Chase holds firmly onto the two handlebars as he cycles through the congested traffic. The day he has waited for a very long time has come. An opportunity to finally thrive within this bitter bottleneck he calls a life. To prove his art can matter in the real world and not wasted in his fanciful dreams.

Suddenly in front of him, a blue sedan makes a sporadic halt which forces Chase to have a complete stop. Both bike tires hold back on the soft gravel. The edge of the front tire inches apart from the sedan's back bumper.

"Come on!" He murmurs irritatingly.

He glances further ahead. All the cars in front of him unable to move because of a freak accident a mile away. Chase knows today is not the day to mess around. He can't be late. He glances quickly at his stopwatch on his left wrist, already losing seconds. The meeting is going to start any minute. He then glares rapidly at the cylindrical plastic tube sitting strongly on his back. Inside it, the piece of artwork that will bring him the hope, the sense of notoriety. and as well money.

Since he got the good news from his art professor, Dr. Mire, that one of his wealthy friends was interested in buying a painting. Chase didn't think for a billionth second he could be the lucky one. However, Dr. Mire did his best to sell Chase's postmodern painting. How Chase spent his time applying the hard acrylics to showcase a burning male-like figure. The rushed brush strokes giving a unique detail on the fire highlights, the texture of the access paint giving a 3D-like visual as if it was real. Chase mentioned to Dr. Mire he called it The Infernal Man. Chase never gave the reason why he named it that. He just felt it was appropriate for this work.

At first Chase didn't want the attention, but the more Dr. Mire convinced him that the time was now. The more Chase understood this was his best chance at a shot of belonging. Dr. Mire informed him that Mrs. Dalton is one of the most respected Louisianans that is deeply involved in the art world. Her charity is what best defines her. And for her to purchase an art from a college student and not from a professional would speak volumes. So, for that very reason, to honor what Professor Mire did for him. Chase can't let him down. He must do this.

Tightening the strap crisscross from his body, he tries to weave around the heavy traffic. Zipping narrowly through the thin spaces between the two rows of cars and pickup trucks. Chase has always played loose with time. Sometimes studying way pass two o' clock in the morning while getting into classes mostly one minute before the professor talks. Now Mrs. Dalton requested Chase to meet her at a specific time.

9:00 am

It's only 8:50:43 am. Time can become his ally for once. He's not too far from the building she chose for the meeting.

Pushing the pedals as fast he can down Taft Street, he weaves carefully across the cars. Eventually getting up to the sidewalk, moving pass several pedestrians. He bypasses the scene of the accident as well a crowd of emergency responders, the people involved, and a couple of bystanders. One cop stare at him.

"Be careful kid!"

Chase swiftly acknowledges him and nods. Checking ahead with minutes to spare, he can smile. Yet as he moves forward, he begins to see a black sports coupe driving nearby to his right. Is as if it wants to get close to him. The sleek slate exterior, the black sharpened rims, and the aggressive transmission roaring out a muted sound. Chase notices the dark titled windows masking the driver. As the car swiftly turns right on the next corner, he glances quickly at the Louisiana license plate, with the word, MOORDENAAR, engraved cryptically.

Believing it has a meaning, why would a driver have that. No numbers, no random letters. Just a strange word someone could concoct as a crossword puzzle answer. What are ten letters for a stupid word. Moordenaar.

Just as Chase tries to focus, he clips a female jogger by a mistake. He collapses on the ground awkwardly; his right side faces the brunt of the impact. He spends a couple of seconds shaking off the stinginess of the pain rippling through his lower body. He leans over to see the female. She gets up slowly.

"I'm so sorry!" He says meekly. "Are you okay?"

The female jogger walks it off. "I'm okay. Watch where you're going". She vents as she resumes her jog the opposite direction. Chase feeling dumb, he holds onto the plastic tube and checks on the recent time.

8:59:48 am

Chase almost wants to abandon his bike and run. But he won't. He centers his crimson helmet on his head and grabs the handlebars. He sprints fast and jumps onto the beveled seat. His feet reaching back to the pedals as he regains momentum. Seconds away from reaching Mrs. Dalton. As he presses hard on the pedals, he finally makes it to 668 Taft Street. Surveying the beige two-story, Victorian-style house with the gated red iron fence. Chase parks his bike near the gate door and takes off his helmet. Locking his bike in place, he then looks back at his watch.

