Developmental

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.” 

“But it certainly helps, doesn’t it?”

It was months prior to my great soirée. Harper, my counterpart, would not cease her nagging on my attentiveness to every possible detail and possibility surrounding this milestone of an event. 

“The end result will be the same no matter what. There’s nothing you can do!”

“You know that isn’t true, there’s plenty I can do. And it’s not my defeat per se; I see it as a daring victory that’ll go down in history.”

“Arthur, you must realize that there is more to this operation than frivolous dancers and expensive champagne. Even if you fail to recognize the miserable, lonely life you’re fabricating for yourself, it is imperative that you at least set plans for a will, or  call a lawyer of sorts to deal with the onslaught of paperwork and media if this plan is to show some semblance of success. SOMETHING.”

“This incessant helicoptering of yours Harper is, quite frankly, encouraging me to throw myself off one… wait. Oh that’s good, put it on the list!”

With a droop of her shoulders, Harper took care in a dramatic flurry of her eyeballs skyward and popped the cap off the dry erase marker; scribbling ‘JUMP OUT OF HELICOPTER’ on the whiteboard. (Alongside VIOLENT BUNGEE CORD ACCIDENT, CATAPULTED INTO THE GRAND CANYON, EATEN BY A SWARM OF EELS, FIREWORKS IN HAY BALES, and others.)

This gala was to be the most sumptuous season finale of my anticlimactic career- a celebration, and advertisement of what my “tortured artist” psyche had to offer through an assortment of mediums- it had to surpass the standards of my audience. It was crucial that I draw forth the raving collector in all my partygoers if I was to make a retirement plan from this ordeal.

The ploy Harper and I had hatched (“Arthur, I was in no way involved with the “hatching” of this dumbass plan! Stop telling people that!”) was to match the proceedings of what happened after the deaths of Van Gough and Edgar Allan Poe: artistic geniuses who died tragically, penniless and dejected, but whose works are now (arguably) on par with Da Vinci and Shakespeare. Victims of their time’s trend of blindness toward brilliance- which I was to be as well; by far my most ambitious and fail-proof master plan to date. I still had to determine what my cause of (fake) death would be, but it would come to me in time; bathed in molten gold kismet. 

(“Harper! Add ‘fiery vat of molten lava’ to the list!”)

“Arthur, what artworks do you plan to have on display at the gala? I haven’t seen you working on anything new for quite some time. If you’re going to die some tragic death as a homeless artist for early retirement, you need shit to sell.” 

“Ah! What’s up with all this pent up aggression? I’m amazed you have the audacity to think so little of me-”

“DON’T YOU DARE SAY I HAVE THE AUDA-”

“Harper please! You know I merely jest, I didn’t mean it that way.” 

I knew I had struck a chord, but it was always annoyance mixed with comedic exasperation between us. She puffed out an exhale and reached for the last cucumber sandwich on the silver platter.

-----------------------------------------

The relationship between Harper and I was an unusual one. I didn’t know why she even put up with half of what I put her though. We had known each other since grade school- I was that kid who was lucky to have a bag of goldfish crackers during lunch. And she- well! Let’s just say she never set foot in that ghastly old child prison. My shack was on the border between Mireville and Mint Circuit; as was her’s. As cliche and banal as it is, I was her only friend. She was sheltered as all hell. I knelt on the forest floor digging for worms in order to catch fish in the pond over yonder for dinner, overgrown nails caked with dirt. And BAM! There she was- some child clad in Balenciaga and Nike sneakers or something- so clean she almost glowed, carefully stepping over gnarled tree roots, and making her way over to me. 

She peered into my dented aluminum bucket, sparsely consisting of worms, 

“Those are some nice worms.”

I blinked at her, and looked into the bucket, knowing full well what I’d see, but having to make sure that was what this young gap toothed goddess regarded. I looked back up at her,

“... Want to help me find some more?”

Since that fateful day, she and I were as thick as thieves. And I don’t exactly know why. Maybe her parents forbidding her leaving the grounds since birth resulted in some developmental brain damage; but I didn’t complain. She’s taken good care of me. 

-----------------------------------------

“You sure meant it in some way. God, I don’t even know why I’m still here. You’re such an ass.”

I shook my head and stuck out my tongue at her, “Yeah honestly, just go on and walk out the door. Get out of here.”

“Yeah, walk out of my own damn house Arthur, sure.”

“It’s called irony sweetheart, look it up!” 

