He woke up in the usual way, to a sloppy lick on the face from Calvin. Calvin Klein, a leggy and clumsy mongrel of a dog that Josh had picked up at a nearby shelter six months before. Daily make out sessions every morning weren't exactly what he had in mind when he brought Calvin into his SoHo loft. But dog breath aside, having a dog around the house proved to be more of a benefit to Josh than anything else. Having been deaf until getting his hearing back when he was six years old, the aspiring artist still retained his other heightened senses of smell, sight, hearing, and touch. He was still very sensitive to sound as well, noticing everything from Calvin's long tail thumping against the wood floor while Josh is still digging for his key on the other side of the door, to the subways rumbling beneath his sneakers long before anyone else can hear them coming.
The overpowering stimulus of Manhattan is exactly why Josh moved to the crowded city in the first place. Everything his peers and even long-time New Yorkers hated about it, Josh loved. They just couldn't appreciate the little experiences like he did. Spending six years of his life not hearing a sound turned him into a person who sought after nothing but balance. Anything too hot to the touch felt excruciating to him, and anything light turned on too quickly felt like the end of sight. The only thing he could truly tolerate was the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps. He had been able to hear for sixteen years but it still wasn't as good as that of someone born with the ability.
He loved to touch things. Anything he could get his hands on he would pick up, rub, or tap his fingers on. His hands were particularly sensitive, but not in the same anxiety-inducing way as his eyes. Unless it was extremely hot or frigidly cold, he wanted to make contact with it. Another little thing he had great appreciation for because of his heightened senses. Everything felt new to him, and so it helped having a companion like Calvin around. He thrived on Josh's attention, always begging for a pat on the head or placing his paw on his owner's knee when he was in the mood for a walk. Whether he was aware or not, Calvin Klein helped Joshua Demming slowly become desensitized to simple touches and sounds.
But this morning, like most mornings, Josh wasn't so sure that Calvin was oblivious to this unorthodox way of treatment. His licks were eager but gentle, only lasting until Josh's curious blue eyes fluttered open in the mid-morning sun shining through the windows of their shared bedroom. Calvin had his own bed on the floor, but he preferred stretching his long legs enough to take up more than half of the space on the bed of his human companion.
Josh grinned as he looked up at his furry roommate and then rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes and sat up. He ran his dry hands up his bare chest and through his light brown hair as Calvin hopped off the bed and sat patiently by the door. It was open, but this was part of his routine. He would sit by the door until Josh pulled was out of bed, and then the two of them would walk side-by-side into the kitchen.
The clock above the oven read 10:45 by the time Josh was out of the shower and ready to head off to class. The clock didn't have any numbers on it, actually, as he believed it took the urgency out of everyday life. But still, he knew by the general position of the hands that it was about time to get going. He bent down to kiss Calvin on the nose and then walked out the door.
All his life, Josh had been told that becoming a painter was a foolish goal to have. People told him that he was smart enough to be a surgeon or something more socially acceptable, and he told them that such careers would never be satisfying to him. So now he was a Fine Arts major at Parsons and living in a loft in the middle of SoHo with a mutt named Calvin Klein. He was poor, but he was happy.
The loft was a good size for the rent Josh paid to live there. One bedroom, one bathroom, a full kitchen, and a washer and dryer. He was amazed to find out that they allowed dogs, especially ones of Calvin's size. The walls of the loft where splattered with paint and covered with his paintings and framed photography and sketches; a drawing of Calvin was set up right above the dog's vacant bed in Josh's room. In the living room was a small television that the artist wasn't about to complain about. He had everything he could ever want, really: freedom to express his passion, a roof over his head, and a friend who never left his side. As far as he could tell, there wasn't anything else he really needed.
It was the first day of classes for the fall semester and he was looking forward to seeing all of the incoming freshmen. He enjoyed observing their astonished faces, eyes wide with the realization that this was the first day of the rest of their lives. He remembered the feeling vividly, being so determined to prove wrong everyone who ever said that he couldn't make it as an artist. He wished the best for these new students.