9:02:22 am

Exhaling depressingly, he hopes these two minutes didn't cost him. To him, what to expect. As he reaches towards the gate screen, he views over the silver speaker and discovers the "CALL IN" button. He presses hard on the button.

"Mrs. Dalton, it's me the student from Professor Mire's Intermediate Painting class." He pauses for a second and resumes, "The name's Chase Novak."

He waits as he stares at the watch once again. Minutes ticking by. She did say 9:00 am. And as he waits a few more, a female voice is heard from the gate speaker.

"You can come in."

A sudden buzzing noise echoes out as Chase feels the door handle shake. He opens it still carrying his artwork around his shoulder. Heading pass the short courtyard; he treks up the emerald marbled steps and walks towards the front oak door. He knocks a couple of times. Soon the door is opened as an elderly female with ginger and silver hair reaching close to her shoulders, grins while gesturing him to come in.

"Welcome, Chase is it."

Chase nods as he immediately views the interior. It feels so regal. Mostly everything has some value behind it from expensive framed paintings by experienced painters and sublime statues pieces almost as if it was a Victorian-style museum. Chase is at awe for what he has witnessed so far.

"Thank you for this." He's loving this.

She smiles appreciating his statement as he follows her towards her large parlor room.

"This used to be an old-fashioned study until my grandfather remodeled as if it came from the 1800s. My family are big fans of that era." She glistens as she speaks proudly of her legacy.

Chase looks around as if he's a lost gulpy swimming in Lake Charles. He feels he should be welcome into this world of opulent art style, but something is holding him back. Trying to prove a point, Chase maneuvers the plastic cylindrical tube around his chest, and starts pulling out his rolled-up canvas.

"Here you go." He unrolls it showing his painting of the human-like figure walking through the fire and into a shadowy patch of the unknown. He places the straighten canvas on top of a coffee table, hoping not to knock anything down. He tries to be respectful to her stuff and as he steps back. Mrs. Dalton looks intrigued. She takes out some small rimmed eyeglasses hanging around her neck and nests it tops of her nose. Surveying the piece, she starts to critique the work, mumbling through her petite voice.

"The paint strokes are so luscious. How sweet the acrylic sits on top of the canvas." She turns to Chase. "I commend you on how you layered it. How almost as if its mesmerizing." She chuckles a bit.

He looks on watching her as she continues her critique. Pleased on the fact this is it, he can sense it. A happiness he never felt since he was seven years old. He remembered those times messing with the kids paint when he was living with his godmother. How he spent countless hours playing at first yet quickly began developing his drawing skills since elementary. It was at that moment he never been happier. It was a great counter piece after losing his parents. He thought he would never feel that again.

Except now that same feeling he felt when he was seven might be reestablished.

As Mrs. Dalton ends her critique, she heads back to Chase. He stands still as he anticipates those six words that he has been humming inside his head since he woke up.

I want to buy your work.

Repeating those same six words every minute. His moment has finally come. Yet as he continues to stand, he feels the jitters inside growing. Sweat slowly falling to his chin. He inhales quickly as he holds his breath very close.

Mrs. Dalton approaches and gives him news. "Thank you for letting me see this piece."

As she continues to laud over the painting and offer some creative criticism about certain aspects, Chase is waiting for those exact six words he has been privately marinating this whole time. Hoping she shares the same sentiment. He waits no longer.

"Chase..."

He believes where this is heading. The moment he so long craved just like that seven-year-old boy. As he imagines his eyes closed, he can feel a sense of pure excitement. Yet when those imaginary eyes are open wide, he gets her response.

"I appreciate this. I really do. Except, I'm so sorry, but I can't." Her head lowers sadly. "I won't buy it."

And like that, those words he wanted to hear. Those words that would be the key that would break this unbearable bitterness that has that has driven his life into utter disappointment.

The lock just got a lot tougher.