THE WHOLE EXPERIENCE was wall-to-wall agony. There were no two ways about it.
I finally set my phone’s timer for eleven P.M.—the moment when the show technically ended, according to the invitation—so that I could stride out, or possibly sprint, the very second I was done.
Only two hours and forty-five minutes left to endure.
For the auction component of the show, each artist had a sleek, Jetsons-style cocktail table next to their portrait with a clipboard on it for patrons to write down their bids.
Bradley Winterbottom had to request an extra bid sheet after his filled up—front and back—but do I even need to say how many bids wound up on my clipboard during the entire time that I stood there?
Zero. That’s right.
But was that the worst, most insulting part of the evening?
Wow. That’s a tough call.
Let’s review the options:
There were all the shocked looks people gave my portrait from across the room—hands over mouths, eyes big with pity—the way you might rubberneck past a car wreck.
There was the moment when I accidentally knocked over the bucket of A/C drippings and then apologetically mopped it up with paper towels from the bathroom, one drippy bunch at a time, while other artists and patrons glanced over with irritation like I was really bringing everyone down.
There were the endless ten minutes when another finalist, who wore a little porkpie hat, went by the single pseudonym Lysander, and apparently possessed a nervous digestive system, had to work through some brutal digestive issues in the men’s room, which I could of course hear in detail from my primo spot by the bathroom doors—grunts, splashes, and all.
Oh. And there was the time when I took a pee break and overheard some judges who seized that moment to dart over and laugh at my work. Yes, that’s how close my placement was to the bathrooms. I could literally hear these people talking from the stall.
“What is happening here?” Judge 1 asked, in a horrified whisper.
“I know,” Judge 2 said.
“Did the artist … leave?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I never would have shown up at all.”
“She must have fled.”
“Right? Off to not quit her day job.”
“Or to fling herself off a bridge.”
They snickered at that.
“It’s just so bizarre,” one went on pensively. “The body and background are so exquisite…”
“But then you get to the face.”
“I keep thinking it’s Carl Sagan.”
“I keep seeing Steve Buscemi.”
“It looks like a wolf face, in a way.”
“Impossible. Animals are against the rules.”
“Right? It’s not veterinary portraiture.”
“Whatever it is, it’s like the face melted.”
“Or got hit with a pie right before the sitting.”
“Or landed facedown in mud.”
“Or had a botched cosmetic surgery.”
“I just don’t understand how this piece is even here.”
“Maybe they notified the wrong artist?”
“It’s just insulting, more than anything.”
“It kind of makes me angry.”
“What a waste of a Top Ten spot.”
“Too bad we can’t give negative points.”
“Isn’t it?”
At that, I’d had enough. I pressed the toilet handle with my shoe and held it there.
Mercifully, the blast of the industrial flush was loud enough to startle them away.
In the silence that followed, I washed my hands, smoothed my hair in the mirror, smiled encouragingly at my unintelligible face, stood up straight like how I imagined a person with some remaining human dignity would, and walked back out to my post.
Just two soul-draining hours to go …
It was okay. It was fine. What was it Joe had said about sitting for the portrait? “Trigonometry is hard. Climbing El Capitan is hard. Landing on the beaches of Normandy is hard.” All I had to do was stand here—and keep standing here—until my alarm went off.
And then I could go home. And brainstorm a new life’s dream.
This was the big break I’d been working toward for over a decade. This was the moment I’d been waiting for—dreaming of. This was the life I’d chosen. This was a competition that if the past five weeks hadn’t happened, I’d be crushing right now. This was a showcase moment for the thing I was best at in my entire life … Just not anymore.
Could I have used at least one person there with me in that moment?
Yes.
And would I have even minded if it was Lucinda?
Not at all.
But I got fully stood up. By everyone. Even though my dad’s secretary had put it on his calendar and Lucinda had interrupted my last—only—night with Joe to give me that news. Even though I’d been dreading them coming ever since I found out. Even though they were the last people I ever would’ve chosen.
I was out of choices.
As time wore on and the smile I’d stapled to my face quivered more and more, I found myself hoping for someone, anyone, to show up—and, if I’m honest … imagining how great it would be if that someone could be Joe.
It wasn’t impossible, was it?
Crazier things had happened, right?
If nothing else, imagining it gave me a nice distraction. Joe: Having an epiphany in line at the airport, abandoning his suitcase, hailing a cab, but then hitting too much traffic, sprinting the final blocks here only to burst through the doors and shove past elderly art critics to my dark corner like it was the only place he’d ever wanted to be … and then breathlessly begging my forgiveness while declaring his undying love—thereby validating my entire existence for everyone here, including me.
Maybe I should pop out for some air freshener.
Thanks a lot, Lysander.
Anyway. I knew it was impossible. Joe had already refused to be my anybody.
But be careful what you hope for.
I did get an anybody—at last, two hours in …
But it was Parker.
Confirmed: Hope is the worst.
* * *
YOU KNOW THAT saying that people look like their pets? Parker slinked over to me like a human Sphynx cat, and I swear her pupils were vertical slits. “Aw,” she said, with delighted faux sympathy. “Did Daddy and Lucinda stand you up?”
“They weren’t invited,” I said. “And neither were you.”
Parker looked at my dress and said, “Are you headed to the prom?”
That was her best insult? It was almost disappointing. “Maybe,” I said.
Then she stage-whispered, “Are you totally alone over here?”
“No,” I said. I clearly was.
Then she looked around theatrically. “Looks like they put you at the sucker table.”
“It’s mood lighting,” I said.
“Why does it smell like diarrhea?” Parker asked next.
I glanced over at Lysander, now back at his station. But I said to Parker, “Must be your perfume.”
At that, Parker turned her attention to the portrait and studied it a good while.
“Who’s it supposed to be?” she asked at last. “The guy from The Hobbit?” She shifted her stance. “Wait—is it John Denver?” Then she took a step back. Then like she’d nailed it at last: “Hold up! Danny DeVito.”
“Don’t you have anything at all better to do?” I asked.
“There’s nothing better than this.”