Chapter One: We Are the Sleepyheads

Will

So I’ve been trying to get this painting right lately. Everytime I try, though, it never turns out quite the way I want it to. See, I had this dream—it started out pretty normal, just me walking down this random street in New York, and it was raining; a gentle mist, really, very light. I don’t know how long I walked until I heard it. It was a single violin, and it was playing something sad and sweet, something soft soothing. So dream-me stopped walking and turned towards the source of this music and I saw this girl with long, curly dark hair playing a violin. Her eyes were closed and her posture was completely relaxed, like the music was melting her, and I watched her body sway very subtly as she played. People were walking past her, not even paying attention, and yet she still played on. It was vivid—I could see everything—the drops of rain misting on her violin, her pale skin shimmering and rippling, her pink lips curling up into a very kind-looking smile.

I woke up at 3:26 am and sketched until my fingers ached. But her face remains a white space because I can’t get that emotion down—that look of utter and complete inner peace, that simple smile.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a shitty painter.

But life hasn’t been too good lately. Every job I find I get fired from for not meeting deadlines or getting into fights, and I can’t get this damn painting done, so I’m bringing in practically no money. I guess I fit the stereotype of the starving artist—barely scrapping by, eating ramen and cereal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So I’m skinny as hell and I always stay up too late staring at that painting, so I have purple bags under my eyes.

That’s what I’m doing now, just staring at her. She’s wearing a loose tank-top with a scant inch of belly exposed; a fluttery, light skirt hangs around her knees. Everything about her is so relaxed, so warm, so I made her clothes too big; but you can see the skinniness of her body as the sun hits her and lights her up. Her face is a white canvas and it bugs me—my fingers twitch around the pencil I’m holding loosely in my hand, wanting to fill in that empty space with the girl’s peaceful, simple smile. Closed eyes with long, shadowy lashes; high, aristocratic cheekbones; a long, narrow nose… I have it in my head, but it’s refusing to come out onto this sketch. I haven’t even started with the painting—it’s a messy, light sketch that I’ve done in just a few days.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair—my fingers catch on tangles and irritably I tug until I’ve combed through them all. I’ve been too preoccupied to care about brushing my hair.

Which reminds me—a shower would be nice.

I sigh once more, standing slowly from my cheap, fold-out chair. My knees crack, and I cringe; I can’t believe I’ve been lounging around sulking in a pair of dirty boxers for three days, eating ramen and staring at a stupid picture.

I’m letting this girl destroy me and she doesn’t even have a face.

I turn my back to the large, white paper that holds the faceless girl with the violin and make my way to my dingy, dark bathroom. I don’t turn on the lights since the small room is completely lit up by the morning light that is currently shining in my eyes. I quickly strip out of my boxers and turn on the water; and I step inside immediately because the hot water disappears fast and I hate taking cold showers. After I shampoo and condition my blue hair (I really need to redye it), I scrub furiously at my skin, trying to get the permanent smell of paint and wood off of me, but no matter how much I wash that scent is always there. It’s not really a bad smell—some of my past girlfriends loved to just press their faces into my neck and just inhale. I’d just like something different for a change.

Resigned to my fat I cease my futile washing and simply stand there for a few moments, letting the water shower over my shoulders and down my chest. My hair falls over my eyes in wet, long curls, soft and slick now from the shampoo and conditioner, but still smells faintly of paint and crisp paper. I don’t know how long I just stand there in the shower, but the water is fucking freezing when I finally get out. I towel my hair dry, and I am running a comb through my hair when I hear a knock on my door. I pause, a bit surprised, since no one ever comes to my apartment since I don’t really have anything to do here and I’m always low on food. The knock comes again, louder, more persistent, so I wrap a towel around my hips and shift my way through the shit that is my living room (more like a room filled with papers and empty cans of beer) and open the door quickly before the person can knock again.

“Oh, it’s you,” I greet before he can say anything. “Hey, Nix.”

“Hey, man!” he replies enthusiastically, not making any move to enter my abode. Not much room for two fully grown men anyway. “Hey, I got a favor to ask. You know how Anna and I were gonna go to that concert? Of that Asian, skinny chick?”

I don’t say anything, already knowing where this is going.