Harper used her legs as leverage to swing herself up off the couch and went to pull the tassel by the door. As she did, a bell rang in the distance. Shortly after, a butler appeared at the door. 

“Can we get two coffees in here? And maybe a caesar chicken wrap.”

“Ooh! Make that two wraps and a large fries!”

The butler nodded politely at her, and pivoted on his heel, off to deliver the request to the kitchen downstairs. Harper turned from the door and walked back over to where I was kneeled on the floor, surrounded by catering offers and profligate party catalogues. Along with a disarray of scrawled notes about aspects of the party I would inevitably circle back to just to forget again.

“You dodged my question earlier, what are you displaying for sale during the party?” 

I picked up the tablet I’ve been using for experimenting with the digital arts, pulled up a file, and handed it to her. Harper took it and looked in silence, expressionless. 

“...”

“...”

“Hey Arthur.”

“Hm?”

“What the hell is this?”

“Graphic design in my passion.”

She broke out cackling, “IT LOOKS LIKE IT WAS MADE IN A GOOGLE DOC.”

“IT WAS.”

“PPFFFFTT AGAHAHAHAHAHA”

The waiter knocked on the gold embellished door, very renaissance, ornate. When opened, he had a cart with the whole shebang: a small metal pitcher full of fresh coffee, another smaller one of cream, a jar of sugar, and a plate with one of those silver coverings. The waiter removed the cover to reveal a small pyramid of tiny sandwiches alongside two caesar chicken wraps. Harper and I continued to scheme after he gently placed the tray of sandwiches on the low table we sat by, and while he poured and mixed our coffees. 

“Sir, please when you get the chance, destroy this tablet with fire or something. We cannot have any trace of this shitty clip art monstrosity my friend over here has strung together.”

“Hey!”

The waiter placed out coffees down by the tray, and took the tablet from Harper’s outstretched hand. He nodded, and took himself and the cart out of the room, closing the door with a faint click. 

“That was a perfectly good tablet you know.”

“That thing you created needed to be destroyed.”

“Oh my god, I could have just deleted it. You have too much money for your own good. For MY own good. Throwing that away should be illegal.”

She raised an eyebrow at me. This girl was absolutely out of this world. 

“You’re telling me to get a lawyer, and then you throw away an entire tablet because of a single file? Puh-lease. How would you get through this life without me?”

“With my butler, you dunce.”

---------------------------------------------

In the following months, my lists and catalogues had become glittering realities before my eyes. Harper and I would head out on the daily to taste-test samples of dishes and decide which set of lit tendrils complemented her ballroom the best. She and I visited properties in neighboring states and countries that I was interested in for my life away from here. We chose an 18th century French masquerade theme over the sharply modernistic and chic. I was in my studio (converted from Harper’s yoga room she didn’t use), and back to creating my fantastical visual works that were to hang from her ballroom walls and set me for life. 

Everything was coming together. Harper had even hired me a lawyer (had her family lawyer represent me) to deal with all the legal and financial matters following my death. Things could not be going better. That is, until  Harper and I got plastered off of her family’s infinite wine collection. 

“Hey Harper?”

“Yeah?”

“This wine tastes like I just li-licked a sidewalk in New York City.”

“Hell yeah it does. That’s how you know it works.”

“He- hell yeah.”

“H-hehe-HAHA hell yeah!”

“...”

“...”

“Hey Harper?”

“Yeah my guy?”

“Why am I faking my death?”

“To make bank off your art.” 

“But, I can’t help but wonder. You’re funding this entire gala, this entire operation.”

“Mmhm.”

“What d- do either of us stand to gain from this?”

“You’ll get a shitload of money? Early retirement?”

“Yeah, but. Why do I need that? I have you.”

“Haha, yeah! You sure do.”

“So why do I need more money?”

“What?”

“Why do I need more money if I’m just living off of you?”

“...”

“Harper?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do I need more money if you keep giving it to me?”

“I don’t know Arthur… is it just what people do? Have their own money?”

“I mean I guess…”

“Listen, this is just a joke we came up with years ago, and we’re finally doing it. Because we can. It’s all just a big joke.”

“Haha, yeah. It’s pretty funny.”

“What is?”

“The joke.”

“Oh, haha. Yeah. It is.”

-----------------------------

It was an oppressive summer night, and the gala was about to be in action. My pieces were hung up sporadically over the walls in the amphitheater downstairs, where the dance and gallery were set. Lights and silk streamers glistened in the light of the tremendous chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Six foot cakes and eccentric meats lay ready in the kitchen, to be taken out and placed on the long dining tables lining the walls of the ballroom. 

