PAINTERS

Eight painters prattled, not working as much as they should. They had a system. Each specialized in a different color. Frank was great with black. Lou made poetry with white. Paul liked yellow, Lucy red, Ken violet. Jack had always felt allied with greens. Corinna was a wizard with orange. And no one could touch Hubert when it came to blue. The problem was that the house they were in was destined for none of these colors. The owner, an older tweedy sort whose young wife stayed in the car, was clear. “Gray,” he said. “Gray, gray, gray.” He pointed at a painting in a book for reinforcement. He went off in his car, which was green. The painters stood around for a while, shooting the breeze. Everyone was in a chatty mood despite the fact that they had reached an impasse in their day. The conversation surged, died down. A cricket mocked them in the yard. Corinna broke the silence. “He may have been a jerk,” she said, “but I liked his car.” This got Jack’s ears up. He and Corinna went off to the master bedroom, where the California King had been dragged into the middle of the room. “I’ll bet they’re taking off the plastic wrap, if you know what I mean,” said Ken. Lucy knew what he meant. The two of them went down to the den in the basement. It wasn’t being painted. It was paneled. But it had a couch that Lucy could brace herself against. Hubert and Paul looked longingly at each other until Hubert sighed. “Enough with the goo-goo eyes,” he said. “Upstairs office, now.” Frank and Lou stood in the middle of the room, Frank in front of his can of black paint, Lou in front of his can of white paint. They were the least talkative of any of the painters. For a while there was nothing. Even the cricket had given up. Finally, Frank cleared his throat. “You know,” he said. “I was thinking.” Lou angled his head. “Thinking?” Lou said. “Yeah,” Frank said. “About?” Lou said. “About the house,” Frank said. “This house,” Lou said. “Well, sure,” Frank said. “What about it?” Lou said. “The owner,” Frank said. “Boss Tweed?” Lou said. “Yep,” Frank said. “The Cradle Pirate,” Lou said. “The one and only,” Frank said. “Mr. Gray,” Lou said. “That’s the thing,” Frank said. “What’s the thing?” Lou said. Frank cleared his throat again. “The others,” he said, “were demoralized by him. It was his manner, for starters. Did you see the way his finger stabbed the air when he was pointing at the book? Humiliating? But it was also the substance of his demand, don’t you think? Each of them felt excluded by his plan for the house. Off they went, one by one—or two by two, as the case may be. But as Hubert and Paul were going upstairs, I had a thought. I didn’t say anything right away, because I was working it out.” Lou half-turned toward him. “Oh,” Lou said. “Do tell.” Frank half-turned toward Lou. The room was now a picture of perfect symmetry, two men, two paint cans,. “Do tell,” Lou said again. “What do you say we go get a bite to eat?” Frank said. “Fuck this guy and the gray house he rode in on.” They laughed and laughed and laughed all through lunch.

©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas