“Careful—” I said, but she interrupted me with a shake of her head.
“I took classes,” she said with a placating smile. “I know what I’m doing.” She crawled off with the camera, taking pictures of Floyd and Devon on the other side of the room. I watched her go, anxious even after she slipped the carry strap around her neck.
“Have you had anything published?” Charlie asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Well, university publications. But nothing real.”
Suddenly Taylor appeared at my side. I hadn’t noticed her listening in the doorway. She touched my forearm tentatively and caught my eyes. It was a warm, friendly gesture. “And that’s why you’re here?” she asked. “To make your mark? To get published?” There was a note of incredulity in her voice when she said that word—published. She made it sound so trivial, so unworthy.
After a moment of silence, I nodded. “And I figure I don’t have much time. When my father found out I was getting a fine arts degree, he absolutely flipped out. ‘There’s no future there,’ he said, ‘no money.’ And he put his foot down—he actually said that: ‘I’m putting my foot down!’ He threatened to stop paying for my education if I didn’t switch degrees. So there I was, twenty-two and short on credits, returning for a fifth year to get a degree I desperately didn’t want. And once I was done with that, I could see my future laid out before me: an accounting job at my father’s firm, everything arranged neatly beneath his big thumb.
“It was terrifying, seeing it like that, and I knew I couldn’t escape just by taking pictures of fountains and trees, flowers and old buildings, people in contemplative poses. Everything was so tame—pictures I’d seen a hundred times before, and usually done better. There was no way I’d make a reputation doing that. No way I’d secure a job, a future.” Taylor and Charlie were watching me intently, their expressions curious, genuinely interested. I felt the need to explain myself—especially to Taylor—to let them know what I was trying to accomplish here, to let them know that I wasn’t just some fucking tourist. That I had goals and ambition. I struggled against the pot, trying to find the words I needed, trying to nail down the… drive buried deep down inside my chest: this powerful thing that had propelled me across three states, through a government quarantine, and into this strange wasteland. “One of my professors… he said, ‘Great photographers don’t make great photographs; great photographs make great photographers.’ And the things I’ve heard about this place, the images that have made their way out…”
I shook my head, unable to find the words. Once again, Taylor touched my arm, prodding me to continue. “There’s something great here,” I finally said, “in the unknown, the impossible. And it’s something, I think, that can make me great. Something I need. Desperately.”
After I finished, I searched their faces for understanding. Do they get it? Can they possibly understand such a vague, inscrutable drive… this thing that keeps me moving, unsatisfied?
Taylor was nodding, a gentle, sympathetic gesture.
And a sly, knowing smile slid across Charlie’s face.
God.
Sitting here, now, writing this shit down, I marvel at the depths of my stupidity.
Sneaking into the city, I wasn’t being noble. I wasn’t chasing down an elusive artistic ideal, shunning corporate anonymity for art and passion.
I was just being stupid.
That’s it. End of explanation.
For all of my romantic notions—bullshit self-betterment, reaching for my potential, making a name for myself—what I did, what I pursued—leaving my life and sprinting blindly into the dark—was nothing but death and confusion and insanity.
I was running in the wrong direction.
I was fleeing the wrong things.
We had makeshift jambalaya for dinner: canned sausages and rice cooked in crushed tomatoes and seasoning. Served with crackers on the side; Sabine had been adamant about that. We gathered around a sturdy dining-room table and smoked pot between bites. It was a good meal. Maybe it was just the pot, or a reaction to what I’d seen earlier in the day, but I felt genuinely comfortable here, surrounded by these people.
While we ate, Floyd and Sabine took turns telling me stories, dishing dirt about everyone in the room: how they’d found Charlie in the southern district, Amanda in the park, Floyd skating lazily through an abandoned shopping mall. And Devon, half naked, yelling at the top of his lungs. I felt a bit self-conscious being the center of attention, but they seemed happy spinning these tales, transforming their individual ordeals into humorous quips. Even Devon got into the act, surfacing from his stupor long enough to curse out everyone in the room.
Halfway through dinner, I glanced up and found Sabine taking pictures. She was holding the camera above her head, aiming it down the length of the table. Just random, blind shots, not even glancing through the viewfinder or checking the images in the LCD screen. I told myself that I’d have to clean off the memory card once I got it back.
There was a lot of laughter. The pouring rain, the quarantine, the hotel—these things seemed worlds away. It was just the eight of us, here and now, floating through this warm candlelit haze.
After dinner, we returned to the living room and once again built up the fire. It was quiet now. The food and pot had taken their toll, and it wasn’t long before people started to retreat upstairs, toward beds and blankets. Amanda and Mac left together; I gathered that they were a couple. Then Devon stumbled away, followed by Charlie, then Floyd. And then, reluctantly, Sabine.
Leaving Taylor and me all alone.
We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, me on the sofa while she warmed her hands at the fire. I listened to the crackling coals. In this perfect calm, the long day finally caught up with me, and I let my head loll back against the sofa cushions.
“Why are you here, Taylor?” I asked. I rolled my head back and forth, basking in the drugged, comfortable motion. “I told you my story, but what about you? Why do you stay when everything’s so…?” And I thought for a moment about the body in the ceiling.
She let out a loud sigh, and I looked up to find her watching me carefully. “Family, I guess.” She paused for a moment, then nodded up toward the ceiling and the people gathered in their rooms upstairs. “I can’t abandon them. Not now. I… was dealing with some shit when the quarantine hit, and I couldn’t leave. By the time things settled down, I had Sabine and Mac here with me. Then Amanda. Then Floyd and Charlie and Devon …
“I think they need me. And I’m not going anywhere, not if that means leaving them behind.”
I grunted, and she flashed me a smile.
Family.
Her heart must be huge, I thought, to have room for so many. She turned back toward the fire and added more wood to the hearth.
I drowsed off for a moment, and when I opened my eyes, I found her standing over me. She was holding out a quilt. It was an old quilt—squares of faded color, its hem ripped into ribbons on every side. “You should sleep here tonight, in front of the fire. Tomorrow we can make you up a room… if that’s what you’d like.” Her voice rose, twisting the words into a gentle question.
“Yeah,” I managed, still half asleep. “That would be good.”
She nodded, handed me the quilt, and turned to go.
“And… Taylor?” I said. “Thank you. For everything. Without you… if you hadn’t—”
“Don’t sweat it,” she said, keeping her back to me. “It’s what I do. In that, at least, Devon’s got me pegged.” Her words were soft and distant. It was as if she’d already left the room.