Draw Me a Picture series, Book I - by Meredith Greene

~ Chapter One ~

The passing faces were always interesting to Michelle Gregory. Each day, a continuous crowd of people walked by her corner, a veritable lava flow of human beings. Most of them saw nothing but the quickest way to wherever they were going; some of the faces wore anger, others were worried. The majority, however, held a fixed expression of intense concentration. Since her move to the Big Apple, Michelle quickly learned that New Yorkers seldom smile, being completely immersed in their various occupations. At first Michelle wondered, naively, if the insane amount of stress that they embraced so willingly was worth the angst and insomnia. Three years later, she was convinced that the populace not only thrived on stress, but prided themselves in being able to do so.

Sitting quietly on her sidewalk-mat, Michelle shivered. At one time her coat had been thick and warm; lately, it was more patched on the back and shoulders. The biting Fall air spoke strongly of its intention to surrender to Winter. As intimidating the thought of freezing rain, icy winds and snow, Michelle knew she was one of the lucky ones... she was not truly homeless. Selling her drawings on the busy, Midtown corner enabled Michelle to purchase food and the necessary hygienic supplies.

Two years had come and gone since she was fired and blacklisted by the prominent Johnson & Black Accounting Firm; despite visiting the unemployment office frequently, no other firm would hire the overly-moral CPA from Colorado, despite her extensive knowledge of tax law. Her ‘ethical issues’, as her previous supervisor had put it, interfered with the firms’ normal routine of pulling illegal strings, which allowed certain large clients to get away with hundreds of thousands of dollars in taxes they rightfully owed. Michelle’s moral stand had cost her everything: her income, her dignity and even her beloved loft, a place she’d come to call ‘home’.

“Here I sit,” Michelle thought, grimly.

Memories of her short financial ‘career’ were still unwelcome. Drawing was the only other marketable talent she possessed; she found herself 'overly qualified' for every menial job she applied for; there was already a veritable glut of dishwashers and waitresses. However, people did buy her $5 portraits and caricatures, to the extent that she was able to support herself, to a degree.

Each day, Michelle hid away her pride and trekked the eleven blocks from her hotel to sit, sketch and sell her pictures. The most popular items among the locals were funny caricatures of Mayor Bloomberg, and other political figures; tourists, on the other hand, favored her renderings of the Brooklyn Bridge and Empire State Building. Each sale added to the small pile of folded bills kept in a shoe box in the hotel room. Coming back home with just $20 was a good day.

At least housing was not a problem, like for so many others whom tried to make it in this city. Shortly after Michelle was sacked a friendly ex-co-worker called, discreetly giving her the phone-number of a Mr. Jason Chan. Michelle was in a near panic at the time, finding the job market so hostile, so she called; Mr. Chan turned out to be the manager of the prestigious Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, whom was under pressure to shave his budget. He explained his intention to drop the hotel’s pricey accounting firm and go with a far cheaper one, with just partial audit insurance. He just wanted her to comb through the books and make sure all was in order prior to the transfer. Michelle dove into the piles of paperwork and software with a sort of ‘desperation’ to prove herself.

The experience was actually therapeutic; it reminded Michelle that she was actually talented with mazes of numbers. Her work allowed Mr. Chan to save more than he’d hoped for. The fear of IRS scrutiny gone, the manager agreed to Michelle’s bargain: in exchange for keeping a watch for audit flags, she insisted on a free room, with laundry services included. Michelle’s apartment lease was up and housing was the most precious of commodities.

Sitting on the chilly street corner, Michelle looked over at her display of portraits and wondered what her parents would have thought about their daughter vending sketches in order to eat. If they were still alive that is. Her mother would have wanted her to move back in; her father would joke about getting the Stanford tuition money back.

Tears brimmed in Michelle’s eyes at the thought of them; it had been four years since a car accident had taken their lives. Time did little to heal the void they left. Even moving to New York had not chased away the ache in her soul; they were her only family in the United States. There were some distant family relatives in Scotland, but Michelle had never met them. She did have an uncle, her father’s brother, but he was very ‘eccentric’, always sailing around the world or holed up in some little-known country, often disappearing for years on end. He had not responded when Michelle sent news of her parents’ death; she feared that he was dead as well, or worse, that he didn’t care. Amid the millions of people in the city that never sleeps, Michelle felt completely alone.

