Fashionable Age

He needed his Beethoven. The Moonlight Sonata. Kevin had introduced him to the pleasures of classical music long ago.  What a miraculous sculptor Kevin had become, and Aron had nothing creative about him at all. He was left-brained in the strictest sense, and became perplexed at the notion of conjuring something up with your own hands. He envied his brother, and was fascinated by him. How strange, the young man with nothing unique to say, and nothing original to think, could sit mesmerized by his brother’s work. Aron studied Kevin’s movement, the way his face contorted itself when he was displeased with the work of his hands. “Do you tell your hands to do that? How can your hands know how a man’s face should look?” Those were the questions that Aron would ask of Kevin, and he would receive replies that made it clear. “Aron, do you remember mom’s face? Do you have to tell your brain to remember mom’s face, or do you just know? My hands just know.”

Kevin’s second piece was on display at the gallery that evening. It was a Friday night, a big time Friday night where flyers had been handed out, and fans of the art had taken trains in from all of the surrounding states. The majority were from Connecticut, and they were eager to make a purchase. The strain of the work week had fatigued them, and they were vulnerable. The wives with their plush minks, elevated cheekbones, and purchased bosoms were perched upon the nest of aesthetic investment, and the eggs were delicate and engaging. Aron was not comfortable with a crowd of this nature, and neither was Kevin, but Kevin was the featured artist. He was unsettled and unfamiliar, but he was forced to compromise if he and his brother were to eat. Aron worked as a statistician’s assistant at an engineering firm in the city. You would think because it was relatively highly skilled employment that it would pay well. But it did not. The education and credit card debt and sculpting supplies had put Aron in a spot where his 50 hour work weeks were simply enabling him to pay their rent and afford the minimum balance on his loans and lines of credit. Yet the thousands of dollars that Aron had put into his brother’s passion kept them both alive. He would get off the train, walk through the littered city streets, and look up to the window of their fourth floor loft. The light was always on, as Kevin was always working. Kevin used to throw his work in the dumpster if he was displeased with its turnout, but not now. Aron, the big brother, wept the last time Kevin tripped into one of his fits. They were both sorrowful at the core, but doing their best. Aron had Kevin, and Kevin had his creations. Aron shuffled up the creaky stairs, and walked slowly toward their door. He would purposely get home at a different time every night, in order to maintain a routine without pattern. His favorite part of the day was the surprise. Each evening, he would enter the home twice. The mirrors were placed with angular precision throughout the loft, so that upon entering the door, Aron could see Kevin’s face. The perpetually displeased and forever driven countenance of a man who would succeed tremendously, but never believe that he had done so.

On Monday, Aron had first slipped his key in the door at 7:01, and re-emerged at 7:06. Not that Kevin would notice the initial intrusion, but Aron would, and that was enough. So on Tuesday, when Aron got off the train at approximately 6:30, he stopped for some soup. Otherwise, he was in distinct danger of arriving home right around 7:00, and he could not have that. The soup was chicken noodle without chicken. It always bothered him that the deli’s menu read “chicken noodle soup,” yet it was simply broth and noodles. They would add chicken if you spoke up, but Aron was not one to pester. Besides, they charged an additional $1.50, and that was not acceptable on his budget. Aron sat down with his soup and glanced at the newspaper, only there was nothing for him to see. Tales of despair and hopelessness, why bother when the world was being re-born in his apartment. Only Kevin and his work mattered. A tiny grin came to his face. With the overtime from this week, Aron could buy an additional week’s worth of supplies. Maybe not a week’s worth, he thought. “But enough to make him happy.” “Whattya say?” Kevin’s whisper had been detected. “Enough to make who happy, kid?” “Umm, nothing.” Kevin had not even realized that when he spoke to himself it was audible enough for the clerk to hear. “What you mean, nothing? Kid, I hear you talking to yourself all the time. If you’re gonna get all clammed up about it, just think it, don’t spray it all over.” It had been a whisper. How could he have heard? Was he a mind reader? It wasn’t in the realm of probability, yet Kevin could not rule it out as a possibility. It was impossible for him to create like his brother, so why wasn’t it possible that this man could read his mind? “Kid, you’re in here all the time. You think you’re whispering, but you ain’t.” He had been whispering. He was always whispering. It’s what he did. He was certain. If Kevin wanted to believe something, he could not simply think it. He had to hear himself say it in order to believe it as truth. Kevin got up to leave, his soup steaming and the newspaper unfolded but unread. “Where you going?” “I have to leave. Thanks.” “But you’ve only had one spoonful of soup. Sometimes, you’re running outta here like your dame is waiting for you in a bubble bath inside your Penthouse, then other times you lollygag like a Sunday afternoon loafer.” “Because some days I have somewhere that I need to be, and some days I don’t.” “What’s that?” Was it possible that the man could hear Kevin’s private commentary to himself, yet could not understand him now? Repeating himself was not something that Kevin enjoyed. “I just, I just have somewhere I need to be.” Kevin straightened his thrift Goodwill suit and turned to walk away. “Well, goodnight then. We’ll see you soon.” Al’s Deli would not be seeing Kevin soon, not after the unsightly exchange that saw him being infringed upon, or so he felt. “Ok. Goodnight.” Kevin issued a makeshift wave and looked away from Al, and toward the double glass doors. He was nervous but not shaking, which was a good sign. Typically, his anxiety was accompanied by an acute attack of the shakes. Maybe he was getting better. He’d go with that. He was getting better. Thanks to Kevin. And the glorious art. His tiny grin emerged. “That’s when Kev will be surprised,” he whispered.

Bryan May
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