The lit cigarette spun, hots revolving in a mesmerizing off-center circle.
Trevor watched until the smoke came to a halt. The table it rested on was an antique, but one so battered and stained it would never be resurrected to any sort of glory.
“Most people smoke the smoke to calm their nerves, you play with it, then smoke it, then play with it some more. Might be an interesting thing to tell your therapist.”
Damian looked at Trevor briefly, pulled the cigarette to him, sandwiched between his forefinger and middle, spun his hand and put the cigarette in his mouth filter side out.
Trevor had seen the trick before, dozens of times, was unimpressed by it but said nothing because he knew the trick signaled that Damian had passed from nervous to panic.
Damian pulled the cigarette out of his mouth.
“I would do it in front of her if I could smoke in her office.”
“I have no doubt.”
Damian stood, knocking his chair over. He dropped the cigarette back on the table and his hands reached out like he would grab someone and headbutt them if they were close enough.
“You have no doubt??? I have all the doubts. I’m not going to get it and I don’t want to work at the post office.”
“I’m talking about you smoking at Dr. Bricker’s, not the goddamn grant.”
The Wauffel arts grant had eaten their life. From the application process, choosing which of Damian’s pieces to submit, what parties to go to where the technically anonymous but not-so-secret judges just might be.
Arguments.
Tears.
Long periods of silence.
Approximately seventeen thousand entrants every other year. Five grants awarded.
“The goddamn grant is everything right now. If I get it, I won’t even need Dr. Bricker.”
Trevor bent to pet the cat, but mostly so he could barrel roll his eyes without sending Damian over the edge, where he had been teetering for days.
Damian hit each nostril twice with nasal spray, something Trevor was starting to believe was yet another of Damian’s addictions.
Trevor looked at his phone.
“Thirty-one more minutes until they post the winners. If-”
“Recipients, Trevor. Recipients. Art isn’t a sport.”
“Apparently not, because sports are fun. Would you like to grind yourself to dust for the next thirty-one minutes, or would you like me to tell you a secret?”
“I’ll be fine for the next thirty-one minutes, thanks. I don’t think there’s a secret you could tell me that would take my mind off the Wauffel Grant.”
Damian bit his pinkie fingernail, twisting his head to the side like an animal on a nature show pulling sinew from bone.
Blood dripped down Damian’s finger.
Trevor pulled Barnaby the cat onto his lap.
“Here’s the secret,” Trevor said.
“Must you?” Damian said.
“Yes, for my own sanity, I must. I love your fucking art, always have.”
“Not a secret,” Damian said.
“This is,” Trevor said. “I cashed in my 401k from when I worked at Dynarev. If you don’t get the grant, I’m giving you 50 thousand myself.”
Damian lit a fresh cigarette, hand trembling so badly Trevor’s eyes followed the flame of the lighter as though Damian was doing another trick.
Damian took one long drag, then ran upstairs, skipping every other stair, and slammed the bathroom door.
***
***
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
Very nice. Damian’s a trip.
I can relate to this. That Kresge grant every other year. For many, art is not a hobby; it’s purpose.