A decade ago, I walked into Video Americain because a buddy of mine from highschool worked there. Inside, there was a man who would change my life, Adam. He worked at an art museum and at the video store, he's a musician and an amazing illustrator.
Our lives weaved about for a while and when I play the movie in my head, the contrast is off. Adjust the bunny ears. Static. Those horizontal interference lines moving down the screen to settle to the off contrast but that’s the best I’ll ever get. Standing on the street corner. Slightly drizzling. 2 AM. Four-inch shiny black calf boots. Jeans. The lucky fuck-me shirt. Dangling purse. Under the noire streetlamp, holding and wasted steadying with my fingertips. One foot inclines outward, relieving the weight on that leg. Across the street from his apartment. A three story dilapidated flaky quintessential city row house. Hazy heavy air. The light on the third floor is on. It’s the front apartment. Too drunk to realize that he lives in the back apartment, where the lights are off. call his home number. The sleepy, mumbled, fake, “hello?” my breathy response, “hello” and then *click.* And he turned off the ringer.
Innumerable calls, repeatedly. Confusing, pursed lips, wrinkled forehead. Turns to anger. The phone flies, breaks, but is still functional. I called so many more times. I walked two miles in the 4-inch heels, ruined them and I couldn’t figure out why my calves hurt so much in the morning. At home, sitting on the floor legs akimbo, sobbing. So hurt, rejected, sad, lonely. An old coworker called me the next morning to ask why I had called her fifteen times the night before.
Some time afterwards he started to write a comic about a telepath, Penelope. He would run ideas by me about what she might say and I'd help out in little ways. Four years ago, I left for California to break down to rebuild. He kept writing and then he started publishing.
The person who lived in that front apartment, the one whose light was on, that I drunkenly mistook; he died this summer. He and the Adam would watch each others' cats when on vacation and while they weren't very close anymore I thought that Adam would want to know that he had passed. After four years of radio-silence, we started talking again. He directed me to the comic A Typical Girl and asked me to help him write dialog. We've been collaborating since the middle of the second chapter.
While it's not a children's book, it is PG rated. While I'm not the final illustrator, I have sent some sketches for different bits and pieces... so I think it counts.
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