Letter

He comes in first. A fit, baldheaded guy in his late twenties or early thirties. He orders a Jack & Coke and asks for some quarters for the pinball machine. She comes in fifteen or twenty minutes later. A full-figured black woman with elaborate braids. She might be his age or maybe a little older. She asks what the specials are and orders the Schlitz tallboy, along with a shot of Jameson. She makes a show of fumbling for her wallet until he gets the hint and pays.

From the way they greet each other it’s clear this is their first meeting. But they aren’t complete strangers. This is a Tinder date or the like. When I work door every other single person sitting at the bar is swiping through an endless rogues gallery of romantic possibilities. So these two obviously know something about one another.

Every time I pass them the talk is of sex. I don’t eavesdrop long enough to get context but one time she’s going on about baby oil, the next he’s talking about favorite positions, then she’s saying she was in a strip club but she wasn’t doing anything. They sit facing each other, away from the bar, but don’t touch much. But he’s always trying to hold her gaze, to get closer.

When it’s time for another round, I forget her shot is Jameson and she makes a show of mock outrage, says generations of Irishmen are rolling over in their graves because I mistakenly offer her bourbon. I take away the Schlitz can, still three-quarters full. She asks for a PBR. He sticks with the Jack-and-Cokes, tipping about fifty cents per round but paying for all of it.

At last call she finally fishes out a $20 and treats him to a shot. He’s trying to get her to come home with him or at least tell him where she lives. After sitting inches away from him for hours, it’s clear she still hasn’t made up her mind. She gets up and leaves without a thank you. He follows.

The next day I see him on the train downtown. He’s wearing the same t-shirt and red pants as the night before. No way of knowing how his night ended but there he is going about his day.

p.s. I wrote about a new drawing show at the museum.

I’ve done many pet portraits over the last couple years but few have been of animals I knew or have even met. I had a dog for a short time and shared a home with my ex-girlfriend’s dog, Porkchop, for three years, but I’ve never had a connection with an animal which would inspire me to get their portrait done. Pet owners have thousands of photographs of their beloved friends but a painted likeness seems like more of a commitment. Aside from the money involved, right or wrong, everyone is at least an amateur photographer now; whereas few adults consider themselves painters of any kind. I’m always happy to get these jobs but wonder sometimes about what it means to immortalize animals I know next to nothing about.

Ernie and Eddie are Kelly’s dogs and I didn’t paint their portraits for money. I’ve spent some time with these guys and we get along pretty well. Kelly’s just moved back to town and the paintings are for her new place. I hope to see more of them now and there will likely be more portraits to come. But in the meantime, I just got a commission to paint a cat on a bookshelf. I’ve seen neither in person but I’ll do my best.

I’ve never been good with the in-between times, the days or weeks after one thing has ended and before the next has begun. The transitional periods are to reassess and rethink what you’re doing, a time for introspection, and I just hate it. I function best when going by feel, with no plan or pre-game plotting. But since hanging my portrait show three weeks ago I’ve felt kind of unmoored.

I’m still reading books, going to movies and concerts and museums all the time, but it all feels like a dodge to avoid work when I have nothing of my own going. It’s one thing to be inspired by what others are doing, but kind of hollow and unrewarding when I’m not making anything in reaction or counterpoint. Part of my current restlessness has to do with a growing dissatisfaction with some of the ways I’ve been cobbling together a living. Reviewing books and movies hasn’t been a complete waste of time but neither has it always felt worthwhile. Criticism will always feel like a secondary craft to me. Even my most subtle and ingenious opinion will always pale next to a third-rate Hollywood star vehicle or the most forgettable airport novel because those were made to stand on their own, whereas what I write can only exist in response.

More than anything, whether painting or writing, I value working from life, trying to make something with what’s before my eyes and within range of my ears. There’s no way that writing reviews can scratch that itch. Not that I went into it thinking it would, but after doing them awhile it becomes a matter of diminishing returns. I can’t quit the racket completely because I need the money but I’ve been wracking my brain for other ways to get by. I may end up having to pick up another bartending shift or two to regain my equilibrium.

There are other frustrations which are keeping me from diving into the next thing but they’re not worth going into here. I try not to make this a forum for bitterness and whining. If history’s any guide, I’ll snap out of it soon and get on with the business of documenting the world out my window. That’s what I’m here for. I just forget sometimes.