Thirteen Crucifixions, 62

Full disclosure: Following is one of the few parts of my novel that are at all autobiographical.  I am the artist named Aaron, formally known as Greg, who makes some cameo appearances in the story.  It isn't completely fact, since I have never known Glen or anyone really like him.  Enjoy.  And Merry Christmas.

He was sure he would have known the back of that head anywhere.  When first they’d known each other, twenty-five years ago, that same head was covered in a cascade of tangled, tawny coloured hair that swept down to his shoulders.  Now, gleamed a modestly proportioned bald spot surrounded by closely cropped dark brown hair that held a sprinkling of gray.  The head turned, and Glen caught the profile.  Since 1984 Greg had not aged appreciably.  Being the same age as he, he would be forty-five already.  The years had been very kind to his face.  He had just paid Melissa his bill, and was getting up to leave the Westwind.  He almost let him go.  They hadn’t seen or run into each other in seventeen years.  What would they say to each other?  Glen decided to take his chances.

            “Greg!”

            He stopped by the door and turned slowly around.  His eyes widened in delayed recognition.  He seemed to be forcing a smile.  He was in a hurry, perhaps, or he didn’t recognize him, or he simply couldn’t be bothered.  “Hey Glen”, he said with nonchalance.

            “How have you been?” he reached out to shake Greg’s reluctant hand.

            “Can’t complain.  You might call me Aaron.  I changed my name six years ago.”

            “Aaron.”  He formed the word in his mouth, as though it were something entirely foreign.  “Are you in a hurry?  Do you have time to visit for a while?”

            “Sure, for a few minutes anyway.”

            “Where’ve you been all these years?  Did you leave the country?”

            “Not for any great length of time.  I was in London and the rest of Europe in summer ’91, and spent two weeks in Costa Rica in summer ’94.  Otherwise I’ve been here most of the time.”

            “Funny, I was in both those places too, but at different times.”

            “I’ve always believed us to be on parallel journeys”, he said dryly.  “So Glen, tell me everything.”

            “I’ve always told you everything.  You’re one of the hardest people to keep anything from.”

            “And don’t you forget it.”

            “This is the first time I’ve seen you in here.”

            “This is my first time in this place.  Not bad, really.  I used to walk by it all the time, then, today, just on a whim, I thought I’d step in for a coffee.  It was actually the art that drew me in.”

            “You like the paintings?”

            “Tremendously.  Is that your name I saw on the labels?”

            “Yes.  It is indeed.”

            “It’s great that you’re doing this again.  Do you think the owners will be looking for any new artists down the road?”

            “I could ask Sheila for you.  What did you have in mind?”

            “Well, I’ve been painting, myself, for the past eight years or so, and I’m always on the look out for places where I can show my work.”

            “What kind of painting do you do?”

            Aaron reached into his army bag, from which he produced a small photo album that contained on the front cover an image of Van Gogh’s “Sidewalk Café at Night”.  They were photos mostly of paintings of birds: swarms of multihued hummingbirds ascending and descending and vanishing into a living cloud of light, stately peacocks, and perched blue and black birds with elegant de-curved beaks and surrounded by fire.

            “Greg, sorry, I mean Aaron.  These are wonderful.  I knew you had it in you.  These are just so beautiful.  You must show them to Sheila.”

            “Are you sure?  I don’t want to crowd you out."

            “Do you mind sharing wall space?”

            “I don’t mind at all.” 

            “Do you live in the area?”

            “I’m sharing a house with four other guys on Seventh near Clarke.  Hey Glen, are you doing anything right now?”

           


            “So why did you change your name?”

            “I had a huge falling out with my father.  Since my mother died from cancer in ninety-one, we actually were becoming very good friends.  Then, when his own mother died in early ninety-four, it was too much for him.  He started drinking again, and then he turned mean.  This brought back some very unpleasant childhood memories.  You see, he used to abuse me sexually when I was small.  So, that was it.  Time for a new identity.  I didn’t realize the extent to which he had disowned me until I was staying with him part-time while I was homeless.  He nearly drove me to suicide with his vicious nastiness.  Very painstakingly I’m trying to rebuild some kind of relationship with him, and he does seem to be responding, somewhat anyway.”

            They sat in Aaron’s room, tiny, on top of a tall teetering old house.  Three sides of windows gave view to mountains, and a surrounding copse of trees.  There were paintings in various stages of finishedness everywhere.  Aaron sat on the bed, while Glen occupied a chair in the corner.

            “Do you think it’s worth it?” Glen asked.

            “I really don’t know.  Hey Glen?”

            “Yes?”

            “Tell me something please.”

            “Sure.”

            “Are you interested at all in silent prayer?”

            “I am actually.  Why?”

            “Would you be interested in meeting with me every week for this, say for an hour?”

            “I would actually.”  They both smiled, separately, discreetly, taking the greatest care to not betray to each other the great joy they were suddenly causing one another.  It was only after Aaron saw Glen to the front door at the bottom of the house, and only once he was safely across Clarke Drive, when the walk signal had ceased its electronic bird chirping, did he permit the smile to unabashedly fill his face.