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Extended Work
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| The Painting, part 1 of 3 | |
| By FlyMike | ||||
| 27 August 2006 | ||||
The Painting, Part 1 of 3 By Mike Burris An icy wind snapped against Marty as he waited in the hallway for his first class of the day. He hugged himself a little tighter. It was the first really cold day of the year and Marty had forgotten his jacket. He was lined up outside Mrs. Scotten’s English class. She was often late for her first class in the morning, yet would always mark you tardy if you weren’t right through the door with her. What a bitch, Marty thought. Marty frowned and looked up the grey morning sky. When Billy showed up Marty’s mood brightened considerably. “Marty, my man. How many turds did you burgle last night?” “I don’t know, I lost count, you’ll have to ask your mom.” “Like I told you last time, that big black homeless dude is not my mom.” “Yeah, you did say that last time, I guess I shouldn’t be so gullible.” “No problem, anybody could make that mistake. So how’s the other side of the room?” “Pretty lame, I can’t believe Mrs. Scotten separated us already.” “I know, and it’s not even December. Oh well, dude, it was fun while it lasted.” “I guess a little too much fun.” “Don’t worry about it, I got something to brighten your day.” Billy handed him a folded up piece of paper. On the front was printed in bold letters- ‘DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 7:45.’ “I mean it dude, don’t open that until 7:45.” “Why not?” “Just trust me. Kinda cold today, huh?” Marty tried not to watch the clock, but class was so boring. The note was burning a hole in his pocket. When the clock read 7:15, Marty started to fumble for the note. He pulled it out and looked across the class for Billy. Billy was staring back with a serious expression, shaking his head. Marty waited. The classroom was cold. Mrs. Scotten always kept it cold, but today it was freezing. He cursed himself for forgetting his jacket. It was 7:30 now. Marty couldn’t wait to open the note. He looked back at Billy. Billy, it seemed, had not stopped staring at him. He was scowling now. Marty would wait. At the stroke of 7:45, Marty carefully opened the note. Written inside in big bold letters was- ‘Check out Mrs. Scotten’s nipples!!!” Marty looked up at his teacher. Mrs. Scotten was notorious for never wearing a bra and allowing her middle aged breasts to sag and strain against her blouse. And now, no doubt inspired by the cold, Marty could plainly see two stout nubs standing at attention on a plane about equal to her belly button. He hadn’t really noticed them before, but now he couldn’t help but see them. He let out a snort of laughter but quickly buried it. He looked back at Billy. Billy wore the same serious expression, but was now subtly pinching his own nipples. Marty almost lost it. It took his every fiber of strength not to laugh. His resolve finally broke when he looked back at his teacher. She was reaching up to write something on the chalk board. As she reached up one of her gravity victimized breasts got caught in an awkward position between her blouse and her body. The blouse now provided a momentary and disturbingly accurate depiction in relief of what Mr. Scotten must see whenever his wife stepped out of the shower. Marty was fighting a loosing battle. Tears were streaming down his face. Behind him he could hear Billy starting to break up. That made it worse. Their laughter started to feed on the other and soon they were both hysterical. Marty was laughing so hard his face had turned red and he was crying. When Marty regained his composure he realized the whole class was staring at him. Mrs. Scotten looked very angry. “Young man, what is so funny?” “Nothing, I…” Marty saw her nipples again, inflamed now with rage, apparently. Laughter started to bubble up again. He choked it down. “Nothing, I, really, I’m sorry.” “Nothing? I don’t think ‘nothing’ is very funny. What’s on that note?” Oh shit, the note! Marty thought suddenly. Marty looked down at it. There was no way he could let Mrs. Scotten see that. He would be suspended for sure. “Bring me that note to me right now.” “I, uh, I…” Marty tried to stall. What could he do? He was caught red handed. Mrs. Scotten was rapidly approaching his desk. I’m trapped, Marty thought, oh God I’m so screwed. He had to think fast. She was now just inches form his desk. Walking forward she reached out her hand to remove the offending note from her student. In a flash, Marty crumpled the note up and stuck it in his mouth. “Marty Zimmerman, you spit that out right now.” Marty shook his head and swallowed. “Why you little… That’s it. I’m sending you to detention.” *** “How’d that note taste, dude?” “Screw you Billy.” “Seriously, I would have put some jelly in there too if I knew you were going to eat it.” “Seriously Billy, screw you.” “Aw c’mon man, I’m just fucking with you. