Under the Influence Read Free Page A

way, but she had the kind of face that people notice: large eyes, big mouth, and when she spoke she moved her arms like a dancer; the arms were long and lean, with every muscle defined as rope. She wore oversize silver rings on the fingers of both hands, and a thick silver bracelet that wrapped around her wrist like a handcuff. I could tell that if she were able to stand she’d be very tall—taller than her husband, probably. But even seated, you knew this was a powerful woman. That chair of hers was more like a throne.
    Occupied as I was that night with my trays of appetizers, I allowed myself to consider, briefly, what it would be like to experience this crowd from the low elevation she did—with her face reaching to around chest level of most of the people surrounding her. If this bothered her, she betrayed no sign. She sat very straight in her chair, and she held herself like a queen.
    I guessed that she was probably about fifteen years older than me, in her early fifties. Her husband—though he was in good shape, with taut skin and an abundance of hair—looked to be closer to sixty, whichturned out to be right. I remember thinking, I’d like to look like that woman when I’m older, though I knew I wouldn’t.
    For my day job at the time I worked as a portrait photographer, which was a fancy way of describing hours spent standing behind a camera—in schools, malls, event venues—trying to coax smiles out of bored-looking businesspeople and recalcitrant kids. The hours were long and the pay was low. Hence my occasional catering gigs. Still, I was pretty accurate in my assessment of faces, and I knew the story with mine. Small eyes. A nose that is neither large nor small, but lacking definition. My body has always been normal weight, but nothing to write home about. Going on from there to the rest of me—hands, feet, hair—I’d have to say there is not one memorable thing about my appearance—which may be why even people who’ve met me several times often forget that they have. This made it all the more surprising that of all the people she might have spoken to in the gallery that night, Ava chose me.
    I was circulating with a tray of spring rolls and Thai chicken skewers when she looked up from the canvas she was studying.
    â€œIf you were going to buy one of these artworks, knowing you’d be looking at it on your wall every day for the rest of your life,” she said, “which would you choose?”
    I stood there holding my tray as a blank-faced man (probably autistic) reached for his fourth or fifth skewer, dipping it into the peanut sauce, taking a large, messy bite, then dunking again. Some people might have been put off by this, but Ava was not that type. She dipped her spring roll into the bowl right after he did and finished the whole thing in a single bite.
    â€œIt’s a hard choice,” I said, looking around the gallery. There was a portrait of Lee Harvey Oswald, made on a piece of wood, with a long string of words written on the bottom that made about as much sense as a shopping list merged with your old chemistry textbook from high school. There was a sculpture of a pig covered in a bright pink glaze, withhalf a dozen smaller ceramic pigs, also bright pink, arranged around the pig as if suckling. There was a series of self-portraits of a large woman with bright orange hair and glasses—crudely done, but so successful in their evocation of their subject that I had spotted the artist immediately when she entered the room. The piece I liked best, though, I told Ava, was a painting of a boy pulling a wagon, which held a boy holding a similar but smaller wagon, with a dog in it.
    â€œYou’ve got a good eye,” she told me. “That’s the one I’m buying.”
    I looked down, too self-conscious to meet her gaze, though I had taken in the sight of her enough to know she was an extraordinary-looking person: that