A sharp beep brought Michelle back to reality; glancing down at her watch, she smiled. 12:05. Sitting up, she eagerly searched the oncoming lunch crowd for a particular face, one with brilliant blue eyes. Sequestered beneath Michelle’s bed at the hotel, inside her art portfolio, was a portrait... one lovingly crafted. It portrayed a handsome man in his early thirties, with a strong jaw, merry eyes and a downright gorgeous smile. The man’s face reminded Michelle of how one of the Knights of the Round Table must have looked, minus the beard, possible fleas and hygienic issues. When she was drawing it, Michelle was amazed at how the lines seemed to drip right from her pen onto the thick paper, as if they had a mind of their own. Each night, she took the portrait out and allowed herself a moment’s gaze and a wistful smile before putting it away again.

The object of Michelle’s secret portrait actually existed; he that walked by her little corner every day, at exactly 12:06. Even on weekends. His routine appeared to be everything to him, like so many of the other passers-by. It was the thing which made Michelle take notice of him in the first place. He was never late. Always he was immaculately dressed in tailored suits, with a variety of costly thick, wool overcoats; he was clearly well situated and independent. Dark blond, groomed hair set off his cobalt eyes nicely, and he was tall, right around six-foot by Michelle’s reckoning.

In spite of the stranger’s good looks, Michelle did not entertain romantic thoughts about him. At least, not until the day she saw him smile. Months earlier, a small child accidentally bumped into the man, interrupting his stride. Michelle watched as the scene unfolded, not seven feet away; brows gathered the man frowned down at the little urchin. A smile spread slowly over his face; his eyes shone like sapphires. Michelle stared at him; the stone mask of the no-nonsense businessman before her cracked and a ray of light shone through from some unearthly realm. Smiling, he was the most handsome man Michelle had ever laid eyes on; she was smitten. It was his smile that had inspired the portrait.

As she searched for his face in the crowds, Michelle reminded herself how futile it was to look and hope; once, in a mad moment of bravado she had actually toyed with the idea of falling into step with him and saying... something. Courage failed her. Later, she laughed at her own foolishness.

What would she say? “Want to go get some dinner?” Ha. Michelle imagined him looking at her askance, lifting an eyebrow or just walking away in disgust. Sure, her face and clothes were clean, but her bedraggled, worn attire was just one step above ‘waif’ especially compared to his severely neat, expensive clothes… not to mention her currently ‘unemployed’ situation. The very idea was unthinkable. Still, something compelled her to look for him each and every day; she could not help herself.

12:06. The face she sought appeared; the blue-eyed man was walking swiftly towards her, talking on a sleek cell-phone. Sitting straight, Michelle leaned forward as much as possible in order to hear his voice. Bits of conversation floated toward her through the other sounds of the street. He had a pleasant voice; masculine with a clear, British accent. He passed quickly and was soon lost in the moving crowd of walking suits, heading to wherever it was he went.

Michelle sighed heavily. For the few seconds she saw the blue-eyed man each day, she felt light. But, in his wake, her emotions shifted to more downcast feelings, accompanied by a tendency to pity herself. He was so strikingly good-looking, so poised and groomed; she imagined herself looking like the Little Match Girl… soot-ridden and sunken-eyed... lighting matches to keep herself warm.

“Ah, well...” she whispered, “Until tomorrow.”

After two years of selling her drawings out on the streets of Manhattan, Michelle had learned to embrace optimism. The alternative was depression; she saw daily examples of that in the lined faces of lost souls who shrouded themselves in alcoholism and misery. The sight of these rock-bottom-dwellers kept Michelle’s spirits up; there was a lot to be thankful for, even in her situation.

A middle-aged businessman in a dark suit passed by, glancing at one of the cartoons on Michelle’s display. He laughed and dug in his pocket for money. Taking the picture down from the display board, Michelle quickly wrapped it in brown paper and tied a length of twine around it before handing the package over. As the man walked away, Michelle smoothed and folded the precious bills, discreetly stowing them away in her sock.

