A HEART AND A QUESTION MARK (1994)

I always wanted to paint.

Walking down the street one night, it was very dark. There were no lights. The street was narrow and the shine of the city over the bay was orange, like an orange bicycle, and I saw him.

He was against the window, the window was open, two flights up, the house was Spanish. He had a brush in his hand and he was standing as though nothing had happened, and I was standing still, watching.

You might wonder how I say him, the street was dark, and there was no moon, he was in the window, he had a brush in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.

I could see him as he smoked. He inhaled so long. It was so long, I wonder what he was thinking. The sound of people screaming, shots ring out often here, too, and there’s garbage in the street. He didn’t turn to it. He held the smoke in his mouth. He paused and I thought.

The cigarette: out of the window, down two flights, hit the ground, still lit. Next to the cigarette was the garbage that’s almost everywhere. Cigarettes, too. Pineapple juice and coffee filters and dog tags, honey buns, old stories and milk cartons. When I grew up there was a cow called Elsie. Old bills. She had her own milk. Coffee grounds, biscuit tins, baby peas, children’s books. I love you,

Elsie: And interestingly enough, he turned on a light, but not what you’d expect. It was a kerosene lamp and it was illuminated just beyond the blue focus. But I could see, then, a canvas. Then he could see the canvas. He had the canvas in mind. Where was the cigarette now, I wondered. Where were his thoughts now, I wondered. He held his hand on his heart, with his free hand, his brush in the other, I could tell he had a good heart and he walked towards the canvas with one very unusual small step.

There were hibiscus flowers on the street but they grew everywhere anyway. The coconut trees are mangled and hurricanes did it. The sea is strong and has a good taste in the air. It could be any of these things.

His hair was black and his shirt was white. His hair was curly and his brush was very delicate and the way he held it made me want to hold a brush. I wanted to hold a brush. I wanted to hold a brush just long enough to paint.

Oh, and there was jazz. Somebody has a radio here. Look at the flowers and you can listen to the jazz too. Is it very late.

The canvas was white. He was almost against it and so was his brush and he held it there for so long. One more shot and one more scream. There’s a lot of talk about rent. People who talk about rent dance outside. His brush touched the canvas, which was white. His shirt was white. It wasn’t his painting yet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I heard. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The dogs don’t travel by themselves, they are all together and the children run away from then and so do the prostitutes. It’s a prostitute talking on the bridge and the lights on the water are red, green, and blue, next to the theatre. Years ago the theatre ran “How The West Was Won.” She’s screaming “What do you think you’re doing?”

I look up at the window. I hear the dogs. What do you think you’re doing? I say in a whisper. I always wanted to smoke a cigarette. He lights another and the paint is on the canvas for the first time. It’s as though you could smell blood.

The brush on the canvas, and if I could guess, I would guess a very dark blue. The street is quiet every once in a while, now. The shape takes form, a heart, it seems. A heart or a question mark. One more cigarette. He smiles. Everyone smiles. A voice in the room. “What do you think you’re doing?” One woman’s voice. among many, and all the dogs here are downstairs outside and they don’t travel alone. “You shouldn’t be painting...”

Behind me a voice and I look at the orange over bay. “Would you like a date?”

I always wanted to paint.

“What’s the matter,” she says but I can’t imagine it, “Can’t you afford no date?”

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007