Writings & Whatnot by Rob Hill
I got off the train in Bushwick as I had been instructed in the email. The hefty umbrella I had brought along turned out to be unnecessary, since the sun was now out and showed no indication of going away anytime soon. My profession often brought me out to this part of Brooklyn, but the directions led me into an area that looked unfamiliar. I walked past 99-cent stores and all-night laundromats and restaurants with menus in Spanish hanging in the windows. Somewhere along the way I crossed the border into Queens without anyone stopping me and asking to see my papers.
I passed squat buildings with rounded facades, car services, tax preparers, tiny travel agencies that looked like a front for something illicit, old men with huge bellies sitting on folding chairs and staring off into space, excited little hulahooping girls, and withered old gypsies scavenging for refundable bottles in the unlikeliest of places. The menus in the restaurant windows changed from Spanish to Polish. I found the sandstone row house bearing the address which I had hastily scribbled on the back of an eviction notice. In the enclosed concrete yard out front was a row of black trash barrels that looked like they could easily store an unconscious body. A broken pink tricycle was chained to the iron fence, its decapitated handlebars lying nearby.
I rang the doorbell to what I assumed was apartment six and waited. There was no visible intercom so I figured it might take a while for the tenant to put on his shoes and whatever else required putting on and come down the stairs to let me in. But more time passed than I thought necessary. I rang again. If he wasn’t home after setting up this appointment with me and making me come all this way out here I was afraid I might behave unreasonably. A short man with a false leg approached from behind me and hobbled up the stoop. I stood aside to let him brush past and unlock the door with the key that was chained to his beltloop.
“You come in?” he asked me in secondhand English.
“I’m visiting apartment six.”
He nodded and held the door for me. I stepped out of the sunshine and into the bleak hallway that smelled overwhelmingly of chalkdust. I thanked the man and started up the narrow stairs. He watched me from below, a strange mask of a smile on his face which I didn’t know how to interpret. As I climbed the steps made grunting noises like I was hurting them. My foot nearly came down on the carcass of a something that wasn’t quite a cockroach lying bellyup on the second floor landing before I spotted it in time.
I reached the third floor and knocked on the door to apartment six. There was a rustling from within and I saw a shadow momentarily obstruct the light behind the peephole. The door opened to reveal a disheveled man in his mid-thirties. He wore a wrinkled t-shirt depicting an anime squirrel in a fedora. His eyeballs looked like they had been hastily shoved into their sockets.
“Ambrose?” I asked. He blinked at me a few times. “I’m Daphne. We were supposed to meet for a session today.”
He snapped out of his trance. “Oh. My doorbell doesn’t work. I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“Do you want me to come back another time?” I asked this politely but as far as I was concerned only one answer was acceptable.
“Yeah. I mean, no. Come in. I was just working.”
A short hallway opened up to a larger space which looked like it would have been ideal for an artist’s studio, but strangely I saw no trace of an easel or art supplies. The apartment smelled of rotting wood and overcooked potatoes. He removed a stack of hardbound books from a frayed wicker chair and offered me a seat.
“Is this to be a nude?” I asked.
“Yes.” Then, hurriedly, “You don’t mind, right?”
“No, I’m used to it.”
As I started to disrobe he sat down before a wobbly table and opened a laptop adorned with a sticker of Aquaman that appeared upside down when the lid was open. “Now for this first scene I need you draped back and looking forlorn, maybe a little pensive.”
“No problem,” I mumbled through my sweater, pulled comically half over my head. I watched him stare wordlessly at his laptop, as if he had forgotten how to operate it. “So you paint straight onto the computer, huh? That’s pretty cool. Keeping up with technology and all.”
He looked startled. “What? No. I’m not a painter. I’m a novelist.”
I continued posing for him steadily for the next few months. He paid well and never got weird on me, at least not any weirder than the usual artists I worked for. Along with a few other modeling jobs I made enough to avoid being evicted, which was pretty much all I could wish for. A year later when his book was published everyone agreed he had captured my likeness remarkably well.
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