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I just didn’t know you were going to lose your shit like that.” “Didn’t I already say screw you? Why are you still talking to me?” “Dude, I can make it up to you. Come over to my house after they let you out of the pen. I got something really cool I want to show you.” “It’s not that internet video of your mom fucking a horse is it? I’ve already seen that like a hundred times.” “No way dude, this is way better.” *** “What is it?” The painting rolled out across the floor in front of the two boys could be mistaken, at first glance, for an oriental throw rug. “Dude, isn’t it cool?” “Yeah, but what is it?” Marty scrunched his nose and squinted at the canvas. He still couldn’t figure out what it was. It didn’t look like anything to him, just a bunch of lines. He had trouble focusing on them; every now and then one of them seemed to move. “I don’t know what it is. It’s just cool, that’s all. I found it yesterday at my uncle’s store. I guess the fire didn’t get everything.” “You should tell your uncle about this. It might be worth something.” “Don’t be such a fag, Marty. He doesn’t care. It was all insured. He’s probably happy it’s gone, all of it. He can tell them anything he wants now. It’s not like he was going to sell any of that crap anyway. Probably started that fire himself.” “Yeah, I guess.” Marty still didn’t feel right about it. But it was Billy’s uncle, not his own, so he would know better. And Marty didn’t want to give up the painting either. They decided that Billy would hold onto it. Marty’s mom was way more of a snoop and would find it quickly if he tried to hide it. Billy’s parents rarely ventured into his room- piles of clothes on the floor and a stack of Hustlers testified to that. Dinner was on the table when Marty got home. The whole house smelled like tomato sauce and hamburger- meatloaf night. “Did you do your homework yet?” Marty’s dad wasn’t much for pleasantries. “Yes Dad, I did it at Billy’s house.” “Let me see it.” Marty’s dad checked word problems between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes. Marty sat sullenly and pushed around his peas. “Frank, don’t do that at the dinner table. This isn’t a business meeting. Put that down. Talk to your son.” Marty’s mom had one child but was raising two children it seemed. She smiled at her husband lest he think he wasn’t in charge. “OK,” Marty’s dad put down the word problems. “What else did you do today?” “Nothing Dad.” “Nothing? What nothing? What else did you do over at Billy’s all afternoon?” “Nothing, we just hung out.” “Hung out, huh? You were probably smoking pot. Let me see your eyes.” “Frank!” “What?! I don’t trust that Billy. He’s a troublemaker. Him and that dad of his. I better not catch you smoking pot.” “Dad! We weren’t smoking pot. Billy doesn’t smoke pot. I don’t smoke pot. Nobody smokes pot. I’ve never even seen pot. I wouldn’t know what it was if you gave me some right now. Will you please just drop it?” After dinner followed dessert, ice cream with chocolate syrup, mother’s specialty. Then a bath, and then to bed- but Marty couldn’t stop thinking of that painting. As he lay in bed he could see it in his mind’s eye- the exquisite details, the way the lines seemed to slither on the canvas just out of the edge of focus. Hours ago he had regarded it as some Far East curio found in some burned out wreckage. But the more he thought about it, the more he became to him an object of exquisite beauty. He couldn’t wait to see it again. Marty felt suddenly inspired. He got up in the dark and checked the hallway. All was quiet. He clicked on his desk lamp and pulled out his sketch book. He had spent hours with this companion. Next to Billy it was his best friend. Marty thumbed through his sketches. There were portraits of friends and family. The stern eyes of Marty’s father stared back at him from the page. Marty flipped ahead, there were studies of athletes in motion- divers and gymnasts in mid tumble, runners leaping from the starting block, tennis players exploding into their forehands and backhands. There were landscapes, and cars, and buildings, and setting suns, and pictures so vivid that mind nearly saw color when the whole page marked only in pencil. Many times he heard it whispered from one adult to another “…and he’s only fourteen.” He turned past the filled pages to a blank sheet and began to sketch, but not the abstract Oriental design of the painting. Instead he began to draw without knowing where exactly his pencil was taking him. What began to appear before him was a bird, a raven. Now, fixed in his mind what his hand was doing, Marty worked furiously- detailing each long black feather and the chiseled beak. All gleamed from the page. Marty finished his work and studied his new creation. A proud black raven stared back at him- its eyes black and cold, its wings spread, beak sharp. Marty ran his fingers over the page. It felt almost greasy. Marty pulled back his fingers. The sensation was disturbing. He rubbed the page again. It was dry. Marty looked at the clock. It was 