May the Road Rise by Michael Bryson

Picasso had his blue period. That’s about all Dennis knew about Picasso. He knew Picasso named a painting after a town in Spain that was the site of a terrible scene during the Spanish Civil War. He didn’t remember the name of the town or the cause of the terrible scene. He didn’t remember the painting being blue. He wondered if Picasso was depressed during his blue period, or if the association between blue and depression was something that only existed in English. It pleased him that Picasso had a blue period. It pleased him to think that Picasso had many different periods and that he knew only one of them.
    His father was dating a painter. It was his father’s first relationship since the death of Dennis’s mother three years earlier. His father knew nothing about painting. The woman he was seeing dragged him to two or three galleries a week. Her name was Janice. She was fifteen years younger than his father, fifteen years older than Dennis. She owned three condominiums and a portfolio of stocks and bonds worth half-a-million dollars.
     “She got out of I.T. before the dot-coms collapsed,” his father said, amazed. He hadn’t. “She told her broker to sell all of her Nortel stocks after it broke $100 a share. When everyone else was still saying ‘buy,’ she was already gone.”
    Two days earlier, Dennis had received the following spam email:

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Without hesitating, he forwarded it to his father. The next day, he received more spam. An email with the subject heading:

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He forwarded this email to his father as well.
    Dennis was in the process of breaking up with his girlfriend, Julia. It hadn’t been decided who would move out. They had hardly talked about it beyond the time when Julia had said she was “thinking it was time to move on.” She said, “People get together and break up in cycles, don’t you think?” Two couples they knew had recently called it quits. Their time was soon.
    He said, “Hopefully, there’s more to relationships than that.”
    “But it’s true. People act like that.”
    “Sure they do.”
    His view: A relationship should be a place where two personalities could extend themselves more fully than either could without the other. Her view: One couple calls it quits and you think: But they looked so happy. You start looking inward: What about us? Recently, Julia had changed jobs. She had signed up for yoga. She had quit smoking. In her life, change abounded.
    They both volunteered at a literary magazine, which was where they’d met. A mutual acquaintance, Terry, had brought them together. Dennis had met Terry through Beatrice, a woman he’d slept with at university. It was on the rebound from Terry that Julia landed with Dennis.
    Terry gave Dennis a copy of his book.
     “What do you think of Terry’s poetry?” Julia had asked him one night as they walked to the subway after a fractious editorial meeting.
    He said, “It’s not as good as everyone says.”
    “No, it’s not.”
     “But I’ve only ever heard people rave about it.”
     “That’s because they’re all cowards.” She paused. “Or they want to sleep with him.”
    She told him about a magazine she had helped to publish in Calgary. They had eight editors on the board, and everyone read everything.
     “The only pieces that got published were the ones everyone could agree on, and those pieces were always the safe ones, the mediocre ones.”
    Looking back on that conversation, Dennis wondered if that was how Julia saw him now. Safe. Mediocre. She had told him that she wanted passion in her life, and she wasn’t finding it with him.
    Unspoken rules guided and shaped his life.
    Feelings: He thought he was pretty good at them now, though he hadn’t always been. Some feelings he had been practicing for a long time. Terror. Faint-heartedness. Was self-deprecation a feeling? In his childhood home, anger had been channeled into restraint. Kindness was valued above all else.

*

They were in bed. Dennis didn’t want to have sex. He sat cross-legged on the bed, a pillow in his lap, wearing briefs and a T-shirt. Every day, he woke up and the world was different. One thing led to another, one thing did not lead to another. His mother was dead. His father was dating a painter.
    Julia said, “Don’t you find me attractive any more?”
    “It’s not that.”
    “What is it?”
    He said, “I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re fantastic.”
    “You’re sending me mixed messages, Dennis.”
    “You told me you wanted out.”
    “I said I thought it might be time for us to move on.”
    “I don’t know why I’m here.”
    She crawled out of bed and put on her sweatshirt and jeans.
    He said, “Where are you going?”
    “To get a cigarette.”
    “I thought you quit.”
    “You obviously don’t know me very well.”
    She left the bedroom and came back a minute later, a lit cigarette between her lips. She blew smoke across the room.
    Dennis rolled on his side and out of bed.
    He stood with his back to the Julia, unsure what he was going to do next. He felt Julia behind him. She wrapped her arms around him, pushed her head between his shoulder blades.
    “I’m sorry,” she said.
    “It’s not working out, is it?”
    “No.”
    “Can we do this without any more fighting?”
    “I hope so, but I don’t know. Probably not.”
    She reached for his penis. It stirred.
     “I want to have sex with you,” she said.
    His penis thickened, grew harder. He felt the warmth of lust rise in his stomach.
    She reached for their bedside table and a condom half-hidden by a book.

*

Dennis’s father asked to meet him for drinks. This had never happened before. They found a heated patio in Yorkville. For a few minutes, they sat in silence, his father pulling his ear lobe. When the drinks arrived, Dennis proposed a toast.
    “May the road rise to meet you,” he said.
    “And also to you,” his father said.
    They clinked glasses.
    “May the wind ride at your back.”
    “Cheers.”
    They clinked again.
    Dennis said, “To women.”
    “To women,” his father repeated.
    Again, they clinked glasses. Dennis leaned back in his chair and sipped his martini. His father was still tugging his ear lobe. The martini sent a cool wave through Dennis’s mouth.
    Dennis waited another minute, then he asked, “How are things with you and Janice?”
    “Good, thank you,” his father said.
    “Are you learning anything about painting?”
    “I’d like to think so.”
    “Like what?”
    “It’s more complicated than I thought.”
    “It’s not as simple as the stock market, you mean?” Dennis asked.
    His father laughed.
    “All of these different periods, all of these different styles,” he said.
    “I like a painting that looks like something, you know. But it seems people don’t paint like that anymore.”
    “No, they don’t.”
    His father stopped pulling his ear.
    Dennis asked, “What kind of paintings does Janice like?”
    “She likes painters more than paintings.”
    “Which painters does she like?”
    “Pollack, Toulouse Lautrec, Picasso: The macho ones. She thinks Picasso was the greatest genius.”
    “Maybe he was.”
    His father grunted.
    “He had a blue period,” Dennis said.
    His father leaned forward and motioned for Dennis to do the same. His father put his hand behind Dennis’s neck and pulled him two inches closer. He whispered, “I wanted to thank you.”
    “Why’s that?” Dennis whispered back.
    “Those pills you recommended...”
    “Yes.”
    “They really work.”
    “Oh,” Dennis smiled. His father released his head and leaned back in his chair. “You’re most welcome.”

About the author:
Michael Bryson is the author of two short story collections and the editor of www.danforthreview.com. His fiction won the 2004 Darryl Whetter Fiction Award held by Qwerty. Another story was nominated by lichen magazine for the Journey Prize. He lives in Toronto where he works for the provincial government and reads books. One pays well, the other doesn’t.

Visit www.michaelbryson.com.