Logan, page 5
part #2 of Tough London Series
‘A deep breath, Clark,’ I say to myself, ‘take a deep breath.’
Usually, I arrive at the shop at quarter past eight. This morning though, maybe because I am super-nervous, I get to work exactly at eight. It’s a full hour before the shop is due to open, I know, but I can’t help it! At least it gives me plenty of time to do my little checks and tidy up a bit before opening. It also means that I’ve got time for the all-important cup of coffee that I absolutely need to wake up each day.
I have a little staff room at the back of the shop that I hope one day will have a whole gang of workers in there, backing me up. I guess today is the start of that. I put on the coffee machine and measure out the right amount of pre-ground beans. One of my dreams is to get a coffee grinder for the shop. I’ll really know that I’ve made it if I ever get to that.
Hang on. Should I put on another cup? Should I welcome Logan to the shop with a steamy hot cup of coffee? It’s a cold day. Everyone likes coffee, right? I mean some people like tea, sure, and maybe there are just some people who don’t like hot drinks and maybe….
OK. I’m now officially panicking.
‘Clark,’ I say to myself, ‘it doesn’t matter either way. Just calm down. Make yourself a coffee. Do what you always do. It’s going to be fine.’
So I get my Van Gogh Sunflowers mug ready and just as I finish pouring, I hear a heavy knock at the front door.
My heart rate doubles. Maybe it isn’t even him. I mean, it’s very early, like, nearly forty minutes early.
I open the staff door and head out onto the shop floor. I don’t need to go far before I see him.
He looks pretty darn sheepish by the door, almost like a little lost boy. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him looking anything other than totally self-assured and confident. But it’s definitely him, there’s no doubt of that.
Oh yes. I’d know that silhouette anywhere.
Tall and broad and hulking. He looks totally stacked, like someone’s strapped a suit of body armour to a normal human’s body. As I look at him, I wonder what he sees when he looks back at me.
Am I just the same, nervous little art teacher he saw in the prison. Did he even notice me at all at the prison? Does he even know who I am?
And then there’s the question of his sexuality. But if he’s not gay, why do I feel this heat between us? This unbelievable tension that burns bright and slow.
I must be frozen in place, because he looks straight at me, waits for a moment, then lifts a hand and waves at me. The kind of wave that says, ‘are you OK, you maniac?’
I unfreeze, and walk to the front door. I open it up.
‘Sorry I’m early,’ he says. He looks straight at the ground, refusing to meet my gaze.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, ‘better to be early than late.’ Jesus I sound like a boring nerd.
‘Well, I prefer to be on time,’ he replies. His eyes come up from the ground, and meet mine for less than a second, then dart back down. That moment, when our eyes meet, I feel a rush of electricity pulse up my body. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
It’s only then I realise that I am still holding my mug.
‘You like Van Gogh,’ he says, his eyes fixed on the cup in my hand.
‘Sure,’ I reply, my voice cracking a little as I try to stay composed.
‘He’s my favourite painter,’ he mumbles. For some reason, I decide to join in with the conversation by bringing the mug up to my lips, and drinking from it. I hope his eyes might follow the mug to my mouth, but he keeps them respectfully down.
‘I always find it amazing that Van Gogh never had any success in his life. It all came after he died,’ Logan continues, ‘kinda gives me hope for the future.’
‘I always think it’s really sad,’ I reply.
‘I guess that makes me an optimist, and you a pessimist.’ Then he does something I never saw in all my time in the prison. He smiles.
I feel the tension in the room build up to a boiling point, and then, suddenly, it’s gone. Just like his smile.
‘Anyway,’ I say, trying to regain some composure, ‘I better show you around.
I feel as though I’m in a daze. I’ve got this huge list of questions to ask him about his time since being in prison, about how prison has changed him, about what he hopes to get out of the experience of being my intern. You know, all that professional stuff that a good boss is meant to ask his new worker.
