The Gallery
An excerpt from the novella
Alan steadied himself atop a wobbly stepladder as Coco spoke about love. Among other things, she was a reliable conversationalist, and whenever he was called upon to unclog a sink or seal a leak, she would fill the air with smoke and hard-learned life lessons until his work was complete. While the other tenants were grateful to him, some more than others, Coco always treated Alan like a friend, not the flophouse maintenance man he was. But accustomed to a transactional life, she never failed to offer something in return for his efforts, though they both knew she had nothing to give. It was his job, he would remind her, to care for the home she and the thirty or so other lodgers shared, and the only gratuity he was willing to accept was her company, which he genuinely enjoyed. No matter what she needed, it was always a welcome break from spackling damaged walls and mopping floors, to say nothing of listening to what all the transients ambling through the building had to say. Coco never complained and never pestered him about small tasks; the flickering overhead light bulb he was called upon to change had needed attention for weeks. It was for that reason, along with her unique anecdotes, that she always earned a same-day turnaround. The topics they discussed were always of her choosing, and on that particular evening, it was love. Her question to Alan was if he had ever known it.
“And when I say love, baby, I mean real love. There are different kinds,” she informed him. “People get them mixed up, which is probably why we got all these problems in the world. And they’re not all equal, you see. It took me fifty-,” she paused before continuing, “forty-some years to figure it out.” Coco’s wisdom was something Alan trusted, though any reference she made to her age could not be believed. She was sixty-five if she was a day.
First, she told him there was physical love, the type she was used to—temporary, sometimes laborious, and, with any luck, lucrative. Then came friendly and familial love, with which Alan admitted to having little experience. Unrequited love was suffering, she said, but it was not without its benefits, often leading to self-improvement. And most widely on display was what she called everyday love; this was usually the product of deliberate pursuit.
“Too many people settle,” she declared. “A means to an end. What for? Marriage? Children, God forbid? Most folks I see are eager not to find the right mate but to end the search and snuff out that nagging loneliness they think is what’s wrong with their lives. Mind you, I’m not judging. I’ve worn those shoes myself, and let me tell you, they’re not as comfortable as you would hope.” In the brief, spinning red light of a passing police car, Coco lit a cigarette, pausing to enjoy the exhale and to wait for a siren to fade before continuing.
“But real love, now, is something many will claim to have found, but really, most of those poor suckers have never and will never experience it. What I’m talking about is far beyond desire, companionship, or those warm and tingly feelings everyone likes so much. Real love is a state of being. I’m talking deep connections, Al, not just on the surface. When everything beyond the physical realm works in our favor, drawing two souls together, the result is truly eternal. That is the kind of love I’m asking you about, sugar. So tell me.” She extended her legs, one at a time, tugging her hose taut, then rotated the bracelets on her wrist, stopping to study the condition of her fingernail polish before glancing up for a response.
“Honestly, I never thought about it. Too busy,” Alan replied. “But I’ll take your word for it.” The light fell to half, and Alan stepped down with the faulty cylinder bulb; he took his time going back up with its replacement. “I’ve known women in the past, and I will know more, I’m sure, but I don’t really need all that love stuff. And I’m surprised to hear you talk—”
“Don’t you finish that sentence,” she warned. “If you think an old streetwalker like me can’t know love, you got a lot more to learn than I thought. I assure you, I only ever speak from experience.” She shook a finger at him and waved his attention back to the light. “Yes, I have known it. I have known it well. But that’s another story for another day. This is about you. I sense you’re on the verge of experiencing it yourself.” She held her eyes closed for a moment as if to see better. “Yes, very soon.” Coco took note of a faint scoff above her. “I used to read cards and palms on Astor Place between tricks. I know what I’m talking about, thank you very much.”
Now uncomfortable with the subject, Alan asked if he could hear more about her fortune-telling days, a request she dismissed to her ever-growing collection of stories for future telling. Suddenly, her voice shifted to a lower register, and she spoke slowly with a hint of a whisper; it was difficult to know if her words were intended to be predictive, cautionary, or both. She held the smoldering cigarette away from her face and gazed across the room at nothing in particular while informing him that the universe would soon make its move. Her mystic, otherworldly tone caught him off guard. It never occurred to him that a hooker could be so transcendentally enlightened.
“Let it happen, Al,” she advised. “Real love finds you, not the other way around. And when it does, for better or worse, you’ll become an entirely new man.”
With the light restored, Alan looked down at the motionless woman. He might have smirked at her words, but he couldn’t help but wonder if she truly saw things that others couldn’t. Nonetheless, he didn’t want to be a new man; he liked the man he was. What he told her was true—love was not something he thought about; it was never a goal or even a fantasy. There had been women before, as he told her, mainly no-strings physical encounters he hoped he would never see again. As far as Alan was concerned, love of any variety was inconsequential.
Coco’s prediction would, of course, come true.
Tessa was everything Alan never knew he needed. Almost immediately after they met, he found that all he wanted to do was make room in his life for her. He often forgot about himself and was far more concerned with pleasing, protecting, and supporting her. Together they fit snugly and perfectly, like puzzle pieces, engaged in a conversation that often needed no words or even looks. As the old prostitute predicted, not only had real love found him when he wasn’t looking for it, but he had become a new man—confident, secure in himself, and open to all manner of joys.
What Coco either failed to see or purposely withheld about his so-called real love was that it wasn’t forever, and its end would all but destroy him. Tessa’s departure, like her arrival, was not his to control. Once she left, the new man he had become—the man she had helped him discover—also disappeared, erased in one cruel stroke; gone too were trust, comfort, and reason. He could no more remain the man real love had created than return to the man he was before it found him. Everything from then on would exist in a desolate state of after-love. Alan would have to become yet another new man. Until then, he would be a stranger even to himself.
