Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Your Drawing Sucks

            “Your drawing sucks,” Bill said, chewing on a tootsie pop.
            “I know,” Ron replied, trying to focus on the curvature of the line he was drawing. A bell jingled. A customer from the parking lot entered the store and wandered through the snack aisle before selecting a tin of potato chips and approaching the counter.
            “One ninety-six,” Ron said, swiping the tin over the scanner.
            “You take souls?” the customer asked, smirking.
            “No,” Ron responded, “Just cash money.”
            The customer tugged on his hat and put down a fiver.
            “That’s three dollars and four cents change,” Ron said as he put down the dollars and cents.
            “That ever get to you?” Bill asked, still chewing as the customer exited, his gas and chips paid for.
            “No,” Ron answered, but paused. He gestured to the pad of paper before him, and the scrawl upon it. “Does this look like a face to you?”
            “That?” Bill replied. “That doesn’t look like anything to me.”
            “Hmmm,” Ron breathed as he picked up an eraser and wiped the page clean.
            “That would bother me,” Bill said. “All that ragging. It’s not your guy’s fault you’re here, is it?” Bill chewed more thoughtfully. “Is it? I never did understand what went down. You know, with The Merger and all. You guys were run out of Hell, right?”
            Ron tried to focus on the thought- The very idea of a human face. He traced a line with his pencil. It didn’t look right.
            “Ron, you with us? Roooon?” Bill flicked a bit of water from the soda fountain at him and intoned, “The power of Christ compels you!”
            “Jesus,” Ron replied, “I’m just trying to- Goddamn it, just piss off, alright?”
            “Piss off?” Bill whistled. “I didn’t know you knew such harsh language.”
            “I spent some time in England in the-” Ron gathered his breath. “Fine, fuck you, Bill. And since you asked, I didn’t get kicked out of Hell. I chose to come here.”
            “To work at a fucking seven eleven?” Bill began to laugh hysterically.
            “No,” Ron said, beneath his breath, “I wanted to learn how to draw.”

* * * * * * *

            “It’s not right,” Ron said, crumpling up his work. It didn’t look anything like what he had been imagining.
            His apartment was small, and practically empty. A mattress on the floor, an empty bookshelf, a pot and pan with a well washed set of cutlery. The only things of value he owned were his tools: Pencils, watercolors, expensive sheets of paper, colored markers, ink, styluses that were at least a century old. But there was no art. Ron, who had once been known as Ronove, one of the Marquis of Hell, whose talent for art, rhetoric, and language had once been unsurpassed, was now bereft of skill. Even drawing a straight line was an ordeal for him.
            He picked up the Redbook he had borrowed from work and turned the page. The picture perfect face of the pop star Lilith starred up at him from beneath the glossy page, smiling eerily.
            “No,” he muttered. “It’s too unreal.”
            He thumbed through the rest of the magazine before putting it down. All the women were done up in the classic Infernal Chic style. He didn’t want to draw an ideal. He wanted . . . He didn’t know what he wanted.
            Ron sighed as he turned off the lights, scooping up his notebook as he left.
            The café was only a block away. “Hey, Ron,” one of the regular baristas said to him, already making him his customary latte as he rummaged in his pocket for cash.
            “Slow day?” There was no one else in the café. He tried to remember the baristas name, but nothing came.
            “Eh, there’s a game on,” she replied. “Most folks are probably down at the Haunt.”
            Ron put down several dollars and the correct change, tossing a buck into the tip jar as he accepted his cup.
            “Thanks,” she said, scanning her phone.
            “Sure thing,” he said and took up his customary seat across from the door.
            He didn’t actually drink his latte. Coffee tasted acrid to him, and reminded him of his years in Hell. Instead he opened his notebook and took out his pencil. For the better part of the next half hour he devoted his time to sketching the table and chairs opposite him, and the window beyond. This may have been the fifteenth hundred time he had done so. He had lost count some time ago. When he was done he examined the results. It wasn’t terrible. He often found stationary objects to be easier to conceive than living ones, and they usually didn’t move. Still, the perspective was off. He turned the page and began again.
            Sometime later the door to the café opened, letting in a chill blast of wind. Ron shivered and looked up.
            The new customer was probably a grad student at the nearby college, young but not immature. She had auburn hair with a single thread of gold in it. It was clearly artificial but subtle. She wore a long pea coat and a gray woven hat and scarf, and tall black boots. Centuries upon centuries of studying and overseeing the torments of humans had made Ron a certain judge of human character that, while nothing compared to the skills of Minos or Radamanthus, allowed him to see all manner of things in the simplest gesture, the faintest change of facial features.
            Sincerity, that was the word that leaped at him as the woman briefly met eyes with him before walking to the counter. A lack of artifice, save for the vanity in her hair.
            “Can I have a tall?” she asked the barista.
            “That’s one eighty five.”
            The woman paid, then tipped a dollar even though the barista’s back was turned. She glanced towards Ron, who realized he was staring, and set his gaze firmly on his notebook.
            The woman sat at a distance, and took out a book from the satchel she’d brought in with her. It was a dog-eared copy of ‘Why the Sea is Salt’ by Alice Fager. Ron had read it a few years back, but had a hard time remembering it, other than that it had been clever, and that there was a twist ending. He struggled to call up the reveal, but he’d spent so much effort drawing the table and chairs that nothing would come.
            The woman turned the book and bit reflexively at her lower lip. A moment later she swept a bit of her hair out of her face and took a sip of coffee.
            Ron turned to the next page of his notebook and, placing his pencil against the paper, began to draw.
            When he stopped he looked at the clock above the mirror behind the counter. It had only been seven minutes. Before him, on the page, was the woman, biting at her lip, her hand, her hand, he had never been able to draw a hand that was anything more than a stick figure, turning the page. It was black and white but it was her, almost photo-like in its perfection.
            “Hey,” the woman’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Hey, you, Hell-Guy, are you drawing me?”
            “Uh,” Ron let out as he moved to close the notebook but it was too late. She was already looming over him.
            “Well, let me see it at least, Hell-Guy.”
            “My name is Ron,” he mumbled as he turned the notebook around.
            She stared at it blankly for a while and then, “Wow. I mean. Wow. You’re really good.”
            “Thanks.” He felt a bead of sweat coming on in spite of the snow falling outside.
            “I mean, it’s weird, you doing that, but, can I . . . I mean, can I see some of your notebook? Do you, like, make art? Like, are you an artist?”
            “I-” Ron put his hand over the notebook. “It’s not very good. I mean, the rest of it. I just thought that you- Uh.”
            “Man, you’re bad at this. Are you, uh,” she looked to his still full, cold coffee cup, “You done with that?”
            “Yeah, I guess I am.”
            “You want to get a drink or something?”
            “Yes.”
            “I’m Emma.”
            “I’m Ron.”
            “You said that already.”
            “Right,” Ron said.
            As they left the Barista flashed Ron a thumbs up. Briggite Ron suddenly remembered. That’s her name. Brigitte.

