By Bill McGee
I met Felipe Campo in a college painting class I took as an elective; sociology was my major.
His clothes were intriguing. While most of the guy students wore jeans, black loafers, and oxford shirts, Felipe wore brown, well-polished leather shoes, cotton khaki chinos, and as colder weather came in, he arrived at class in a knee length black wool coat that had the top button missing, exposing its disengaged tangled threads. He wore the coat’s collar pushed up which propped out bundled curls of thick black hair. The heating in the old university building was unreliable so sitting in class, with his fingers he’d pull his oversized cable knit sweater sleeves down to cover his wrists, sealing in the warmth.
It didn’t take me long to recognize his talent. In varying degrees most of the class knew it as well but many left their feelings unexpressed, being too absorbed in developing their own. Some were just giving the class a go for a semester to see if they had any aptitude for it, and a select few having sized up the art world as extremely competitive, did their early best practicing at playing the game, seek out the connections; through hustle aim at a level of success not only from created work but obtained influence.
Professor Conway identified Felipe’s ability. He’d peer over his shoulder while he worked, standing wordlessly, observing the deft movements of thick splashes here, thinner strokes there; the selection and arrangement of colors; the pressed dimensions and depth; waiting for the revelation of the subject portrayal. He’d correct him on one point only, always the same.
“The easel, my boy, should be more into the light. This corner is dark, more light will help.”
Politely, Felipe would nod, but stay put. I approached him at the semester’s mid-point. By then, his presence was the only thing that interested me in the class. I was resigned to the reality that my paintings amounted to no more than dismal recreations of suburban landscapes, character studies—boys trading baseball cards in a strip mall parking lot, commuters waiting for the morning train at an elevated station. I was especially frustrated that I couldn’t draw elderly people well, to capture the lifetime stories housed in their eyes; in one attempt at portraying an aged married couple, their winter coats came out looking like oversized rumpled trash bags.
Despite my blunt summary, I didn’t take criticism well. In the mid-semester requirement to provide a self-appraisal, I started to write “I believe the problem lies in my lack of perception…” I tore that up. It was comical, sounding like an eye doctor’s report. What I finally submitted began as, “Doggedly an artist needs to wrestle with an event that his memory offers. One of significance. Mine are too easily pinned down, and being so, reveal little, next to nothing.”
Reading it, Professor Conway didn’t disagree. “Very brave, my boy. It’s fortunate to discover at an early age which skills are lacking, a signal to keep searching, to find where your best talents lie.”
I bristled. Later, I referred to it as an elegant put down but at the time it took me several days to shrug off. Hell, Springer, I told myself, I’m twenty years old, it’s no big thing; have some fun with this class.
After that I winged it, adding humor to my “art” work. Feeling comfortable, having scaled down my expectations, I moved my seat and easel closer to Felipe.
“The less bright works for me too.” I said to justify my move.
I was drawing a large tortoise with open umbrellas sprouting from its mouth. He looked over.
“The umbrellas, they should be closed.”
“Why?”
“Later it will rain in this scene of yours.”
“You know this how?”
“There’s no color in the sky. So, if you agree with your intent, the neutral pallor of the base canvas suggests an overcast day and impending harsh weather. If not your intent, it’s best to cover all the sky space with color.” I stared at him gauging the sincerity of his remarks.
“Would you prefer a giraffe wearing a bib settling down for supper?” I replied.
He looked at me a few moments and for the first time I saw him laugh and let it go as he did, the noise coming out like a guffaw, his torso relaxing and leaning back, the sweater covered arms sprayed out at his sides. His whole frame shook, complexion changed color, scarlet ribbons rose on his cheeks as if a small shovel was hurling red powder under his face.
“We must get a drink when class is over,” he finally said, the body settling down from the enjoyment, his eyes not leaving mine.
We went to one of the campus hangouts. It was a pleasant relief breaking the normal routine of my school day. The drink was effective and healthy—vodka and orange juice. I bought him a bottled beer. He took small sips from it.
Sitting across from him I had my first direct look. He was handsome with a capital H. In Hollywood terms there was no actor to refer to. Not like the later screen idols Antonio Banderas or Benicio del Toro, more like a couple of actors from the 30s and 40s—Tyrone Power and Robert Taylor. The black bundled curls settled randomly on his forehead above the full heavy eyebrows, and below, mountain brown eyes that displayed a mixture of smarts, mischief, and determination. Years later I would tell a girlfriend he was the best-looking man I’d ever met.
That semester I was taking an acting class and suggested he should check it out as my guest.
“It isn’t a problem; the faculty encourages us to invite other students to sit in.”
He looked at me curiously and shook his shoulders in doubt.
“It’s f-u-u-un. So different than art class.”
Being comfortable in his company I put on my gregarious personality side that was rarely displayed in public because I was very self-conscious.
