Subs, Watches, and Dancing Model X's

I hate not being able to sleep. It’s number four on my Top Five List of Least Favorite Things, right behind stubbing the pinky toe and just before brain freezes. Then again, brain freezes might be number four. But in any case, I need to sleep. With a groan and a sigh, I sit up in my empty bed in my damn near empty studio apartment and glance around the lonesome room. I should be out partying, celebrating my first and only stroke of good luck in almost a decade. Well, maybe that’s a stretch, but it’s been a rough go of it.

In a flurry of sheets and lint, I toss the covers to the side and make my way to my drawing desk littered with old sketches and eraser shavings that prove I make more mistakes than I make art. I stretch a lethargic hand and touch the mysterious, black book I found in my favorite coffee shop then open the back cover to make sure the money is still there. Twenty-grand. Twenty thousand smackeroos. That’s more than I’ve made in total from selling my drawings. Way more. I should be on top of the world, but my mind wallows in the deep end instead. Is it guilt? To be honest, I’m not sure what I should feel guilty about. Finders, keepers, right? Then why can’t I sleep? Allow me to backtrack to help clear any confusion. Plus, telling stories makes me sleepy, and all my sheep are exhausted.

As I said before, I found this mysterious leather-bound notebook at my favorite coffee shop while I was daydreaming about Maribel. Maribel Something. I don’t know her last name, but I know she’s left-handed, I know she paints her own nails, and I know her eyes glimmer like degraded emeralds–not degraded like diminished but degraded like different colors at different angles. She’s absolutely wonderful.

Maribel started working at the coffee house a couple of months after I moved into my new studio. I haven’t mustered up the courage to ask her out, mostly because I don’t think she’s interested. Maribel likes nice things. At least, I think she does. She dresses in vogue, she has a keen eye for fancy watches, rollies in particular, and guys are always trying to impress her with their shiny, red convertibles or dancing Tesla Model X’s. (The Model X dances to any music. She wears a lot of Nirvana, so I know exactly what song I’d blast over the speakers.) Meanwhile, I am literally a starving artist. I live off stipends, side-gigs, and the occasional customer of the lesser fine arts. It’s a good thing I’m low maintenance. My aspirations for life are to draw my pictures, pay my bills, and if the good Lord’s willing, take Maribel out on a date. But I digress.

Normally, I would return a lost item to its owner or offer the found to the lost and found. I was about to take the notebook to the front desk when on a whim, I checked the inside cover expecting a name or an address. Instead, I found a message scribbled in black ink in true thriller movie fashion.

If you’re reading this, you’re welcome.

At first, I thought, Nice. A new art-book. Upon further inspection, I found an envelope packed with two stacks of hundred-dollar bills totaling up to $20,000 tucked into the back cover’s pocket. (I’ve since counted it 20,000 times.) Immediately, I gathered my things to re-assess the situation at my studio. I stared at the leather-bound cover the entire way home. My eyes were so glued to the book that I nearly walked into traffic. If it not for Arthur, the familiar homeless man I pass every other day, my insides would be coating on someone’s front bumper. The driver that almost hit me didn’t think twice and flew through a red light. The only person who cared enough to stop was Arthur.

“Hey buddy, you alright?”

“Uhm, yeah,” I stammered, still unsure of the world around me. “Thank you so much, man. I didn’t even see them.”

“Looks like they didn’t see you either,” said Arthur. “It’s hard to be seen these days.”

We talked for a second more, but my thoughts were buried in the contents of the notebook. I made it home, counted the stacks over and over until I thought my thumbs would bleed, then laid in bed dreaming of all the possibilities this money could bring. I’ve been home since.

Part of me thinks I should give the money to Arthur. Maybe not all of it, but he did save my life. At the very least, he saved me from a very expensive hospital bed and weeks of physical therapy. Part of me thinks I should go put a down payment on a Tesla, but in a couple of months, I wouldn’t be able to afford the payments. As of now, an expensive watch with gold-plated links and an emerald-studded face seems like the right move. I would order the usual at the shop with my sleeves rolled up and the icy new timepiece hanging from my wrist. With any luck, Maribel would notice. But then what? I have no idea.

After counting the money one more time, I lay back down to consider my options until the early morning sunlight peaks through my bare windows. Maybe I should use the money to finally buy window blinds. The really nice ones that are pushed to rise. Eventually, I fall asleep. Today is Saturday, so I toss and turn until the crack of noon and wake up still tired. When I come around, I still feel an uncomfortable heaviness in my chest like I’m wearing a weighted vest of guilt.

