a short story in three parts
by K.S. Lindsay
A young man rushed through the turnstile door into the cavernous lobby, hampered in his haste by the massive portfolio he lugged along. He was, Dana noted, spectacularly lacking in grace. Once inside the oppressively corporate atmosphere of the entry, the portfolio with the man attached stopped abruptly. The man’s hair did not stop. The wind outside, and his haste, had sent the dark spikey locks in innumerable directions, yet the artist (an educated guess given the portfolio) stopped and straightened his collar, tie and jacket.
Dana shifted his gaze slowly back through the 3-story tall glass, at the stream of people approaching the building. He studied the colors – or lack thereof – worn by the people of Seattle. As he sat, he frequently shifted his meatless rear on the cheap folding chair. The movement reinforced his discomfort, rather than relieving it, and on some level Dana knew that he reveled in the discomfort, and the anger it justified.
The insurance company that had built this particularly forgettable office tower wanted impress, obviously, but the massive entry with its excess of negative space smothered people, smushed sound, dwarfed the generous groupings of decorative, fake plants, and managed to completely overwhelm the 11ft tall, abstract sculpture that sat in what should have been a focal point. So, Dana had made the security guards get him a chair so he could pass the time observing the only interesting visual – the outside.
The young man, awkward and ungainly, had drawn attention by his excess of action and energy. Not just by his hair. Dana now regretted his notice as the young man – 30s or so – did not proceed on his way. The stream of people flowed through the lobby, passing from turnstile door to elevator bank, and back again. The young man had moved to the side of the flow, examining the lobby.
Dana hoped his alcove, and his elderly, slow appearance, would render him uninteresting. He expected that the truculent guards at the information desk would satisfy the young man. They didn’t. Instead, after asking them, the bearer of the portfolio examined his SmartPhone, the lobby and then zeroed in on Dana.
“Excuse me, do you know where the artists are meeting?” he asked.
Close up, Dana recognized the young man as Alex James; even in the short examination allowed by his brief but baleful glance. Dana hoped James, described recently in art magazines as an ‘up-and-coming, formidable talent,’ would take a hint.
Obviously, his given talents didn’t extend to hints.
“I was told they were meeting here… A group of artists from the Institute? They are scheduled to make a presentation here? To the Commission? For the City?” Others might have found the earnestness sweet. It made Dana vaguely ill.
With a quick clip on the floor of his cane, Dana snapped, “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” He tried to turn away, but the spindly chair didn’t shift well.
“Crap.” The kid cursed.
Dana heard James fuss, again, with his suit, a paper, and pings on the cell phone.
“Why are you here? If you don’t mind my asking?” The voice was forced chipper, as was the face Dana could no longer ignore as it forcibly squeezed into his view. “Are you here for the presentation?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” Now the boy looked ready to squeeze his entire, but not insubstantial, being into the alcove. A stout young man, with pleasing but still unformed features, he looked so full of potential that it made Dana tired.
“Are you a judge?” James asked, in what might be considered a winning way that further irked Dana.
“I could be an artist.” Dana bit out.
James’ voice grew tense, again. “But, you’re not here with my group, are you?”
A slow eye-roll, and then a question shot back, “Don’t you know?”
“The group keeps expanding – I mean, the project keeps expanding,” James explained in far too much detail, “It was just going to be a lighted sculpture surrounded by a fountain, but now Sven wants it to be ‘interactive.’” The artist gestured quote marks, then looked appropriately ashamed. “He’s talked about fiber-optics, and harmonious sound… I thought that meant electricians and engineers, and we already have some interns and a couple of experts on colors and textures. Are you one of those? I’m afraid I don’t even know how an expert on color becomes one or, frankly, why we need one.”
“I’m not.” Dana responded, harshly.
“Are you with the project in some other, um, capacity?” James asked.
“What project?” Dana asked, not turning from his window, or otherwise showing any interest.
“Sven’s lighted fountain project. The Phoenix.” James explained, who obviously felt more need to provide clarity about the project than about ‘Sven.’
“No.” Dana answered.
“Oh,” the young man breathed.
Dana got his respite. Alex James went back to exploring the room, straightening his clothes, checking his phone and, surprise, surprise, discovering the disarray of his hair. Outside the window, a woman came near wearing a bright coral colored scarf, but Dana found he watched James’ reflection in the glass.
“So, why are you here?” James asked, then, in the reflection, Dana saw his sudden start, and arrested expression, “Are you the artist on another project?”
Dana gathered up his considerable skills to send James a quelling glare, then he returned to his window.
“I’m a sculptor. What’s your medium?” James asked, cautiously.
Dana glared at the window. He found it more gratifying than glaring at James. “I was a painter,” he finally bit out, “Now, I’m a nobody.”
“Oh.”
Dana smirked at the window, and leaned forward to rest his forearm on his cane.
James did another search of the lobby, and his pockets, again, while Dana turned his attention to textures.
When the younger artist returned the next time, however, he planted himself in Dana’s view. “I’m sorry. Are you sure you don’t know where they are gathering?”
A rustle at the door, and sudden color appearing there, gave more weight to Dana’s scowl at James – particularly when he recognized the source. The rustle also caused James to turn, and they both spotted the young woman in bright blue who had burst into the lobby. Dana scowled at the sight of her, until he saw James’ stricken expression. James quickly turned his back to the woman, now looking past Dana, as he appeared to search for an exit.
(cont.)
Part II – https://fremocentrist.com/fiction/care-to-share-part-ii-of-iii/
Part III – https://fremocentrist.com/fiction/care-to-share-part-iii-of-iii/
©2013 Kirby Lindsay. This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Reproduction, adaptation or distribution without permission is prohibited.