3 AM. He had to be up at six thirty. Bleary eyed now and dreading the next morning, Marty turned off his desk lamp and slumped into his bed asleep. *** “Marty!” “Uhh…hh…” “Marty! Wake up young man! I will not have you sleeping in my class. Is English really that boring? Is there something else you’d rather I be teaching?” “No, I’m sorry Mrs. Scotten. I just, I’m sorry. Late night.” “Just stay awake until the end of class. Then I don’t care what you do.” Kids today and their pot smoking, Mrs. Scotten thought. Such a shame, such a talented young man, but then, look at the friends he keeps. *** “Dude, Mrs. Scotten was totally pissed. I thought she was going to crap herself.” “Not now Billy.” “But dude! That was awesome. Man, she had the vein popping on her forehead and everything. You totally have to do it again tomorrow.” “No way, I just need to get some sleep. Maybe I can take a nap at your house after school.” “You just want to peep that painting again.” “Yeah, so what?” “That’s cool dude. But your parents will be totally pissed that you skipped your after-school art class.” “Oh shit! That’s right. I forgot.” “Hey buddy, language. You shouldn’t say shit like that. You sound like a hoodlum.” “You are a hoodlum.” “Fuck you too.” *** Ms. Trinery’s after school art class was a both joy and a pain for Marty. A joy because it was the one class he could excel in without trying. A pain because it counted zero towards his grades- since the school cut the art program Ms. Trinery held the classes as an after-school art club for a small fee. But she still gave homework and sent home progress reports to the parents. For a former hippy, she was really a hard ass. Marty wished she would get the bird flu. “OK class. Now last week I gave you all an assignment. I wanted you to each write 1000 words about your favorite artist and why they inspire you and I am just so excited to hear what each of you wrote. Now, when I call your name I want you to come up in front of the class and read your paper. Sara Adams would you please go first?” Marty tuned out immediately. He flipped through his sketchbook. Periodically from a droning little girl’s voice in the background he would catch something about Van Gogh. Aggressively, he redirected his focus back to his sketches. He turned to the raven’s page. It’s beautiful, he thought. Actually, beautiful wasn’t the word- he corrected himself- it’s more… unsettling. He touched the drawing and again it felt oily. And something smelled. He couldn’t put his finger on what. “Oh Sara, that was wonderful. Wasn’t that wonderful class? That was simply wonderful. That was so fantastic. OK, who do we have next? Marty. Wonderful, I can’t wait to hear about who inspires you.” Marty’s heart jumped in his throat. He hadn’t done the assignment, but he thought he was safe. Zimmerman. His last name was Zimmerman which meant she wasn’t supposed to get to him till the end of class tomorrow at the earliest. Sara Adams, Marty Zimmerman, what kind of screwed up roster what she using? “I, uh, I didn’t know I was supposed to have it done today.” “Marty, please, you had a whole week to do it. It was due today. Everybody knew that.” The class nodded in silent agreement. Some of the girls were giggling. “Yeah, but I thought since, well since, you know, we’d be doing it for two days, and, you know…” “And because your last name is Zimmerman? Marty I told everyone last week that we would be doing an ‘A’ name and then a ‘Z’ name and then a ‘B’ name and then a ‘Y’ name, and then all through the alphabet so it would be fair to everyone. And you were going to do the whole thing in one night? I wanted you to take all week on this. I wanted you to put feeling into it.” “I have been working on it; it’s just not finished yet is all. I’ve been working all week.” “OK Marty, who is it on?” “It’s on, uh, it’s on Van Gogh.” “Oh well, how nice, two Van Gogh lovers back to back. What a coincidence. Well, that had better be some paper to match the excellent work of young Miss Adams.” Marty wished he had a sick chicken to give Ms. Trinery. When class dismissed, Marty found Billy waiting for him outside. “Dude, that took forever. What do you people do in there?” “Nothing, I don’t want to talk about it. What did you do out here?” “Nothing. Just played some B-ball in the gym. Macked on some ho’s. You know how I roll.” “God, you are such a fag.” “Takes one to know one. C’mon homo, lets get out of here before some football player gives you a huge boner.” “I can’t, I have to go the library.” “The library?! What, is there some new issue of Big Sausage magazine there?” “Yeah, and your dad is in it. Plus I have to get some books on Van Gogh. I have to do a paper on him- tonight.” “Bummer dude. I guess you won’t be coming over to check out that painting again.” “Yeah I will, just not tonight. Keep it hidden alright? I’d like to see it again before your mom finds it and takes it away.” “No problem amigo. I got it rolled up with all the Hustlers. She won’t go near that pile.” Marty rummaged through