A pair of pigeons land heavily on the oak tree's branches, shaking free the last few crumpled, brown leaves. A violent November updraft whips them away, over the crumbling brownstones and into the street. The vaulted windows of each apartment thirst for the dim, noonday light. It fights its way through the overcast sky and onto a face. Sleeping restlessly at his workbench, head cradled on forearms, Tyler's skin reflects a drab white from the cold pallor coming through the window.
Trash scatters about in the unsettling wind, now taking flight, later catching on a business woman's ankle as she hurries back to the office after her cigarette break. Around Tyler in his high-ceiling loft, brushes, paints, canvases, and lumps of deformed clay collect dust, devoid of inspiration.
A jarring pounding on the heavy wooden door of his apartment echoes about the room. Tyler moans and shifts slightly. The pounding becomes more incessant, acute. A thick voice, metered in foreign tongues, yells through the oak door, rousing Tyler. His right arm flails across the workbench as he rises from his hunched sleeping position. A sketchbook with childish doodles clatters to the floor.
The thick voice outside the door yells louder, but the pounding stops. Righting his gray shirt and smoothing the wrinkles from his corduroy trousers, Tyler quickly awakes. Paying no attention to the time, he unlocks the door and opens it several inches before he realizes he didn't first check the peephole.
The man outside the door rushes in, pushing Tyler over and bringing with him a cloud of odor. Still reeling, Tyler is overwhelmed by alcohol fumes, the stench of urine, and the general mustiness of rotting food. The bum ignores Tyler and walks circles around the open floor, yelling and gesturing like a tent-revival preacher.
"Zer coming!" he says. The heavy speech of the bum is laden with bourbon and Eastern European ancestry.
Tyler's hazy brown eyes still cannot focus on what is happening. The blue circles beneath them deepen.
"Zer coming!" the man repeats, wringing his red, puffy hands. Suddenly, his circling stops and he slides to the floor. "Save yourself, take avay your things." He rocks back and forth, tearing strips from his tattered jeans.
Tyler is shaken from his lingering reverie. The smell of the bum pricks his nose, and his eyes water as he gets up from the floor. "Take what you want, you can have anything." His clear, casual voice is taut, his tone shrill.
"Zer coming!" The man lunges at Tyler, scaring him. Tyler backs up against the wall next to the door.
As unexpected as the man's outburst was, he swiftly changes direction and begins to rout through Tyler's paints. "I need to save you. Just one is all, just one."
"One dollar? Here, you can have it all." Tyler throws his wallet across the floor to the bum, his hands trembling. "Just not my paints," he pleads.
The bum ignores the wallet and turns his blood-shot eyes to the canvases. Each is empty, thoughtless.
"Now, need to have now!" The man tears off his overcoat and begins to overturn bottles, knocking down Tyler's easels.
Tyler rushes halfway across the room to the man, but is frozen by the bum's erratic glances and movements. Again, the bum collapses. The greasy man's face is streaked with tears. The layers of dirt crack into canyons of sludge as the salted rivulets drip down his chin.
Scared and oddly touched, Tyler fights the bitterness of tears in his own eyes. "What do you want? I have more money." He steps closer, only an arm's reach from the phone on his workbench.
Slowly, muscles aching, the man raises his head to look Tyler in the eye. The man's icy green eyes show pity, the tears have stopped, replaced now by guilt. "I want only one, but you do not have." The heavy accent is no longer slurred, but the smell of alcohol escapes the man's cracked lips.
Tyler steps closer, but does not pick up the phone. The man's gaze sparks a distant memory, a deep inspiration. But somehow, even the fear of this moment is transfixed in a mistiness of indolence. He is helpless under the bum's penetrating stare.
The man runs his cracked hands through his dark, matted mane. Slowly, with the pain and struggle of a geriatric man, the bum rises. "Zay have come. I am too late." Eyes on his feet, the bum shuffles out, kicking aside Tyler's wallet.
"Who has come?" Tyler starts towards the man, tripping over a blank canvas and splintering the frame.
