JOHN RICH & THE BIG PICTURE ✏️ Chapter 17 - The Guggenheim Social
John Rich blinked up at the grey Brooklyn sky, and as the pain set in, the one thought that ran through his mind was my drawing hand.
“John! Shit…” Above him, footsteps creaked on rackety metal, and Tyler must’ve done his best impression of Jacob Raw scaling down that fire escape, because he was at John’s side in seconds, and breathless. “Are you okay?”
With Tyler’s help, John wobbled to his feet, his heart thrumming in his chest. His left wrist felt like that guy’s foot at the end of Misery, but when he pulled back his jacket sleeve, everything seemed fine—other than a huge red bruise forming under his palm. Tyler exhaled at the sight of it, his fingers grazing the skin. John yanked the sleeve down.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” said John. He picked up his briefcase with his left hand, winced, and grabbed it with his right. “Looks like a gnarly bruise though. Jesus, how embarrassing. First a rash, now this, wow. Listen, I’ll head out and ice it.”
“Seriously, John, you’re as white as a sheet. Let me go—”
“—no,” said John. He stepped back. “I’m fine. Thank you. I’ll see you around, okay?”
John was halfway around the corner when Tyler spoke.
“No, we won’t.”
John turned.
“We won’t see each other around,” Tyler repeated. God, he looked like a screenshot from some Nordic crime procedural, standing in that grey and weed-infested alley. He put his hands on his hips and grimaced at the ground like some unnecessarily hot, bearded, plain-clothed detective frowning at an off-screen corpse. “Shooting’s done. I’m out of town for work. I’ll be leaving New York by the spring. I—we…”
“…the Guggenheim!” offered John. “I’ll see you at the Social next month.”
“Right,” Tyler agreed, “guess so.”
Professional, John thought, keep things professional. So he walked up to Tyler and—awkwardly, because he needed his right hand to hold his briefcase—stuck out his left hand for a handshake.
“Great working with you,” said John. He smiled.
Tyler looked down at the hand, like John was handing him a rash-inducing Garfield scarf. He shook his hand.
“Yeah,” said Tyler, “it was great.”
It was the opposite of their first handshake. That one had been caught on camera, streamed to millions, and was full of bravado and raw strength as Tyler pulled John in. This time, Tyler’s hand was gentle and loose, careful with John’s grip, a ginger lingering goodbye. He wanted to take a snapshot of Tyler, but his brain still wouldn’t let him, because he still could not draw him. How could he ever capture the furrow in his brow, the shape of his downcast gaze, the hard line of Tyler’s mouth? It dawned on John that a sudden absence of laughter was about to hollow out his life. It stung worse than John’s wrist.
“See you around,” said John.
“Yeah, I’ll—” started Tyler, but he swallowed whatever he was going to say “—see you.”
John waved—winced—and swore. Tyler pointed helplessly, like that was proof John was not okay, but then John began to…
…whistle. Yeah, that felt like the right thing to do. He whistled. Tyler stared at him. John saluted, backing out of the alley, before turning on his heel and marching off with a spring in his step.
When he turned off Bushwick, he flexed his fingers and ow—ow—oh my goodness this was not good. None of this was good. Why did it feel so bad saying goodbye to Tyler when it was the right thing to do? He was saving himself months—years of being miserable over a guy. He had learned with Shawn. He was growing. It wasn’t Tyler’s fault that he got bored of people, and it wasn’t John’s fault that his heart had the structural integrity of a Fabergé egg. Is this what maturity felt like? Doing the smart thing? The bitter-tasting thing? Knowing that something was simply not meant to be?
He walked faster through Brooklyn, skipping with every other step, as the pain in his hand and heart ached more and more. He kept whistling a cheery tune; it was the theme song to The Mary Tyler Moore Show, because, oh boy! Today? He could turn the world on with his smile! He walked until his whistle turned into a hum, and until his hum into short sweaty grunts. He walked while gritting his teeth and singing, “You’re—goonna—maake it—after arrrrgh.”
When he reached Broadway with its bustling pedestrians, and was far enough away from Tyler to hear, John let his briefcase clatter to the sidewalk, bent over slowly in front of a bodega, and gripping his left hand with right yelled:
“MOTHERFU—”
—as the J train roared above him on the elevated line and a flock of pigeons exploded into the air.