It was a good day; she sketched five drawings and sold four. Eventually, the sunlight waned; Michelle stood in the fading light and folded her cardboard display. Adjusting her coat, she picked up the little rug, rolled it and pulled down the brim of her hat. It was not wise to be out after dark, not here. Stepping into the narrow river of people, Michelle joined them for the walk home, eleven blocks of familiar sights, smells and sounds.

The sharp tang of Chinese food and hot-pastrami filled the air. There were hot dogs and chestnuts for sale, too. It was time to pick up dinner. Working her way toward a fruit stand, Michelle exchanged a nod with the ancient Vietnamese woman sitting behind the rows of apples. The woman immediately picked up two apples and put them in a small sack; she knew Michelle by sight. Handing over the money, Michelle took her fruit with a smile. Down the block, there was a take-out window with excellent Chinese food. With today’s sales, she was able to get chow mien, broccoli beef and egg-rolls. It smelled sublime; Michelle hastened her step toward home. She couldn’t wait to sit down in her room and devour it.

The alley running behind the Waldorf teemed with people at all times of the day and night: kitchen assistants carrying bins of vegetables and fruit, bakery vans, carpet cleaners, linen delivery trucks and security. Michelle smiled as she spotted Samuel, a fatherly security guard she had come to know fairly well. From almost day one, the older man tended to look on Michelle as his responsibility.

“Miss Michelle,” he said, tipping his cap.

Michelle smiled at him.

“Sir Samuel... you are valiancy, itself,” she replied, shifting her packages in order to shake his hand. Laugh lines deepened around Samuel’s eyes as he returned her smile.

“I see you have Chinese tonight,” he commented, walking with Michelle to one of the back entrances; swiping his card, he opened the door for her. “Mabel was getting worried you weren’t eating enough.”

Michelle chuckled a little; she’d only met Samuel’s wife a few times, but was inclined to sit straight and click her heels when the stout, matronly woman was around. After just a few minutes, however, the severe woman’s initial stern facade melted and she’d fussed over Michelle like a mother hen. Once, the woman had Samuel bring her a care-basket, with canned food and such, but Michelle refused it; she had no kitchen to bake or cook and nowhere to store cans. Michelle did appreciate the thought and wrote a note saying so, sending it back, via her husband, along with a single rose (cut discreetly from the Waldorf garden courtyard). From then on, Mabel’s deliveries consisted of cookies with the occasional fresh loaf of bread.

“I have fruit today, too,” Michelle said, holding up her paper bag. “She needn’t worry. My parents taught me how to take care of myself.” Walking through the door, she turned back to Samuel. “Please tell her how I adored her raisin bread. It was simply delicious.”

Samuel nodded, looking wistful.

“I know.” he said, sadly. “She wouldn’t let me eat any of it; says it’s bad for my diet.” He patted his belly affectionately. “I may have been forced to commandeer a few slices.” he added, his eyes twinkling. Smiling, Michelle nodded goodbye; she chuckled all the way down the service hall.

The air grew in humidity and warmth as she neared the kitchens; walking forward in the dimly lit hallway faint scents of rosemary and garlic filled Michelle’s nostrils. A half-smile formed on her face at the familiar sound of the sous-chefs arguing. There was a loud clang and the head chef began screaming obscenities. It was one of the few moments Michelle was grateful for never taking French lessons, though she cloud guess what was being said. She stepped aside as two kitchen assistants darted by her, trying to escape the chef’s wrath. Ducking into the stairwell Michelle climbed quickly to the second floor.

The hotel’s cheapest rooms were small but still very pleasant; her room looked out over the top of the maintenance ‘shed’ onto the corner of the garden courtyard. As far as she knew, Michelle was the only permanent resident; she rarely saw anyone but the cleaning crews in her sector of the second floor. Not many people actually rented the tiny rooms, unless all others were full. Using her key card, Michelle let herself into her room; she let out a sigh as the door closed behind her. Her eye rested on the familiar things: the gray, Berber carpet, the bed in its elegant, deep-red linens, potted flowers growing by the open window, the diminutive antique table and the tall, cherry armoire. It was so good to be home.

