Chapter 4
A Pair of Shoes
Ellis (present day)
“Forget the shoes, Ellis. The shoes don’t matter,” Tom says in yet another attempt to guide me through a day of meaningless drivel, the stuff he’s good at. He’s followed me into the closet again, chattering about work.
“They need to be right,” I say, picking up what is likely the hundredth pair. I run my fingers over the black leather, remembering when we couldn’t afford shoes. “I prefer to talk about work at work; that’s why they call it work.”
“Your work is your life now.” Every hair on his head is in the right place. “You can’t forget that.”
“Trust me, I’ve not forgotten. Have you ever once considered that I may be able to think about more than one thing at a time? You should know by now that there are crevices in my head that are sorting shit out while I ponder over silly things like shoes. How do you think I pulled it off? How do you think I pull it off and wear the right fucking pair of shoes?”
“You think I’m a control freak, don’t you?” he whines and it makes me sick.
I love him, but he’s a fucking baby. I say, “You need a woman.”
“Mother would roll in her grave if she heard your choice of words.”
“What are you, an evangelist now?” I ask, knowing he’s right. All I have to do is look at him and he knows. “Everything will be fine,” I say like I always do. Everything is always fine. My life is fine. I do what I want, and he comes behind me and makes sure it’s fine. He makes sure my family is fine. For that, I hate him, and I love him. What kind of man am I, I wonder. “Christ!”
“What now?” he asks.
I pause, and then say, “Just a prayer, I guess.”
“You used to believe in prayer.” He offers me the Jeffrey-West British Chain Stitch Chukka’s.
They’re close to perfect, just like Tom. “That was back when prayers could save me. Nothing can save us now.”
“Pratt can save us. We have a good vision. We’re helping people ... our families. Don’t forget that. I won’t let you cave now. Not after everything we’ve done—everything we’ve suffered through.”
“Have we suffered enough?” I ask, but then decide I don’t want to get into it. Before he can answer, I shove the Chukka’s back at him. “At least let me wear the shoes of my choosing then.” I smile so he won’t look so desolate. “Have I ever let you down? Have I ever caved?”
His eyes turn frigid, the deadness in them cutting me. “Not in a long, long time. No.”
“I saved you, Tom.”
He’s still holding the shiny shoes. “Yes, you saved me. Now I’m saving you.”
“Why doesn’t it feel like a save? Why does it feel like a prison?”
“We all have our prisons,” he says. “Look, we’ve been imprisoned before. This isn’t a prison. This is power. Remember the years you spent dedicated to making a difference and failed by the world’s standards? This is the difference you can make.”
In our strange way, we’re both aiming to bring change, trying to filter out details so we can grasp the bigger picture and run with it. We were told that leadership is about big solid pictures that never waver, and we believed it. But sometimes I crave a picture with emotion. I want to not only see but also feel the petals of a flower, to eat and fuck like an animal, and sink my teeth into some obscure chord of life. “But this isn’t how I wanted it to be,” I say. “This wasn’t my dream.”
He carefully places the Chukka’s on the shelf where he found them. His back is to me. “If I could have managed it myself, I would have done it. You know that.” He doesn’t get it; he’s always been the one moving toward some larger industrial purpose I couldn’t quite grasp. But we work as a team because I have what he lacks: charisma, fire.
“It’s a cruel world we live in.”
He swings around to face me. “You used to see the world as beautiful ... wouldn’t shut up about it. Remember that? Surely you can see the world like that again. Maybe you’re just focusing on the wrong things.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“The good news is that you’re still young. There’s an eternity of opportunity out there. Just think of this as a blip on the landscape.”
We used to be soft boys, and now we’re fierce men, sometimes cruel, sometimes benevolent. We knew at a young age that we were better together. Even as a child, I was so enthralled by a single emotion, a single object or color, and how it made me feel. Trying to step back and see it all was overwhelming, whereas Tom’s scope has always been broad and solid. He was the one, back then, who kept me going. He enabled me to focus intensely on what I chose while he filled in the surrounding detailed backdrop of reality. He took what I was good at and made it mean something larger that we could both understand.
“I miss the landscape.” What an odd mix we are forced to be—leaders in an unkind world.
“Don’t go there, Ellis.”
