The Animators(11)

“Why? This party’s fuckin rad.”

My face crumples. It is a college moment, public and embarrassing. “Beardsley’s outside. He’s with someone.”

Mel grimaces and ushers me into a side room, closing the door. It’s an ancient workspace, a metal table pushed to one wall, a couple of bolt-legged stools nearby. A yellowing map of the five boroughs is nailed to the wall, one corner listing off. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me what happened.”

I give her the rundown while she props herself up on the table, arms crossed over her chest. When I’m done, she sighs, rubs her eyes. “Well, this confirms it,” she says. “Beardsley is a bottom-feeding cocksuck.”

I fold at the middle and cover my face.

“Sorry,” she says. “Sorry sorry.” She pats me on the back. “I’m sorry. Were this not such a good night, frankly, I’d go out and stomp his ass. But then that would be all we’d be able to remember.” She guides me to a stool, presses her mug of Robitussin shake into my hands. “Sharon. It’s okay. To be honest, I didn’t think you guys were, like, official or anything. Which I thought was a good thing. Because that guy’s a toolbox.”

“You didn’t think we were serious?”

“You slept together, what, like once? Right?”

I let out a sound, rub my face.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “Fuck. That wasn’t the right thing to say.”

Mel’s always hated Beardsley. She hasn’t liked most of the men I’ve dated, but Beardsley she gave her special ammunition, slinging shit he was too dumb to take as anything but good-natured when it was, in fact, genuine hostility. “I just get a sour feeling from that guy,” she told me once. “He’s so obvious. You’re talented, and he wants it to rub off on him. He’s trying to dig it out of you with his cock.”

She leans over, glasses at the end of her nose. “Sharon. Don’t do that thing you’re doing right now.”

“What am I doing.”

“That thing. You know what I mean, man. That down the rabbit hole thing.” She makes her fingers walk down a flight of stairs, doing a little Johnny Carson gaze at me, lips screwed to one side, then claps her hands and makes a raspberry fart explosion with her lips. “You’re gonna needle this down to dust in your head. I am telling you, it’s not worth it. Not every guy is worth an atomic explosion. Zoom out. He’s nowhere near the price tag you’re hanging on him. You need to not do this with your night. Okay?”

I nod, trying to breathe.

She pinches me lightly. “You gonna spend your party hanging out in here?”

I roll my eyes, wipe my nose. “Everyone in there knows this grant is all you.”

I see her mouth scrunch as she scoots back on her chair. “Bullshit,” she says quietly. “I hope that’s not what you’re really worried about here. You’re the best there is and that’s the whole story, sugar booger. I can’t keep telling you so if you don’t listen.”

Chastised. I lean over, try to put my head between my knees.

“Let’s hang out here for a minute. I need to try to fix this thing anyway.” She produces her iPhone, now in three pieces, and empties her pockets: a knot of rubber bands, a Swiss army knife, a square of putty. Pushes her glasses on top of her head and starts with the bands, nimbly snipping them into ribbons. I watch dully as she braids three bands around the phone, binding all pressure points. She jabs the power button. Nothing happens. She cusses under her breath. “We may have to share your phone for a while,” she says grimly.

Here’s the hard truth, if you are a woman: Being an artist, even a good one, doesn’t get you dick. Your stock may rise, but there is no corresponding spike in tail. Other than the lesbian contingency, of course, we’re all screwed. On the world will spin while every hair on my snatch goes gray as a mule.

I know what I’m up against here. I’m dumpy. A guy like Beardsley, well bred and moneyed with a wardrobe frayed in all the right places, was always out of my league, even in spite of his wannabe-artist status—a year at Brown, a transfer to RISD. Glowing credentials, but no finished products to call his own. Nothing with the flight or abandon of what we do.

Mel flicks at her phone, sighs. “This thing is shot.” But she springs her knife open to the screwdriver hidden in the side, replaces her glasses. “At least tell me this. What is it about him, in particular, that’s getting to you?”

More truth: I have an infatuation problem.

It’s not just Beardsley. It’s all of them. I’ve felt this for a hundred other men—the rush of the encounter, the way my stomach heats and bubbles, the adrenaline, the urge to run five miles and move my bowels and puke at the same time. It’s a frenzy for the story and what it could be. The ability to escape from my life, the chance at a grand renovation of self within another person. It’s the sense of possibility, so good it feels like it will salvage everything. How hard it is to beat the dream. How it traps you. It’s embarrassing. It’s lonely. It’s unsatisfying. It’s impossible. At day’s end, I just want a life where I’m laughing and eating and coming all the time. I could do this for the rest of my life—this rise and fall, defined increasingly by what I cannot have.

If I told Mel all this, she would understand. She gets the chase, but she lives it in front of the drafting board; the prey is the idea. I feel it, too, when we’re working long hours, hot on the trail. But the work alone has never felt like enough for me.