=
The urgent care doctor said that if he’d had fallen in a slightly weirder position, he would’ve gotten a hairline fracture. So John should consider himself lucky: His wrist hurt like hell, but his left hand—his drawing hand—would only be living in a splint for four weeks.
When Susan Rich got the news, she was distraught, but was telling John to look on the bright side by the end of the phone call: “Oh my dear. My dear. Well, look at Frida Khalo! Look at how she metabolized pain into exploration…No, sweetheart, I’m not comparing you spraining your wrist in Bushwick to a streetcar accident in Mexico City…But you could take up photography. Filmmaking! Sculpture…Fine. One-handed sculpture. I’m just trying to help.”
When John texted Shawn, he discovered that Shawn was…headlining two shows in Toronto. Randomly. And sure, he answered John’s texts seventy-two hours after he had sent them, but he cared. Sort of. “Please take care of yourself, john…Let’s link up when i’m back? lord of the rings joke we worked on killed.”
When John finally heard from Tyler on Monday morning, it was an uncharacteristically brief text.
Tyler: I heard about your wrist. You okay?
John stared at the message in bed. He wanted to tell Tyler that he was not okay. In fact, he wanted to be on a cold late-night stroll through Central Park, with Tyler’s arm warm around his shoulder. He wanted for them to be together, for Tyler to never get bored of him, and for Tyler to kiss his aching wrist and make sad little faces while they walked. He wanted to complain about how much it sucked to not be able to hold a pencil. He wanted to explain how he’d drawn every single day for the last twenty-one years of his life, because when he was seven he learned that being an artist was something you could do for money, so he needed to get good at it. By the end of their Central Park walk, he wanted to be laughing with Tyler about something stupid; maybe Tyler would be narrating the inner monologues of the squirrels.
In reality, John answered Tyler’s text immediately.
Me: I am! Thanks for checking in.
He tossed his phone across his duvet.
The Monday after the disastrous, final Big Picture session, John finally told the editor-in-chief of The New York Review that one of his cover artists would be out of commission for four weeks—four.
“Two weeks,” said John with a sigh. He made a big fuss of pushing back his suit jacket sleeve and fastening and unfastening the straps of his splint. “We’re lucky it isn’t longer or I’d have to miss the Guggenheim Social. Hard to discreetly sketch about the evening when you’re yelling in pain.”
They were in an emptying conference room after an early morning meeting on the aforementioned Social: assignments on attending guests, discussions about the event’s online presence, and an all-hands-on-deck breakdown of the evening. The night would be everything John dreamed of when he got the gig as cover man for The New York Review, and exactly the place he wanted to be: in a tux, around amazing art, while nursing a non-alcoholic cocktail.…Even if Tyler Hughes was no longer planning on attending. One of the Social producers announced this along with other changes to the laser-focused guest list, and John sat there, jaw set. Good. One less thing to agonize over. After the meeting, Assistant Jenny collected the spread of old Review issues fanned out on the wide conference table before Brenner. As Brenner signaled for Producer Danielle to stay behind, his eyes narrowed on John.
“I have a cursory knowledge of sprains and fractures,” he said. “It is remarkable that you’ll be fully recovered so quickly.”
John shrugged. “What can I say! I drink chicken soup like it’s Gatorade. It’s disgusting.”
“Well, we are lucky,” continued Brenner, standing, “because there has been a change in plans. You will be doing live portrait drawing at the Guggenheim.”
“…Uh oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing! Amazing news. Shit.”
“What?”
“Everything is fine.”
John hummed in panic.
“Filmed like Cover Sessions?” asked Danielle. John could see the producerial gears whirring in her brain.
“Yes,” sighed Brenner, “filmed like Cover Sessions, but part of a live telecast. He looked at both of them. “In fact, call it a return to Cover Sessions, if all goes well.”
John promptly forgot about his wrist. “Wait, really?”
“A change,” said Brenner, “one…of many.”
“Not ominous at all,” said John.
