Jackpot Summer, page 3
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An hour later, Sophie arrived at her coworking space, SHART, or the Shared Home for ARTists, in Bushwick. It was located in an industrial building with a crumbling brick exterior and a rotating cast of homeless men gathered out front. Sophie handed a few singles from her wallet to the most sober-looking in the group and stepped inside, inhaling the familiar scent of paints, wet clay and wood shavings. As usual in the evening hours, the coworking space was abuzz. Most of the tenants held day jobs and used the after hours for their personal work.
Renewed by a meditation on the G train, during which she was neither groped nor mugged, she felt ready to work. She was rarely energetic in June, when the kids at school were practically feral and squeezed every last ounce of patience from her. Pushing aside Nora-Ann’s warning of budget cuts, Sophie instead focused on the telltale tingle in her fingertips that signaled she was in the zone.
Walking to her station, she passed Pierre, who painted scenes of the French countryside on porcelain tiles. She tapped lightly on his wall.
“Hey, Pierre, I would appreciate it if you didn’t take my paints without asking first,” Sophie said.
Rather than deny it, he made a haughty face and said, “Zis is SHART. Zat means a shared space for artistes.”
“Well, in English, a ‘shart’ is a fart that comes out with a little sh—,” Sophie retorted but stopped herself from explaining. She walked on, making a mental note to buy a padlock for her supplies.
Farther down the hall was Victoria, a menacing figure who utilized bodily fluids and the occasional solid in her multimedia works. Sophie grumbled in vain to management, four permanently stoned recent college grads who believed every problem could be solved by tapping a keg.
Aside from Pierre and Victoria, most of the artists on Sophie’s floor were pleasant and inspiring to work alongside. Florina, a landscape photographer from California, shared juicy stories about the posh weddings she shot on the weekends for extra cash. Andy, who drew with charcoals, taught elementary school by day like Sophie. They swapped tips on how to avoid germs and commiserated over how exhausting it was to work on their art after the school day.
When she reached her “studio”—as if three plywood walls and crappy ventilation warranted that name—she noticed a group of out-of-place-looking men gathered at the graffiti wall, huddled over floor plans. She was reminded of the time her brother Matthew showed up in a suit and tie to an outdoor art fair in Woodstock, New York, where Sophie was exhibiting. These fellows looked equally out of place at SHART.
“What’s with the men in black?” she asked her studio neighbor, Yolanda, who was puffing on an e-cigarette while waiting for her paint to dry.
“Girl, we’re in trouble,” Yolanda said, motioning Sophie to enter her workspace. Sophie noted Yolanda’s steady progress on her self-portrait, intended as a commentary on aging. From forehead to chin, she gradually increased her age, an ombre effect of time. Sophie was impressed by her skillful execution and clever idea, but mostly, she was jealous of Yolanda’s progress. “Those guys are from Wall Street.” Yolanda stuck her pierced tongue out toward the graffiti wall.
“Did they get lost on the way to Peter Luger?” Sophie asked. Often the only reason the suit-and-tie types came to Brooklyn was to eat at the fabled steakhouse.
“You wish. The frat bros are going into partnership with these guys. The good news is they plan to keep the building as a workspace for artists. The bad news is that they are making improvements. That’s code for raising our rent.”
The grilled cheese Sophie ate earlier did a loop-de-loop around her stomach. She was already stretched thin. And if Nora-Ann’s intelligence indeed meant she could be laid off, any increase in rent would mean she’d have to leave SHART immediately. She had practically peanuts in savings.
“Well, shit,” Sophie said to Yolanda, who was already back to work at her canvas.
Sophie studied her own work in progress. It was the first in what she hoped would be a series of paintings capturing New York City landmarks at sunset when the steel, brick and asphalt metropolis was cast in rainbow hues. Her unique twist was including a Disney princess in each painting, posed ironically. She had already drawn the series in a sketchbook—now she had to bring those drawings to life on canvas. Her summers on LBI had endeared the golden hour of sunset to her. Frankly, she was too intimidated to paint the Jersey Shore sunset. The view from the back porch of her family’s home was so special to her, so precise in her mind’s eye, she worried she wouldn’t do it justice. It was hard to believe that view would soon belong to another family. The house, maybe her job, her studio…so many things might be in her rear view soon.
The Vessel at Hudson Yards was the first landmark she was transferring to canvas. Sophie was mesmerized by the beehive-shaped attraction which drew scores of tourists. Several people had jumped to their deaths from the top. The unexpected darkness lurking within the architecturally dazzling structure made Sophie eager to paint it. In her painting, titled Look at this Stuff, Princess Ariel was leaning over one of the Vessel’s reflective railings wearing a ripped concert T-shirt and her signature iridescent fishtail.
“I love it.”
Sophie turned toward the voice and saw that one of the suits had approached her booth. He was maybe fifty, with kind eyes looking out from behind tortoiseshell glasses.
“It’s not done yet,” Sophie said, flustered. It was one thing for her fellow artists to see her work in progress. They shared a tortured, it’s-never-good-enough undercurrent that both crippled and propelled them. But a civilian?
