Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66267 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
I mean…I gotta keep that sparkle in her eyes while I still can.
Chapter 5
Tucker
Our drive from the secluded lake house to a more suburban area begins with my unusual story yet transitions into an interesting discussion regarding doing things local to a particular area whenever possible versus super commercial.
“Look,” a heavy sigh hits the car floor boards, “just because my family owns one of the largest hotel chains in the world doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to appreciate the importance, the beauty, and the fun found in shopping at local establishments.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you weren’t,” June rushes to explain as she pulls up to another stoplight. “It’s just not what I was expecting to hear.” Her gaze cuts across to me. “Which is asinine in retrospect because anyone who spends more than ten minutes with you can see that you’re not just some hipster douche who covers himself in tattoos and uses terms like cubism with no clue to what they really mean. You speak what you know and what you’ve lived and what you believe. And of course, that means you’re all about local places. That’s true immersion into a new environment. Immersion that could easily be fused with your family’s hotel chain if they would be willing to showcase local artists in the lobbies versus boring commercial prints that they think reflect the taste of the nearest tax bracket.”
“Huh.” My frame angles itself to brace against the door. “That’s a brilliant idea.”
“What?” Panic pierces her stare right before she has to redirect her attention to driving. “No, it’s not.” Frantic headshakes begin next. “It’s a terrible idea. It’s a terrible idea specifically because I said it, and I never have good ideas. I mean maybe I do…but like no one ever hears them…or acknowledges them or asks for them so they’re probably really bad. So bad that I don’t say them out loud, which brings me to the question on why did I say that shit out loud?!”
Unsure of how to verbally approach her unraveling has me cautiously suggesting, “Because it’s a fantastic suggestion?”
“It’s not fantastic! It’s probably not even viable or good for branding!”
“Have you ever pitched the idea to my aunt?”
“Pitch?!” Haughty, sarcastic laughs are thrown in my direction. “You fucking high right now?! Did you really just ask me if I pitched an idea about something other than bikini print patterns to the one of the most respected women in the world in the art division of hospitality?” More headshakes cause her high ponytail to whip around. “Of course, I haven’t pitched that idea! I can’t even believe I said it in passing to you!”
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know! You just…make it so easy for shit to slip out!”
Keeping the double entendre to myself is difficult but not impossible.
“And maybe it’s because when I talk you actually listen versus ignoring me or seeing through me or around me or none of me…” The drop in volume and tone has my heart following suit. “I am…invisible for like 90% of my day…every day, so even if I had the balls to speak up…there’s no one around who wants to hear me.”
“I wanna hear you, June.” There’s no stopping desperation from seeping into my voice. “Every. Fucking. Syllable.” She thoughtlessly whimpers in response prompting me to playfully add. “And the sounds without the syllables too.”
This time she squeaks in outrage; however, it’s instantly short-lived due to her discovery. “Oh! There! There’s a local place!” Her abrupt cutting over in traffic has me momentarily clutching onto my seatbelt. “I don’t know if it’ll have cool stories, but I know they sell art supplies and that was the whole point of this trip.”
“It was a point of this trip.”
She shoots me a short questionable glare. “What?”
“Yeah, I prefer to shop local to support their economy, dynamics, and notability, but local shops are also where you hear about local street artists, which is the other shit I’m often after. Sometimes they only know those that are already popular – like Banksy – but other times they can tell you were to check out really gnarly, less well-known shit like the graffiti artist out in Texas that harbors a Van Gough hard-on.”
“Gnarly?” June jovially teases. “See, now you do sound like a hipster.”
“Fuck off,” I warmly laugh in return as she pulls into the parking lot.
What can only be identified as curiosity causes her to delve deeper into the subject. “Have you ever…met a street artist? Or…created street art?”
“Yeah.”
“Which?”
“Both.”
Shifting the car into park is swiftly followed by her turning to face me, excitement bouncing around her brown gaze so energetically, I prepare to do whatever it takes to keep it active. “Who was he-”
“She.”
“And where did you do it?”
Gonna guess she doesn’t mean where I banged my co-creator.