Page 29 of What I Should've Said

“I’ve been trying to find one,” I hedge.

This assistant conversation started a year ago, and I sort of attempted to follow through. Though, I wouldn’t say I’ve kept up any sort of effort since. It’s not my fault everyone I interviewed was insufferable.

“Putting up some stupid flyer and making people go through the strangest interview process I’ve ever heard of doesn’t count as trying,” she counters on a sigh. “You and I both know you haven’t hired anyone because you don’t want to. Which is why you don’t have to do anything now, because I’m sending you someone. Fully vetted. Ready to go.”

“What?”

“His name is Paul. He’s a graduate from Harvard and has his master’s in Art History. He is the perfect candidate.”

I furrow my brow. “He sounds boring.”

“Well, you’re not going to be paying him to entertain you. He’s there to do all of your boring work shit that I no longer have time to do. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me,” she continues championing Paul like he’s some kind of golden-assistant-man-boy. “Plus, he’s willing to move to Red Bridge—”

“No. That is not going to work. I’m not having some bumbling stranger lurking around my house…around Summer. No way.”

“I’m not sure if you know this, but in order for an assistant to assist you, they have to be with you.”

“I don’t give a shit. It’s not happening, Breeze. Find another solution.”

“There are no other options. You need an assistant. You need someone who can handle all the daily calls that come in related to your work. Someone who can manage your email. Someone who can continue your online presence.”

“What online presence?”

“Your website and Instagram and—”

“What the fuck? I have an Instagram?”

“God, you are so clueless.” She sighs. “Thankfully, Paul isn’t. He’ll be there—”

“Nope,” I cut her off before she can try to finalize this crazy bullshit. “Not happening. If you’re so hell-bent on me having an assistant, then I’ll hire one myself.”

“We already tried that route.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to try it again.” The line goes quiet. “Do not send anyone here, Breezy,” I add. “I mean it. I won’t play nice.”

“You are so frustrating!” she bellows on a groan.

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

She huffs and puffs her irritation into the phone. “Fine. But this is on a short timeline, and if nothing happens, I’m sending Paul.”

“Breezy, enough.”

There’s a small pause—just long enough for her to consider my tone of voice and the seriousness in it before moving on. “Yesterday, I had a phone call with the curator for MoMA. They want to showcase some of your pieces, but they need your permission.”

“Well, they’re not going to get it.”

“Bennett.” She sighs again. “You can’t spend the rest of your life creating art that you don’t show to anyone.”

“Says who?”

“Says everyone,” she responds with a tight edge to her voice. “Every day, I’m fielding calls from people who are desperate to get a Bennett Bishop hanging on their wall, and yet I can’t sell them anything, even though our gallery represents you, because you’re on some kind of small-town sabbatical and have become absolutely impossible.”

“A sabbatical insinuates that I’m planning to come back. And I am. I just need time.”

She lets out an irritated breath. “Are you really going to sit here and tell me to tell the curator from MoMA that you refuse permission to showcase your art in one of the world’s most coveted museums?”

“Yes. Plus, I’d like to remind you they already have some of my pieces on display,” I answer. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have errands to run, shit to do.”

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