Painter
Beep. Beep. Beep.
It’s light out already. The clock reads 10AM. Do I even bother with breakfast? No. I need to make these stamps st. I check my fridge anyway: carton of milk expiring tomorrow, some vegetables.
What do I do, what do I do?
I go to the cupboard, grab a soda. It was cheaper than bottled water, cheaper than getting sick. I look across my trailer, a sprawling mess of paints, pigments, clothes. An unfinished canvas, left to dry. Wasted paint.
Why do I even bother? I clearly don’t have the means to continue. And yet, it’s all I do with my time. Compelled to try, and try again. Wasting my unemployment benefits.
Cursing my arrogance, picking up a brush, my mind fades into a blur, into the blue and green expanse of the unfinished canvas. The unfinished, undefined, unclear worlds conjured up, to be defined.
…
I eat my only meal of the day. A soup made with whatever I could scrounge up. I go back to my canvas.
…
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The arm reads 10PM. I put on a facemask, grab my backpack, grab a jerry can, grab the bike handed down by my brother. I go to the nearest gas station, dodging cars along busy roads. They still haven’t fixed their pumps. I collect what dribbles out from the hose, and go around dumpster diving. An entire chicken, in rigid pstic!
I put it in my backpack, and head to the nearest fast food chain. I find the exposed mains plug, and plug in my only valuable possessions, a ptop, scratched up from the recycling centre.
I connect to public wifi, to check emails. To prove that I’m seeking a job, as proof that I don’t want to live in squalor.
No replies.
I file what I can. I can’t lose this. I file more applications, hoping the shotgun approach eventually yields results.
No money, no SIM card. I can’t answer calls, obviously a disadvantage. Have to do what I can.
…
Knock. Knock.
Who’s there? Clock reads 9AM. It’s Saturday. I grab my only knife, and open the door. It’s the church.
I thank them profusely for the food. I needed this. The non-perishables are going into my emergency stash, and I take the bread. What a feast.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
For once I’ve had breakfast. I grab my bike, go to the hobby shop and stock up on some more paint and sheets. It’s too expensive, and yet it’s all I have. I pay with too much of what I have left.
What do I do, What do I do?
I curse my own arrogance. I don’t have the skill to sell these. I don’t have the reach to advertise these. Why am I doing this?
I pick up my brush, and once more, my mind blurs into the other realities that I’ve invented.
…
Beep. Beep. Beep…. Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep…. Beep. Beep. Beep.
…
What do I do, What can I do?
Every week, the same. No replies, no contact. I can’t keep on going like this.
I need to find something. I can’t find anything.
I’ve run out of ideas for the week, and it’s only Wednesday.
I’m running out of options. I can’t take calls. I don’t have an income.
I pinch myself. I feel something other than anxiety for the first time in weeks.
…
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The clock reads 10PM. Once more, I head out to the nearest restaurant that hasn’t kicked me out yet.
Still no replies. Unemployment is running out. I knock on the door to ask if the owner needs help. There is no work here either.
…
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Knives really are a fascinating thing, aren’t they?
…
I've run out of paint. A red canvas stares back at me. An ambiguous sunset and river.
What do I do? What can I do? What’s left to do?
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Beep. Beep. Beep.
The clock reads 10PM. For once, I have a reply.
I can’t refuse. I have nothing left but the church supplies and cookware.
…
It’s Monday. I need to show up to work. It’s an hour away on my bike.
I have to go anyway. I crack open a can of tomato soup for good luck. The red looks vivid, and beautiful. Like blood.
I grab my bike. I’ve gotten used to dodging cars at this point. The trick is to remember that you’re invisible. Too low to be seen over hoods. Too thin to register as a threat. Too slow to register as moving.
It’s a call centre. I breathe in. Remember, just follow the script. Forget that the customer is human. Just follow the script.
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Breathe In. Breathe Out. Calm Down.
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I wrap a bandage around my arm. A real bandage, for once. It’s miserable. I can afford art supplies once more.
Just follow the script. Don’t empathise. It’s not my job.
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Exhaustion. I buy a beer on the way back home. I buy a bottle of coconut water.
I can’t think.
…
I can afford to take calls now. It stings. It’s euphoric.
I can afford a better knife now. I can follow the script now.
…
I hate this job. I can’t afford to go without. I can’t afford to be fired.
…
Why can I not paint?
…
What should I do, what should I do?
Wouldn’t it be beautiful if I used this knife in the office?
…
Wouldn’t it be nice if I painted the floor with blood?
…
Don’t empathise with humans. Follow the script.
...
The st thing I see is a masterpiece of red and bck. The st thing I hear are police sirens.
RandoNLG