“Well, I like what you have so far. I work at Hudson Yards in one of those huge office towers. I see the Vessel every day but never really see it, you know? I’m Tom, by the way.”
“Sophie.” She extended her hand, and though it was splattered with gold paint, he took it without hesitation. She caught Yolanda watching them and remembered she ought to be chilly to this corporate intruder, but it was rather difficult on the heels of his praise.
“All our friends are into NFTs these days, but there’s nothing like the real thing.” Tom produced a card from his wallet and placed it on Sophie’s worktable. “Will you let me know when it’s done? I’d love to buy it for my wife for her birthday. It would be perfect for the library in our apartment.”
Tom had friends who invested in trendy digital art. He lived in an apartment with a library! She wished she could tell her mother, who worked as the town librarian for decades and was an unabashed bibliophile. Sophie glanced back at her representation of Princess Ariel. Girl, you’re moving somewhere fancy.
“I definitely will.” She wondered how much she could charge. Based on his impeccable suit and library in residence, Tom could cough up enough for her to cover three months of increased rent at SHART, six if she was gutsy enough.
“Is your wife also interested in self-portraiture that subverts the male gaze while also celebrating female sexuality?” Sophie and Tom turned to face Yolanda, who had slunk into Sophie’s cube.
“Afraid not,” Tom said, appearing sheepish. “But good luck.” He smiled at Sophie. “Don’t forget to call me. I don’t want anyone else snapping it up.”
Snapping it up? That was a laugh. If only Tom knew how little experience she had in such transactions. While a student at the Rhode Island School of Design, she donated a few paintings to local charity events to be auctioned or raffled off. The well-heeled guests raised their paddles or threw a ticket into the fishbowl because it was de rigueur at such events. She had a painful memory of learning that the couple who had won her painting at a charter school benefit had left it behind in the coat room.
“You should have asked him about the rent,” Yolanda hissed after Tom left. A FaceTime from Ravi saved Sophie from responding. She answered and smiled when she saw Iris, Ravi’s greyhound, splayed on her boyfriend’s lap. She’d like to have a dog, but there was no way she could afford a walker or the vet bills.
“Hey, babe. I have good news,” Ravi said. Sophie took in his sexy, crooked-toothed smile. Why had she and her siblings spent a combined twelve years with incarcerated teeth when imperfection looked this good?
“Me too.” Sophie lowered her voice, noticing Tom and company were still present. “Well, good news and bad news. But you go first.”
“How do you feel about spending July Fourth weekend in Nantucket? A group of emerg—” Ravi stopped mid-sentence. The phrase emerging artist did not sit well with him. He wanted to be a household name, at least in households with a certain level of disposable income. “I met a gallerist arranging an artists’ retreat on Nantucket. She’s putting everyone up at this cute B&B. We can chill on the beach, drink good wine and network the shit out of the place.”
“That sounds heavenly,” Sophie said, meaning everything but the networking part. “But Nantucket? I don’t think they do Jews or brown people there. It’s for blondes.” Part of growing up at the Jersey Shore necessitated hating other summer enclaves.
“Your brother is blonde,” Ravi said.
“We don’t think Noah’s actually our blood relative,” Sophie joked. “You know what I mean. Nantucket is hoity-toity. Next you’ll be suggesting we go to the Hamptons.”
“The Hamptons were good enough for Jackson Pollock. Why don’t you focus on eating fresh oysters avec moi instead of worrying what your Jersey Shore friends will think of you experimenting?”
Sophie laughed. Ravi made sunning on a different beach sound as scandalous as swapping sexual partners.
“It’s not just the Jersey Shore. It’s LBI. The best part. I can’t go, anyway. I’ll be down the shore with my family for the holiday.”
“I know July Fourth was your mom’s favorite holiday,” Ravi said, his voice dropping appropriately. “That was my first time eating barbecued brisket. This is a great opportunity though. Don’t you think your family would understand?”
“That was two summers ago. The brisket…” Sophie’s voice croaked. Last summer the family spent the holiday sitting shiva, hearing one Sylvia story after another from the many people whose lives she touched. “It’s not just about being together. I need to help pack up the house.”
Sophie and her siblings were still in disbelief that the house would no longer be theirs. There was a memory behind every sun-beaten curtain, a story buried in each sandy carpet fiber. She could hear her family’s laughter and smell the ocean when she was still a mile from exit 63 on the Garden State Parkway. But their father had been firm in his decision. He said he couldn’t manage the upkeep any longer, both financially and otherwise. It was true that charging a cell phone and running a blow dryer simultaneously could short-circuit the entire house. That their home lived to tell the story of Hurricane Sandy was nothing short of a miracle.
“The closing is at the end of July and packing is going to be hell. I wouldn’t say my mother was a hoarder, but she definitely didn’t have enough interaction with the trash in her lifetime.”
Ravi chuckled. “I’m aware. I got hit in the head by a shoebox when I opened the coat closet. Why don’t you see if you can go the weekend before to help pack and then you can come to Nantucket with me.” He paused and Sophie listened to Iris’s labored panting. “I want great things for both of us.”
