The Lowry Gallery reminded Smithers a bit of Burns Manor. It had originally been a house built by a wealthy couple, surname "Lowry," naturally. Harris Lowry had been a merchant, who had then apparently spent a good chunk of his time travelling the world with his wife, Louise, and buying art.
Smithers always loved classic art. He had a special fondness for the highly detailed pieces of the Renaissance period. His appreciation hadn't been learned; it was innate.
The first time Smithers had ever been to Burns Manor - as a child he'd tried sneaking in as a child, and got caught by Johan - his eyes had been drawn to the artwork on the walls. He would've loved to wander the halls, looking at the pieces. That didn't happen though. Burns had sized him up, then had his manservant drive Smithers home.
Ultimately though, Smithers' life seemed to be fated to cross paths with Mister Burns. Young Smithers spent much of his childhood at the Manor under Burns' watchful eye. The older man treated Smithers like an apprentice in many ways, and allowed Smithers to pursue hobbies like painting and music. Hobbies, Smithers reflected, that his step-father always thought a waste of time.
Smithers supposed he owed Burns at least for indulging his classical tastes.
Smithers paused in front of a well-known Botticelli piece. Like so many of the artist's works, it was an illustration of Christian iconography. He adjusted his earbuds and regarded the piece thoughtfully.
Like so many pieces of the time, it was hardly an image. Literacy was a gift most people didn't have. Stories were told through art. All one had to do was learn to read the camouflaged signs. Burns didn't see that though, Smithers reflected. Burns collected art as a display of wealth. And sure, Smithers reflected, Burns liked the pieces he hung on the walls, but Burns never truly understood them!
There was a world of difference between appreciating the aesthetics of a satyr mourning over a nymph who was supposedly killed accidentally... and being able to understand the defensive wounds on her hands.
Smithers moved on through the gallery, mind alternating between artwork, and Mister Burns.
Looking at something, or someone, was far different from actually seeing them.
Smithers had tried explaining the stories to Burns. See, he'd said, indicating the satyr painting on one of their trips, she was murdered.
Burns had scoffed. Smithers, don't be daft. It says here she was clearly killed accidentally during a hunt.
It says that, Smithers protested, gesturing to Burns' brochure. But this! he gestured emphatically, shows otherwise!
Burns gave Smithers a condescending look. Who made you the art history scholar, hmm? Because last time I knew, you were just my meager assistant. I'm done with this nonsense; let's go.
Smithers had dutifully fallen into step behind Burns. Why do we always fight on vacation, he muttered.
Smithers shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. Burns had a way of not appreciating things. It had always been so obvious. Smithers mentally kicked himself. Why had it taken him twenty years, and over two thousand miles to realize that?
He paused, staring up at an intricate Tintoretto piece, The Miracle of St. Mark Freeing the Slave.
Thanks, Jacopo, he thought, regarding the piece with a chuckle. Way to drive home the point. Smithers selected a lively track on his MyPod, and continued his tour of the galleries.
Smithers easily could've spent all day at the Lowry museum. It wasn't a huge institution, but the galleries were spaced in such a way that one could happily wander for hours, lost in thought. Around mid-day, he meandered to the small but modern Lowry Café, and ordered a sandwich. It was one of those 'artisan grilled panini' things, with blend of veggies and mozzarella cheese. A tad over-priced, but still tasty.
Smithers glanced at his phone.
No incoming calls, no text messages. A few new emails, all work-related. He flipped over to social media. There wasn't much going on with his small network. The biggest news was that his cousin, Caroline, was expecting. He'd almost forgotten she and Adam finally got married. They'd had a small, discrete ceremony the other year.
I'm going to be an uncle! he thought, astonished. He clicked "like" and then added a comment, "Congratulations!"
Technically, Smithers would be a cousin to her child, but he and Caroline had grown up together for the first several years of their lives. They shared a bond more like siblings than cousins; with the good and bad that came with it. Fortunately, there was more good than bad.
Caroline had always been one of his closest friends and a trusted confidant. She was the first person he 'came out' to, the only one he'd officially told. Everyone else figured it out eventually, on their own.
Caroline didn't judge. They'd sit around and laugh about the types of guys they liked, who was cute and who was not. After she'd gotten married and moved out of Springfield, they'd drifted apart a bit. I should shoot her a message later, Smithers thought. He also realized he hadn't written to his mother in a while. I'll send her a letter too. He could probably pick up some post cards at the gift store. He'd send one to Caroline, and one to his mother.
He would not send one to Mister Burns.
Smithers glanced at the clock on his phone. That club Leon suggested, J. Vernie's was open now. He'd give it another hour before he headed over. He didn't want to seem desperate. Better to let some of the regulars arrive, he figured.
According to the brochure, the gift shop had several postcards of various artworks, some from the Lowry collection, some from other galleries. He decided he'd pick up several: one for Caroline, one for his mother, and a few for himself.