“Well, Anna got sick so I have an extra ticket and I’d just hate to let it go to waste…”

Anna is Nix’s girlfriend of a year or so, and is a tiny, pale girl that dresses Bohemian without the tortured artist persona to go with it. Frankly I don’t care much for Anna, and I really don’t like being a back-up plan for Nix. But…it’s not like I’m doing anything else, other than staring at NO-face and bingeing on ramen.

I sigh, and Nix grins, knowing me well enough to realize this means yes.

“Sweet, dude. You know, Anna loves this violinist’s music, but I just wanted to go ‘cause, seriously, this chick is the epitome of sexiness. She’s like this Asian beauty…”

Sometimes Nix forgets he has a girlfriend.

“…get a shirt on, for fuck’s sake! No one wants to see that!”

I blink, looking at him as his mocking voice brings me back to Earth. Nix is a pretty handsome guy I guess, so I don’t understand why he had to tie himself down to a plain, pasty girl like Anna. Nix was sort of a swinger before he met Anna at a music store. She was holding a Belle and Sebastian CD and was observing the newest Amanda Palmer one in the other. I may not like her much, but her tastes in music are exceptional.

“Did you hear me, Willy? Get some clothes—preferably nice-looking. The concert starts in, like, an hour and we’ve gotta take the subway and then we gotta find the theater…”

I stare at him, my face blank. “You’re telling me this is a…formal concert?” I ask, clenching my teeth in growing irritation.

Nix looks apologetic. “Sorry, man. But, c’mon—it’s a chance to get out and have fun, maybe you’re score a couple of chicks!”

I’m still staring. “You expect me to go to a formal orchestra concert of one of the most famous violinists in the world…with blue hair.”

Nix pauses, seeing the problem. “…wear a hat?” he suggests lamely.

“Nix, you’re a fuckwit.”

I slam the door on his face, then shuffle away, shaking my accursed hair so it will dry faster. I know Nix is still standing there, most likely calling Anna on his cellphone to see how she’s doing, also to inform her that her ticket shall not go to waste. Anna is a fucking Nazi with money, but you can’t exactly blame her—her and Nix are moving in with each other soon, so they have to be careful with expenses. I go into my room, shifting through my drawers to find something moderately dressy. After a few minutes I find some black slacks and a blue polo—I nod to myself. I guess this will suffice. I drop the towel and pull on all of my clothes, grabbing a hairtie from my bedside table to make my thousand-strands-of-trouble presentable. I glance at myself in the mirror as I rush by—pretty good for a five-minute throw-together. I try to smooth the creases from my shirt as I open the door.

Nix is, as I guessed, on the phone with Anna.

“…hey, you’re gonna be fine, all right? Just stay in bed and get lots of fluids. Trust me! Yeah, Will’s gonna go—we’re gonna have a great time! I know, I know—under fifty bucks if possible. Love you, babe.” He snaps the phone shut and gives me a once over. “Eh, good enough,” he allows. “Don’t feel too bad about your hair, man—I bet once you get there you’ll see a bunch of people with green, purple, pink, or blue hair.”
“I bet, Mr. Optimistic,” I say sardonically. “’Course, that’s easy for you to say, since you have nice, respectable brown hair. No one looks at you twice—“ which is not true in the slightest bit, since Nix has the uncanny ability to make anyone of the female persuasion swoon, “—but me? I’m the tall skinny kid with the blue hair.” I lack the aforementioned ability, just like most of males seem to do.

“I thought you dyed your hair to separate yourself from the conformists and be a nonconformist.”

“You know there’s no such thing as a nonconformist. You know that,” I reply tiredly. “Look, let’s just go, all right? I wanna at least make it there on time. Okay?”

“All right,” Nix says as I turn to lock the door. “Man… Life’s been biting you in the ass lately, hasn’t it? You’re usually ‘Mr. Optimistic’.”

“Yeah, well… Life sucks, then you die,” I reply in a singsong voice, turning back around to look at Nix, who is currently looking very perplexed. I can’t help but chuckle a bit. Maybe going out and getting laid is a good idea. “C’mon, you dumbshit, let’s go. I wanna see this Asian beauty.”