His first class wasn't actually until noon, but Josh couldn't cook to save his life, so he often chose to dine at Sarabeth's on Central Park South along with many other Parsons students. He could have went to the Starbucks right around the corner, but Sarabeth's was where his friend Tom always, believing it was better for picking up girls.
Josh agreed, the girls that came into that place where stunners, but they were more his type than Tom's. Josh liked girls who were smart and liked to talk about art as much as I did, and Tom was more into girls…and that's it. Pretty girls who came to New York with the hope of becoming Broadway actresses and fashion designers. That's not to say that those types of girls aren't smart, they just weren't Josh's type.
He spotted Tom sitting near the back of Sarabeth's and gave him a wave before ordering an orange juice and a spinach and goat cheese omelette.
"Hey, Tom," he said when he sat down across from his friend.
"Hey, Picasso."
Josh hardly gave the nickname a second thought. Tom was an Art, Media, and Technology major at Parsons with hopes of being a film director and didn't know the first thing about painters. Picasso was the only one that he knew, besides maybe Van Gogh, and so that became the nickname of choice. Josh would occasionally join in as well, referring to Tom as Stephen King or Alfred Hitchcock. He knew dozens of other filmmakers, but the two of them just happened to share a fondness for those two in particular.
"Any luck with the ladies this morning?" Josh asked.
"Hardly," Tom said. "All the women coming in this morning must be in their thirties."
"I thought you liked older women."
"Maybe when I was an innocent little freshman, young Joshua. But I am a grown man now. I don't exactly need to be shown around anymore, if you know what I mean."
Josh scoffed. He knew exactly what he meant, but Tom was anything but a grown man. His Peter Pan Syndrome wasn't quite as severe as his more artistically gifted friend, but he was the last person to even think about acting his age.
"I hear the freshmen girls this year are pretty hot," Tom continued.
"You know the last thing on my mind right now is trying to find pretty girls to hook up with," Josh said. "I have to focus on my painting hardcore this semester."
"You focus on your painting hardcore every semester. You're as good as they come. You've made your peace with the fact that you'll never be rich and I respect that one hundred percent, but come on, Josh. You're twenty-two years old and you should out at parties making out with those cute artsy girls that you're so into."
Josh shook his head. "It's just not my scene, you know that. If you're into a girl with an ugly best friend then I promise to double date and give you the pretty one. But I just don't have the time to go out and party with you, okay?"
They finished their breakfast and then Josh took off to class. He actually went out a lot, and Tom knew it, but he just wasn't as into the idea of staying out until the early hours of the morning. His idea of a good time was a classic movie marathon in his boxers with Calvin or hours spent painting away. He was a passionate artist, and art was all he knew.
Calvin's tail thumping against the floor beside his feet pulled Josh back to reality. He had been painting for – he checked the blank clock – about four hours. Not very long by his standards, but it was past midnight. Calvin was fast asleep, his wagging tail being the result of whatever it is that the crazy dog dreamt about. Josh rubbed his face and examined how far he had gotten. It wasn't much, actually, just a very detailed sunset that would eventually become the background for something more, but he was proud of it, he decided.
Quietly, he stepped his bare feet over Calvin and went into the bathroom to wash his face. He didn't really need to because there was no paint on his face, but it was just part of his routine. He liked to feel the warm water running down his hands and face, which he always kept clean shaven. If there was one thing he didn't like feeling, it was stubble. He couldn't stand the prickliness against his sensitive palms. He didn't even participate in No Shave November because he would just about panic at the first sign of a wiry hair.
Calvin was awake by the time Josh was pulling off his shirt and pants. He slept best in just his boxers, no matter the season. The cool sheets on his skin and Calvin's big head on his chest helped him find some of the balance that he was always on the lookout for. He loved that stupid dog, even though he hogged the bed.