“Genevieve,” said Brenner to Assistant Jenny, “send Danielle the museum’s atrium layout, and connect her to event coordination. And John—I’ll let Clyde know you’re up to the task.”
”I will be up to the task in two weeks,” said John, as Brenner and Jenny brushed past him. “Two weeks! I will be fully recovered and churning out portraits!”
“Of course I lied,” said John later that day, from the comfort of his own drafting table. On a chilly evening in the West Village, John had just finished a slow, squiggly, right-handed portrait of Hunter. They were all crammed into John’s studio: Hunter carefully perusing John’s Garfield collection while Yohel stirred a curry in the kitchen. Two more people were all you could fit in a cramped studio like John’s and both stopped to stare at him.
“You lied about your recovery time?” asked Hunter. “John.”
“Yes, yes, I know how it sounds, but I can do it. And I’ve got a great backup plan. I have two entire weeks to learn how to draw with my right hand.” John swiveled around on his stool. “You’re giving each other those little glances that mean you think I’m being delusional. I am not being delusional. I, John Marshall Rich, am not a delusional person.”
“You once said you could keep up with Mohammed Ali in an interview,” said Hunter.
“I absolutely could, if it were a topic we both knew about. Maybe he liked Garfield.”
“John!”
“Geoffrey won’t let me go if I’m not recovered, and he certainly won’t let me draw live portraits if he knows my wrist is healing.” He stood up, tearing off and re-fastening the straps of his splint. It was becoming a nervous tick. “Every cell in my body needs to make art, okay? Yes, under normal circumstances I have the constitution of a Victorian child, but if I want to get better and draw, I will get better. Look.”
He picked a yellow #2 pencil up from the sill of his drafting table, and with his left hand, closed a trembling fist around it, but even flexing his pinky and ring finger sent a bolt of pain up his arm. He frowned, his arm shook. The pencil clattered to the wood floor.
“Stop,” ordered Yohel, snapping off John’s stove, “before you injure yourself again, fool.”
Yohel had insisted on making them all dinner when he had heard about John’s wrist, and had argued about it until John gave up. He was at the stove with a kitchen towel over one shoulder, like some gorgeous domestic god, one Superman curl falling across his eyebrow. John gazed at him. Maybe John could figure out how to run a kilometer and then he and Yohel could date. While Yohel handed Hunter a bowl of curry and rice, John snatched up the pencil, put it behind his ear, and held up his squiggly portrait of Hunter.
“Okay, well, at least I can still draw. See?”
Hunter frowned at the portrait. “This is sad.”
“No it's not! It's happy!” He brought it closer to her, pointing. “See, your proportions are all there. I got the rhythm of your braids, and your eye shape, and the angle of your nose. See?”
“It’s all wobbly, John. It looks like I’m underwater.” She tilted her head ninety degrees. “I look like Leonard DiCaprio fading into the depths of the North Atlantic. Didn’t your mom say you should take up pottery or something?”
“Aha! I have done that too. I made the three of us.”
John pointed to the Garfield shelf. Sitting there were three lumpy ceramic faces of himself, Hunter, and Yohel. Hunter yelped. Yohel leaned over the kitchen island and whispered something in Spanish.
“What’s that English story where there’s an ugly painting that someone owns of themselves that keeps the person beautiful?” asked Yohel.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray,” John replied.
”I want that ceramic.” He pulled out three bowls. “Curry is ready.”
His shoulder sank. This was a foreign feeling. Making art that was apparently “bad” was not something he did every day. Instead of lingering on that, he turned to his Garfield collection. It was nice having people over who had seen the mass of Garfield merchandise before and were no longer surprised by it. Nevertheless, Hunter and Yohel did have completely different relationships with the collection. Like right now, Hunter was carefully looking through it. Every time she came over, she picked a random plushy and it would be hers for the night. Tonight she grabbed a Halloween Garfield and tucked it under her arm. Yohel on the other hand would ask about new pieces, and discuss the eBay battles that John had endured to win them. Made sense; Yohel was a guy who owned at least forty X-Men figurines and was proud of his curation. He even complimented John’s rare non-suit outfit: a vintage white Garfield T-shirt tucked smartly into high-waisted jeans. John took the steaming bowl of curry that Yohel placed in his hands.