My shuffling feet echo through the barren room as I pour a bowl of cereal before sitting down to draw. I sketch a few things, mostly shaded nothings, in hopes of inspiration. Another reason the money makes me so anxious is because I worry the funds might make me complacent. I tend to do my best work when something is on the line, like rent or a deadline I need to meet. If the money takes away the urgency, will my drawings pay the price?

Around 3PM, I decide to head to the coffee shop. I hope Maribel is there, but I can’t be sure. I don’t know her schedule, I swear. There’s a fine line between a hopeless romantic and a stalker, but I make a conscious effort to stay well North of that line. When the coffee shop comes into view, I pause and take a couple hundred dollars from the envelope in the notebook sleeve. If Arthur is there, I’ll give it to him. If not, I’ll come back every day until I repay him.

I find Arthur sitting on the bench outside the bookstore caddy-corner to the coffee shop. (This place is a hipster’s paradise if I hadn’t mentioned that already.) Arthur sits with his eyes closed as if in mediation, enjoying the afternoon sun. His clothes could use a wash, and his weathered blue backpack looks empty. It won’t be for much longer.

“Hey. Arthur, right?” I ask, even though I am positive of his name. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have something for you.”

He watches me carefully, almost timidly, as I reach into my pocket and unfold a couple of hundred-dollar bills.

“No. Nope. Don’t want it. I don’t need your charity.” Arthur grabs his bag and prepares to leave, but I stop him, gently reaching forward with the money.

“It’s not charity. It’s the least I could do. You saved my life yesterday, remember?”

A look of recognition illuminates his eyes. He looks down at the money, then back at my face.

“You sure this isn’t charity?”

“No way. You earned this. Believe me, it’s the very least I can do.”

Arthur gingerly takes the money, and we exchange a brief nod followed by some knuckles. Satisfied that I could pay back my debt, I walk into the coffee shop grinning ear to ear. So far, so good. Now for the hard part.

To my utter disappointment, Maribel is nowhere to be seen. I sit in the usual booth without ordering then pull out the notebook to sketch mindlessly on the first of many empty pages. I start with circles. Delicate traces with the flat of the pencil lead me to the eyelids. In this case, the lids give life to a pair of well-rounded, almond shaped eyes that when complete, are a picture-perfect copy of Maribel’s eyes. Sometimes, I impress myself.

“Wow. You’re really talented,” she says.

I crank my neck so fast to I nearly give myself whiplash. Maribel is standing less than a foot away, leaning over my booth so close that the aroma of her perfume wafts to my face.

“Thanks.” My voice is shaky.

“I mean it. That’s so pretty. I wish I could draw like that.”

She smiles. My heart dies a little.

“Can I get you a coffee or something?”

“Or something.”

“What’s that?” She leans in closer.

“Uhm, yeah. I’ll take a coffee. Black, no cream or sugar.”

She walks away, and I can finally breathe. Screw the money and screw the watch. It’s now or never.

Maribel comes back a minute later balancing a piping hot coffee steaming on a white saucer. I clear my throat.

“Maribel, right?’

“Yeah. Davis, right?”

She knows my name.

“You–you know my name?”

“I mean, yeah. You come in quite a bit. Also, I really like your art.” She points to a piece on the wall I drew during my first semester at university. It’s a yellow rose. “Roses are my favorite flower.”

“Would you like to get dinner with me?” I blurt.

“Excuse me?”

Oh no. I blew it. I should’ve gone and bought the stupid watch. Oh well. Too late now. Full send.

“Would you like to get dinner with me? Like, not right now, obviously, but sometime? Maybe never? It’s okay. I’m sorry. You’re working, and I shouldn’t–”

“No, no. It’s okay. Uhm.” She pauses to check the clock for what feels like eternity. “I get off in like forty-five minutes, and I am starving. Want to grab a bite to eat?”

About four or five seconds passes before I realize what just happened.

“Yes. Yes. One hundred percent yes. I don’t have my car with me, but I can run home and get it?”

“Or we could just walk? It’s a beautiful day outside.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” I mumble.

“I’m sorry?”

Whatever. I’ve made it this far.

“I said, not as beautiful as you.”

She smiles and a faint touch of rose rises to her cheeks. We chat a bit more, then she leaves to finish her shift. Ten minutes before she clocks out, I slip outside and find Arthur on the same bench, munching on a footlong sub with crumbs on his beard and clothes. I plop down next to him.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

With a mouthful of sub, he nods.

“I’ll trade you. Give me the change you have left, and I’ll give you this envelope.”

Arthur considers the offer while munching on another bite of cold cuts. After a second, he nods and hands me one hundred and something dollars. I give him the envelope.

“Take care of yourself, man. Don’t let anyone take that from you, and I’ll see you around.”

I glance back into the shop to see Maribel slipping out of her barista’s apron. With a grin, I wink at Arthur and go to open the door for my date.