The commissions, p.3
The Commissions, page 3
Guerrero & 17th Streets, San Francisco – 500 Club (L) and my building (R)
There were no messages, but there was a medium-sized cardboard box with my name handwritten in marker. I picked it up and found it heavy, so left it in the office while I checked on the regulator. The pressure was fine. Though if it wasn’t, and the line was on the verge of surging again, I had no way of knowing. And anyway, it was almost eight. Betty would return in an hour for the routine of shutting the place down and would do her own check. Still, looking made me feel better.
* * *
With my drawing bag slung across my shoulder, the mysterious heavy box cradled under one arm, and the bag of Thai food dangling from the crook of my other, I left the shop, went to the front gate, and managed to open it and get through my door. I climbed the two flights to my flat, rounded the landing, and set my load onto the old church pew that I used as a shoe-tying bench. I plopped myself down, took off my shoes, then laid my head back and let out a long sigh. I was still annoyed at the events of the day, but now that I was at home with warm food, my car parked, and having confirmed the shop wasn’t flooding, I was feeling more reasonable. There was no way I was going to stand for whatever shit Ocampo was trying to pull, but I no longer felt the raging need to hire a publicist or call the newspaper. I would still find a lawyer though. I stood up from the pew and went into the studio.
My work space was the entire front of the flat, one double-wide room spanning the full width of the building. Through the window of the round corner bay, light from the 500 Club’s neon sign cast long, angled shadows across the ceiling and lit the space dimly with a red glow. Without turning on any other lights, I sat at my desk, picked up the phone, and dialed my friend Adam.
Aside from being my oldest friend in San Francisco, Adam Levy was also my publisher. He’d have a good laugh at hearing the story of my day, but after that, I had no doubt he would help. More than a purveyor of books, Adam was a born networker. If anyone knew who to call in a situation like this, it would be him.
As the line rang, my eye caught movement in the room. It seemed impossible, and I did a double-take to be certain, but, sure enough, someone had been sleeping on my couch and was now sitting up looking at me. While backlit by the streetlight outside, there was enough ambient glow for me to make out that this person was a young woman, likely a teenager—which was weird, since I didn’t know any teenagers. And even weirder because I lived alone.
She was staring directly at me, and for a moment we both held perfectly still. Adam’s line was still ringing, and before he could answer I hung up.
“Can I help you?” I said to the stranger in my studio, lowering the receiver.
“That’s a pretty great name for a laundromat,” the young woman said. “Is that how you feel about yourself?”
“Yes. Now how the hell did you get in here?”
“Betty let me in.”
“And why would she do that?”
“Because I told her you might be my father.”
Mid-Century Monster, Lake Merritt, Oakland, CA, sculpture by Robert Winston, 1952. 1 of 2 drawings – Commissioned by Rita Lowe. Rita grew up close to Jack London Square. As a child, she and her two younger sisters, Leanna and Trisha, played on the beach of Lake Merritt, home to the “Green Monster.” Leanna was killed in a car accident when she was sixteen, and for what would have been her thirtieth birthday, Rita commissioned two drawings of the sculpture, one for Trisha and one for herself.
3
ROCK OF THE BEAST
I ran a glass of water for the young woman, then poured myself a hefty dose of bourbon. After hearing her bold pronouncement, I’d told her not to say another word until I got myself a drink. Now we were in the back of my flat, standing at the large center kitchen island of my recently remodeled great room.
“I know it’s a surprise,” the stranger claiming to be my daughter said as I lifted the whiskey to my lips. “I imagine there’s no good way to do this.”
I wanted to say there were surely better ways than sneaking into a stranger’s home and lying in wait to ambush him, but mostly I was thinking about the hell I was going to give Betty for letting her in.
I downed the whiskey, allowed a few seconds for the booze to take effect, then finally gave the young woman a good look. Tall, just under six feet, she was wearing an oversized black hoodie, black jeans, and black-and-white Converse shoes. Her hair was sandy blond, and her features had that ambiguous Germanic-Scandinavian blend that, as much as I wanted to find a reason to dismiss her, could easily have been the Hopper bloodline.
“And how old are you exactly?”
She didn’t answer. She was looking around. The renovations had finished less than two weeks before, and everything was still reading very new. The building was a standard early-1900s Victorian, which meant a lot of small rooms separated by a maze of walls that looked charming but were impractical for modern life. I had already opened up the front of the flat to make the studio when I’d bought the place, and this round had every non-load-bearing wall in the back removed to combine the kitchen, living room, pantry, and odd in-between closet-like hallway into one main space. The only fixed object in the new great room was the island, a six-by-fifteen-foot thing of beauty with four-inch-thick butcher-block top, double-bowl sink, and shiny new inset appliances. The work had taken eight months—and ultimately cost me three times what I’d budgeted—but the final result was incredible, like being able to breathe when you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding your breath. So much that at the last minute I spontaneously decided to add a deck onto the back of the building, plunging me even further into debt, which was why I was doing things like renting out my garage and taking on commissions.