library hoping to find the least informative book on Van Gogh as possible. The fewer details the better, he thought. I just want something that can be read in 20 minutes or less. After an hour and a half search Marty found an art survey book that barely mentioned Van Gogh. Brilliant, he thought. He checked out the book and went home. That night at dinner Marty delicately skirted the issue of the blown assignment. He could never be sure how much his parents already knew about his school life. It wasn’t above Ms. Trinery to place a call to Marty’s dad while at the office and inform him of his son’s laziness. Marty couldn’t be sure if this missed deadline had irked her enough to tattle on him. Inevitably the subject turned once again to homework. Marty squirmed. He had to feel this out carefully. “Have you finished your homework yet?” “No, not yet dad. I worked on some stuff earlier and I still have some stuff to do.” “Yeah, like what?” “Just stuff you know, like math and stuff.” “Yeah, and what else?” Marty didn’t like where this was going. “I have a paper I have to work on.” “A paper? Is it a long paper?” “Sort of. It’s a thousand words” “A thousand words. That’s a long paper. How long do you have to do it?” “Till tomorrow.” “Tomorrow? That doesn’t seem like a lot of time to give a kid to do such a long assignment.” Marty could see that trap coming. He knew his dad knew. Marty was just being toyed with now. But he couldn’t back down. He kept hoping that maybe his dad was just fishing. Sometimes he did that. His dad didn’t always know everything. “Yeah, I guess. It’s not that long.” “Well, Ms Trinery must have thought it was long because she told me on the phone today that you had a week to do it. Then she told me how you missed the assignment, how this wasn’t the first time and how you might not even pass her class.” Marty stomach dropped. Suddenly he felt very sick. “And she told me how Mrs. Scotten said that you fell asleep in her class this morning.” Marty’s stomach was in free fall now. His intestines felt squeezed at both ends. “And looking at you right now I can see that you are eyes are bloodshot- so don’t tell me you’re not smoking pot because I’m not a fucking idiot regardless of what you and your little stoner friend think.” “Frank!” “Don’t ‘Frank’ me, woman. I know when my son is lying to me and I am not raising some god damn stoner hoodlum. You go to your room right now. You are grounded for the rest of the year goddammit. And you will not see that Billy boy again.” “Dad!” “If I see you two together again I will have you sent to military school. Now get out of here right now and go to your room.” Marty ran upstairs crying. Behind him he heard his dad yelling. “And I’ll be checking up on you everyday. Starting tomorrow I’ll be calling Ms. Trinery to hear all about your paper. Marty kept crying. All he could think about was that fucking Ms. Trinery and how her class wasn’t even for credit. *** Marty spent the night crying and writing. He couldn’t believe how unfair this all was. Every few minutes a wave of self pity would overtake him and we would start sobbing again. The tears stained his paper. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. Least of all Van Gogh. Marty avoided Billy the next day as much as he could. It was easy enough, except for English, Marty had all advanced classes, and Billy all remedial. Marty hurried quickly from class to class and ate lunch at a table where everybody hated him. But they hated Billy too, and he wouldn’t go near those seats. Marty couldn’t think of what he was going to say to Billy. He felt so embarrassed. He knew he was just delaying the inevitable, but he couldn’t deal with Billy right now. Not now, not yet. In Ms. Trinery’s class, Marty faced different sort of awkwardness. Ms. Trinery had revealed herself to be the enemy- an unthinking and unfeeling destroyer of friendships and family happiness. And once again Marty was obliged to pretend like nothing happened, like he was fine, and just go on and read his paper on Van Gogh. The paper was horrible, but Marty didn’t care. He just wanted today over with. He dutifully read his paper to the class and sat back down. At the end of class Ms. Trinery had tact enough not to talk to him. *** “Dude!” Oh no, Marty thought. What am I going to say to him? How can I tell him? “Dude, I’ve been looking for you all day, man. Where have you been?” “I, uh, I… What the hell is that?!” Marty couldn’t believe his eyes. Sticking in the top of Billy’s head, and running along his long, black hair, was a long, black feather. “What is what?” “That! In your hair! You’re wearing a feather.” “What are you talking about?” “That feather. Right here, look.” Marty grabbed the feather and tugged on it. He meant to pull it out, but it wouldn’t budge. And he couldn’t get a decent grip on it. It felt oily. “Ow Dude! Quit pulling on my hair! What’s wrong with you?” “I swear you have a feather in your hair.” “Whatever dude. I just wanted to see where you’ve been all day. Now I know