* * * * * * *
           
            “Dude,” Bill said as the last customer left. “I can’t cover for you forever.”
            Ron held up a finger, his ear pressed against the convenience store’s only pay phone. “Just, hold on, I’m just waiting to- Uh, hello?”
            “Mr. Ronove?” Said a voice on the other end of the line. “Is this Mr. Ronove?”
            “Yes! Yes. Is this Ms. Nichols?”
            “Yes, but you can call me Linsday.”
            “I’m, uh, I’m so glad to hear from you Ms., uh, Lindsay.”
            “Well, I’m glad to speak to you too, Mr. Ronove. Do you prefer Ronove?”
            “I guess,” Ron answered. “Yes?”
            “Well, I have some good news for you, Mr. Ronove,” the agent sprawled on. “There’s been some serious interest in your work. Serious interest. I’m certain that you are aware that your style of art is hot right now. There’s so much demonic or, uh, what is the word, Infernal? Anyhow, your work is . . . What can I say? It’s just so genuine. Sincere. It’s classic. Those paintings, those prints,” she took an audible drag on a cigarette, “It’s like something from another century. I mean, I suppose that shouldn’t be that surprising-“
            “Um, hold on,” Ron said, as Mr. Karras entered the store, already red in the face.
            “You,” Ron’s manager said, “Get off of that phone!”
            “Do any of them want to make an offer?” Ron asked.
            “Hang up the goddamn phone!” Mr. Karras urged. He was a foot shorter than Ron, but far more frightening.
            “They do,” Lindsay said. “How high do you want to go?”
            “Uh,” Ron held the phone at a distance. “Uh, one hundred and forty?”
            “For just one of the prints?”
            “GET OFF OF THE FUCKING PHONE,” Mr. Karras roared. Ron hung up the phone.
            “Clean up the coolers,” Mr. Karras said, moving towards the rear of the Seven Eleven. Ron shuffled over and began to re-organize the coolers, moving items that would expire sooner to the front and turning items around to be more attractive. While he did so the phone rang. Bill picked it up and said, “Yo, Ron, it’s your agent. You sure about that price?”
            “Uh, yes.”
            “You want to go higher?”
            “I, uh,” Ron said as Mr. Karras poked his head out of his back office. “Yep. Tell them not to call back until they, uh-”
            Bill replied into the receiver and hung up the phone.
            Ron was redisplaying the novelties when the bell jingled. Emma walked through the front door and Ron felt . . . It was hard to define. The sea at night. Two dozen birds flying at wing. A beehive. The feeling of an embrace. The last breath of an enemy. Her blond lock seemed to catch the light.
            “My haunting,” Ron said, walking over to the phone and redialing the agent’s number.
            “Ron Swan-song,” she replied with her half smile.
            “That’s sad, don’t say that.”
            “Is that weirder than calling me ‘My Haunting?’”
            “It’s a joke. Remember our first date?”
            She waved the comment off. “When are you growing a moustache?”
            “I can’t-“
            All of a sudden Ron was aware that he had grown a very thick moustache, And that his hair had become as thick and rich as Nick Offerman’s. Emma snickered.
            “You going to get all libertarian on me?”
            “No,” Ron said, “I mean, I don’t know.”
            The strange thing was that he suddenly realized that he could cut wood, craft a canoe, build a log cabin, appreciate whiskey, and every other superficial thing that the fictional character from Parks & Rec could accomplish. And . . . Why did the government need his money?
            “Shit, don’t do that!” he said, pretending to listen closer to the silence on the other end of the telephone.
            “Do what? Give you an awesome moustache?”
            “No,” Ron said, “It’s just, it’s free will, right? I mean, I should get to choose how-“
            “Jesus,” Emma said, “Lighten up, Hell-Guy. What are they talking? Seriously? You hear from the agent?”
            “Oh, they, uh-“
            “Ron!” Mr. Karras said, emerging from the back room. “Now is not the time for romance! Lady friend must leave.”
            Emma took a moment to look Ron in the eyes. Will you fight for me?
            Ron took a breath. “She’s not bothering anyone. The place is empty, Mr. Karras.”
            “She comes and buys nothing. This is a place of business not a Tinder Date.”
            Emma snorted. “No one uses fucking Tinder anymore.”
            “You,” Mr. Karras said, “Out.”
            Emma didn’t move. Mr. Karras moved a step closer, somehow managing to make his paunch threatening.
            “She stays,” Ron said, surprising himself. The phone rang. Bill picked up the phone.
            “It’s the agent lady,” Bill said, pausing. Mr. Karras breathed in and out, his nostrils flaring. “She says someone is asking two hundred thousand.”
            “I quit,” Ron said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

