If- Nina G. Jones Page 0,20
passed since Thanksgiving, and I hadn’t seen Ash since. In a way, it was a relief. Passing him daily on the street before I knew him was easy, but now that he had saved my life, that we had shared a meal, washed dishes together, and shared glimpses of who we were, I dreaded passing him. Indifference was no longer an option. And it made me think about everyone I passed on 5th street on my way home.
They all had stories. They were all people who had been shoved onto this street so the rest of us didn’t have to feel the guilt or disgust or whatever unpleasant feelings were provoked by dealing with society’s rejects. But it was Ash’s story that had intrigued me most. Something told me that his was especially unique. And it was the one that happened to interject itself into my life.
I figured I might not see him again. That we had gotten too close and he didn’t like walls, and knowing me, Jordan, and Trevor had become a wall of sorts. He was trying to disappear and I wouldn’t let him. So I assumed he found a new place to hide.
One evening, while Jordan was at a late rehearsal for a local Christmas show he was choreographing, I picked up some dinner for him after my shift at the restaurant. As I walked down the buzzing streets of downtown LA towards the rehearsal space, my mind was pleasantly empty, taking in the surrounding sensory experience. Building. Bricks. Car horn. Two woman laughing. Art supply store.
Art supply store.
Just like the day I stepped out of the audition and saw Ash across the street, this felt like an omen. Or maybe I just saw omens where I wanted to. Either way, I found myself pushing open a glass door, a bell ringing my announcement into the quiet storefront.
Besides one art class I took in high school, this world was foreign to me. The aisles and aisles of colors, tubes, bottles, brushes and papers put me into sensory overload.
“Can I help you?” a waif of a man asked. I watched him do that thing with his eyes people do when he first noticed my scars.
“Um . . . I was thinking of getting a gift for a friend, but I know nothing about art.”
“Do you know what your friend likes to use?”
“I think he listed almost everything to me and he said he mixes things.”
“Okay . . . hmmm . . .” the man said, resting his chin in his hand. “Do you have a budget?”
“This was kind of on a whim, but not much.” From my brief time perusing the aisles on the store, Ash was right: this is expensive.
“Okay, well there are some things on sale over there. Have you been to his studio? Do you know what he has?”
“He doesn’t have a studio or a place to paint. I don’t think he has anything.”
“Okay . . .” I think that confused the guy even more, but I thought the background story would be too much.
“I guess the best way to explain it would be . . . if you were to start all over again, what would you need?”
That seemed to spark some ideas and he stood up tall.
“We have a lot of holiday specials, so this is a great time to stock up. He’ll need an easel, and this one is only $40 on sale.”
My stomach twisted a little. That wasn’t even the paint yet! But I nodded as he grabbed the long, narrow box.
He grabbed a huge pad of paper, that isn’t ideal, but will work for most paints and charcoals.
As I recited all the media Ash had mentioned, the man grabbed a box of charcoals, a box of pastels, and a tray of watercolors with a couple of brushes. Finally, he placed acrylic tubes of primary colors and a few more brushes into my basket.
“This is where we stop. There is plenty for him to play with and he can mix to create colors. It’s a great starting point.”
My gut rotated about 180 degrees looking at the basket, wondering what the total might be. But everything felt important and I didn’t want to put anything back.
“What’s the return policy? Let’s say he doesn’t like something.” It was more along the lines of let’s say I never see him again.
“30 days, unopened, with receipt.”
I took a deep breath and followed him to the counter.
“One hundred, seventy-three dollars, and thirty-one cents. You saved