you’ve been smoking crack.” “Its not crack, its pot. That’s what my dad thinks were doing yesterday and the day before. He thinks we’re smoking pot and he says we can’t see each other anymore. He says if he catches us together he’s going to send me to military school.” “That’s fucking crazy.” “I know,” Marty was starting to cry. “I know. I don’t know what to do. That’s why I was avoiding you today. I didn’t know how to tell you.” “Man that sucks.” “Yeah, I know. I don’t know what to do.” “Hang on buddy. Chill out. Now you and I both know that we don’t smoke pot. And sooner or later your dad will realize it too. Just let him chill out for a while and this will all blow over.” “I don’t know, he’s pretty pissed.” “I would be too if I had you as a kid.” “Fuck you.” “See? Feeling better already, now get out of here before your dad catches us.” “OK, thanks. And Billy, whatever you’re trying to do with that feather looks really stupid.” *** Marty felt better that night at dinner. He still felt hurt and angry at his dad, but he knew that his dad was an honest man and sooner or later would learn the truth. Then he would calm down and Marty and Billy could be friends again. It was just a matter of waiting out the storm. Marty went right to his room after dinner. He hadn’t thought about the painting in Billy’s room for a while, but he thought about it again now. He wished he could go over there right now and look at it. But he couldn’t, so he pictured it in his mind. He sat down and tried to draw it. But all he produced looked like cheesy pagoda art in a Chinese restaurant. It looked almost the same as the painting, at least the way he pictured it, but it didn’t feel the same. He couldn’t figure out how the original artist made the lines seem to move like that. After a few attempts he gave up and settled in to draw something different. Once again, his hand took command, drawing immediately once it hit the page. Marty liked when this happened, like there was some unconscious image trying to push its way from deep within his brain and it found a direct conduit in his right hand. His hand swept across the page, top to bottom, right to left. Marty was dimly aware now of what was appearing and now more consciously applied himself to his work. He drew mountains in the distance and a valley up ahead. In the foreground, pushing its way into the distance was a crack. No, not a crack, it was a fissure. Marty pulled back from the page and smiled. It wasn’t often he drew landscapes. This one is missing some excitement, he thought. He sketched in a few crumbling buildings and went to bed. *** The next few days passed quickly. Marty applied himself diligently to his studies and tried to make the best possible impression upon his dad. The sooner my dad sees I’m not a stoner, Marty thought, the sooner me and Billy can be friends again. Billy, for his part, made it easy on Marty. He stayed out of sight, not forcing Marty to make a choice. By the end of the week, Marty hadn’t seen him once in ten days. Billy hadn’t even been to English class. So Marty was surprised to find a note stuffed in his locker. “Dude,” it read. “Do you still want to see that painting? Meet me in the dirt lot after school. PS: Don’t forget to bring the weed!!!” *** Marty couldn’t believe his eyes. The person standing in the dirt lot was clearly Billy. But running throughout his hair were many jet black feathers, and his eyes, once brown, were now, even the whites, almost totally black. “What… the fuck… have you done to yourself?” “What are you talking about? Do you want the painting or what? “Are you fucking kidding me? What are you doing? I can’t believe your parents are letting you get away with this.” “Dude, I was just kidding about the weed, OK? You are seriously tripping me out.” Marty was standing upwind of his friend. But every now and then the wind would shift and Marty would catch a smell, very strong, of rotten garbage. “Me? Tripping you out? You? Jesus, you smell like you’ve been rolling in the dumpster.” “Fuck you, man. I just thought you’d want to hold onto the painting for a while. Here.” Billy held out a cardboard poster tube. Marty noticed that Billy’s fingernails were black. “It’s in there, just don’t let your mom find it, because I’ll want it back.” “Whatever, just go take a fucking shower or something.” Marty hurried home with his new prize. When he got to his room he reached to open the tube and then hesitated. He thought about Billy and what was happening to him. He couldn’t believe that no one else had mentioned it. Something like that, like a student with bird feathers smelling like garbage, something like that would be all over the school in a second. You couldn’t sport a woody without the gossips leaking it everywhere. He took the tube and tossed it in the corner. Maybe I’ll look at it later, he thought. Better for now to hide it plain sight. He was always bringing home art supplies. With luck, his mom would just assume it was that.
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