The young woman in my home turned back and stared at me expressionless, then, as if only just registering my question, said, “I’m eighteen. Two weeks ago. Which was why I figured—”
I cut her off. “And why do you think you might be my daughter?”
“My mother was on tour with your band in 1981.”
“So she was a groupie?”
“Girlfriend of a roadie.”
I poured another whiskey, swirled the caramel-colored liquid, and looked inside the glass. I shook my head. “No. I don’t remember sleeping with any crew—or their girlfriends.”
“And you remember every woman you had sex with back then? From what I gather, you guys epitomized the rock and roll lifestyle.”
Despite the situation, I smiled.
“Fair enough,” I said. I looked at her again. She was staring straight at me, her presence unnerving, but also impressive. For someone who had infiltrated a stranger’s home, she was perfectly composed. Which was more than I could say for myself. “And your mom, she’s certain I’m your father?”
“She has no idea. However, the story is, she dropped out of high school to tour with a hair band, and by the end had a parasite implanted inside of her.”
“And you’re sure it was my band?”
“No. But if I have my facts straight—which I’m sure I do—FurTrading was one of the opening acts of the Rock of the Beast tour, which opened in October 1980 and closed in July 1981.”
It had been a long time ago—eighteen years and nine months, apparently—and another life. But it was starting to come back to me.
“Yeah,” I said. “That was a terrible name for a tour—though they all were. But I remember. We hadn’t been on the original bill, but they booked us to play the New Year’s show after the headliner dropped out. It was our first stadium gig, and from there we stayed on.”
“The band you replaced was called Dental Damn,” the eighteen-year-old stranger sitting in my kitchen said. “Who ironically had to cancel because the lead singer broke his jaw when he dove off the stage the night before and the crowd chose not to catch him.” I snickered. She continued. “Your band didn’t finish the tour either. After three months your album went platinum and you struck out on your own. I’m guessing you thought you were too big for the Beast.”
“We had a good manager,” I said. “He was ruthless. And your mother, she’s certain she was on tour at the same time as us?”
“Like I said, she doesn’t remember you specifically, but she knows for a fact that she joined at the end of December. It was her senior year of high school. The term had just ended for winter break and, to celebrate, she and a girlfriend went to a show at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. They hooked up with some roadies to get backstage, and after partying all night, her friend went home and she stuck along for the ride.”
“A senior in high school? How old was she?”
“Seventeen.”
I winced at the thought of having potentially impregnated a seventeen-year-old. I would have only been nineteen myself, but still, legally, she’d been underage, which meant that after today’s accusation at the museum, I could now be accused of two sex offenses in my life—which was a lot to learn about myself in a single day.
“And when is your birthday?”
“October twenty-seventh.”
I started doing the math.
“The timing works,” she said, impatient with my inability to automatically calculate the dates. “I told you, I did my research. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. Mom joined the tour December twentieth. You joined December twenty-ninth, and your last show was April third. Given my birthdate, I estimate I was conceived between mid-January and early February. So while there was a parade of bands mom could have hooked up with, the timing of you being on scene during the window of conception lines up perfectly.” She said it all as if reading a math problem from a textbook.
“Okay. And you’re sure she’s telling the truth? I mean, I’m not trying to disparage your mother or anything, but she did wait eighteen years to tell you this, and—”
“I never said she just told me.”
“But you just turned eighteen, right? So I thought—”
“Why would you assume I only just learned about you?”
“I don’t know. I guess because you’re only just now looking me up, and—how long have you thought I might be your father?”
“Mom did keep a few souvenirs from the tour, though,” she said, ignoring my question. “Mostly backstage passes which she laminated and tied to the end of the drawstrings on the blinds. So I guess she didn’t forget the experience entirely. Anyway, I researched as many of the bands as I could, and the moment I saw your album cover—”
“You mean the one that’s a giant photo of my face?”
“—I got this feeling in my gut. I just knew.”
“I see, so now we’re going on gut?” Her matter-of-fact manner had been putting me at ease, but at the same time, I couldn’t help but be defensive. “You know I have an identical twin,” I said. “Right? Brian? Who was also in the band?”
My attitude didn’t faze her though. “I do,” she said flatly. “So, yeah, there’s him to consider as well. But if I’m to believe what I read in the tabloids, he’s moved to China to play the token Westerner on a daytime soap opera. And since San Francisco was closer, I decided to start with you.”
She was smiling at what I assumed she thought was a joke, but I wasn’t finding any of this funny. I just stood there, my arms braced against the kitchen island, letting silence hang over the scene like a wet towel over a silk suit. I drank my second glass of whiskey.
“By the way,” she said, as I began pouring a third, “in case you’re wondering, my name is Larissa.”
* * *
“Shit,” I said. “Sorry. I—” But before I could attempt what would surely have been a lackluster apology, she stood, grabbed a tumbler from one of the new exposed rosewood shelves on the far wall, then reached for the bourbon.
“No,” I said, grabbing hold of the bottle. “No way. I’ve contributed to the delinquency of enough minors already.”