“There’s improvisation, exercises, role playing. It can be a bit nerve wracking but everyone’s in the same place, all are equal.” I explained, my hands and forearms moving expressively like an orchestra conductor’s.
“No judgment. I’ll tell the instructor I have a friend who’d like to stop by and see what it’s like. No commitments if you don’t care for it.” He indicated some interest.
“What do they call it?” I continued, thinking out loud.
“Auditing a class,” I said, snapping my fingers at the certainty of my recall. Felipe was silent for a while, then finally replied.
“My father was governor of one of the Argentine provinces. A successful politician, purposely or not, needs to “act” well.” He paused. “Might be interesting for this reason.”
Being a commuter student, I felt like an outsider looking in. Home was my parent’s house forty miles east by commuter railroad and arriving in Manhattan it was a mile walk from Penn Station to campus.
Located in the central core of Greenwich Village, the university opened in 1835. At that time, my hometown was 90% farmland and the railroad that brought me here wouldn’t be built for several decades. My parent’s house was in the older southern part of town set on a one-acre plot with a large square front lawn ideal for entertaining Grin, the family dog, by playing fetch with a rubber ball or having him retrieve a foot-long tree branch.
I loved the acting class. I made friends there. Mike D later became my co-editor on the campus cultural magazine. Roseanne was a thin brunette from Brooklyn that I liked and invited to a rock concert at the Palladium on 14th Street. I looked forward to it until she showed up with two friends, her apparent chaperones, a guy and girl from her neighborhood. I met cinnamon haired, easygoing Jack Ressie in that class and one of many memories was walking in the Square Park and spotting him sitting on a bench sobbing. I approached quietly, sidled down and saw tears streaming down his left cheek. He used his sweatshirt sleeve to dry them.
“What’s the matter?” I asked hesitantly, and pulled my book bag off my back and looked inside for a Kleenex.
“My boyfriend broke up with me,” he said agonizingly, struggling to suppress his sobs. His eyes were bloodshot. I was sympathetic recalling my few gut-wrenching experiences of terminated love but at that moment lacked the vocabulary to console him. He turned to me after taking the tissue.
“You can’t understand; you’re not queer.” I accepted this but didn’t let it deter me. I moved closer and put my arm around him. For a long time I said nothing.
“They’re salty to the taste, aren’t they?” He looked up.
“What are?”
“Tears.” I replied.
Then he laughed.
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The semester was unwinding and by mid-December light began arcing down mid afternoon and without awareness of time the full dark that arrived at 5 in the evening could easily be sensed as 9 pm.
One of the great walking streets in Manhattan, Bleecker, helped to alleviate those morose feelings, when the merchant association annually hung the holiday lights across the street extending them from Lafayette to 7th Avenue, with the accompanying streamers, familiar reindeer and sleigh figures and lit wished greetings for seasonal happiness and joy.
After a late afternoon class, Felipe and I walked to the East Village where he lived. At Astor Place, the layout opens, allowing the wind to blow around unbridled. We walked faster and in the distance a fire truck alarm blasted its horn expressing urgency to the traffic in front of it.
The area streets were dim and dirty with loose pages from newspapers flailing here and there, glass from broken car panes crunching under our feet, a screen window lay on a sidewalk having fallen from an apartment above, a crushed milk carton leaked out its remaining contents from the lip. Overhead I saw a recently broken streetlight, a piece of its glass waving in the wind and its light blinked intermittently just before the bulb blew out.
We passed an open lot aside a high school. There were kids running around in sneakers, holding long wooden sticks, playing an improvised game of field hockey, pushing what looked like a makeshift puck made of several knit socks rolled into a ball. They weren’t just kids from the high school, some were younger…nine…eleven years old; it was a neighborhood pick-up game.
The lot ground was very uneven, and not well lit, large clumps of dirt were scattered here and there, cracked broken cement pieces, cinderblocks, and lots of trash. On each end, lined up metal garbage cans were used as goals.
Felipe stopped and looked at the playing for several minutes. Suddenly, in a body check, a tall kid wearing a jersey that said “Ringers” on the front, pushed a small kid hard into the cyclone fence. He pressed him against it with unnecessary emphasis, the kid’s facial skin became imprinted with the metal criss-cross patterns of the fence. The tall kid recognized Felipe and met his reproachful stare.
“Sail on out of here spic,” he said sternly and released his check on the younger kid.
At the reference, Felipe ran toward him and grabbed the cyclone fence with intent to climb it.
Halfway up he stopped and against the fence kicked his right foot hard toward him. It made a clanging sound, but it was an unimpactful move meant more for intimidation than force. Felipe climbed back down and spat in “Ringers” general direction.
The wind continued to blow straight on us, and Felipe leaned down in a posture of determination to take it on. He was hat and gloveless, hadn’t even buttoned the familiar coat, clutching it tight with his right hand to prevent the slapping wind from entering his person.