The bum continues out the door, slamming it closed behind him.
Tyler rips the door back open and yells after him, his fear turning to fury. "What the hell, you sick bastard! Who is it? The aliens?" He laughs loudly, trying to build up bravado. "Why don't you go have yourself another drink?" Tyler yells after the bum.
The man thumps down the stairs, out of earshot. But the cloud of poverty and street-life hangs in the apartment around Tyler. He slams the apartment door shut and collapses, crying. He crawls across the floor to where the bum dropped his coat and riffles through the pockets, searching for a clue, an answer.
Ancient paint brushes, a sculpting tool, and several cigarette butts tumble from the pockets of the worn coat. The jacket is steeped in even more revolting smells, the essence of the street. But, Tyler cradles the tattered cloth, fingering the worn-out tools, tears streaking his smooth, flushed face. Around him, his apartment falls away, replaced by boxes and soup kitchens and drug dealers. The worn-out tools are his own, their years of idleness bringing him to the street.
Incessant and acute, the mechanical ring of the phone sings out to Tyler. He hesitates, wanting to revel in his experience. Tyler wants to write it all down, sketch it, express the emptiness he's found inside. But the din of the phone echoes again, bouncing off the walls and coming to a rest in Tyler's ears. Desperate to end the aggravating noise, he violently throws the mess off his workbench and knocks the receiver from its cradle.
A faint, female voice can be heard as Tyler moves away from the phone to pick up his easels. His tears have dried, but the voice on the phone tightens his throat. "Hello?" the voice asks slowly.
Tyler grabs the phone, making no attempt to hide his crying or confusion. "Rachel? My god, why haven't you called? It's been two days!" Without pausing for a response, he continues. "I know I said some things, but you know how crazy life can get. Come by my place right away, and let's talk. I need you now more than ever."
Tyler sniffles, then coughs to cover up the sadness in his voice. He remembers the first time he sketched Rachel's profile from across the art room, how she smiled patiently when he gave her the portrait. He'd captured every detail perfectly — her kind, blue eyes, her full lips and strong jaw.
The woman sighs deeply into the phone, creating a moment of dead air. Tyler nearly begins pleading again, when Rachel starts to explain. "Tyler, I just wanted to call and ask you when it would be all right for me to come by your place and pick up my things."
The clear, vibrant cadence of her voice stings. Her calm tone drives him to choke back a tear. The words sound like those they used to exchange quietly in bed, their naked bodies warmly touching. "Rachel, I miss you, I need you. Everyone has trouble. You can't leave me now, not when I have to have someone in my life. I can't do this alone, you know that. My painting's gotten harder, and school is terrible. What can I do without you? You inspire me, I need you." Tyler drags the phone onto the floor with him as he sits to face the large window. Outside it has begun to pour.
"You haven't painted in months." Her reply comes without a pause.
"I've been trying. I spend all day sketching. I have so many ideas, I just need to work them out. But it's all for nothing if I don't have you." Tyler's red, puffy eyes survey his destroyed paints and canvases. The dust sits on them from weeks without use.
"You need to grow up. You need to stop partying every night and get some focus." She rushes through the criticism, saying it out of duty.
"I love you, Rachel." Tyler flips through an empty sketchbook as if he needs to escape her skeptical blue eyes.
Rachel sniffles faintly. The static on the line expresses her reply. After a long moment, she regains her calm. "I used to love you. When you had inspiration and talent. Now..."
"I'm nothing to you unless I paint." Tyler stops crying. His anger and confusion dissipate, leaving behind a sick emptiness. He suddenly feels older. His body shakes violently, like a cold beggar on a winter evening with nothing for warmth but a dark alley corner.
"I'm sorry. I'll call another time about my things." Rachel hangs up, proud to have ended the conversation on her terms.
Tyler slumps back against the wall next to his workbench. His puffy eyes widen, blurring any painful focus of his shattered apartment, or the cold November day outside. The bare trees, streaked with icy rain, are black against the foggy sky, quickly sketched.