‘So, was it you hanging around the front of the shop the other night?’ I blurt out. Way to go Clark. Guess I won’t be winning the employer of the year award this year.
He looks suddenly ashamed and his eyes dart down again.
‘Yeah, that was me. I’m sorry about that. I don’t know. The guy at the agency, Tom, he told me to check the place out. But I get nervous I guess, so, I thought I’d do it after everyone had gone home. But you were still here. So. Sorry.’
He gets nervous?
‘It’s OK. You gave me a scare though.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that. I should have said something maybe.’
‘You’re a big guy.’
Why did I say that? Clark, you don’t make things easy for yourself, do you?
Honestly though, I feel so anxious around him that I don’t mention that I had been his art teacher at prison. He gives no indication at all that he knows who I am. There are a couple of times while I am showing him round that I almost say something, but the longer I leave it, the stranger it feels and the more difficult it becomes to break my silence.
I become convinced that he definitely doesn’t know who I am.
What’s more surprising is that I become convinced that I don’t know who he is. He’s so quiet, and so well behaved. I guess I don’t know what I’d been expecting. Maybe someone a bit more thuggish, I guess. Someone rude and ill-mannered. But he isn’t like that at all.
I think back to my training at the prison. Maybe this is all some kind of long, extended attempt at manipulation. Criminals are master manipulators. Maybe he’s scoping the place out to report back to his mafia boss so that they can break in and take all of my…canvases. What kind of organised crime gang would be interested in stealing all of my art supplies?
It could be some other kind of scam, I guess. But could someone really be just acting this shy? Just pretending? I can’t believe it.
‘OK, so, I’m going to stay on the till this first day,’ I continue, ‘and if you don’t mind, it’d be great to have you restock the paints and pencils? I can’t tell you how much of a help this is going to be.’
I feel a little more at ease because of how quiet he is being. He asks a couple of small questions about the shop, about how I like my items to be displayed, but nothing major. I find myself kind of hanging on his every word, like he’s giving me some special, secret gift just by speaking.
‘That sounds good,’ he says. His voice is deep and rich. He sounds like a real man. There’s something dangerous about the way he speaks, too, like he’s an animal, waiting to pounce. Wild and terrifying. I figure it’s a good idea that I stay on the till to begin with. It’s not that I don’t trust him with the money it’s just…well OK, fine, I don’t trust him with the money.
So I just get to work. I just pretend that it is a normal day, like any other. Some regular customers come in, some new people. We actually get pretty busy, selling some of our more expensive items. Rare inks, high quality water-colour paper. The day just flies by. I barely speak to Logan the whole time.
I try to avoid looking at him too much, but I can’t help look at his arms from time to time. They’re so thick, so heavily muscled — covered in intricate black tattoos. Not the kind of tattoos you get in prison; these are extremely carefully applied, and quite beautiful. I wonder how much it had hurt, having all those tats done. I’m desperate to have a closer look at them. I’ve never touched a tattoo. I wonder if the skin feels different, harder somehow.
The thing that surprises me most about the way he looks is the outfit he’s wearing. It’s really a very nice, tasteful outfit. A clean check shirt, stylish shoes. It’s hardly the kind of outfit I’d expect a gang member or drug-dealer to wear.
Jesus Clark, how prejudiced do you want to be?
I suddenly feel like a lot of my preconceptions are going to be challenged by this experience.
The day goes by so fast, that I actually forget to let him go for lunch.
‘Excuse me Clark,’ he says at around two o’clock, ‘but would you mind if I got something to eat?’
He’s so god damn polite. I can’t believe it. While he is away, I look at the work he’s been doing. It’s great. I mean, it’s not like I’ve given him anything too taxing to do, but he hasn’t made any mistakes or cut any corners.
There are little touches, too, like the way he’s reorganised the watercolour pencils, by colour and size. He’s got a real eye for detail.
When he returns from his lunch, I wait a moment and then take him to the side.