“I’m very appreciative,” said John, “but you guys didn’t have to do any of this.”
“We did, actually,” said Hunter. “I feel terrible. If you had told me that you were meeting with a reclusive artist in Bushwick, I would’ve told you not to go.”
“It is proven that home cooking will make you feel better,” said Yohel, who in another life had finished med school. “I am creating an environment where you can heal your ligaments and draw Garfield again. Planning any retail therapy?”
“You mean eBay auctions?” John glanced at the still-broken ceramic bowl and thought of Shawn’s pained laughter. “I’m down-sizing, actually. This smells like heaven, Yohel. Thank you.”
“Anything to see you to a fast recovery.” He sighed as he squeezed in next to Hunter on the small couch. He ran his hand through his thick black hair. “Even watching reality programs. Now let’s sit down and visit the horrible women.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” said Hunter, clapping. She opened her laptop as John slotted himself in next to her. Season four of Run Club Savannah was cued up on the screen. “Do you need a refresher?”
“No,” muttered Yohel, “I think about the narcissism of these women every day.”
“You know what?” asked Hunter. “Let’s interrogate this misogyny, Yohel. It’s a lot.”
“The only misogyny in this room is the internalized misogyny of the Run Club Savannah police state. John, you have a text.”
Hunter picked up his phone and John let her. He wasn’t going to read the texts anytime soon. She read aloud. “Aw, he’s letting you know personally. ‘Tyler Hughes. I wanted to let you know that I won’t make it to…’ Dammit, the notification disappeared.”
John buried his face in the curry. “Yeah, that sucks.”
“That more than sucks. It’s huge news. I wonder…”
She hummed and searched for something on her phone. Yohel, annoyed, reached over to the laptop to tap play on the episode. She swatted his hand with the Garfield plushie toy.
John’s phone buzzed several more times during the episode, but he did not answer them. Instead, he started on some wiggly, right-handed sketches of Helen and Jeni, wobbly text reading, “it’s not about qualifying Helen. I swear to you, it's not.”
=
On the first Friday in March, John Rich got a fresh new haircut, dabbed on his suavest cologne, put on a jet-black tuxedo, tied a black bowtie, clasped on his sleekest watch, slipped his pencil bag and sketchbook into a black briefcase, and descended the stairs of his apartment with pep in his step; it was the evening of the Guggenheim Social and he looked like a million bucks.
A million and one.
The pre-party anxiety that roiled in his stomach was exhilarating; he liked knowing that he was about to perform, to do something high-stakes that only he could do. The tightrope walk of returning to Cover Sessions—and making it perfect—while celebrities milled around him and he quipped and drew three portraits on the spot, live? He’d knock it out of the park. His mind drifted to Tyler Hughes, but he flexed his wrist to cut the rumination off with a dull ache. Whatever. Underneath the perfectly tailored tux and crisply parted hair he wore his lucky Garfield underwear, which was like his lucky Garfield tie, but far more powerful. As he bounced down the last steps of his apartment staircase, he thought one thing:
Tonight was going to be perfect.
Mrs. Tuk burst out of her apartment. “John.”
“Mrs. Tuk,” started John, spinning around, gesturing at his tuxedo, “not now. Can’t you see I’m dressed to the nines? Off to rub elbows with the stars? Tracy baby, please, I gotta make tracks!”
She glared. “Do not call me Tracy.”
“I’m sorry,” John said, deflating immediately.
“It's just two walls,” Mrs. Tuk pleaded. “It will take you one hour, including clean-up! I need your eye. You have good taste. You're a painter!”
“Mrs. Tuk,” he said, pushing open the front door, “when I paint, it's portraits, on canvases, for weighty sums.”
“I'll give you a month off rent.”
John turned around. “Two months.”
“One and a half.”
“One and a half months, and you let me cat-sit your cat.”
She frowned. “But that’s more work.”
“Take it or leave it, lady!”
She shrugged and they shook on it.
“This week?” she asked, still holding his hand.
“No.” He was out the door.
John was hoofing it to the intersection when Mrs. Tuk yelled after him, “have fun at your dance!”
John opened his mouth to correct her, but instead sighed, hailed a taxi, and was swept away to the museum.
