Negative Space

his cavern. He’d called in sick to work, said he could barely move from his mattress, which was not altogether false. He was sick, after all, his brain upchucking long-digested memories. Fleeting shades of nightmares at the fringes of his mind. His body throbbed with emotions both despised and desired, his soul split between resistance and celebration of these things.
Dwayne had called. He needed to call him back. Or maybe he didn’t. The telemarketer had called next. Does he care I exist? Sure. Sure. Fine how are you sir? Please please tell me because I’m dying to know.
Northern California on Friday night. He, Karen, Dwayne. Fifty hours away. We’re all going. One happy little ridiculous family, smashed haphazardly together in hasty compensation by a cosmos to which he’d long been an afterthought.
Dwayne had said the Feldman show was ending Monday.
Shut up just shut up and be done with it—this is what you’ve been wanting, right? This is what you’ve looking for, right? For Christ’s sake—
—shut up—
Max sifted through his pile of sketchbooks, years and thoughts and sensations all snapshot on the greasy-smudged pages, in the dark razored lines and light pencil studies. He set them aside, not fully understanding what he was looking for, and took a jar of charcoal dust from a nearby shelf.
He tore off a large sheet of bond paper and spilled the dust upon it and played in the dark sugar-streaks, skating his fingers across the blackening paper. Stormy gray. God crafting a thunderstorm. Changing things up here in a white heaven. Max’s brain and heart raced one another.
He blew the excess powder off the page, creating an explosive frame. He sat back. Looked at it. Six million dollars, please. Thank you.
Without washing his hands, he slumped onto his mattress. Between his black fingers he held his small gold cross and, for the first time in nearly six years, issued a silent prayer.
Max fell asleep for a while, then awoke to a blurry world.
He awoke—but didn’t.
Again he awoke—but didn’t.
Ringing—the phone, the phone was ringing—again....
This time he woke up and felt his face, slapped himself, walked toward the sink—then he was back in bed.
Oh God no not again—
He woke up and pulled himself from bed, but he was too heavy and the world was watery. Wavy. His body a sack of concrete. Back in bed.
Okay, this time I am awake, Max thought. I’m going to get myself a drink....
No, not awake, not yet, still just below the surface—
Stop ringing—
He screamed but the scream died in his mind.
Someone here there’s someone here isn’t there what is it what are they—what is that flying thing is that a moth of a butterfly—?
Finally, he managed to surface, to gasp a full conscious breath. The normal weight returned to his limbs, the world becoming sharp and clear and focused once more.
Again, the phone rang.
Thoroughly disoriented and still not entirely convinced he was truly awake, Max staggered to the phone, resurrected his ability to speak. He’d not had an episode of sleep paralysis in over a decade.
“Yo!” Dwayne called on the other end. “I’ve been trying to get through. You and that girl still on for Friday’s trip?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry...just been kinda...never mind.” He coughed and cleared his throat, and, in a cracked voice, said, “Yeah, we’re still going.”
***
Max exited and the bus pulled lethargically away from the curb, screeching and roaring back onto Venice Boulevard. Lost in himself, he walked, his sketchbook and two newspapers—the Chicago Sun and the Daily Arizona—tucked firmly under his arm, a plastic Taco Shack bag dangling from two fingers. There were only a few packets left. He’d have to refill during the night.
At the Sirens Shop, Max relieved Tyler Harris, who sat, feet up on the counter while scribbling furiously on a legal pad.
“Any luck with that film festival?” Max asked as he set his things down.
“We haven’t submitted yet,” Tyler said dryly. Just recently twenty-two, the kid reminded Max of the ‘blackies’ from Rheta Art College—those not quite Gothic or Punk, but whose wardrobe was one big, black, somber shadow. “You still need to see it. I think you’ll like it. Definitely one of my better ones. I wanna turn it into a feature. It sort of reminds me of that one painting you did, a long time ago, that you never sold.”
“Rose Clown?”
“Nah, nah, the main shape was like a skull, but it was broken up into like surrealism and cubism, totally trippy. The city in the teeth, the tidal-wave tongue....”
“Ah.... Geometric Sk—”
“Geometric Skull! That was it!” Tyler clapped his hands. “Yeah, my film’s called Dead Two Walkers. Zombies with crutches. Old people with flamethrowers. It’s awesome. I’ll bring it in when I’m done tweaking it.”
Max hardly understood the connection between his canvas and what Tyler described, but offered a smile. “Do that.”
“All right, dude, I’m off. I’m meeting Sandy for chow.”
“Have fun.”
“Will do.” Tyler gathered up his things, strung his backpack over one shoulder. “Get some good work done tonight.”
“Already have.”
Outside, the night sank deeper into the city. Max assumed his position behind the counter, tossing Tyler a flippant wave as the kid left the shop.
***
Almost two hours into his shift, Max had dressed over twenty pages of his sketchbook with faces, both fabricated and real, as well as idle gesture drawings of the occasional customer.
Forty minutes shy of midnight, a man entered. Strikingly familiar. Max studied him from the corner of his eye. The man perused the fetish cassettes, gaze crawling with investigative care over the colorful spines.
Max remembered where he’d seen him. “Can I help you with something?”
“Me? Oh no, I’m fine, just kind of browsing. Seeing what’s here.”
The man pulled out one of the cassettes, glancing at the front, then the back. He shot a glance over to Max, who smiled. The guy quickly broke eye contact. Like a game of peek-a-boo or something.
The money man. The broker, the banker. What had Karen said his name was? John? Jason?
Max knew the customer also recognized him, but wasn’t sure if he’d