The Portrait

By Long (Bill) Pham



Although it was Saturday I got up earlier than usual, even when this blackout had been worsening since last night “rush” at our favorite place to get wasted – Trads. Shit! I tried so hard to reach out to the closest water bottle on the table near my bed. It was something that my brain wouldn’t prefer doing right now. Things still appeared without translucence and I felt like something banging in my head non-stop. It was worse than the sound of a metal ruler scratching mercilessly onto the iron board.

    It was a special day and I must seize every chance to meet him, after many unsuccessful attempts, even in this fucked-up headache. People said he would leave town tomorrow and today was the last chance if I wanted to see him. I hopped on Q46 bus and headed to Manhattan when the sun still tiredly rose and sluggishly replaced the bluish-dark cover of the sky. I couldn’t help but think about this man during the whole trip. The horrendous smell of fermented cheese mixed with alcohol vomit didn’t bother me that much on the train. I was busy thinking about something else. It was this mysterious man I was thinking of….

    See, last week my roommate came back with a painting he treasured. I insisted asking what it was to finally discover it was a portrait of his, drawn by somebody else. It was shockingly astounding! Who drew this? Jeremy? – I asked. Nah! This shit is beyond phd, man. Look at it! This is something else – my roommate replied. Right, it was something else distinctively, standing out that even our professor – a Pratt institute guy – couldn’t possibly do that. The artist had done a divine work depicting not only the physical characters of my roommate, John, but he also expressed successfully the sonofabitch’s metaphysical attributes: pure genius but fuckedup. It really looks like I’m a promiscuous sexual beast from the outside! – John exclaimed. Yeah, it did! It was onerous for us to not know much about this newcomer. Usually we knew every rising stars in town. Not about him, in this case.

    I spent the whole trip trying to figure out who this odd street artist could be. He must have received some kinds of formal training… but again, this was strange because a man like that could easily find a steady position in one of the big 5 magazines. Be honest, I was frightened to think about the moment I would meet him. Curious, intimidating, exhilarating!

    A long line already started at the corner of 5th Ave and E79th Street, near the Fletcher-Sinclair mansion. It was like a judgment day, where you could see the diversity of the whole New York City clustering at that very spot of the town, from Wall Street execs to high school students and housewives… waiting patiently to be for their turns. Time slowly passed by, allowing me to scrutinize this man closely. Most of his face was covered by long grey hair but still could not hide sadness and burden. The wrinkles ran across the face definitely made him older than his actual age, although no one knew any concrete details about this man. They called him Bruno, and some people guessed he was in his fifties. He wouldn’t look so bad if he shaved and cut his hair. Indeed, he could be extremely handsome. There was something in the way he breathed, conducted his hands’ movement or simply mastered the expression of a depicted person that made him stand out from other great artists. He didn’t allow anyone to see his in-progress works; only the final product would be presented magisterially to the owner of that portrait.

    … The line finally closed its gap and it was my turn to sit down. I didn’t know what to do actually. I once volunteered to stand naked for a class to learn about human proportion, but it was purely academic. This time was completely different. I didn’t want him to know I was an art student. I had to act like a normal person, but at the same time, I wanted to clone myself and hide it behind his back to see what he was doing with the canvas! What could be this guy’s secret?

    For a pico of a second we looked at each other in the eye. He knew! I knew he knew, and he made sure that I knew it. He knew my evil plan. There was something very special about that eye – dark green of a plant from remote Amazon. I felt like somebody just took their hand and stuffed it straight down my throat and pull out my organs. I felt my brain was in a wrong place right now; my memory was searched around every single corner, every single piece of reminiscence I adored, hated from childhood to college. I sensed an invisible force that had pierced my body into pieces to study carefully, and slowly reattached them. It was deeply painful and disturbed.

    I wanted him to stop. I just wanted him to stop what he was doing!

    That’s enough! Get up!! He hit me. He shook my body out of the chair… I felt so embarrassed.

    It’s over now, kid… It’s John!! Thank God, he’s here! I slowly opened my eyes and saw my roommate. He looked like shit as if something wrong was just happening.

-          Are you alright bro?

-          I’m okay, but this headache is killing me. It was just a dream.

Yeah, it was only a dream… until I saw the canvas lying on the floor…