I glanced up at Gaston and LeFou over the rims of my glasses. “Take it from me, lads, if your agent ever tells you something is a good idea, swim for the hills.”
It hurt to admit, but even while in the throes of resentment, I knew Lakshmi had been right about this. The workshop wasn’t only going to be good for the comic, it was going to be good forme. I’d isolated myself for so long that being forced to perform daily pedagogical acts of coherence in front of artistically inclined teenagers in a foreign land was almost a crash course in relearning how to person.
Perhaps I’d relearn how to person in time forLucasnot to detest me on sight.
I’d been working steadily for several hours when I realized my indulgence wasn’t so much hair of the dog as an entire dog at this point. My Irish coffee was becoming increasingly Irish while its coffee-ness inevitably was becoming depleted. It was honestly quite depressing how predictable I was—but that was yet another topic I’d rather drown.
I would make sure I had time to shower and sober up before Finch came to collect me, but for the time being I had to finish these pages and explain certain realities to Gaston and LeFou.
“’S not that I don’t like yer Lucas, lads—I’ll bet he’s an all-round upstanding citizen and pillar o’ the community an’ all—but Ifind... you see, I find people like me more when th’ haven’tmetme, y’know?” I took a deep breath and laid out another page to dry on the coffee table. The fish apprehended it without comment. I was nearly done—I’d spread five pages across the couch, floor, and table—and was honestly quite pleased with how quickly I’d managed to turn them out. Yes, I was drunk, but I’d always been aproductivedrunk. I wondered if the fish were at all impressed.
“I bet ... I bet if me and this Lucas never meet we’d end upbesto’ friends, but iffee ... if hemeetsme, he’ll try to ...wiselytry to pretend we never did. Meet. Y’follow?”
It appeared that they did.
“What’s he like, anyway?” I directed this question at Gaston, who I’d assumed to be the larger one. “I mean, ’sides the clean-freakiness avocado-dip horses-horses-horses bit? Whereishe all day?”
The fish didn’t give much up, but I glanced around the room, trying to find some clue as to what my mysterious flatmate did for a living. I didn’t know what I’d expected to find, but there was a tripod in the corner, leaning against a bookcase. The kind of tripod you mounted highly expensive cameras on. I glanced again at the many, many photographs of horses; he was pretty good too.
I also realized that I was bloody stupid. I found my phone, and a quick google oflucas barclay horsesled me to a FotoBom account featuring, voilà, more pictures of horses. His socials included a few aesthetic photos of family and friends, and one or two which were allegedly of the man himself, but those were so heavily edited and filtered that he just looked like a catalog item. I could make out something in the eyes; they could hardly bethatgreen, could they? But everything else reeked of airbrushing and carefully posed soullessness. They were all about a year out of date, as well. His professional photos were more recent; it seemed like he ran the account for an “equine retirement facility” that was—ah, there it was—owned by his family.
Somoney. Or at least middle class.
Frustratingly, there didn’t seem to be any pictures of Lucas himself on the account, Vaseline-lensed or otherwise, but I couldn’t help noting the photos really werequitegood.
“So he’s anartist, eh lads?” I muttered at the fish.
Gaston and LeFou turned their tails on me, seemingly to discourage this line of thought. I nodded at them. “I see, no, I see. He’s rich and he makes art forfun. Aye, that’s the type of person I’ddefinitelyget on with ...” I sighed. “I dunno if y’lads can detect sarcasm, but that was it, right there. He’s gonna think I’m a slob ’f a sellout ... which Iam...”
It had only been a year since I’d been doing the comic professionally. I hadn’t even thought making comics like mine was something peopledidprofessionally—famous comics, aye, fancy graphic novels, I suppose, but not weird little indie comics likeSurrogate Goose. You couldn’tliveon that ... but somehow, for the past year, I had. And the imposter syndrome wascumulative. I’d never felt this way when I was dancing—I didn’t have to bemyselfon stage; I could lose myself in a character or an aesthetic.
That didn’t work withSurrogate Goose. Myselfwas required for use as raw material.
I glanced at the clock that hung on the wall just above the fish. “All right, time to sober up and go teach a generation of young hopefuls t’ beme, eh?”
The fish appeared somewhat relieved as I left the room.
July 18th
I had barely opened the door to the apartment when I had to violently twist to keep from stepping on a mysterious dark object in the doorway. I hung off the doorknob, swinging my foot over the object to land on the carpet safely, then hit the light.
What the actual fuck?
Was that an inkwell?
That settled it. My housemate was probably,definitelyan alien.
While catching my breath, I stared at the offending inkwell in distaste. What was this even doing on the floor? Carefully, I picked it up—it was filled to the brim with ink.Oh my god—I searched for other landmines—this was brand-new carpeting! If this had spilled ... just think of the amount of baking soda and bleach that would have been needed to clean it up ...
Not to mention the fact that I could’ve stepped on the damn thing anddied.
I followed the inkwells, which did in fact continue (they multiply like bunnies!) like a trail of breadcrumbs into the living room, where—
Papers were scattered everywhere, covering the carpet, where they seemed to have been flung every which way—even the couch was unrecognizable under a messy pile of paper and brushes. Three inkwells and two bowls of inky water, every single one resting precariously on the floor.
Keep calm, don’t freak out. Keep calm, don’t freak out. It’s just a landmine of ink sitting on carpet. No big deal—
VERY BIG DEAL.