She knew she ought to swoon, but something gave Sophie pause. Maybe she wasn’t romantic by nature. Maybe she didn’t want to jinx her good luck. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The word swirled around her brain like a swizzle stick.
“Come on, Soph,” Ravi said. “Just say fuck it and come to Nantucket.”
Could she skip out on the family weekend? She imagined lying on a fluffy beach towel while Ravi rubbed SPF 100 on her back—she was a redhead after all—and day-drinking Negronis at an oceanfront bistro instead of unearthing Manischewitz a decade past its expiration date.
“Let me text my siblings. I’ll call you back,” Sophie said. She opened the Fantastic Foursome chat. Their mother nicknamed her children the Fantastic Foursome when Noah was still a baby. Sophie liked knowing the name would live in perpetuity carved into the marble of Sylvia’s headstone. The affectionate moniker made the Jacobson kids sound like a superhero squad, which they adored as children and appreciated the irony of when they got older. Noah created an icon for the group chat, a superhero cape with the letters FF and a Jewish star.
I’m not sure I can make it to LBI for the 4th…major opportunity for me () same weekend.
Sophie reread the text and exhaled as she hit send, her sharp breath sending a drip of wet paint careening down her canvas.
As she waited for the first sibling to reply, she gave herself a pep talk. Packing would be so exhausting there would be little time for family bonding. Nobody was counting on her to run the show. Organization was Laura’s domain. Noah, the only Jacobson capable of running a mile without passing out (some superhero squad they made), could maneuver the heavy furniture, even if he bellyached the entire time about losing the house. And if Matthew wasn’t stuck on work calls, a big if, he would provide another set of useful hands. Nobody would even miss her.
Sophie’s phone pinged.
LAURA
R u fucking kidding me?
NOAH
Last wknd in house together!!!! U have to come
MATTHEW
Even I’m coming and I’m drowning in work
SOPHIE
Was just joking. Sheesh. Already tasting the Bird & Betty’s
LAURA
Not funny
Sophie had clearly miscalculated. She called Ravi back. “Nantucket’s a no-go. Major guilt trip from the sibs.”
“That’s a bummer but I promise to brag about your paintings the entire weekend,” Ravi said. “So what was your news?”
“I’ll start with the good. I may have sold my Vessel painting. Some dude with a library in his apartment wants to buy it. The bad news is that he’s part of a group that might be buying SHART and raising our rents. Which will be especially hard considering Nora-Ann said our school is going through budget cuts, so who knows if I’ll keep my day job.”
“You could move in with me,” Ravi said.
Her heart skipped a beat. “That’s not why I—I wasn’t saying it because…you know—”
“Don’t answer now,” Ravi said. “Why don’t we swing by Franz’s show and get some champagne with Lupita. If we have time, we can hit the ARTnews—” Iris’s barking escalated and drowned out Ravi. He had endless energy to network in person and online. Sophie’s social media presence was ghostlike, her attendance at openings spare. Fortunately, a SHART pal had dragged her to the gallery show of a mutual friend and that’s where Sophie met Ravi. Sometimes it paid to leave the house. If only leaving the house in New York actually paid; excursions on the town were always a wallet drain.
“It’s a date,” she said. When she looked down at her phone, there were eight new messages on the Fantastic Foursome chat, most of them food-related. Her siblings planned to eat their way through the holiday weekend. Laura wanted the saltwater taffy at Country Kettle Fudge. Matthew was craving the lobster gnocchi at Black-Eyed Susans. Noah said they should order pizza at Bird and Betty’s and play cornhole while they waited.
Sophie had no appetite. She reviewed the dizzying events of the past twenty-four hours. She was possibly out of a job. Out of her studio. About to say goodbye to her family home. She might have sold her first large-scale painting, if she had time and space to finish it. Her boyfriend asked her to move in with him out of nowhere, but maybe only because he felt obligated. Still, it couldn’t hurt to feign enthusiasm for the family weekend. She picked up her phone to text her siblings.
I want butter pecan ice cream at skipper dipper after I demolish u all in mini golf
FANTASTIC FOURSOME
SOPHIE
Did anyone else get a text from Myrna Shapiro?
LAURA
I did. WTF? She said Mom owes her sixty cents from their last game
MATTHEW
Who is Myrna Shapiro?
NOAH
Mom’s canasta friend. You don’t remember Myrna, Betty and Arlene?
SOPHIE
omg eww arlene. She yelled at me for being too loud while they played
LAURA
She accused me of cheating and i wasn’t even playing
NOAH
Arlene’s a good player. She counts the sevens
LAURA
Creepy u know that
NOAH
Whatever
MATTHEW
What did Myrna want
SOPHIE
“Just checking in”
LAURA
She asked me if we’re having people over for the 4th. And the sixty cents thing which i’m praying is a joke
NOAH
We should invite people
MATTHEW
Def not. Beth and I are swamped at work. Need to be in and out
NOAH
That’s what she said
LAURA
Huh?
NOAH
It’s a joke
SOPHIE
The sixty cents?
NOAH
Nevermind. C u guys next week