Smithers had a modest post-card collection. They sat on the shelves of his apartment, adding a diverse backdrop for his Malibu Stacy dolls. After moving out on his own, Smithers was finally able to indulge his passion of collecting the fashion dolls without garnering scorn from his step-father. It had been partially an act of rebellion, and partially genuine interest. Over the years, his Malibu Stacy collection had grown from a small hobby to a downright passion.
His Malibu Stacy collection, like his 'lifestyle choice' wasn't something he casually brought up to strangers, but it wasn't a secret to those who knew him. Smithers had achieved a small amount of fame in the Malibu Stacy community for the musical he wrote.
He finished his sandwich. At least, he reasoned, he'd been able accomplish that goal.
In the back of his mind a little voice chimed in, reminding him something he'd almost forgotten: Mister Burns. Oh sure, Burns had mocked him for making a play about a doll, but he'd granted Smithers time off to do it. And opening night, although Smithers never saw Burns' face in the audience, he came back to find two dozen long-stemmed roses, and a bouquet of sunflowers in his dressing room.
The roses, Smithers reasoned, could've come from anyone. But the sunflowers? That was sort of an unspoken thing he and Burns shared. It went all the way back to Smithers' childhood, when he and Burns would take a ride out to the fields beyond Springfield. Acres of sunflowers, stretching as far as the eye could see; and Smithers gathering them by the armload to take home.
In all honesty, roses were a common enough flower. They might've even come from one of his co-stars. The sunflowers? That was more coincidence than he could completely ignore.
Neither of the bouquets came with a card.
Smithers had been left wondering if maybe, just maybe…
He sighed, shook his head and carried his plate back to the counter.
It had to have been a coincidence, nothing more he told himself. Whatever he wanted to believe, how badly he wished, didn't make it true. Hope could lead the heart down dangerous paths.
Time to go get those postcards, and head to J. Vernie's.
J. Vernie's was easily recognizable. It was part of a block of shops and restaurants just beyond Monument Park. A rainbow triangle, and the phrase "safe space" were posted on the front door, above a smaller sign that announced "come as you are, but leave your angst at the door;" and, curiously enough, a picture of an octopus.
Smithers removed his earbuds, stuffed his MyPod in his pocket, gave himself a mental pep talk, and headed in.
The bar itself was fairly crowded, but the atmosphere was relaxed. People congregated in groups by the pool table, or settled into the high-backed booths along the walls. The bar, wooden with brass accenting, filled the back wall. The bar was backed by various tiles that alternated through the entire spectrum, fading almost hypnotically from one hue to the next.
Smithers took a moment to check out the decorations. There were images of men and women in Victorian attire, retro-futuristic looking contraptions, and more of the octopus theme. The walls were paneled wood, accented with brass gewgaws, and gears that didn't seem to attach to anything. The high ceiling had several pipes, and what appeared to be cam-shafts running the length of it, between the dim lights.
Some of the people there were, in fact, were dressed similar to the pictures.
One of the patrons noticed him looking around and gave him a friendly smile. Smithers smiled back, gave a social nod, and ambled over to the bar.
He almost didn't recognize Leon.
Leon was wearing a black top hat, purple vest with a double row of gold buttons, and a gold cravat. He had a pair of goggles atop the brim of the top hat, and large hoop earrings in both ears. He recognized Smithers immediately, and waved him over.
"Hey Waylon," he said beaming, "glad you decided to come over. Welcome to J. Vernie's. What can I get you tonight?"
"Do you have CliffBoxer?"
"Does the Pope wear a pointy hat?" Leon laughed and filled a glass from the tap. "Tab or…"
"Tab," Smithers replied, leaning against one of the leather bar chairs and checking out the room.
"So," Leon pried, "what do you think?"
Smithers sipped his beer. "To be honest, I don't quite get the theme," he admitted.
"You're not into steampunk?"
"What's steampunk?"
Leon drew himself back, clutching a hand to his chest dramatically. "'What's steampunk?' What's steampunk? Oh honey, you don't know?" He tisk-tisked, and shook his head in exaggerated sympathy. "Well, the short answer is it's a genre, an art, and a fashion style inspired by the future imaginings of the Victorian era."
Smithers took another sip, trying to imagine it.
Leon easily picked up on Smithers bemusement.
"Imagine, if you will," Leon began, "modern technology powered by steam, and set two hundred years ago. There's a huge emphasis on aesthetics: polished metal, oiled leather, sanded wood… that sort of thing. Like the works of H. G. Wells… or," he raised an eyebrow, "Jules Verne."
The light dawned! Smithers snapped his fingers. "Ah! The name, J. Vernie's! Jules Verne!" He beamed.
Leon gave him a toothy grin. "See, you get it. We used to be pretty underground, then steampunk went mainstream and the hipsters from Plateau Community College starting coming over for the atmosphere." Leon paused, noting Smithers' concerned expression. "Don't worry, honey, they're chill and respectful. The straights know what they're getting into here. Don't feel shy."