I was in my personal dressing room, having my formal wear fitted and finalized by the family’s tailor. My hair was combed back and the tails of the suit waved behind me. It was finally happening! My holiday had arrived, and my death was to be spectacular. 

Harper, in all her godly splendor, walked through the door. I glanced over at her through the full-length mirror I stood before. 

“Harper dahling, you are looking exceptionally marvy this evening.”

“Oh Authah deah, you are lookin’ mighty dashin’ this evenin’ yuhself!”

We both broke out into laughter; as much as she and I were affected in the most tremendous sense, we enjoyed the mockery of what we were, in the most literal sense. 

I turned and faced her, “Are we ready to open the doors? And set the timer for my exceptionally resplendent death?”

There was an excited gleam in her eye, and her face remained in a pose of graceful content, 

“I just cannot wait a moment longer!” She motioned to a woman in the doorway, who had taken the place of the butler, who, now that I think of it, had been gone for some time now. But before I could speak a word of it, 

“OPEN THE DOORS!” And the party had begun. 

----------------------------------------------

I spent the majority of my time socializing with the partygoers. Many were well-to-do art collectors and gallery frequenters that had seen our various announcements on whatever art collector billboards are scattered online and throughout cities. It was likely they were here more for the food and social aspect rather than the art. The only reason they had come was because of the prevalence of Harper’s family. If they’re throwing something, it MUST be good, right? Oh how these people were in for a great treat! Just a few days from now, they’ll have been notified that I had died of a failed artistic endeavor involving a trampoline, shards of glass, spray paint and a great crater in a desert- and they’ll be scrambling for those numbered works they saw at my gallery, just days prior. Oh isn’t it wonderful? The malleability of man?

It was a couple hours into the gala that a woman pulled me aside. 

It was the woman earlier in the doorway, the one that had replaced Harper’s butler. 

“Good evening Mr. Arthur. I apologize for this sudden intrusion on your night, but there are matters that require your immediate attention.”

“Really? How curious. They better be important Madame butler! I would not want to miss out on the rest of my night.” She nodded and motioned me to follow her.

“Yes of course sir, right this way.”

The woman led me up the flight of stairs from the main entry hall. We made our way up more steps after a hallway, then more and more flights of stairs. Eventually, I was just about to ask her what these matters were that required my immediate attention, when we reached the top of the stairs. The woman opened the door with a bit more force than I would have thought, to a chilly night sky. 

When did it get so cold?

The door led to the roof of the great estate’s mansion. The stars from the clear night sky, and slight light pollution from below would have been very beautiful, if the night were not so cold. 

Was the heat not oppressive just earlier?

We continued to walk along the roof. It was a flat surface, and there were railings around the borders. This was a place meant for people to spend time and observe. 

We finally stopped at a huge window on the floor in front of us, displaying a birds-eye view of the party. They all looked like measly ants from up here; doing their little dance, eating cake. I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. 

I turned to the woman. 

“What is the meaning of this? I do not have time for such meaningless contrivances as this.”

With a sudden quickness and professional brute force I never would have anticipated, the woman reared back and punched me in the head. The world went black. 

--------------------------------------

It was nearing eleven o’clock.

The party was going how parties go. 

Talking, eating, looking at art that would look better if a dog shit it out.

I was growing rather bored of the occasion. 

In a lightning instant, my glass ceiling shattered and razor shards rained on the crowd. 

A body swung in all directions, reeling from the abrupt drop of several stories. 

Immediate screams and wails of equal pain and horror erupted from the crowd.

Blood was everywhere, people tripping over their extortionate gowns and suits, scrambling back up, falling again. It was really a sight to behold. 

Quite frankly, I’m surprised his neck was able to prevent his head from being decapitated from the whiplash. Although, I think I may have spotted an eye popping out of its socket, but I can not be sure. 

Reminded me of that terribly polite man, I felt almost a pang of regret.

He made damn good caesar wraps...

No one paid a thought to me as I stood there, taking a deep breathe in, a cool exhale, and smiled.

Then laughed- what a funny joke!

The ballroom had cleared out by now, nothing but the occasional twinkle of broken glass amongst the pools of blood, and giggle escaping my throat.

Arthur still swayed slightly on the rope. I doubted he would be still soon, the draft was fairly strong.

A gust of wind blew down from the broken above.

Damn, it’s gotten chilly out there, hasn’t it?