The Muse (3 page)

            “That's really how you feel?”
            “It is.  I got sick of all the trust fund kids, the spoiled brats, and the frat boys.  None of them are real.  Real is what I'm looking for.  I want to find someone who understands me, who shares my ambitions in life, who wants to walk hand-in-hand with me on my journey, not piggyback on me to make their journey easier.” 

            Gibson saw Faith differently for the first time.  She didn't seem as stuck-up and snobbish as she had seemed before.  She seemed a little more tangible and grounded than he had given her credit for.  She also seemed just as lonely as he was.  “You could date guys from this life and get the exact same thing,” he pointed out.  “Surely you realize that.”

            “True,” Faith said.  “But at least here there aren't as many phonies.  It's easier to weed out the insincerities.  Take you, for instance.  I'm almost 100% certain that you aren't trying to gain anything by talking to me right now.”

            Gibson laughed.  “To be honest, I didn't even
want
to talk to you to begin with.  You kind of roped me in.”

            Faith's eyes fell and her smile faded for a moment.  Gibson realized that he had hurt her feelings again.  He didn't understand why, but Faith wanted to talk to him.  He tried to recover quickly and grabbed her hand gently.  “Don't take offense to that.  I'm still standing here talking to you now because I want to.  You're a different girl than I imagined.  You've surprised me today.”

            “I think we will both walk away from this conversation surprised.  Yet, you've proven me right.  You are a different kind of man.  There's real substance to you.  I can see it.”

            Gibson nodded.  “I think there is more to you than meets the eye.  Since you mentioned Da Vinci earlier, I think it would only be fitting to compare you to one of his works.”

            “How so?” Faith said, intrigued.

            “Supplies were hard to come by in times past, and many of the great masters had to reuse canvases.  In fact, there are other paintings beneath the Mona Lisa.  There are layers, each one more mysterious than the one above it.  That seems to be the case with you.  I don't think I've scratched the surface with you.”

            “Ditto,” Faith said, absently glancing at her watch.  

            Gibson saw that the conversation was rapidly coming to a close, and he didn't want that.  His mind raced, searching for another topic of conversation, something to keep him here with her just a little bit longer.  It was strange how only a few minutes before he had wanted nothing more than to avoid her and now he was trying to find reasons to stay.   

            He heard the music before he ever saw the truck, and he immediately knew how to buy a little extra time.

            “I'm sure I've probably been more than a little rude to you before,” he said.  “And I think an apology is in order.  How about some ice cream?”

            Faith cocked an eyebrow as the ice cream truck rounded the corner and parked across the street.  It normally made a stop there every couple of days, and the timing couldn't have been more perfect.

            Gibson smiled, hoping that this would work.  “What kind do you like?”

            Faith laughed.  “Surprise me.  If you pick something I like, I'll forgive you for all of the times you've been rude to me.  If you pick something gross, you're still in the doghouse.”

            “You have to give me some sort of clue about what you like,” Gibson said.  “Otherwise, this isn't a fair challenge.”

            “Not my problem,” Faith said.  “You're a smart guy.  I'm sure you can figure it out.  Examine one of my many layers, Da Vinci, and see what you can come up with.”

            Gibson shrugged his shoulders and trotted over to the truck, not really sure what he was doing or why he was doing it.  All he knew was that this felt...different.

            The guy in the truck nodded at him as he approached.  “What can I get you?”

            Gibson frowned and clutched his chin, thinking.  “I don't really know,” he said.  “I'm supposed to guess what kind of ice cream the girl on the steps likes.  If I choose correctly, she will forgive me for not being the nicest guy around.  If I pick incorrectly, she gets to hold a grudge.”

            “Do you know anything about what she likes?”

            Gibson shook his head.  “Not really.”

            The guy in the truck smiled.  “Not a problem.  Just buy her one of everything and you can't lose.”

            “Spoken like a true salesman,” Gibson said.  

            “Correction,” the ice cream truck driver said.  “Spoken like a guy who knows how to amuse a woman.  If you can make a woman laugh, you can win her heart.  I've seen it over and over again.  Guys who normally wouldn't have a chance use their sense of humor to get in good with a girl, and before you know it, they're in love.  It's the craziest thing I've ever seen, but I'm telling you, that's the key.  Make her laugh.”

            Gibson thought about it for a moment.  He remembered the couple he had painted earlier in the day.  The guy was nothing special, but he had kept the girl laughing.  And obviously they were both very deeply in love.  Did he have it in him to make Faith laugh?  Why was he trying to impress Faith in the first place?  He had never had any similar ambitions before.  This was new.  But why now?  Why her?

            Maybe his subconscious knew better and he should listen to it.  Maybe this was his way out of the slump he had been in for so long.  There was no time like the present to see if such a thing were true.   

            Gibson made a snap decision and pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet.  “Will this cover it?”

            The guy in the ice cream truck smiled.  “Sure will.  Give me just a second.  I'm gonna help you out here.  I think I can make this moment extra special.”

            Gibson didn't know what the guy had planned but decided to humor him anyway.  The man was gone for a few minutes, rummaging around inside the truck, grumbling at times and laughing at others.  Eventually, he reappeared at the sales window and handed Gibson a bouquet of sorts made from all of the ice creams that he carried.  They were fastened together with ribbon and arranged so that they could all be carried together at once.  At a glance, he spotted a Rocket Pop, a Fudge Bar, a Dreamsicle, an ice cream sandwich, a Push Up, a Drumstick, and several other frozen treats.    

            “That's perfect,” Gibson said.  “I owe you one, man.”