The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum sat at the eastern edge of Central Park, between 88th and 89th Streets, and the traffic from the Social stretched far down Fifth Avenue. John hopped out of his cab on 82nd Street and headed north as the sky melted into dusk over Manhattan. The commotion of the red carpet built as he got closer and closer to the museum, until he was weaving through shiny black sprinter vans and limousines, blinking into the firework of camera flashes, and lost in the hubbub of event coordinators shouting over publicists, who were shouting over photographers, who were shouting over a hundred ticketed fans at the barricades.
John had no intention of walking down the red carpet, but as he closed in on the museum and the crowd erupted with cheers and applause, he couldn’t resist turning to see who was exiting the latest private car. Well, he’d be damned. He watched as Bella the TikTok dog skipped down the carpet, wearing a bowtie. Geoffrey Brenner had curated an excellent guest list. At a side entrance, John flashed his Audre West badge and slipped through security and more stressed event coordinators. Then the roar of Manhattan traffic and museum crowd faded into warm jazz and light soiree chatter, and John was inside the Guggenheim Social.
If you’ve never had the chance to visit the Guggenheim, the most important thing that you need to know is its central architectural feature is a gently sloping multi-story ramp that swirls up through the main gallery. You start at the bottom, and wind up and up through the atrium, stepping into alcoves and looking over the wide-open bowl. For the Social, three emerging artists were presenting an exhibition and their works were scattered up the ramp. What was normally a well-lit gallery was dark for the dinner, and the fading light of the evening fell on the dozens of tables dotting the rotunda, each set with spring florals and twinkling candles.
Milling about the tables and trekking up the ramp to see the art were the attendees of the Guggenheim Social, and they were like the invite list from The Review’s festival after party, but more refined and possibly even more famous: John spotted pop stars and their professional athlete plus-ones, a tech billionaire who was donating millions to the emerging artist fund, Pulitzer winners, famed Review writers, and at least three Academy Award nominees. There were designer gowns and tuxedos, endless introductions, and event photographers galore. Camera flashes went off on every floor of the museum as celebrities posed with the exhibit; if you weren’t looking at the art, you were looking at the crowd.
At the foot of the stage where a jazz band played and through the increasingly dense crowd of famous people, John spotted Danielle. She was in her final form. She wore all black, gripped a clipboard, and the headset at her mouth sat on helmet-shiny hair. She looked exhausted. Beside her—next to a professional cameraman and hauled all the way from the RCA building— sat John’s drafting table.
“Oh my God!” exclaimed John, coming right up to the Cover Sessions setup. There was a cameraman with a live telecast setup, a sound guy, and bright warm lights for the broadcast. He rolled the drafting table’s rusty T-square back and forth. “Did you really bring this thing all the way from the office? It weighs a ton.”
“It was in an email—never mind.” She softened looking at the setup. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Retro. How’s the lighting?”
John snapped on a desk lamp attached to the table and sat down at his stool. A sheet of archival Bristol board was already taped to the surface. He massaged his wrist.
“This is great,” said John.
“Can I set up my desk to the left? Then it’ll really be like Cover Sessions.”
John turned to find Hunter, absolutely beaming from being around this many famous people. She grasped a black clutch in manicured fingers, wore a semi-sheer black Tom Ford dress that showed off her abs, and looked like she had gotten hours of glam—her signature microbraids transformed into a wavy blow-out. She gripped him by the shoulders and fiddled with John’s black bowtie. “I know you always wear a suit, but you clean up nice, Rich.”
“Not too bad yourself,” said John, kissing her cheek.
She leaned in close. “I have some intel for you. Apparently, you will be drawing Helen Gardener.”
John barked out a laugh, setting out his sketchbook. “Fine. I mean, I hate her on TV, but I can draw her in real life.”
“Brenner is obsessed with Run Club: Savannah, and she’s launching a sunscreen line, so the Social is great press for her. Oh, look!”
