>
my g-chat is messed up today.
But here’s my update on Lincoln Reed.
Ooookay, I went back and looked at that note I sent you last week.
And now … drumroll …
Presenting my new thoughts on Lincoln Reed.
(with apologies for being so flat-out clueless.)
Analogy correction:
Meeting Lincoln was like being thrown into a waterfall.
Not into calamari food poisoning hell.
Because … he’s SPECTACULAR.
Lulu, you need to meet him. You need to be around him.
You need to look at him.
You need to hear his voice.
He’s got this slow, sleepy way of talking.
You’d start to take off your clothes like a sex zombie just to be near it.
Everyone wants to be near Lincoln.
Everyone presses around to hear what he’s got to say.
They want to know what he knows. There’s always so much traffic around him.
And his art! Harsh, brutal, violent, real, in-your-face.
His dad was Robard Reed, a sculptor (I’d never heard of him either, but apparently, a big deal).
His mom was one of many girlfriends—the last girlfriend, because he killed himself at age sixty-one.
The same year Lincoln was born.
And he’s got all these half sisters and brothers. So exotic! I felt lame and small town,
I wanted to pretend my dad was a spy or something …
Anyway. Lulu. I think I’m in it. Deep.
(Full disclosure he’s sleeping next to me. Chastely. For now. Shhh.)
Got 1,000,000 things else to tell you, but I’m late for this stupid Pratt writing class. I’ve pretty much dropped all my non-art classes at Pratt.
They’re all doomed to be a total waste of time.
Miss you!
x!o!
LINCOLN REED: That night, we took off from Klempf together, and I didn’t leave Addison’s side for the next ten days. We walked all the way down the East Side, over the Manhattan Bridge. We kissed at the top of the bridge.
And right there, we knew.
It was that same week of the hurricane. Her apartment on Court Street was Zone 2. We were okay. Lying in bed, listening to rain in sheets, and the wind howling, we were like two refugees in our own private pocket of the world. By Halloween, the storm was done, and we rolled out of bed and got dressed and checked out the damage in Cobble Hill and Red Hook. Addison was dressed as Amy Winehouse, with the eyeliner and the beehive, and I said I was Jim Morrison—just a string of beads around my neck. Then Erickson joined up in a flannel shirt as Kurt Cobain. We were the Doom Trifecta. The city was waterlogged and wounded, but people were out in it, going about their business, surviving together. We walked around, talked art. It was great.
That night, I ordered a huge Italian feast from Queen, and we all pounced on it, ravenous. Over that next week, I made a point to get to know her crew. We spilled our histories. It was obviously important to Addison that I was approved by Teddy and Erickson. My understanding was that Zach Frat hadn’t been much liked.
At the end of every night, right before she went to sleep, Addison always gave me the biggest smile and said, “If I leave before you, baby, don’t you waste me in the ground.”
I knew she was quoting something, but I didn’t know what—turned out to be an Iron and Wine song, “Naked as We Come.” Addison could quote a million plays and poems and song lyrics. She especially loved Amy Winehouse—her decadence and her fatalism. Addison never saw the tragedy. She could only see the beauty in a Winehouse song. Not the doom. I hear Amy Winehouse whenever I see Addison’s Chandelier Girl clip. Sure, she could have died. Easy. But you never think about death when you see that clip. You only think about beauty.
LUCY LIM: Addy and I would always check in—by phone or text or email—every single day. Usually phone. I’d start the morning with a Starbucks coffee in my car in the student parking lot, right before homeroom bell. Just to find out how everything was going. She liked to do it, too. She needed those rituals.
So when I didn’t get anything from Addy for three days, not even for Halloween, not pictures, nada, I was worried. Whenever I didn’t hear from Addy, my mind jumped back to the last time she fell way out of touch, and next thing I heard she was in the loony bin. On day three, I called Bill and Arlene, and then we basically sent texts and called her cell until she finally texted back: stop! all good! lincoln!
Lincoln and Addison napping on the velvet couch, Court Street apartment, courtesy of Erickson McAvena.
MARIE-CLAIRE BROYARD: Someone had seen Addison and Lincoln kissing at the Klempf Art benefit. The gossip spread around New York like a kudzu vine. Zach had been holding out hope, you know. But not after he caught the rumor.
And one night soon after, Zach came storming over to my place, red-faced. Bellowing like a bull. I was living on 88th and Madison, in this la-dee-da co-op building, and I got three noise complaints, all because of Zach.
He was out of his mind. “I can’t get hold of her, she’s with Lincoln, she won’t return my calls, it’s like I never existed, she’s such a bitch!” Pounding the wall, but I could see he was teary.
“She used me, MC. She promised—she swore all she needed was time. Time with him.”
I was like, “Sweetie, let’s go shopping first thing tomorrow. Let’s snap up every color cashmere at Loro Piana.” That’s where Zach and I understand each other—in retail therapy.
But he couldn’t get it together. He drank the rest of my scotch, and then he sort of collapsed in a stupor on my sofa. Finally after midnight, I was starving, so we wobbled over to The Restaurant at The Mark Hotel for poached artichokes. Zach is a pathetic drunk. Back at my apartment, I ran him a bath like a baby. He sat in my claw-foot tub, and I bathed him, and then we had sex—charity sex, I should mention. Sweet and comforting, but charity sex is never the solution, is it? Unfortunately, sometimes that’s what you do when you’re not sure what else to do. The next morning, I hate to admit it, but I sort of threw him out like a dog.
But I was walking a fine line, balancing my time with Zach and my time with Addison—she was coming uptown quite a bit, doing some studies for my portrait that would become her beautiful painting MCB. She was so giddy in love with Lincoln, she never even mentioned Zach. I was always so nervous that Zach would come around while Addison was over.
Even to this day, Addison still haunts Zach. And I don’t want to talk myself into a corner here, but whatever happened that night she died, Zach was in town. And there are question marks all over that relationship, what with all that one-upmanship, and all the ongoing nonsense between them.