Closing the window against the night, Michelle drew the curtain and began her nightly ritual: her battered boots were removed, wiped down, and placed carefully in the bottom of the armoire, her coat hung and the other clothing bundled into the laundry basket. Michelle’s tiny bathroom boasted a toilet, pedestal sink and a slender shower, one just big enough for someone like her to squeeze into; the big plus was the hotel’s boiler system: never-ending hot water. At the end of the day it was pure bliss just to stand under such cascading heat and let it wash away the grime of the street.

After her shower, Michelle dressed in dark green yoga pants, her Stanford sweatshirt and slippers; she put her wet hair back in a pony tail, picking up her key card and laundry. The second floor had a small laundry ‘room’ at the end of the hall, which was really a small, converted closet with a washer dryer, covered up by folding wooden doors. Checking the inside for clothes, Michelle set her wash going and walked back to her room, reveling in the quiet. “If I didn’t have to go outside to make money, I’d gladly make this my hermitage.” Michelle thought. The idea rather appealed; beside Oscar and Mabel, she really had no one to worry about, or anyone to worry about her. Here, at least, she had a small measure of secluded comfort.

Back in her hotel room, she turned on the miniature CD player adorning her night-table; it was one of the few things she hadn’t had to sell. Her flat screen TV had succumbed to the grasp of the local pawn shop long ago, but music she refused to be parted from. Soon, the lovely strains of Chopin’s Piano Concerto #2 filled the air and Michelle sat on the floor by the bed. Pulling out the leather portfolio from under it, Michelle sifted through the drawings inside; she held the 12:06 man’s portrait up as if it were a fragile thing. It did look like him; Michelle thought it was probably her best work. She’d managed to capture that radiant smile from nothing but memory.

Smiling, she slid the picture into the portfolio again, fastening up the silver buckles; Michelle held the briefcase a moment, inhaling the faint smell of leather. The portfolio had been a gift from her father on graduation day; the expensive charcoal pencils and fine pens inside from her mother. Somehow they knew she’d kept her passion for art, even amid the myriad tax classes and volumes of law. Looking at them, Michelle’s eyes misted; she put the portfolio away. Looking at the writing desk, Michelle smiled at the pictures of her family; photos of her parents on their wedding day, a picture of them smiling over her as a baby, a picture of her next to her Uncle Oscar, almost lost in the huge sombrero he had brought her from Mexico.

Standing, Michelle turned the music up slightly and glanced at the clock; her laundry would not be done for another twenty minutes. Looking around, she wished she had a teapot, or some kind of kettle. She missed tea; she missed a lot of things. Sighing, Michelle’s eye drifted to the unopened Chinese food on her desk. Smiling, she grasped it and sat down on the floor again; the spicy aroma cheered her up immensely. The egg rolls were especially good. Michelle ate, gladly abandoning the realm of self-pity and want.

Tossing the empty food containers away down the hallway garbage chute, Michelle caught a glimpse of a family checking into a room down the hall. The small boy and his parents were smiling, talking excitedly as they maneuvered their suitcases into the door; they looked happy. Michelle felt lighthearted just looking at them until the moment their door shut; the hall suddenly looked barren. Michelle went back into her room quickly. Loneliness had been her only companion for the last four years but she still resented its presence.

Lying in her bed an hour later, Michelle listened to the slow jangling of a janitor’s cart as it passed. In the distance, an ambulance siren rang out over the never-ending sounds of cars.

“I am lonely,” she whispered into the dark. She felt it so acutely it was almost painful. Michelle thought briefly of the 12:06 man, of his cerulean eyes and brilliant smile. “...and, I’m a coward,” she admitted, smiling to herself.

There had to be a way to signal the blue-eyed man she so admired, to let him know she existed; a subtle way, one that did not require heroics. She would give almost anything to see him smile at her. Peering over the edge of her bed, Michelle could just make out the portfolio. Perhaps it was time to let her portrait see the light of day. “It’s worth a shot.” she murmured; she was tired of being lonely. She was tired of merely existing. Lying back on her pillow, Michelle smiled as Sleep danced its slow steps around her room.