            “Go get yourself out of trouble,” the guy told him.  “And remember, make her laugh.  You'll be thanking me later.”

            Gibson nodded and turned back toward Faith.  She was watching him expectantly, waiting to see what he was going to do.  He put the bouquet of ice cream bars behind his back and strolled casually over to her. 

            “Well, let's see how you did,” she said to him.  “Are you going to remain in the doghouse with me or will you get on my good side?”

            “A fair question,” Gibson admitted.  “You told me to surprise you.  If I could guess what kind of ice cream you like, I would score some major points and make up for all of the times I was rude to you.  So, here goes.”

            He presented the bouquet with a goofy grin on his face, and Faith erupted into laughter.  “That's cheating,” she said.  “You can't buy them all.”

            “That wasn't specified in the rules,” he protested.  “And look at the arrangement.  That has to count for something.”

            “This is too much,” she said, giggling.  “I don't know whether to eat it or throw it at a wedding.” 

            “There has to be at least one type of ice cream in all of these that you like.  So please tell me I accomplished my mission.”

            Faith nodded.  “Ok, ok, I guess you win with this.  But I'll let you in on a little secret.  There's not a single kind of ice cream I don't like.  You could have bought any type and been safe.”

            Gibson sat down on the steps beside her with a sigh.  “Now she tells me.”

            Carefully, he unwrapped the ribbon.  “Pick your poison,” he said.

            “Give me the Drumstick,” she said. 

            “An excellent choice,” Gibson said.  He gave Faith the Drumstick and chose an ice cream sandwich for himself.  They were just about to eat when he spotted a group of kids playing just down the block.  “Hang on a second,” he said.  Before Faith could respond, he trotted down to the end of the street and distributed the rest of the ice cream he had bought.  The kids all squealed with delight.  Gibson ran back quickly, taking a bite out of his ice cream sandwich.

            “That was very sweet of you,” Faith said.  “That was definitely a layer I haven't seen before.”

            “I'm not sure what's happened here today,” Gibson said.

            “Me neither to be honest.”

            “Normally, I've never wanted to get to know you.  I didn't really care if I got to know you today.  Then, we talked, something clicked, and now, I want to know all about you.”

            Faith nibbled on her ice cream, nodding.  “I feel the same way.  This is strange, huh?”

            “I'll say.”

            “You can meet a new friend in the strangest of places,” Faith said.

            Gibson froze in the middle of his next bite.  He forced himself to go ahead and eat some more of the ice cream, not wanting to show the small measure of disappointment he had felt.  Faith had just referred to him as a friend.  Of course, that wasn't such a bad thing.  Yet, he had gotten a different impression from her.  She had admitted to sitting on the steps specifically in hopes of running into him.  Was he reading the signs wrong?  He didn't think so.  Then again, he had never been that great at reading the signs to begin with.   

            At that moment, it would have been easy to lapse back into his old grouchy routine, but Gibson didn't feel like being in a bad mood anymore today.  Being near Faith changed all of that...even if she did just view him as a friend.

            “I am really sorry I've never been that nice to you,” Gibson said, feeling the need to say it once more time.

            Faith put her hand on his.  “Don't apologize again,” she said.  “The ice cream more than makes up for it.”

            Gibson was just about to say something else when Faith's phone buzzed in her jacket pocket.  She pulled it out and looked at it, frowning.  “I've gotta go, Rembrandt,” she said.  “I'll see you around.  Maybe the next time we talk will be on different terms.”

            “I guarantee it,” Gibson said. 

            Gibson watched her climb the steps and enter the building.  Although he couldn't explain why, he was a little bit sad to see her go. 

            He pushed the thought out of his mind and headed up to his apartment. 

            Like the building itself, the inside of Gibson’s apartment wasn’t anything special.  It was Spartan in its appearance.  A ratty couch positioned in front of an old television set.  A bed frame with a stained mattress.  Several stacks of canvases and a box full of paint supplies.  A kitchen with a sink full of unwashed dishes.  A scarred dining table and a few battered chairs.  Old green-and-yellow shag carpeting.  A bathroom with yellowed vinyl linoleum and a water-stained bathtub.  Light fixtures that looked like they might have been in style in the 1970's.  The only point of distinction differentiating Gibson’s apartment from the dozens like it in the building was the ceiling over Gibson’s bed.  In a fit of artistic frustration or inspired genius, Gibson had taken a bunch of art magazines, cut out his favorite images, and pasted the pages overhead so that all he saw while laying in bed was a collage of art from various painters.

            It was the one place in the house that felt like sanctuary, like solace, and Gibson went there, feeling both hopeful and despondent.  Rather than crawling into bed, he crashed on to it, stiff as a board, not even bothering to put his hands out to catch his fall.  He lay there for a moment, feeling confused, bewildered, excited, scared and even a little giddy.  With a sigh, he turned over onto his back and stared up at his own Sistine Chapel ceiling.             

            As he lay on the bed studying the glossy reproductions of Monet, Van Gogh, Raphael, Picasso, Dali, Kahlo, Goya, Gibson’s mind wandered.  He closed his eyes, and his mind conjured up images of Faith.  He could see her in his mind, and in the version of her engineered by his imagination, she was looking back at him, thinking about him, asking herself the same questions he was asking himself.  He wanted to believe she was just as surprised by their meeting as he was.  Although it seemed unlikely, he hoped that he was on her mind.  But why?  Did he really think this had the potential to go somewhere?  Did he think that Faith would give him more than a passing glance?  She had referred to him as a friend, and that quite likely, was the extent of where this would lead.  And yet...