Smithers took a long sip of his CliffBoxer and eyed Leon with mock-reproach. "I'm not shy," he said, thinking of all the times he hadn't told Mister Burns how he felt. "I'm just not…" he paused, and fidgeted with the coaster under his drink for a minute. "Yeah… I guess I am a bit shy."
Leon gave his arm a playful shove. "So what are you doing telling me about it? Why don't you get out there and mingle? Ellis, by the pool table, he's always looking for someone to play against. Why don't you challenge him to a game?"
Smithers laughed and readjusted his glasses. "Oh no. I haven't played pool since highschool. I wouldn't stand a chance."
Leon laughed warmly. "I said he was always looking for someone to play against. I never said he was any good! Go on, Waylon, stop yappin' at me and get yourself out there!" Leon took a step back and tipped his hat. He made a shooing gesture, and starting wiping down some glasses.
Smithers chuckled inwardly. So that's how Leon was going to play it? Fair enough. He ambled over to the pool table. The man Leon had indicated, Ellis, was leaning against the wall, casually sipping a drink.
Smithers caught his eye, and gave him a nod. "So," he began, "care for a match?"
Ellis grinned. "Absolutely!" Ellis was a substantial man, not particularly tall, but build like a Mack truck, stout and muscular. His head was shaved, but his beard was that of a biker's. He wore a white tanktop, and green cargo pants. He had a leather cuff on his right arm, and a silver ring in his left ear. "Play much?" he asked casually.
Smithers selected a pool cue from the wall, and fished a few quarters out of his pocket. "Not in years," he admitted.
Ellis grabbed a cue in his bearlike paw, and chalked the tip. "That's what they all say," he said good-naturedly, passing the chalk to Smithers.
Smithers hung his windbreaker of the back of a nearby chair and started racking up the balls. "This time it's true," he said laughing. He started putting the pool balls in the triangle rack. He slid them to the center of the table.
Ellis leaned over next to Smithers, moved a few balls around, and lined the rack of with the middle diamond of the pool table. "The one-ball always goes at the top, the eight-ball in the middle," he explained. He gave Smithers a friendly wink. "You sure you're not hustling me?"
Smithers laughed a tad uncomfortably. "Absolutely."
Ellis lifted the rack from the balls. "You can break." He leaned back, tree-trunk arms wrapped around his cue stick as he leaned against the wall.
Smithers leaned over the table, feeling rather self-conscious, and took aim. He licked his lips, and concentrated. With an iconic crack, the cue ball struck the apex of the rack, and sent the remaining balls rebounding about the table.
As the game progressed, it became quite apparent that Smithers had not been husting Ellis; and that Ellis was not much better. The game was evenly matched, and fun. In the end, Smithers won, just barely. "Another?" Ellis asked.
"Sure," Smithers agreed. "What're you drinking? I need a refill."
Ellis looked as his glass, finished the remains in a single gulp. "Jack-and-coke." Smithers trotted over to the bar, flagged down Leon, and ordered two drinks.
Leon gave him a wink. "Glad to see you're making some friends out there," he encouraged, before getting back to work.
The second match was somewhat more competitive, but more lively as well. They chatted about this and that, and Smithers found himself opening up about his new resident status in Plateau City. He tried not to talk about Mister Burns, but old habits can be at times hard to break. This time, as he spoke though, it was not the love-struck ramblings, but lamentation. Smithers tried to keep from sounding hurt, he wasn't here to be sad, but the truth was his heart still ached.
Ellis clearly picked up on that. "Hey," he coaxed, "don't be blue; pink panther. You'll find someone."
"I wasted nearly two decades of my life," Smithers growled softly, slamming the cue ball into a striped one, and sending it down a pocket. He leaned back, and waited for the cue ball to appear at the chute.
Ellis leaned on his cue, thoughtfully, silently.
The cue ball appeared, and Smithers passed it over. Ellis placed it, and took a shot. "We've all been there," he said. "I mean, that's a long time, but it probably wasn't all bad."
Smithers shrugged. "There were a few good times," he admitted.
Ellis, who had sunk one of his solids lined up a second shot. "Yeah. So you think about what made it good, and then you know what to look for in the next guy."
"Honestly," Smithers said, taking his turn, "I don't feel as bad as I should."
"Rebounding?"
Smithers shrugged. "Maybe," he confessed.
"Well, I know one or two people around here who could help you along with that," Ellis replied subtly.
Smithers raised an eyebrow.
Ellis held up a meaty paw. "Not me. I'm kinda off the market. But hey, don't rush things. Take your time."
Smithers nodded. It was sound advice, even if he didn't want to hear it. "Hey," he asked, looking up, "who's that?"
Ellis followed his gaze. "That cutey?"
Smithers nodded.
"Awww, Keith? He's 'yestergay's news,'" Ellis replied with a shrug. He leaned in close to Smithers, and gave a covert wink. "But between you and me," he whispered, "I think he's still questioning. Just something to keep in mind, y'know…"