‘I just wanted to say thanks for all your hard work this morning. I was a little nervous having someone new in the shop, but I can see that I didn’t have anything to worry about.’
‘Oh,’ he says, looking at me, ‘there’s plenty to be worried about.’
The blood runs cold in my veins. What the heck does that mean?
‘I mean,’ he says, looking a little embarrassed, ‘you never know what a new person’s going to be like. Right?’
‘Yes,’ I say. I feel like something is stuck in my throat.
Don’t let your guard down, Clark.
‘Can you teach me how to use the till this afternoon?’ he says. He sounds sincere, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I am feeling weary, like I am getting a weird vibe from him, but I also feel as though I can’t say no. If I do, it would be like I was saying that I don’t trust him or something. No, it would be exactly like saying I don’t trust him.
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘I think you earned it with your hard work this morning.’
So I teach him how to use the till. It doesn’t take long; it’s not exactly rocket science, and he’s a quick learner.
‘One question,’ he says, ‘how do you do refunds?’
‘Well,’ I reply, trying to be firm, ‘our policy is that we don’t really do refunds at all. Like, ever.’ I mean sure I’ve given quite a fewrefunds in my time, but there’s no reason to let Logan know that. This is the start of a new era at Kahlo’s Crafts. Maybe this is the day that things really start improving round here.
‘What does this button do,’ he says, gesturing towards the clear button.
As he moves his hand, I instinctively move mine away, but for a moment, the tips of our fingers touch.
It’s the smallest second.
It’s almost nothing.
But I nearly pass out. I mean literally. I feel like a spark of energy moves between our fingertips. I look at him, he looks at me. I feel my heart pound in my chest.
Fucking hell he’s hot. I’m so close to him, that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
‘Sorry, he says, pulling his hand away.
‘Sorry,’ I echo, trying my hardest not to blush.
I’ve got to minimise my time with Logan this afternoon, make things move as quick as I can, and just get on with trying to forget about the massive crush I have on this guy.
And luckily, things go very smoothly this afternoon. Having Logan on the till gives me the chance to really spend some time going through our stock and to reorder some supplies. Let me tell you, a couple hours of trying to decide between varying shades of Windsor And Newton oil paint really takes my mind off any kind of sexy business with my ex-con work-mate.
Things are going smoothly, that is, until a certain regular customer comes into the shop.
Today, Marco is wearing a bright purple beret, rather than his regular cream one. His moustache looks a little more well-trimmed than usual, but overall he looks as wretched as he always does.
He does his usual trick of walking round the shop a couple of times, pretending to be scouring the shelves for that one particular item that he really wants. But of course he isn’t in here to buy anything new. I’m out in the shop, checking the merchandise, and he comes up to me.
‘Ah, Clark, good to see you.’ He has a simpering smile on his face, and I return it with as insincere a look as I can muster.
‘Likewise,’ I say. I hope he picks up on the sarcasm in my voice.
‘I see you have some new hues in today. Very interesting. I’m working on a huge canvas at the moment. It’s truly monumental. My largest work yet. It’s a big commitment of course, working on something so large.’ He leans in toward me. He has a thin sheen of sweat across his brow. I’ve never seen anyone so repulsive. ‘It’s quite an erotic work, really. Very honest and personal,’ he says.
Marco has, quite a few times, made advances towards me. It makes me feel uncomfortable every time.
‘Well,’ I say, gesturing over to Logan at the counter, ‘I’m sure Logan would like to hear all about it. He’s quite the painter himself.’
He glances over at Logan, and then literally does a double take. His eyes nearly pop out of his head.
‘I see you got some help in,’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ I reply.
‘Business must be booming,’ Marco says snarkily, his eyes wide.
‘It’s not so bad,’ I assert, ‘thanks to all my wonderful customers.’
All of them except you.
‘Anyway Marco, I’ve got some stuff I need to be getting on with. Any questions or queries, just send them Logan’s way.’ I give him my sweetest smile, and head to the storeroom to look for some artist’s graphite.
