“Oh, nah. Rolly’s a real night owl. He should be at his studiountil at least four in the morning. He says that moving in darkness inspires his mind’s eye.”
“Of course. Mind’s eyes are notoriously light-averse,” I grumble.
“Really?” they ask. “You should tell him that. He’ll be happy to know there’s science behind it.”
TWENTY-THREE
Annie
El’s friend, Roland,agrees to meet with us at his studio in Bolton Hill, a neighborhood just over the highway from the club. When he buzzes us in and we take the stairs up to the correct unit, we find ourselves in a space that’s less artist loft than cramped and probably-not-up-to-code efficiency apartment. It’s also dark except for a single task lamp in the corner and light pollution coming in through the room’s singular window.
A reedy man with light brown skin, shoulder-length straight black hair, and a goatee stands up from where he’s sitting on a metal stool at a drafting table in the corner of the room. He turns to greet us, the shadow of him spreading out its arms. “Good evening, new friends, and welcome to the Edge of What Is Possible.”
“Um…” Cal starts.
“I feel like we’ve just walked into Willy Wonka’s factory,” I say out of the side of my mouth as I smile at Roland.
“Yeah, if the lickable wallpaper was replaced with creepy photographs of abandoned malls and the whole place smelled like feet,” he responds under his breath as Roland approaches us.
“That’s what I call my domain. The Edge of What Is Possible. Because I’m always hoping to push the boundaries here,” he explains, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his camo cargo pants. “So you two know El?”
“Not really. We just met them at the burlesque show tonight,” I say.
Roland’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. I think I was supposed to go to that.” He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text, presumably an apology. “I’m always losing track of time when I’m processing a new batch of photos.” He nods in the direction of a closet that he must use as a darkroom. “El probably won’t be too mad though. They’re super supportive of my work. I can only be friends with people who are as into their art as I am, you know? ’Cause they understand the creative lifestyle.”
“Yeah, for sure,” Cal says. “Anyway, El said you have the stuffed goose that was stolen from us.”
“Stolen?” Roland sounds alarmed. He puts his hands out in front of him and takes a step backward. “I wasn’t the one who took it. You gotta believe me. I haven’t stolen anything in my life. Except a belt one time from Walmart when I was twelve, and that’s more on my mom ’cause it blended in with her purse straps and we forgot to scan it.”
“We know it wasn’t you,” I assure him. “But we really do need it back immediately, so—”
“Wait. Did you only come here ’cause you think I have it?”
“Yes, we were under that impression,” Cal bites out. “Why else would we be here in the middle of the night?”
“I thought you were interested in seeing my work,” Rolandsays, sounding deflated. “And if I’d known you weren’t, I would never have invited you over. ’Cause I’m really busy. That goose of yours, it really fucked me.”
“It…what now?” I ask.
“Don’t you know that stuffed birds are illegal, man?”
Cal presses his lips together. “Uh…”
“It’s something I just learned myself, thanks to my cousin. Taxidermy is, like, histhing, so I sent him some of the photos I took ’cause I figured he’d like them but instead he was like, ‘Dude, you absolutely cannot let those be displayed anywhere’ and sent me a link about the law or treaty or whatever it is. And now I’m screwed because I was counting on those shots for my assignment that’s due tomorrow afternoon and I’ve got nothing to turn in.” He sits down in a threadbare armchair and drops his head into his hands. To our surprise, he starts to cry.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” I ask, moving to pat him on the shoulder but changing my mind as he shakes with wet-sounding sobs.
“This is my third time trying to finish my BFA,” he blubbers. “I really can’t afford to fail out again.”
“Oof,” Cal says, grimacing.
Roland uncovers his face, the pale light coming in through the windows making his tear-streaked cheeks glisten. “When you called and mentioned the goose, I thought maybe I could at least sellyouthe pictures I took. Since then we would be in it together. Like, mutually assured destruction?”
“Us buying them would still mostly incriminate you,” Cal points out. “Since it would prove that you have the goose in your possession.”
“I don’t, though!” he protests. “My cousin came and got it from me. Said he knew what to do about it.”
“You’re clearly having a rough time, Mr. Eady,” Cal says through gritted teeth. “So why don’t you tell us how to get in contact with your cousin and we’ll let you get back to your work.”
