Gay With A Capital G
A Friend in Russia
"Just a little stroke here, and, oh! Some more warm colors."
I had the privilege to meet one of the top art critics in Belleville, and he wanted to see how I worked and in what conditions. He had already called me out on some dirty dishes in my sink, my un-made bed, and miscellaneous clothing articles on the floor. He now wanted to watch me paint, which was more turning into what he wanted me to paint. There was so much acrylic on my canvas, that it made the small apartment smell like a drug hive; I thought I saw a few police officers outside earlier.
"I can't add any more color," I mumbled, which was the wrong thing to do.
"What do you mean? You have plenty of paint, so just throw it on there," he spoke in a kindly manner, but his intentions weren't so. He was basically having me create a free commission.
"But I need this paint for other pieces," I spoke a little more confidently. "And besides, there's enough paint on this canvas that it might topple over. You wouldn't want it to fall on your kids, would you?"
He sighed, "I guess not. Tell you what, I'll give you fifty bucks for this, since you used so much paint. Okay?"
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded. He handed me the bills, and I gave him a complimentary plastic sheet to put over the painting so it wouldn't get ruined by the raindrops outside. As he walked out of the doorway, he thanked me and told me to be prepared for his next visit because he "really liked the flowing energy and spontaneity ." I nodded once more and waved to him as he drove away. Slamming the door, I nearly screamed in relief to be away from that man. I opened a few windows and lit a stick or two of incense, as well as a cigarette.
"You know, you should really quit with those."
"Yeah, I know, but that man was a nightmare," I replied to the head peeping in my window. Frank's full body emerged from the windowsill, almost tripping over his never-tied shoelaces. He rustled his shaggy dark brown hair and leaped onto an old sofa in my living room, where he always sat. When he sniffed the air, his face scrunched up and he plugged his nose.
"Man, how much paint did you use?"
I looked morosely at my multiple half-emptied paint buckets and took a drag from the cigarette in my hand, "A lot."
"Well, he at least paid you for it, right?"
I didn't quite hear his question at first, still thinking of the best time to go out and purchase more paint.
"Right?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, he paid me fifty bucks," I unfolded the money to show him. He squinted at them, then nodded.
"Good."
I slumped down into a chair facing Frank and tapped some ashes into a bowl sitting on a small table. The cancer stick danced in my fingers as I thought about moving to Russia to meet a friend I met once in art school. He said he'd be grateful if I stopped by for a visit, but I don't exactly have the funds right now to fly from Belleville, New Jersey, to Moscow, Russia. It just didn't work that way as an artist. I had been offered a gallery showing in the downtown area, but I never saw the email until they emailed back saying I was taking too long to reply and they chose somebody else. I was pissed off and I punched my bedroom wall which left a hole; that was $150 down the drain right there. Frank offered to do it himself, the only cost is buying him pizza, but I've seen Frank repair walls, and it wasn't really professional work.
"What'cha thinking about?"
"My rent is due next week," I sighed, smoke adrift around my face.
"Well, I can help you pay it, if you want. I mean, I was saving up for another tattoo, but...that's what friends are for, right?"
His honesty and friendly loyalty made my stomach churn; I would never do that, even if a friend needed an organ transplant. I guess it was because I'd never had extra money to spend on luxuries. Hell, I can barely get my laundry done every week. I've been wearing these same pants for three weeks now, keeping them alive by spraying Febreeze on them.
"No," I spoke a little too abruptly. "No, just...just get your tattoo, I can pay for it myself. Just promise I'll be the first one to see the new ink."
"I promise," he grinned, standing up and walking over to the sink. "I'm doing your dishes for you, ya bum."
"Oh, thank you, dear. I've just been on my feet all day, really, this is a pleasure," I breathed out in a higher-pitched voice.
He scoffed, then started running the water. I crushed the cigarette remains into the glass bowl and stood up to meet the mailman at the door. On cue when I opened the door, he was there with five envelopes. I grabbed them reluctantly, thanked him, and strolled back inside.
"Bills?"
"Yeah."
I tossed them on the table, hoping to ignore them for a few more hours. But something caught my eye because, well, it wasn't in English. Curiously, I snatched it from the pile and flipped it over a few times. It was definitely Slavic, but I couldn't understand why. The only person I knew who spoke a Slavic language was my Russian friend, but he didn't know where I lived, did he? His name was Raymond, but I always shortened it to Ray. Back in art school, he used to tell me about how he wasn't born in Russia, nor were his parents Russian, but he had grown up there because of his father's job. He knew both Russian and English fluently, always trying to teach me new words and different phrases. He had always loved painting, and he vividly explained all of the landscapes he got to see where he lived; he wanted me to visit. I slid my finger under the seal of the envelope and briskly opened it. Inside, there was a letter written in sloppy handwriting, but at least it was in a language I could read.
"'Dear Gerard, it's been so long since I've seen you! Where do you work? Do you live with friends? Are you still in New York? Man, do I have questions for you! I wanted to show you some of my new art pieces, so I bought a ticket to the States! How exciting is that?! Anyway, I hope I can get ahold of you, I wanna see your art too! From your best art school bud, Raymond. (or Ray like you always said)'," I read aloud.
"What was that?"
"A letter from my friend Ray in Russia. I've told you about him before. He wrote his number at the bottom, I should probably call him."
"You seem like you don't want to," Frank stopped washing dishes.
"I just have so much going on right now," I smiled. "Don't worry, I'll probably just say hi to him and come back here and sleep."
"Your apartment will be a different living space when I get through with it!" he called after me as I opened the door.