I’m only in there for a couple of minutes when the sound of raised voices makes me head back out again. What on earth is going on?
8
LOGAN
* * *
It’s going so well. Like, ridiculously well. I haven’t fucked anything up with Clark. In fact, he seems to actually quite like having me around.
I’ve been restrained, I’ve been cautious, I’ve not done anything weird or creepy. I’ve even managed to not comment on how fucking hot he looks. All in all, it’s been a fantastic first day.
It’s been hard to keep a lid on it. It’s been really fucking hard not to tell him that I was at the prison. That he’d been my teacher. It’s really lucky that he can’t remember me, I mean, I basically started a riot on his last day. Maybe I look so old now that I’m unrecognisable.
Even without him knowing who I am, I still feel this crazy tension between the two of us. It’s nothing like it had been in prison. We hardly ever spent any time with each other, after all.
Now though, even though I’m on the till and he’s working out on the shop-floor, I feel this invisible force tugging us together. I guess it’s just adrenaline, pumping its way round my body, but it’s giving me this weird feeling, like I’m floating outside of myself or something.
I know, sounds crazy. But the truth is, I feel crazy.
And every time he looks over at me and those blue eyes flash me a sweet look, I feel my body tremble and this mad lust bubble away in the background like an untapped well.
So yeah, it’s been a pretty enjoyable morning.
That is, until this gross little prick comes up to me.
I’ve been watching him walk around the shop. A little waddling duck.
He’s exactly the kind of guy I normally never have to spend time with. Of course, I’m planning to be civil to him, professional, courteous, even nice. Anything to make sure that my employment lasts as long as possible.
And yeah, let’s just say I’m trying to get in the boss’s good books.
But come on, who wears a fucking beret in the year 2019?
After like, twenty minutes of walking round, looking at basically every item that is on display in the shop, he comes up to the counter. He’s been carrying a bag with him, and carefully puts his hand into it, before pulling out three tubes of paint.
‘Good afternoon,’ he says. He has a whiny, fancy voice. He pronounces every single syllable of every single word.
‘Sup,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he replies, ‘it is up.’ OK, this guy is the human embodiment of the word ‘dweeb’. ‘Well my good man,’ he continues, ‘I’ve come to return a couple items that didn’t quite meet the exacting standards I’ve come to demand of my art supplies.’
I’m about to say something but he holds his hand up, stopping me in my tracks.
‘Let me explain,’ he says. ‘The first tube here,’ he holds up a small white tube. It says Ivory White on it. I don’t know much about paint, but even to my untrained eyes it’s easy to see that at least half of the tube has been used up. ‘This tube is a disaster. Ivory white! What a joke. It’s about as white as mud.’ He unscrews the top of the tube and smears some of the thick, oily paint out onto his hand. It looks white enough to me.
‘If it’s not white enough,’ I say, ‘why have you used half of it up?’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘you see, I had to ensure that I wasn’t going mad. I like the paint was mocking me. Do you know how many times I had to re-paint the face of the central nude of my latest magnum opus?’
‘Central nude? How many nudes are in the fucking thing?’
I didn’t mean to swear, but it just slips out. He looks as though I’ve just slapped him in the face.
‘Well, it’s based on the Bacchanal, a famous ancient Roman festival. A rather homoerotic take on it. But in order to faithfully recreate the event, one has to…’
‘I know about the Bacchanal,’ I say. ‘And modern scholarship is pretty certain that they weren’t the orgy of drinking and sex that people like Poussin and Leveque painted.’ Eat shit you pretentious dick. The prison library was very accommodating when it came to the art history books I wanted to read.
‘Well,’ he says, clearly flustered, ‘I’m trying to evoke those ancient, idealized visions of the Bacchanal.’
‘And besides that,’ I say, ‘no one is forcing you to paint that particular subject.’