“Did I tell you I live with my sister,” he said, turning to me, raising his voice above the earful of wind. Maybe once, I thought, not answering.
With hands pressed in my bomber jacket pockets, and collar turned up, I wasn’t dressed right for this cold. My typical routine at the end of the day was a thirty block 10 mph strut from campus to Penn Station, intentionally walking fast to light the inner furnace, spur the limbs, start the blood coursing to all extremities.
Felipe got his keys out, two of them hanging on a paper clip, struggled with numbing fingers and finally inserted one into the building door. He lunged forward into the lobby and bounded up the stairs. The apartment was on the third floor, and he used the other key on the paper clip to open its door.
It was a rectangular studio. To the right was a twin bed made up neatly, its frame pushed up against the north and west wall of the apartment. Midway was an old stove and burner with a five-foot high fridge that made rumbling temperature adjustment sounds. To the left, the hallway stretched for twelve feet with a door on the right likely leading to a bathroom and at the end there was a beaded curtain in the arched entrance for the bedroom. That was it.
No couch. No phone.
Despite being inside, it was still cold. No floor rugs. I didn’t linger attention on the visible moisture coming from my breath clouds. Instead, I sat on an unstable wooden chair that at one time belonged with a desk.
Felipe turned on the thirteen-inch TV which sat on a small table near the bed. Intently, he worked its channel changer circular knob. Apparently, he found what he wanted because a bright smile rowed across his face. It was the comedian Benny Hill’s show. He leaned forward and reached out to another adjustment knob on the television, turning the volume all the way down.
“It’s more enjoyable to watch without sound.” he explained.
He viewed the show and laughed unselfconsciously at the comedian’s routines. When a commercial came on, he looked at me.
“Do you like the acting thing?” I nodded yes.
“My father wants me to go to medical school,” he announced abruptly.
“Really?” I said diplomatically, inside thinking, no way.
There was a blue filtered light coming from the TV screen that settled on Felipe’s hands.
“I came here to defy my father,” he said.
“He doesn’t want you to be an artist?” I inquired. He shook his head.
“No, no art for me. I want to be something else.”
“What?” I asked with disbelief and disappointment.
“It’s a secret,” he said sincerely. “I tell no one. I’d jinx it if I did.”
With that he leaned back on his bed and reached to shut off the corner lamp. Only the blue light of the TV lit the room now. The comedian’s vigorous movements onscreen were causing this light to dance over his hands.
At the next commercial break, he got up and asked if I wanted a cup of tea. I nodded no. My shy side was in play, and I was okay with that. Like the TV, I had turned the volume all the way down.
Felipe lit the stove flame high and in a minute the water in the kettle began to percolate. He made a fast cup of tea and was steeping the bag.
I looked down the hallway to its end. There were long corded tassels that marked the entrance to the bedroom and I thought I saw them rustle. I listened for several moments but heard nothing indicating someone was in there. Might have been a draft causing it. Or shadow play.
The room got pleasantly warmer from the lit fire on top of the stove. The flickers were jumping confidently. The smell of gas was unpleasant but manageable.
“I’ll leave the flame on for a while for warmth.” he said, returning to his bed and settling down, sipping the tea carefully to avoid spilling.
My chair’s instability felt better now. I was growing into it, even rocking it back and forth a bit. I was losing interest in the comedian’s slapstick routines on the television. Obvious physical comedy. Felipe wasn’t. He was laughing and loving it. I became more interested in the consistent blue light given off by the television, moving and darting and projected, as if attracted to Felipe’s hands.
A voice inside told me, “The light, the hands, are beautiful.”
I started creating excuses in my head for the moment when I’d call my parents to tell them I wasn’t coming home. The most well thought out one was “I fell asleep in my friend’s chair. By the time I woke up it was too late and too cold out to catch a train.” Then I looked around and remembered there was no phone.
I thought back to a year before when I asked my father if I could transfer from the county community college I was attending to this university. I’d considered several colleges from Ithaca to Boston to DC, had made trips to each one and decided this was my top choice. During all our further conversations afterward, explaining my reasons to transfer, I didn’t say it was about the people I’d meet. It was all about the education I’d get, the degree, the doors it might open to a good career, top-notch professors, the accomplishment.
Time passed, and as the comedian said goodbye to his television audience, I decided right then I wasn’t going anywhere unless Felipe threw me out. The dimness in the apartment, the blurred shapes, the stove flame that brought warmth, the bed, the blue light. His hands.
I leaned the chair back further and found the right balanced secure spot.
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Bill McGee is a fiction writer, poet and playwright. His short story “Sticks and Stones” was recently published in the online literary magazine, East of the Web. He’s written and produced two off Broadway plays, “Reasons” (a drama) and “Smoosh” (a bittersweet love story). A New York University graduate, Bill studied in their Creative Writing Program.