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“So, you do eat. I was beginning to wonder.”
I’d said that jokingly, but his expression was serious as he said, “I um…I have a lot of issues when it comes to food. This is the only thing I eat, actually.” Before I could ask questions, he hoisted the backpack onto his shoulder and said, “We’d better get going. I don’t want to be late.”
I carried the tackle box for him, and we left the hell of his building and emerged back out onto the hell of the sidewalk. He visibly relaxed only when he was out of his neighborhood.
We rode another bus across town, and then I watched as another transformation came over Austin. As we walked onto Sutherlin’s campus, his whole demeanor changed. He seemed younger, almost buoyant, as his pace increased and his body realigned subtly, standing up straighter, his shoulders back. As if he was in his element. As if he was home.
“Shouldn’t we be covering up these handcuffs?” I asked. We’d employed the fleece jacket method on public transit, but he was holding the jacket in his hand now, making no effort to disguise the fact that we were chained together.
He glanced at me with a sparkle in his eye. “This is art school, Charlie. Almost no one’s going to bat an eye at something like this. And if they do, we can just claim it’s performance art or something. Let me do the talking.”
“Fine by me.”
When we reached the door of a large studio, he paused and looked up at me. “One thing. Call me Christopher Robin.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s my real name,” he said with a little grin, and pushed the door open.
Several students greeted him as we cut through the large, sunny space to an easel on the far side of the room. “Hey C.R.,” a Goth girl called out. A dozen piercings sparkled from her lips, her nose, her eyebrows. “What’s with the cute brunette?”
Most of the students turned toward us to hear the answer. And Austin – make that Christopher Robin (!) – replied, “This is my friend Charlie. He’s a student at S.F. State, and he’s doing a project for his psychology class. It’s about empathy, about polar opposites – a jock and an art student – learning to see the world through each other’s eyes. We’re spending forty eight hours chained together for his experiment.”
He was one smooth liar, he hadn’t missed a beat. And every single person in the room bought that explanation, a couple of them saying, “oh” and, “that’s cool.”
A woman in a paint-covered smock came up to us. She was slightly older than the rest, and she asked, “Are you going to be able to paint like that, Christopher Robin?” I realized this must be his teacher.
“I think so, Sandra. Charlie will need to cooperate with me in order for this to be successful, so it’ll be an excellent lesson in teamwork.” She nodded at this and crossed the room to speak to another student.
He dragged a stool over for me and set it beside his, and as he pulled things out of the tackle box I whispered with a grin, “Thanks for portraying me as a dumb jock.”
“I never said dumb. And I think they bought the school project excuse.”
“Of course they did. It’s almost scary what a good liar you are.”
“I lie for a living,” he whispered back. “I mean, think about it. How many disgusting old men have I had to lie to over the years, convincing them they were sexy, desirable? Convincing them I didn’t hate every single thing they were doing to me?”
“That’s sad.”
“That’s life,” he shrugged.
I whispered as quietly as I could, “Why do you work as a prostitute, Austin?” I corrected myself and amended, “I mean, Christopher Robin?”
“Long story. Someday, maybe I’ll regale you with the tragic tale of Christopher Robin Andrews, hooker and lost boy. But today,” he said with a grin as he set up his art supplies, “is not that day.”
He settled down on his stool as a young woman in a robe took the small stage in the center of the room, arranging herself carefully on the wooden chair. And I whispered, “Oh no, don’t tell me this is a—” she dropped the robe, exposing every inch of her body, and I blushed furiously as I said, “life drawing class.” I quickly looked away from the model.
“Close. Life painting.” Christopher Robin carefully removed a white drape from the canvas on his easel. And I actually gasped. The painting was nearly complete, and it was absolutely stunning. It was photorealistic, rendered in exquisite detail. Even a dolt like me that knew absolutely nothing about art knew that this was something absolutely extraordinary. I looked at the model again, and looked at the painting. And I saw how he’d perfectly captured the woman’s expression, including a bit of melancholy that I hadn’t seen in her at first.