It took years, but I settled into my role as the front man. Most might think the front man sees the big picture, while the wingman only takes care of the details, and that’s not exactly our arrangement. Tom sees it all, and I channel my emotion, my spark, into the looming landscape he creates for us by pulling all the tiny details together. I bring it to life. Then we hire people to do all the things we can’t. In the past, if they didn’t fulfill our wishes, heads rolled. Now, we do a lot of shuffling of people until we get the right balance. It’s all about putting the right people in the right places. Society has become more and more adverse to head rolling, but if necessary, we’re not above chopping them off at the clavicle just as sharply as before. We’re just more careful now; they don’t roll nearly as far before we shove them under the rug. This is where we are; this is who we’ve become. We do what’s necessary under the pretense of business—the American dream.
I don’t love Pratt because of its honorable founders and their trek through Ellis Island, or its famous credo. I love what it can do for me. And if anyone over thirty-five and manager level tells you any different, they’re either an idiot, a liar, or new to the game. We all know it. We say the right words for the young, the idiots, and the fresh meat in the mix, but we look into the stressed faces of our colleagues knowing exactly what it’s all about. We’re corporate vampires, every last one of us.
“Screw it,” I say, and he snickers. It’s a small laugh, just enough to seem real.
†
That night I walk into an art gallery, something I’ve not done in years. A woman with a tight bun and a forced smile hands me a wine glass. She wears a loud beating heart on her sleeve. I look at her a little too long, and she moves away. I’m charismatic when I want to be; the rest of the time, I’m just intense, too concentrated for most to handle. Remembering my promise to stay clear of the art world, the one I hate more than anything else in my life, I make a mental note to avoid eye contact.
The gallery is shaped like a narrow rectangle, probably no more than 1,500 square feet. The pristine white walls at the front are beautifully adorned with their latest pieces. The light hits them perfectly. As I drift between the images, opening myself up, people stare at my old shoes. For once, I wanted to put on the shoes I used to wear. I wanted to feel like myself again. None of the clothes of my past remain, but I kept the shoes. There’s no costume, no perfect tie, and no props to help convince the world that I deserve to be a leader. I can breathe air that belongs only to me. For nearly 45 minutes I do this. No one bothers me. The intensity of my face and my strange shoes tell them to stay the fuck away.
Then he shows up. “Christ!” I say again.
The look on Tom’s face is classic. After taking it in, I look away as if nothing’s wrong.
“What are you doing here?” he quietly asks. His eyes steam. “Fernando’s in the car. Let’s go.”
“I’m not done here,” I say as if I have every right to be where I am and who I am.
Tom rubs his forehead as he scopes out the small crowd. He catches a few eyes as they travel down my pants and rest on my shoes. “Good God, Ellis,” he says, not sure what to do. “You’ve finally lost your mind.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m not,” he says. “Not now.” He puts his hand on my arm and I jerk away. People stare and I wonder if they think we’re lovers. But we look too much alike for that. I look past Tom and see Fernando staring at me from the car with blazing eyes. I lower my head and say to Tom in my fiercest voice, “Leave me alone.” Then I give him a look that reminds him of how much I hate what he’s done to me.
“You did this Ellis, not me,” he whispers. “You brought us here. If you were going to back down, you should have done it last week. Not today, not now,” he scowls. “Let’s go.”
I walk toward the door. People are watching—looking at us as if we’re the entertainment. The lady with the bun takes a step back as I pass her; her discomfort smells. Tom follows behind me. Through the storefront window, I see Fernando get out of the car as if preparing to force me into it. I make it through the gallery door. As it begins to fall back toward Tom’s outstretched hand, I run.
Tom yells to Fernando, “I’ll get him!” His words fade as I move quickly away. Tom and I are both in excellent shape; it’s part of who we are. We’re equally light on our feet so I question whether I can outrun him. Then I wonder where I’m going. Although I know that I have to go back whether he catches me or not, I keep running. I hear him behind me, breathing down my neck, tapping into my brain with his commitment, his loyalty, his misguided love. For a glorious moment, it feels like we’re running through the field near our parent’s country home. We’re boys and all we care about is the rush of the wind and the smell of grass. I’m just about to turn a corner when he somehow flings himself in front of me.
There is no grass.
