“Just a standard clean?”
“No. I want it cleaned out. Everything inside it needs to be gone.” Roland righted himself, finally.
“Very well, Mr. Wilson. Someone will be up before eight this morning. Will you be in residence?”
Roland could hear the keys of a keyboard clacking on the other end of the line.
“I am, but I’ll be in the master suite. I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Of course, Mr. Wilson. If that will be all?”
Roland hung up the phone.
After a drunk stumble to his bathroom, he filled the tub with water a few degrees hotter than he could tolerate and sat down, letting his head slide under the surface. He held his breath as long as he could, puffing out his cheeks to prolong his submersion. When he could take it no longer, he burst above the surface, a mess of tangled hair and red flesh. He curled his fingers around the edges of the tub and ground his fingertips into the cool porcelain, gritting his teeth together.
You’re going to invest your whole life in something you’re not even good at, Roland?
The memory of Stewart’s voice was an unwelcome visitor.
Your vision lacks depth.
Even after ten years, Stewart’s words were relentless.
Your parents did you a disservice by encouraging you to follow this silly dream of yours, Roland.
“Stop it,” he choked out.
If you stop now, it’s not too late to get a normal job and be a supportive part of this relationship, Roland.
“Stop it,” he protested louder, dunking his face back under the water and holding his hands over his ears.
It’s selfish of you to insist upon pursuing this fool’s errand, Roland.
“Stop it!” Roland screamed into the water, the resulting bubbles gurgling up around his head before quickly disappearing back under the calm, flat surface.
He tore his head from the water, hair flowing wildly and leaving puddles all around the bathtub. He struggled to calm himself, his heartbeat erratic in his chest as tears bloomed in his eyes.
He pulled himself out of the bathtub and stepped onto the cold tile floor. He slipped one foot back and forth in a puddle while he stared at his complexion in the mirror. His cheeks looked sunken, his skin color sallow. He hadn’t shaved in two weeks and the hair on his face was starting to get unruly. He reached his fingers inside his beard and scratched at his chin, tugging the hairs down only to watch them curl back up.
Roland reached back and wrapped his hair in a ponytail, wringing it out onto the floor. He grabbed for a towel and tossed it onto the largest puddle and then padded barefoot into his bedroom, collapsing on top of the comforter, soaking wet and naked.
* * *
Roland opened his eyes,unsure of how much time had passed. He reached up to move his hair out of his eyes and it was dry, so it had been at least two hours. He shifted his weight up the bed to grab his phone from the nightstand. He clicked the screen on and the digital read out of 9:27 p.m. stared him right in the face.
Roland had slept for over twelve hours without waking once.
He sat up and fumbled for his pajama pants, finding them on the floor where he’d discarded them earlier in the morning. He pulled them on and went to inspect the progress the cleaning crew had made in the studio. He stopped in the kitchen and wrestled some ibuprofen from a child-safe bottle and swallowed them dry. He picked up the two containers of blue paint and carried them with him to the end of the hall.
His studio was clean. As impeccable as the day he’d bought the place. He walked over to where the vodka bottle had landed and traced his fingers across the wall. There was the slightest hint of discoloration on the paint, but if you didn’t know to look for it, you’d never notice. And just like he’d instructed, everything was gone. The polished concrete floor was bare, showing only residual paint stains that had escaped his tarp in the past. The broken knife, gone. The failed attempts at getting his heart onto canvas, also gone. Easels, gone. Everything, gone.
Roland sat the containers on the windowsill, pulling back the curtains to let the city lights in. He should have been able to find inspiration in this.Everyonefound inspiration in the city. From the homeless kids on the street that had fled the Midwest hoping to find acceptance here, to the rich celebrities who only ever came to this part of town as part of their multi-million-dollar movie contracts. Everyone found something here, whether they liked it or not. Everyone except Roland.
He lay down on the floor, flat on his back, and spread out like a starfish. His shoulder blades pressed uncomfortably into the cold concrete and he lay his palms open on the ground. He stared up at the dramatic art deco coving of his ceiling and still felt nothing.
He fished his phone from his pocket and opened the app for Frank’s Delivery, tapping out his order. Once complete, he laid the phone beside him and turned his head to the side. He couldn’t see out the window from the floor, but he could see the lights from the street reflecting off the plastic paint containers. Roland closed his eyes and saw another fleeting glimpse of blue, but nothing lingered long enough to materialize into anything worthwhile.
He folded himself up into a sitting position, then stood. His knees cracked, and he was suddenly, painfully aware of his age. He walked to the kitchen and opened the freezer, pulling out his last bottle of vodka. He clanked it down onto the counter and squatted down and opened a cabinet under the kitchen island. He fished around until he felt what he was looking for and grabbed at the binding of an old sketch pad.