Sure enough, at the proper front entrance of the Guggenheim, was Geoffrey Brenner. His black tie attire was a tuxedo jacket with black shirt, and his long locs were gathered solemnly behind his back. He was talking to Helen Gardener and someone who must have been the principal ballerina of the New York Ballet. His face was serene, excited almost—the angles of his face dulling into curves, the angle of his eyebrow less sharp. John found his drawing hand moving—carefully—across his sketchbook. He made the tiniest flick for Brenner’s ever-arched eyebrow.
“You know, bringing back Cover Sessions, putting you on the Guggenheim Social beat, and being into Run Club? That guy isn’t half bad.”
“Are you smiling at Geoffrey Brenner?” She leaned on his shoulder and shook her head at the drawing. “And drawing a flattering sketch of him? Jesus Christ. And with a bum wrist.”
John winked and twirled the pencil in his fingers, even though it pinched. He put an arm around Hunter’s waist.
“Never mind me, toots. You’re glowing. Let me guess, you ran into ten famous people in the bathroom?”
“The bathrooms up here are too small. But I’m going to hang out at the one downstairs. Apparently that’s where they do the bathroom selfie each year. But look at this place!” She looked around at the party, practically rubbing her hands together like a praying mantis. “We’re in the thick of it.”
It was glitzy—the pinpoints of light on the wine glasses, the attendees trickling down from looking at the art—and they were in the thick of it. The Guggenheim Social hosted by The New York Review in New York, New York, planet Earth. John adjusted his bow tie, letting the smirk trickle across his face. “Who am I drawing, Danielle?”
He pulled Danielle out of her conversation with the camera crew and she consulted her clipboard with a freshly printed out sheet of paper. “Rory Smith—some big sponsor. Helen Gardener—you know about her, right? And…” She frowned. “Tyler. Tyler Hughes.”
John’s head snapped up. “What?
Hunter’s eyes flashed. “How?”
“I know, that wasn’t in the email.” Danielle whipped out her phone. “No, no way.” As she scrolled, John saw her blush. “I missed an email—for once, from an hour ago. Audre West Entertainment, what the hell. I haven’t double-checked with his publicist—I can’t believe I missed an email.”
She was gone in a flash, wedging her way into the crowd.
“I guess he made it work,” Hunter said, where John could feel his stomach sinking, she was buzzing from the chaos. “Besides, this place is packed with voters for the Tonys. If I were his publicist, I’d make it work. I’d…Look.”
Hunter gasped. John looked over his shoulder.
He heard the flurry of noise from the red carpet outside and John knew that Tyler Hughes had arrived at the Guggenheim Social. Even in the dim light of the atrium, he glowed. John had seen Tyler in a suit at The Review festival, in a casual blazer at City Live, but Tyler Hughes in black tie was something else. He wore a light cream suit that fit his shoulders, and his hair was perfectly tussled, and as he looked over the atrium, John got every angle of his freshly trimmed beard. But it was his smile—that movie star smile—that knocked John on his ass even though it wasn’t directed at him. It reached Tyler’s eyes, thinning them out into sweet blue lines, and seemed to sparkle with a toothpaste-commercial ding! John watched as he melted Geoffrey Brenner into a flurry of pleased greeting, as every camera in the museum trailed after him, as everything slowed to a grinding halt on the Tyler Hughes event horizon.
Then they locked eyes.
From across the museum and through the crowd, Tyler’s smile softened. John held his breath. Could he read John’s mind? His stomach flipped, swooping up and then down. John breathed out one shallow breath and held up a hand to wave. Tyler laughed, and waved back then pointed to the drafting table. John looked down at it, smiled bigger than he had smiled all night, and nodded. Tyler gave him the smallest thumbs up, and was swept up in another conversation.
Slowly his smile faded. He turned away on his stool and exhaled, aching.
John Rich was in love.
He did not want to be. He thought the feeling would dull after saying bye to Tyler, but no. He was still very much in love.
He was also in trouble. How do you draw someone when there’s so much of someone? How do you capture with lines all the facets of someone when a squint shifts him from a hardened action hero to a curious actor? When the light falls across his cheek and it changes him from movie star to friend? A grin reveals a secret, a laugh shows how he must have laughed when he was a boy.
How do you draw someone when you’re head over heels in love?
“Hunter,” said John, quietly. He looked at the ground, swallowing. “I can’t draw him.”
