You're Never Gonna Fit In Much

For some reason feeling like absolute shit makes it easier to create something.
With a heavy heart... and a cluttered mind... and stuttering hands... and blurry eyes I pull out a canvas on the the road to being forgotten. I wanted paint today. I wanted something that melds, really folds together. Maybe only in this way, only in the nature of an artist, only as me being this smothered canvases admirer, but I wanted be free to do as I please. Maybe just for a little while, but I wanted to be proud of me. I needed to remind myself I could do something right.

I barely mix green with brown and light grey. I swipe a mostly level stripe of it across the top of the canvas with a medium brush. In it I saw greed and anger and warm and some thing sad.
I mix blood red with indigo and make a stripe going down the right side, then violet and black across the bottom, yellow and blue up the left side. I keep making the border til I decide to do something steampunky-esque in the center. I let it dry.

It's funny how it seemed so much better, so much grander before I really looked. I can't say myself whether I was talking about the art on canvas I had made or the art named Frank that I kind of really wanted to be made mine.

Feeling only slightly better, I grabbed the painting and made my way to the dumpster which wasn't all that close to home. About a yard off from my destination, a man power walks over to me. He looks like a nice enough guy, but he also looked mad, not as in crazy. He just made this little face while I hoisted the painting over the edge.

"Excuse me?" I just look at him and wonder why this place had to be cliche and have the dumpster in an alley. "Ma'am?" The fuck? I set the painting at my feet and turn to really face him.
"Oh, no, no. Excuse me." I theatrically press the pads of my fingers to my chest.
"I'm sorry we had to meet in such an unprofessional way, but I think that's a fine piece of art you're junking and judging by the paint all over you, you made it." He smiled warmly and it was infectous. It didn't hurt that he complimented my work.
"Well, what would you say in a professional setting?" I shoved my hands in my cheeto-stained, paint abused sweatpants and swayed a little.
"I love your work, how much for that one there, and would you like a job." He face went completely firm as did his eyes.
"Well, to that I'd say, in a purely professional setting, thank you, you tell me, and doing what for how much."
"The flattery doesn't end there, 980,000 buckaroos, and critiquing and/or making art for 30-46 dollars/hour." It took all of me to keep my jaw from hitting the sidewalk. "You can't say no to this."
"Let me be very very clear in making you very very aware that I don't need you, I would have carried on just fine without you, and you need to make this worth my while." Points for negotiating!
"I have a budget to keep, so be nice." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "What'll it cost?"
"Well," I drawled because this was all off the top of my head based off what I saw on tv or whatever. "50/hour for critique alone. My art will be negotiated seperatley if at all."
"42?"
"50."
"45?"
"50."
"47 even?"
"50."
"Come on. A little give in take."
"55, then." I stand firm on the pay. If this works out, I can actually go to school and even if I can't Mikey could get new shoes, he could pack real lunches, we wouldn't have to scrape around to get enough for pizza on special days... He could get that bass.
"Okay okay! 50!"
"Pleasure doing business, sir." I grin. This is gonna be good. We shake, he pulls something out of his manbag I hadn't noticed he'd had slung over his shoulder and I sign.

If only this dude knew I'd do it for free.

Notes

Here it is! Sorry it's been like forever!
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