She dismissed me with a grunt, grabbed the bottle out of my hand, then poured herself a finger of whiskey. She threw it back, then instantly began coughing. In her defense, this wasn’t just any old whiskey. I’d pulled out the strong stuff, E. H. Taylor, barrel strength, 136 proof. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were watering and she looked like she’d been punched in the chest.
I handed her the glass of water.
She drank half, then, the moment she recovered, began pouring herself another shot.
“What the hell are you doing?” I said.
“Getting drunk with my ex-rock-star potential-father.”
I dropped my head into my hands and wondered what had happened to this day.
SLAC, Menlo Park, CA, entrance to the Far Experimental Hall of the LCLS, National Accelerator Laboratory’s x-ray laser – Patron asked to be unnamed
4
ONION TV
“That’s one of the buildings at SLAC,” Larissa said. “I saw it earlier, before you got home. How did you get access?”
We were in my studio, looking at finished commission drawings I hadn’t yet delivered. I was showing her one from the Stanford Linear Accelerator in Menlo Park, home to the two-mile-long particle accelerator where physicists from around the world performed experiments by smashing atoms together at just shy the speed of light.
“My client,” I said, finishing my fourth glass of whiskey—or it may have been my fifth. I couldn’t remember. Having learned that I might have a daughter had been one sucker punch too many in a day of unexpected punches, and once I’d started pouring, I kept going. “She commissioned a drawing and got me access. How do you even know what this place is, anyway?”
“I thought I read somewhere you weren’t doing this kind of drawing anymore?” she said, once again ignoring my question—something I was learning she was quite good at. “But doing more conceptual stuff? I saw a piece of yours in a museum in Los Angeles last month where you had to walk through a narrow glass hallway as rows of batting machines fired thousands of Super Balls at you from each side. The sound of all those balls hitting the glass and ricocheting around was crazy. Like a deafening rainstorm.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That piece was fun. Problem is, museum exhibitions take forever to arrange. You spend more time writing proposals and meeting with committees than you do making the work. And they’re inconsistent. Drawing, though, I can do here, every day, and the interactions are more straight-forward. Most of the people who commission me have a personal connection to the site they want me to draw. Like this one of SLAC. The client’s father was the founder of one of the labs. He’s retired, and she wants to give him a one-of-a-kind memento. That’s really special for me, knowing that a scientist who helped build a renowned research center will look at my drawing every day and be reminded of his accomplishment. Here’s another one.” I put aside the image of what felt like a futuristic portal leading into the bowels of the earth—which, in a way, it was—and took out a drawing of an interior of a house in the Sunset District. “This is for a couple who’ve been commissioning me for years. They move around a lot and have me make a drawing from every place they live. This is the first house they were able to buy, and now they’re selling it and moving to Marin. I’m sure at some point they’ll be calling me to draw that place too.” I put it aside and showed her another. “And this one, a dozen friends chipped in for me to draw their friend’s building as a birthday gift. I snuck their names onto the tree as if they’d all signed a card. It’s not the same as making esoteric modern art for museums, but drawings like this mean a lot to the people who commission them. And you just don’t get that kind of personal connection with museum work—or much else, really.”
“I don’t know,” Larissa said. She was swaying awkwardly, also having had a lot to drink. “That installation with all those Super Balls being shot at the glass walls definitely evoked a personal experience for me. I mean, I wouldn’t have thought I’d have any trouble walking through a fifty-foot hallway, but it was really intense. At one point I got vertigo and started stumbling into the walls—which was weird because they were totally vibrating with all those balls hitting them. Other people were having trouble too. One woman couldn’t even go two steps in before having to turn back. Another guy had to get on his hands and knees to make it through.”
I wanted to say something like: That was the point of the installation, to create an all-consuming moment, and was why I didn’t confine myself to only drawing, since different mediums had different powers of conveying thoughts and emotions—or some other artsy bullshit that always sounded smart when you were drunk. But I’d already done enough of that. So I said, “I just hate doing the same thing over and over.”
“Plus you get to shoot thousands of Super Balls at countless strangers.”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “There’s that too.”
* * *
“I think it surprised him as much as anyone,” I said. “But it’s official—Brian now lives in Shanghai. He moved this summer.”
We’d returned to the back of the flat and were now sitting on the couch. After the studio show-and-tell I said I needed a refill, and Larissa said she did too—although we were no longer drinking the barrel strength. I’d swapped out the E. H. Taylor for a spirit less like liquid fire, my regular go-to, Basil Hayden’s, which was only about half the alcohol. If I couldn’t keep Larissa from drinking, I could at least slow down the effects—which was probably a good plan for me too.
Noriega Street, San Francisco – Commissioned by Brian and Kelley Johnson
I kept trying to get her to tell me more about her mother and her childhood, but she kept dodging my questions. At first she’d asked about my drawings—which I was always a sucker to get talking about—and now she was asking about Brian—which I couldn’t deny her, seeing that my twin brother was as much a candidate for her father as I was.