“Pft,” she said, taking a picture on her phone, “because you’re injured? That’s your own—”
“—no, because—I can’t,” John said, grabbing her arm and shaking his head, “I can't. I don’t know how.”
He looked at her, and she searched his eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay, well…if you’re getting cold feet, you should tell Danielle.” She glanced over to Brenner. “Because I don’t think Geoffrey Brenner is gonna like that the live broadcast for the Guggenheim Social stopped because you have big feelings for Tyler Hughes. Go find Danielle.”
John nodded. He stood up and rushed through the crowd, on the hunt for Danielle.
Maybe he should just let this happen. Tell Tyler he liked him—that he adored him. Let Tyler shower him with love and affection, and then let Tyler go. Just get over it. Why was he torturing himself like this? And what was an artist without a little heartbreak, anyway? After that, he’d be able to draw him. Okay, but what exactly would he say to Danielle now? To Tyler’s publicist? To Tyler? “Oh, sorry, I can’t draw Tyler Hughes because I’m hopelessly in love and see, like, a dozen people whenever I look at him. Maybe I could take a stab at it tonight, but could you give me two hours? Or maybe twenty? I’ll need a few sketchbooks.”
Or worse, they’d record and he’d be going viral for the next few weeks. “Did you see the newest Cover Sessions? It was at the Guggenheim Social! The Cover Sessions guy confessed his love to Tyler Hughes right there on the spot!”
He slipped out from the atrium floor, to the dim side entrance right off the stage, and sidled through dozens of frantic people with clipboards and servers with plates of hors d'oeuvres and bottles of wine. Where had Danielle gotten to? He was thinking this right as he bumped into Catarina Harlow.
“John!” she yelped before jumping up to kiss his cheek. “Oh my goodness. The bowtie! You look the height of glamour.”
“Same to you,” said John. He was not exaggerating. He couldn’t place the designer, but the shimmery slip of a dress reeked of couture and hung off Catarina’s body by a perilous gold thread around her small shoulders. She was gripping a microphone, and a makeup artist refreshed her highlights. Not only had The Big Picture interview turned into an invite to the Social, but the invite had turned into Catarina performing several jazzy numbers with the band. Close by, Catarina’s shark-like publicist was grilling an event producer. “If you’re warming up, don’t let me distract you.”
“No, please don’t go!” she cried. “Distract me? Talk to me, please, because I’ve warmed up so much I’m overheating. Besides, you’re the only reason I’m here! Well, you and that guy.” On tiptoe, she looked over John’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of Tyler Hughes and the halo of star power swimming around him. “God, Tyler looks great doesn’t he?”
John nodded. He couldn’t look at him. “He’s gorgeous.”
John stepped aside for a flurry of event management, and took a deep breath. If Catarina had hooked up with Tyler and accepted her fate, maybe he could too. He turned to her.
“How can you just be with him and then not be with him?” John blurted out. “How are you still friends?”
Catarina looked at him. “Be with Tyler?”
“Date him,” said John, shaking his head. “Sorry, I had to ask. I—I’ve heard. How did you do it? How does anyone just do it?”
“…date Tyler?” Catarina asked, frowning.
John watched a flurry of emotions pass over her face, a ripple through her eyebrows: confusion, surprise, amusement, and finally concern. With long gold nails, she gripped John’s tuxedo sleeve. “Oh, John, honey. Tyler and I have never dated.”
John froze.
“Really? But—” John thought about it. Oh, I heard a ton of rumors about you! Is that what you're going to say to a celebrity, John? “You guys are so…close.”
“He’s one of my best friends.” She shook her head. “John, no. Tyler…I'm not his type. Like. Not even close.”
“Wait.” John squinted at her. Then he looked around. He leaned in close and mouthed, “Is he bi?”
Catarina shrugged. Winced. Hummed.
Then John mouthed, “gay?”
Catarina inhaled. She nodded.
What?
“But,” John whispered, leaning in very close now, “what about Monica Grajales?”
Catarina gasped. “I love her! What about her? Oh, you thought they were—John... John. I thought you talked to Tyler about Sutton Foster.”