“Stop!” he says. “This is ridiculous!” He grabs me with both hands and shakes me as hard as he can. I let myself be jolted, hoping he can re-arrange me, sort out what’s happening in my head. I thought I knew what I wanted, but it’s all falling apart, splintering into a picture I can’t quite make out. “What are you trying to prove?” he asks. “That you can sneak out to some second rate gallery, and re-live some long gone life that wasn’t worth a crap at the time anyway? It can’t be re-created, Ellis. It’s over.”
“Maybe it can,” I say, hoping that it can.
“We’ve been through this a thousand times. The course is set. You agreed. You believed in it. This is our destiny.”
“This is your destiny, not mine.”
“You are me and I am you, Ellis.”
“No,” I shake my head, “No ...” His hands drop and I step away, wondering if I should run again. It doesn’t look like he’s going to follow me, but then I see Fernando. He’s pulled the car over and is coming our way. “I left the gallery. Just let me go.”
He motions to Fernando to back off as he heads for the car. “You’ll be at work tomorrow,” he says. “I know that.”
I stand with my hands dangling like gangrened appendages, feeling dead, and trying to feel alive. I look at my brother who is bereft of life; a mold of what he once was, and I can’t bear to know that I’ve become that dead thing, too. I call out, “Tom, is it too late for us?”
“Of course not,” he says, turning his head to look back at me. “You just need some air. Take a walk.” His brilliance usually stuns me, but now all I can think of is air. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath for years, but I’m afraid to draw in what I really need. What I really need no longer has a place in the life I’ve created with him and our family. I wonder how I can ever get what I need, and keep them happy and safe, too. My choice to breath, that action, would strip from them the very thing they need to survive. I’m crushed by the weight of their need. Tom sees it in my face. He always sees inside even when I chose to wear masks. What pains me is his choice to ignore it to save the life he doesn’t want to lose.
As I turn and walk away, I hear him mutter, “Trust me,” to Fernando. He knows I lack the guts to leave it all behind. He knows he’ll see me in the morning with a cup of coffee in hand, a perfect tie around the neck, and the right pair of shoes carrying me forward.
†
I’m in the Village now, several blocks from where we live. The hostess at The Strip House smiles as I pass. She wants me like so many others who wish to seat me, take my jacket, and hand me bills. Sometimes I want them, too. I like the curve of a neck or the shine of the hair. I like the colors draped over a soft body, and the smell of flesh and blood. My imagination is too vivid for my own good. Somehow I always know how the feel and smell of their skin will settle over mine. If there’s music, it’s overwhelming. I feel the very beat of the heart being carried. Not just the one that pumps blood, but also the one that makes them real, alive, and fresh. The heart I could take and love, if only for one intense moment—the heart that makes them human.
Then I see her—the vampire girl. She’s light and dark—not frightening at all. She’s fresh, twenty something, with that tough look the young try so hard to portray. She stands on the stoop of a building I’ve passed a million times but failed to notice. She cleans the windows of a door. Through the window, past her dark hair and circulating hands, I see books. Because I know what she will do before she does it, I wait.
She turns and gives me a coy look. “Can I help you?” she asks. “Would you like to come in?”
I look to see what kind of place it is. A sign reads, Mimi’s Book Bizarre. “What kind of place is this?” I ask.
“A book store,” she says as if I’m stupid.
As if I’m a genius, I say, “You’re not a vampire.”
“Yes, I am.”
I walk past her into the store, and she follows. The bell moves; its jingle is beautiful. “Why would you want to be a vampire anyway?”
She says from behind me, “I am what I am,” as if she has every right to suck life away. As her words travel toward me, I realize she doesn’t know what she is at all.
The knowledge makes me sad. “You happen to be the most alive dead person I’ve come across.” I give her my intense stare.
She looks back at me as if I’m the deadest living person she’s met. “Are you okay?” she asks, and glances at her cell lying next by the register as if she may want to dive for it. Her smile is nervous but controlled.
“You’re safe, it that’s what you’re wondering.” I wink. “I’ll just look around.” As I walk toward the back of the store, the few people present study me as if I’m one of the bizarre books. They notice the cut of my Gaultier jacket and Just Cavalli jeans. They look down and see the shoes. A curious combination, they think, but don’t question it like the pretentious snobs at the gallery. They don’t care because this is a bizarre book store in the middle of the Village.
