The Board Is Set
Isaac
Sometimes, having the best intentions gets me absolutely nowhere. Knowing that I needed to find a way to get Zac and Taylor to speak to each other didn’t make it any easier to actually come up with a plan to accomplish that. Over the past three years, I’ve considered absolutely everything short of just kidnapping them both and throwing them in the back of a van together. And in my more desperate moments, I considered that, too.
The problem, as I see it, is that neither of them can be persuaded. Zac has his own life and has made it obvious that he is never coming home. And Taylor… he’s just a mess. He’s just drifting along, with absolutely no life in him at all.
I’ve got my own life, too, though. It keeps me busy, traveling around to record with people and keeping long hours in the studio here with the artists who are willing to travel to me. I’m not a big name in the business by any means, but I can mostly make my own rules and do what I want. It feels better than I would have imagined, having to truly answer to no one but myself. It’s given me a sort of passion and drive that rivals anything I’ve ever felt before. More than anything else, I want Taylor to find something like that.
I just don’t know how to help him.
The answer comes to me one day while I’m sitting in the studio, listening to the rough cuts of a few songs that a band from Boston sent me. There’s something in the piano playing and the phrasing of the lyrics that reminds me of Taylor. The songs are every bit as dark as he seems to be inside; sometimes I catch little glimpses of him and there’s just this blackness in his eyes. This emptiness. I don’t know the cause of it, but it’s reflected back to me in these songs and I just know Taylor needs to hear them.
It doesn’t hurt, of course, that the band hails from Boston and have hinted that they want me to come out there for a few weeks to work with them in person. If I can kill two birds with one stone, I absolutely will.
Calling Taylor and asking him to come to the studio is a big gamble, I know. But it’s one I have to take. The phone rings for ages before he finally answers, just when I was about to give up hope and leave him a vague voicemail.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” I say. “I know this is kind of weird, but do you think you could come down to the studio? I’ve just got this demo I want you to hear… I really think you might like it.”
For a moment, I don’t think Taylor is going to reply at all, but finally he answers.
“Yeah. Alright, I guess.”
That was easy… almost too easy. As I wait for him to come to the studio, that’s all I can think. Maybe he’s finally starting to get uncomfortable in the personal hell he’s locked himself in; maybe he really does want out. I know just coming to the studio isn’t a big deal, but for Taylor it is, and it’ll be an even bigger deal if I can get him to agree to my plan.
He takes his time getting to the studio, once again making me doubt that he’s even going to show up. Once he arrives, it’s a struggle to get him to sit down and pay attention to the music. There really is just no life left in him. This isn’t Taylor at all; this is just some empty ragdoll wearing Taylor’s face, some lifeless mannequin that can be tossed around however I like, but shows absolutely no emotion about anything.
If I could just convince him, make him hear what I hear in these songs, maybe we could find his passion again.
By the end of the first song, a plaintive ballad, I can almost see the light in his eyes again. It’s just a tiny flicker, and it seems to pass as soon as he realizes I’m watching him. But now I know for sure that there is someone still alive inside Taylor. I just have to drag him out, kicking and screaming if need be.
And taking him to Boston might just be the way to do it.
Taylor
I really don’t know how I ended up here. I think that all the time, but rarely is it true. The series of events that led me to this point is very clear, and it’s all my fault. This exact moment moment, though, is a little more difficult to understand. I’m in Boston, with Isaac, because somehow I let him convince me that we should produce an album together.
I’ve told myself so many times that I want nothing to do with music anymore. It holds no answers for me now. The pain I’ve written about doesn’t hold a candle to the pain I really feel, and I have no words at all to describe that. There’s just no point; music and I are done.
Yet, here I am. Maybe it was Isaac’s enthusiasm. I’m jealous of him in a way. While the band’s breakup affected him, of course, he could never be touched the way that I was. He can still find joy in music… hell, in anything. He can still feel happiness.
I have to admit, the longer we’re here, the better I start to feel. It’s not like I could sink much lower than rock bottom, though. I have precious little to contribute in the studio, so Ike is more than willing to let me go out on my own and just wander the city. He seems to encourage it, in fact. I don’t even remember the last time I was out of Tulsa, so walking aimlessly and anonymously around a city I don’t know very well gives me a chance to breathe a little. It’s a sort of freedom that feels a little wrong, a little like I don’t deserve it, but a little right, too.
After almost a week here, I find a new neighborhood that looks like it might be fun to explore. Ike’s spending the evening with some executive types, and that’s a part of the music business that I really don’t think I can drag myself back into, so I take the evening off to explore. It’s a hipster sort of area that I’ve found myself in, and before too long, I’m wandering into an art gallery. Art was always Zac’s thing, although I dabbled with it too.
I hate how so many things remind me of him. That seems to be something I will just never be free of, no matter how much time passes. How could I be free of reminders of the brother I spent twenty-six years getting to know? Even if there were huge parts of him that I didn’t know or understand, there are still so many tiny pieces of him woven into the very fabric of who I am that I know thoughts of him will always creep into my mind at random moments. It’s something that even three years apart hasn’t taught me how to stop.
The gallery isn’t all that large, so I take my time wandering around, soaking in each and every piece of art around me. It’s all modern, the sort of art that you really have to dig into and think about to see all the symbolism. I’ll admit that many of the paintings and strange sculptures go right over my head, their meaning completely lost on me.
There’s one painting, though, that catches my eye.
It’s familiar, in a way, like I’ve seen this painting somewhere before, although I’m sure I haven’t. There’s something almost childlike in the strokes, and that’s definitely familiar. They might look almost haphazard, but I have no doubt each one was placed on the canvas with deliberation. All I can discern of the signature is a Z, and that’s all I need to prove what I already suspected.