“He didn't date Monica Grajales?” John hissed. “I heard they hooked-up at City Live, they were inseparable—”
“Hooked up?” asked Catarina. Even though her microphone was not on, she covered it with her palm. “I mean he's obsessed with her, but they met the week before her seventeen-year-old cat died. They spent so much time together because he,” she sighed, rolling her eyes fondly, “drove her to pick up the urn. Or something like that, I think. Whatever it was, it was fucking annoyingly kind. But…” She looked John up and down. “I thought you knew he played for a different team. At least by now.”
“I mean, he told me…” said John, slowly. So he wasn’t serially dating people? Love ‘em and leave ‘em? John couldn’t stop now. He had to know. “One last question. As a friend of his. Sorry, if this is weird—but Tyler and Micah Andrews.”
“Yeah?” She paused for a producer to double check her microphone, then leaned in closer to John. “I mean, they broke up after that thing in Miami. It was sad, but I don’t think Micah was serious.” She sucked her teeth and shook her head. “Tyler really wants a boyfriend.”
John’s eyes opened wide.
He grabbed the doorframe of the side entrance.
He needed to sit down.
“Dear God, John, are you okay?”
“Break a leg,” said John, pulling himself up, “break your legs, break their legs—break everyone’s legs. Go on a leg breaking spree. Thank you, Catarina.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you!”
Then he ran.
Oh God!
John squeezed through the now dense crowd of celebrities—he might have stepped on the foot of a certain Academy Award nominee—and scanned the crowd as the host urged them to take their seats. He had to be around here somewhere. Near Geoffrey Brenner? Near the front? John didn’t know what he would do when he found him, but if he could just talk to him—pull him aside and apologize to him—explain everything to him—there. He saw the back of Tyler’s head as he was taking his seat right next to the stage—
—which was when Hunter grabbed him. She started pulling him away.
“Hunter, no. I need to talk to Tyler. I need to tell you something!”
“Later,” she said. Her voice was tight. “Follow me. Right now.”
She dragged him out from the dinner crowd and up the Guggenheim ramp, Tyler shrinking as they ascended and John protesting the entire way. “No, Hunter, if this is some celebrity gossip—I’ve got something better. Something big! Something just happened.” A smile took over his face. He stuffed it down. “This is important!”
“It’ll have to wait because I can guarantee you, you need to hear this.”
She yanked open the door to one of the tiny bathrooms and stuffed him in.
Inside, Assistant Jenny was in tears.
“Jenny,” said John, squeezing in with Hunter. The museum restroom was barely large enough to fit one human, let alone three. He blinked at her. She was also dressed in black, a simple jumpsuit, and her long body shivered as she leaned against the sink. She blew her nose into a wad of toilet paper. “Oh my God, are you all right?”
“John,” said Hunter, turning to John. “Yohel got fired.”
John gaped. “What?”
“All the cartoonists got fired,” said Hunter. “Geoffrey Brenner took them all off staff. Everyone—gone. Jenny just found out and told me.”
“I-I shouldn't have,” said Jenny through a sob. “He forwarded me an email to proofread and schedule—he does that all the time. But this one goes out tonight. I shouldn't have told you, Hunter, but I—I had to tell someone.”
Hunter fumed. “And it gets worse.”
“How?” asked John.
Outside there was applause and Catarina Harlow started to sing. Hunter exhaled.
“He’s getting rid of the position,” she said. “John, you’re the last cover artist for The New York Review.” ✏️
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previous chapter < start > next chapter ("Tight Five")
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✏️ Author's Note
How satisfying is it to see John to fucking realize that he can't draw Tyler because he's in love with him. [loading...Character arc at 90% completion.]
This chapter is a microcosm of John Rich & The Big Picture—John in denial and making bad decisions, Yohel and Hunter and Danielle and Mrs. Tuk, the Garfield collection, tailored men's wear, ART, and a storyline about John's career getting in the way of John and Tyler making out.
Can you tell we're in act III we've never been more in act III. John is literally in his final form, the Charizard evolution of John Rich—he's in a tuxedo!!!
this will never get published bc the guggenheim will never approve of this "this man is too stupid to run around in our museum even fictionally"
I feel like every chapter title is ominous lol...TIGHT FIVE??? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN??????