"I'll believe it when I see it. And hey, can you make those little brownies again? Those were amazing."
I had the privilege to meet one of the top art critics in Belleville, and he wanted to see how I worked and in what conditions. He had already called me out on some dirty dishes in my sink, my un-made bed, and miscellaneous clothing articles on the floor. He now wanted to watch me paint, which was more turning into what he wanted me to paint. There was so much acrylic on my canvas, that it made the small apartment smell like a drug hive; I thought I saw a few police officers outside earlier.
"I can't add any more color," I mumbled, which was the wrong thing to do.
"What do you mean? You have plenty of paint, so just throw it on there," he spoke in a kindly manner, but his intentions weren't so. He was basically having me create a free commission.
"But I need this paint for other pieces," I spoke a little more confidently. "And besides, there's enough paint on this canvas that it might topple over. You wouldn't want it to fall on your kids, would you?"
He sighed, "I guess not. Tell you what, I'll give you fifty bucks for this, since you used so much paint. Okay?"
I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded. He handed me the bills, and I gave him a complimentary plastic sheet to put over the painting so it wouldn't get ruined by the raindrops outside. As he walked out of the doorway, he thanked me and told me to be prepared for his next visit because he "really liked the flowing energy and spontaneity ." I nodded once more and waved to him as he drove away. Slamming the door, I nearly screamed in relief to be away from that man. I opened a few windows and lit a stick or two of incense, as well as a cigarette.
"You know, you should really quit with those."
"Yeah, I know, but that man was a nightmare," I replied to the head peeping in my window. Frank's full body emerged from the windowsill, almost tripping over his never-tied shoelaces. He rustled his shaggy dark brown hair and leaped onto an old sofa in my living room, where he always sat. When he sniffed the air, his face scrunched up and he plugged his nose.
"Man, how much paint did you use?"
I looked morosely at my multiple half-emptied paint buckets and took a drag from the cigarette in my hand, "A lot."
"Well, he at least paid you for it, right?"
I didn't quite hear his question at first, still thinking of the best time to go out and purchase more paint.
"Right?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, he paid me fifty bucks," I unfolded the money to show him. He squinted at them, then nodded.
"Good."
I slumped down into a chair facing Frank and tapped some ashes into a bowl sitting on a small table. The cancer stick danced in my fingers as I thought about moving to Russia to meet a friend I met once in art school. He said he'd be grateful if I stopped by for a visit, but I don't exactly have the funds right now to fly from Belleville, New Jersey, to Moscow, Russia. It just didn't work that way as an artist. I had been offered a gallery showing in the downtown area, but I never saw the email until they emailed back saying I was taking too long to reply and they chose somebody else. I was pissed off and I punched my bedroom wall which left a hole; that was $150 down the drain right there. Frank offered to do it himself, the only cost is buying him pizza, but I've seen Frank repair walls, and it wasn't really professional work.
"What'cha thinking about?"
"My rent is due next week," I sighed, smoke adrift around my face.
"Well, I can help you pay it, if you want. I mean, I was saving up for another tattoo, but...that's what friends are for, right?"
His honesty and friendly loyalty made my stomach churn; I would never do that, even if a friend needed an organ transplant. I guess it was because I'd never had extra money to spend on luxuries. Hell, I can barely get my laundry done every week. I've been wearing these same pants for three weeks now, keeping them alive by spraying Febreeze on them.
"No," I spoke a little too abruptly. "No, just...just get your tattoo, I can pay for it myself. Just promise I'll be the first one to see the new ink."
"I promise," he grinned, standing up and walking over to the sink. "I'm doing your dishes for you, ya bum."
"Oh, thank you, dear. I've just been on my feet all day, really, this is a pleasure," I breathed out in a higher-pitched voice.
He scoffed, then started running the water. I crushed the cigarette remains into the glass bowl and stood up to meet the mailman at the door. On cue when I opened the door, he was there with five envelopes. I grabbed them reluctantly, thanked him, and strolled back inside.
"Bills?"
"Yeah."
I tossed them on the table, hoping to ignore them for a few more hours. But something caught my eye because, well, it wasn't in English. Curiously, I snatched it from the pile and flipped it over a few times. It was definitely Slavic, but I couldn't understand why. The only person I knew who spoke a Slavic language was my Russian friend, but he didn't know where I lived, did he? His name was Raymond, but I always shortened it to Ray. Back in art school, he used to tell me about how he wasn't born in Russia, nor were his parents Russian, but he had grown up there because of his father's job. He knew both Russian and English fluently, always trying to teach me new words and different phrases. He had always loved painting, and he vividly explained all of the landscapes he got to see where he lived; he wanted me to visit. I slid my finger under the seal of the envelope and briskly opened it. Inside, there was a letter written in sloppy handwriting, but at least it was in a language I could read.
"'Dear Gerard, it's been so long since I've seen you! Where do you work? Do you live with friends? Are you still in New York? Man, do I have questions for you! I wanted to show you some of my new art pieces, so I bought a ticket to the States! How exciting is that?! Anyway, I hope I can get ahold of you, I wanna see your art too! From your best art school bud, Raymond. (or Ray like you always said)'," I read aloud.
"What was that?"
"A letter from my friend Ray in Russia. I've told you about him before. He wrote his number at the bottom, I should probably call him."
"You seem like you don't want to," Frank stopped washing dishes.
"I just have so much going on right now," I smiled. "Don't worry, I'll probably just say hi to him and come back here and sleep."
"Your apartment will be a different living space when I get through with it!" he called after me as I opened the door.
"I'll believe it when I see it. And hey, can you make those little brownies again? Those were amazing."