This is Zac’s art.
The colors are dark, shades of red, purple and black blending together to remind me of nothing so much as the angry bruises Zac left on my body that night. There’s torment and anguish on the canvas, but it’s not Zac’s. It’s mine, reflected back at me.
“It’s a bold statement, isn’t it?” Someone asks, and I turn to see a thin man with dark glasses standing next to me. I wonder how long he’s been there and how long I’ve been staring at this painting. “It’s from a really talented local artist. I think he’s going places.”
I nod mindlessly as the man I can only assume is the gallery owner continues his spiel about this new local artist. Local? I vaguely recall that Zac did move to Boston, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if Ike planned this. That’s not important right now, though. When the man finally pauses for a breath, I jump in. “Is this painting for sale?”
“Oh, I’m afraid we’ve already sold this one,” he replies.
My heart drops. That painting is mine. It’s me, ripped open and bared on the canvas, and the thought of anyone else owning it makes me sick. I suppose there’s nothing I can do, though. It’s certainly not as if I can find Zac and ask him to duplicate it for me.
“However,” the man says, drawing the word out, “I believe he’s sending over a new painting in just a few days. I couldn’t say what it will look like, but I can certainly put it on hold for you.”
“Yes. Please do,” I reply, my voice sounding very urgent.
The man gives me a quizzical look, not fully understanding why it’s so important to me that I own a piece of art by some artist I’ve only just become aware of. At least, that’s how it must seem to him, but it couldn’t be farther from the truth. This painting is my last possible connection to Zac. Even if he’s closer to me than he’s been in years, that’s only physical. I don’t harbor any illusions that his art can bridge the huge divide between us. If anything can, though, it’s a chance I’m finally willing to take.
And if it doesn’t work, at least I’ll have one of his paintings to cling to. Paint on a canvas can’t possibly replace my brother, but it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.
Zac
I wake in a cold sweat, gasping for air and gripping the sheets with white-knuckled fists. It takes me a minute to realize where I am, alone in my apartment in Boston. I run a shaking hand through my hair and swing my legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the clock. It’s almost eleven in the morning; I was supposed to deliver my new painting to the gallery by noon. Groaning, I drag myself into the bathroom for a quick shower, suppressing the memory of the nightmare.
It was all too common; I was back in the hotel with Taylor on that fateful night. Things started off as they had, but instead of walking out, I turned on my brother. I kept screaming at him, unloading every ounce of pain and anger. It always escalated, turning violent, ending up with my hands wrapped around his perfect neck.
Internally, I always begged myself to stop before things went too far, but I never could. The last sound I heard was always his voice, choking out one last apology. I could still hear it echoing in my ears whenever I jolted awake, and for a long time after.
I’ve learned to shove it down though, and put on a brave face. Life moves on, and so have I. Sure, I have nightmares; and maybe the ‘raw emotion’ my paintings convey make some people uncomfortable. I’m happy, for the first time in a long time. I’ve built a nice little life for myself here, and I’ll be damned if I let whatever demons my past has left me with ruin it. If I ignore them hard enough, it’s almost like they aren’t there at all.
Not too much later I head into the gallery, painting under my arm. It’s a relatively large one, a good foot and a half wide and twice as tall. It’s abstract, like all my works; shades of blue and gold fade in and out of the frame, weaving in and out of each other. It reminds me too much of Taylor, and I can’t wait to be rid of it. Unlike others inspired by my brother, this one feels less angry and more… reminiscent. It leaves me with a longing feeling that haunts me; I don’t like looking at it, and hope it sells quickly.
My wish is granted when Mr. Fenley, the gallery manager, informs me it’s already been requested. He tells me a gentleman came in wanting to buy my last piece, and when told it was already spoken for, insisted on claiming the next one sight unseen. I know I’ve developed a bit of a following; maybe this particular patron would pay more for some custom work. I ask Mr. Fenley to get in touch with him and try to set up a meeting. He calls him right away, and I listen intently to the half of the conversation I can hear.
“Hello, this is Mr. Fenley with Polychromatic Studios. Yes, it’s just been delivered. Mr. Hanson was wondering if you might want to meet up to contract him for a custom piece? Yes… yes, of course. One second, I’ll ask him.” Mr. Fenley holds the phone to his shoulder and turns to me, lowering his voice.
“He wants to know if you’d like to meet for lunch tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. Tell him to meet me at the Andala Cafe on Franklin,” I tell the manager. It’s a nice place, a combination coffee shop hookah bar; their menu is good, and it’s quiet enough to talk business. I listen to him relay the details, agreeing on a one o’clock meeting time as well as hand-delivery of the work I’m currently holding. I thank him and head back home; I’m not thrilled about being stuck with the painting for another day, but at least it’s already sold.
I wonder what this guy is like, and what it is about my paintings he enjoys so much. As I go about the rest of my day, I keep thinking about it. Mr. Fenley described him as a ‘young gentleman,’ and part of me can’t help wondering what he looks like. I haven’t dated another guy since… well, I’ve never actually dated a guy, to be honest. But it’s not like I’ve never thought about it. After Taylor, I had a hard time figuring out if I was actually gay or bi or whatever, or if Taylor’s actions had just messed me up; in the end I decided it didn’t matter, since relationships were the furthest thing from my mind. Sure, I went on a few dates, but usually just because this girl or that kept asking.
If I’m totally honest with myself, I’m probably bi; there are just as many guys I find attractive as girls. And as a relatively normal man, of course I get turned on from time to time, and have to… take care of myself. But I try not to think about anything when I do, because no matter how they start, my thoughts inevitably always turn to blond hair, blue eyes and porcelain skin. The terrifying thought is that the line between my fantasies and nightmares is nearly impossible to discern.