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Starving, 1994

In 1991, Becca moved to East Ninety-ninth Street in Spanish Harlem. On the weekends she walked Central Park to breathe in something other than bus fumes and turpentine. She did not graduate from the School of Visual Arts, but dropped out three credits short. If you asked Becca why and she liked you enough to tell you the truth, she’d say, “Degrees don’t matter. Jealous egomaniacal professors make students jump through hoops, and for what? For what? So you can get some job working for some advertising firm after you graduate, doing what you never wanted to do in the first place, or so you can kiss so much ass trying to get your work seen and get so wrapped up in so much bureaucratic bullshit that you forget why you started painting in the first place?” That’s what Becca would say if she liked you. That’s what she explained to her mother.

Becca stopped taking her father’s money and took the subway to and from a full-time job at the Corner Drugstore on Fifty-seventh Street. She worked days as a cashier, catching the grimy coins tossed across the narrow countertop. She said, “Have a nice day,” and sold Fleet enemas and candy bars and cigarettes. She wore a blue smock with a name tag, REBECCA embossed with a plastic label maker. At the beginning of each shift, she used the handydandy label maker to give herself a new identity, like CATHERINE for Catherine the Great. Her manager, Spencer, who took his job far too seriously, told her, “It has to be your real name. You’re not ‘Joan of Arc’ or ‘Catherine the Great.’” Becca didn’t care. He could fire her. She could get another low-paying job.

At night, she painted in her one-bedroom apartment and listened to her neighbors, Jose and Maria, shout at each other and their two kids. She couldn’t imagine four people living in a space not much bigger than the space she occupied.

She kept in touch with Jack and Lucy, but neither of them came to visit. (“Spanish Harlem,” they said, “is a little too close to the Harlem, and a little too scary all on its own—what with all the Latinos and the gangs and those bandannas they wear. And what’s with those creepy Jesus candles they sell in the bodegas?”) Mostly, they just spoke on the phone. Lucy still got bit acting parts. Things hadn’t worked out as well as she’d anticipated with Johnny Depp. Her speaking role got turned into a nonspeaking role, and she didn’t get to spray him with cologne. Jack was still happy about not living in Newark. He still worked at Macy’s with Paulo, who made a habit of visiting Becca Burke. Paulo latched on to the talented whenever possible.

Her paintings sold. For a pittance, much of the time, but they sold. To Paulo, Becca was the quintessential starving artist. He said, “If my father were rich, I’d take him for every penny he’s worth. You should absolutely do that. You should consider what he owes you.”

Sometimes it was hard to talk to Paulo. She said, “I don’t want his money. He’s a liar.”

“All the more reason to take it.”

Her father called once a week to ask about her paintings and to offer money. Oftentimes she said, “I’m just on my way to work.” Oftentimes she lied. He asked if there was anything he could do to help. Her answer: “No.”

She telephoned her mother in Chapel Hill and said, “I don’t know how you ever put up with his shit. No wonder you drank.”

Her mother said, “I don’t know how I put up with him either.” Of course, Mary knew. She’d been in love with the man, and love is a scary thing. If not reciprocated, it can turn a person into a monster. Mary had recovered, but the wounds ran deep.

Each year, like clockwork, Becca showed her work at Sue’s in Soho. She wasn’t the star artist anymore; in fact, most years she was relegated to a back corner of Sue’s, where she could hang only a few paintings. Each year, she sold one or two, and Sue took fifty percent, but still, she was painting, and that’s what she wanted to do. That’s what she needed to do. Occasionally she saw Roderick Dweizer—the man who had given her her big break—but he was no longer interested in her paintings. She wasn’t painting fish anymore. Instead, she painted black men, dogs, old women, and hillside funerals. Not for him, but thank you.

Becca knew from eavesdropping at the gallery that there was a buyer from North Carolina who bought one of her paintings each year. She assumed it was Buckley R. Pitank, but there was no way to find out. Not without traveling to Wanchese, North Carolina, and she had no intention of leaving New York. Nor did Becca have fond memories of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Additionally, she didn’t really know Buckley R. Pitank.

Paulo said, “You should go. Take a vacation. He told you to look him up.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Yes you can. I’ll come with.”

Her father was in agreement. He knew Peggy at the Seaside Gallery. Becca should send Peggy some photos of her paintings. Becca didn’t want her father doing her any favors. “That’s okay, Dad.”

“But it’s about your paintings, Becca. It’s not about me. You should call her. She doesn’t take fifty percent. She takes thirty.”

Becca worked days at the Corner Drugstore. She painted at night. Life is good without waves.

Then Sue telephoned. “I’ve known you a long time, so I won’t beat around the bush: I don’t have the room this winter, Becca.”

“Not even for one?”

“I don’t want to seem harsh, but your paintings border on pastoral. There are all these farmlike images. I’m sorry. There’s the guy in North Carolina who we can count on to buy one, but to be honest, I don’t want the work in my space. It’s not worth the check. I’m sorry. You need to do something new. Something exciting. Do you remember Johnny Bosworth? He used to be my assistant.”

No response.

“He’s painting Russian prostitutes overlaid with fairy images. It’s fascinating. Remember Lightning Fish? That was fascinating.”

The next day at work, Becca’s manager, Spencer, said, “You took thirty-five minutes at lunch. You need to stay five minutes past six.” He was short and bossy, with mousy brown hair, a fat wife, and a fatter kid.

Fucking breeder. “I don’t need this,” she said.

“You don’t need what?”

“This!” She took off her smock. About to drop it on the counter, she remembered her name tag. This morning, she’d used the label maker, becoming WONDER WOMAN. She slipped the name tag into her pocket and stuffed the smock in Spencer’s hands. “I quit.”