he adds it into his phone, then sends me a text message so I can save his.
With no fanfare or promises to be in touch, I say goodbye and head for the door. I could go home, but I don’t want to risk the awkward encounter if Archie’s long legs catch up to me in fifty feet, so I make a detour. Before I get to Roosevelt, I decide I’ll hop on the subway and go to my favorite craft supply store downtown. I told him I had things to do, but the sad reality is that I’ve sent out the pathetic number of commissions I had this month and have nothing on the horizon. So while I should not be spending money on craft supplies when I have no income to bank on, I need to do something that inspires me again.
I spend the next hour browsing the aisles of Brick Art Supply Store, picking things up and putting them back when I calculate my total. I walk out with some pencils, a sketch pad, and a vision in mind.
Cloud Gate, also known as “The Bean” is a landmark surrounded by iconic buildings, and collectively, they provide some inspiring man-made scenery to draw. If I’m lucky, I’ll find some tourists who are seeing the sights for the first time. I sit on a bench that provides me with a view of The Bean, The Heritage, and the Smurfit-Stone building. The mirror finish of the monument largely reflects the sky, so as I take a few moments to study the moving cloud formations, a couple walks around the near end and stares at their own reflection. I smile as I watch them marvel at their distorted likeness, making funny faces, and laughing.
Just like I’ve done at least a hundred times before, I commit their joyful expressions to memory and begin sketching out the complete image. Unlike any time before, I find myself imagining doing the same thing with someone. Not just anyone… Archie. The thought is a blindside. Yes, he crossed my mind last night, but I’d just been caught off guard because a man I only met two days before moved onto my floor. That was understandable. This time, there’s no logic to justify him crossing my mind. Nothing except he intrigues me and I want to peel back his gruff exterior to find out who he really is underneath.
That’s not a task for today, though.
Back to the task that is. Finding joy in creating again.
The sketchbook I picked up is only eight by ten inches, so I have to budget my space. It fills up quickly as I immerse myself in recreating an image that portrays the marvels of human engineering and the elation created by it.
The couple is long gone by the time I’m done. Chances of running into them again are minimal; that was a onetime happy accident. Though I thought the same about seeing Archie again too.
I pack everything into the plastic bag just in time as rain starts to sprinkle down. I’m tempted to stay and watch it as it bounces off of The Bean, but self-preservation moves me to run the near half-mile to the subway station.
My sweater is soaked by the time I arrive at Monroe Station. Thankfully, the train arrives a few seconds later, so I’m not left waiting on the platform. The warm air embraces me as I walk onto the train and find my seat. Again, as I sit in this seat, I recall my first interaction with Archie. I picture his serious face across from me and replay our conversation in my head. It was brief and more of an exchange than a conversation, but he’s stuck in my head. The set of his jaw accented by the light stubble. The bulge of his biceps under his crisp suit. The glint in his eyes that says there’s more to him than he lets anyone see.
And once something is stuck in my head, the only way to get the emotions out is to put them on paper.