Sin-bin

Chapter 4 - Dallas

Obviously, because I googled who Marcial Bacques was, I google where he lived when he gave me an address to come to for our very first 'lesson.' Still, I am stunned by the nice exterior of the apartment complex. 

Monday, as we were packing up to leave class after our first gallery presentations, Rodney called me to his desk. At first, I thought he was going to ask me why I didn't dress more professionally or that my speech was bad or something. Never in a million years was I expecting him to say that his friend knows a professional hockey player who wants to learn to paint. First off, the idea of your professors or teachers having friends is wild. The idea that those friends are cool enough to know professional hockey players is even more wild. 

I think I just kind of stared at him wide-eyed. I wasn't sure why he was telling me this unless he was like flexing it on me or something? Luckily, he cleared up the confusion fast and instantly replaced it with more but different confusion. He wanted me, the undergraduate gay boy, to teach this hockey player how to paint. The way he smiled at me with excitement made me instantly suspicious. It took nearly ten minutes for Rodney to convince me that this was real and that I could actually do it. It was a difficult ten minutes. I still don't entirely believe that I can.

In the end, I left the classroom pretty late with the phone number of a professional hockey player and the possibility of another job. Obviously, with a name, I googled the living hell out of the man. Despite my mental image of hockey players as large, muscly men with broken noses and bad hygiene—realistically, the mental image of any professional athlete in my mind—the photos were hot. Like, we're talking sexy with that natural charisma. Wikipedia says he's a quarter black, which comes out in his caramel skin tone, and his tight black curls bouncy off his head. His smile is probably mostly fake but still so white and straight. I would pay more attention to sports if all players were like this. 

Wikipedia says that he's pretty good. Apparently, he's spent his entire professional career in Indianapolis and only moved to Denver this summer. He's a forward, which has to be like being a top or quarterback or something. There were quite a few interview clips of him being cheeky and upbeat to the camera and journalists. The latest update on him, though, was from August. Apparently, he's taking a leave of absence or something from playing in the games for unknown reasons. To learn how to paint, I guess. 

I tried to sound professional through the texts I sent him, but the way he responded made it seem like he didn't care if I was professional. He also seemed skeptical that this was a real thing, which is confusing because if you were the one who wants to learn and asked your friend to find someone to teach you, wouldn't you be more anticipatory of someone reaching out to teach you? Anyway, after a few awkward and stiff texts, he agreed, and we ended up haggling over our schedules. Even though he's taking a leave of absence from playing games, he must still have other things to do. I still have all five classes and my serving job to schedule these little lessons around. 

Because of it all, our first one ended up being Thursday night at eight since I get off at The Leaf at seven. It gives me barely enough time to shimmy into new clothes in the bathroom before catching the bus. I'm awkwardly lugging a bag full of my drawing supplies, my class notebooks, and my dirty clothes. The bus doesn't drop me off near his apartment complex, so I walk the rest of the way. Luckily, I sacrificed the fit for a real coat today, so I'm able to bear the new winter air a bit better than I usually would. 

Starring up at the clean and sharp outside of the apartment complex, I pull up the group chat. 

GC Bitchez - Me: Y'all. 

GC Bitchez - Me: This mans is rich rich. I've never seen such a new building so up close IN MY LIFE

GC Bitchez - Jose: Bitch we knew