I’m looking at the wide array of vampire-related books when I hear, “Interesting shoes. I’m not sure they’re a good match for that jacket though.” The tension in my face heightens, sending the unspoken message that I don’t wish to be bothered. “Do you remember me?” she says, “because I remember you.”
When I see her, the hostility I’ve managed to stuff into my sinuses evaporates. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I live here—upstairs. What are you doin’ here?”
“I live a few blocks away.” We stare at each other, waiting for what will happen next. She seems a little flustered.
“Aren’t you afraid of the vampire?” I ask, looking over at the girl.
“There’s very little I fear,” she says, smiling, but I know she’s afraid of something. She can’t possibly know how scared I am. Sometimes the innocent are dangerous. They have a way of exposing our guilt just by virtue of their warmth, their spirit, the life that still beats around them. When you see it, you want it. When you realize that you can’t have it, you lose control. My hands begin to shake, and I squeeze them together as if I can wring away the sensation.
She notices, and asks, “Is somethin’ wrong?”
“I could use a drink actually,” I say because she can’t give me have what I really need.
She holds up her wine glass. “Mimi has wine, but she’s not supposed to give it to customers. She only gives it to me because I live here. Water?”
I stare at her hand holding the glass. “No, forget it.” I turn and look at a book called Vampires Among Us by Rosemary Ellen Guiley. “Interesting,” I mumble.
She studies the book and then my face. She wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should. I wait. The bell on the door jingles twice. My skin itches.
She swallows and then says, “As long as you don’t misunderstand, you can come up to my place for a drink.”
“I am thirsty,” I say, trying not to smile. She looks at the ring on my finger. I twist it and say, “I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand.” I stare at her until the embarrassment shows on her face. It’s sexy as hell, nasty and beautiful all at once, ugly because it’s not allowed and precious because she’s so ripe and alive and real. She’s real the way I used to be. She’s free, but doesn’t know it—not in the way she could.
She leads me through what seems a thousand books to a red door in the center of a black wall at the back of the store. I follow her up narrow stairs between walls painted purple. A flickering light makes me slightly dizzy. So this is how vampires live, I think. At the top of the stairs, she turns and walks down a narrow hallway, still purple everywhere, and stops at a yellow door. The color drenches me with emotion that I push back down into the shoes I love.
“Are you sure you’re that thirsty?” she asks as if worried again that I’ve come expecting more than just a drink.
“Parched, I assure you,” I say using a southern accent. I wait to see if she’ll change her mind. I study the few fine lines around her eyes.
Her shoulders drop as if to give something up. “Okay, come on in. I’ve got a Shiraz and a Cabernet.”
“I’ll have the Shiraz,” I say but could care less. I’m enthralled with the walls of her well appointed, tiny apartment. They’re covered with paintings, amateurish but filled with promise. Who is she? I wonder. As she offers me the drink, my head begins to split open. She climbs in and I try to push her out. I take the drink, wishing I could take her.
“I just started paintin’ not too long ago,” she says. “I’m not sure why I didn’t start sooner. I’m a bit old to suddenly become an artist, I guess.” She’s awkward and flushed.
“They’re good.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Do you know about art?”
I hesitate, but then say, “Not really, but I know what’s good.”
“So your definition of good is the bottom line then? Is that a bit vain?”
I ignore her question, and she ignores me. We sit apart but together on her stripped couch. I’m not sure what to do next, which is strange; I always know what to do next.
Then she says, “Why didn’t you tell me you were Ellis Spencer when we met on Ellis Island?”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
“Yes, it was.” She looks angry.
I smile. “I really shouldn’t be here.”
She looks down, and pushes her hair behind her left ear. Her hands are full of grace. “No, you shouldn’t.”
As she says this, and I’m thinking that I don’t care, I see the painting I haven’t seen in so many years. In that long moment, I realize I’m in deep shit. She stares at me and I stare at the piece. I stare for too long and so does she. We’re frozen in some kind of time warp where reality goes out the window and fantasy takes over. Where fairy tales pick us up and spin us around and around until we cling to each other because nothing else is real. Then we become more real inside it, more alive as if we’re flying through sound and light. As if we’re falling and rising. As if we’re headed for heaven and hell at once. I can’t look away. I can’t breathe.
“I have to go now,” I manage to say as if my life depends upon it.
She looks at me as if she knows it’s true.
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