Painter Man
By Ben Kharakh
A man was painting in his studio apartment. It wasn’t a nice place, and, in addition to being decrepit, the apartment was located in the bad part of town. The conditions were so sordid that those who robbed the elderly were in turn robbed by grade school children. The sidewalks were cracked and the roads were laden with drug filled potholes. Aspiring artists usually live in poverty, and those who lack talent can’t afford poverty and have to rent a room above a multiplex.
The artist demonstrated his lack of skill by hanging all of his works, which resembled the pattern made when the foul smelling, brown liquid collected by fruit vendors was thrown on the sidewalk, on his walls. The room was bare, except for an easel, a garden statue in the likeness of an egret, canvases, a dirtied tarp, and cans of discounted house paints (obscure colors only, such as apple core or garlic paste).
A knock was heard against the door, which was odd because the artist was not expecting visitors, but not strange because the knocker was a knife-wielding robber.
He advanced on the artist demanding money, which he did not have, and the absence of it caused him to lunge and parry.
Crawling on the floor and into the corner, the artist made a startling discovery. “You know,” he said, “Your physique and face make you the perfect model.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I must paint you. Grant me this dying wish.”
“All right. But promise I get to kill you afterwards?”
“I promise,” the two-shook hands and the painting began.
The atmosphere was quiet and relaxed, occasionally interrupted with friendly banter, which both parties felt they were obligated to fuel. “How long have you been painting,” one would ask,
“Two years.”
“How long have you been a knife wielding maniac?” the other would add. “For a while now. The market has its ups and downs, but now, with the economy, I barely get by.”
“But you still manage to exercise and keep in shape?”
“Oh, you’ve gotta. If not for yourself, then at least for keeping up appearances.”
After two hours of brush strokes and splattered colors the artist nodded his head in approval. “Would you like to see?”
“Yes.” The artist turned the canvas toward his attacker who in turn asked, “Why is it blank?”
“Oh, that’s because, gah!” screamed the artist and drove the wet canvas with such force that it slid over the man’s head, past the chest, and stopped, pinning his arms to his sides.
“You said I would get to kill you.”
“That’s right,” corrected the artist with a sinister grin, “I get to kill you.” But he did not do as he had said and instead collected a hefty reward for the capture of the robber, who was a notorious criminal. The painter realized his true passion: binge drinking and gambling. He lost all of his newfound wealth, and made a new home on the corner of Park and 5th, where he begs for change. Now, instead of spending his days painting, he rummages through trashcans searching for food, and spends his nights sleeping on the concrete instead of his wooden floor.