* * * * * * *

            “I like the use of the color blue,” one of the attendees said, gesturing towards ‘The Rusalka.’ “It’s subtle.”
            “Thank you,” Ron said, reflexively pressing down his lapel. He hadn’t worn a modern suit before tonight. The last formal human garb he had worn had been a gambeson and a suit of full plate drenched with blood. There was too much starch in his collar.
            “Where do you get your inspiration?” the guest asked.
            Ron glanced over at Emma. She was grinning like a cat, half laughing at some story Zero was telling her. Her hair fell out of place, and she brushed it backwards.
            “Life,” Ron answered.
            Ron wandered through the exhibition, wishing that his shoes were not so uncomfortable. People murmured at him. He sipped on a glass of champagne.
Ms. Nichols approached him, shimmering in a dress peacock green.
“A certain party has made an offer on ‘Samizdat.’ It’s a sizeable-“
“Sell it,” Ron said. Lindsay nodded, and sauntered off.
Ron looked around. So many people. So much wealth. Human wealth, but still. He took another sip of champagne, then put down the glass.
“Ronove?” a voice said. “Is that you?”
Ron turned. What appeared to be a man smiled at him, his hair slicked, a white tuxedo making him look like a 1940’s nightclub singer.
“Apologies,” the man said, “I don’t look myself very often. But you remember old Pazuzu, don’t you? What was it, Mesopotamia?”
Ron laughed. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t- It’s been a long time, right.”
“Right,” Pazuzu flashed pearly white teeth. “Quite the show you’ve got here. Getting in on the art scene. Not bad. Lot of scratch to be made from these fools.”
“You don’t like the art?” Ron felt a bit white hot anger flushing his cheeks.
“The art? The art is amazing. You must have-” Pazuzu scanned the room. “Oh, is that her? The one with the dyed hair? No wonder.”
“No wonder what?” Ron asked.
Pazuzu regarded him with his eyes, green with a bit of gold in them. “Oh. Ohhh,” he said. “You don’t get it, do you?” He laughed.
“What?”
Pazuzu poked him lightly with his finger. “You think this is you, don’t you? You think you could draw a damn square without inspiration? Without little miss gold in her hair? I can see why you like her. You’re lucky. You know I had to possess three different people to get the Exorcist franchise into the big time?”
“I don’t know what-“
“Ronove,” Pazuzu said, lifting a champagne flute from a passing tray, “By Lucifer, I hate to say it, but if you think it’s you making these paintings . . . I’m sorry, Marquis, it’s not you, it’s her.”
“I’m not a Marquis anymore.”
“Well, you’re not an artist, either,” Pazuzu said. “Sorry, but them’s the breaks. Just try it. Without her. Sorry.”
Pazuzu excused himself and mingled with a nearby crowd, asking them if they could sew socks in Hell to predictable laughter. Ron sipped on his champagne.

* * * * * * *

“I just don’t understand why you-“ Emma broke off, and grabbed her coat.
“Don’t leave,” Ron said.
“I need to go out.” The door opened and closed.
The canvas before him was empty, save for a single incomplete line. He knew he could draw . . . Anything. Anything if he thought of her. Sunrise above the desert. A jungle cat speckled with light. A soldier of an ancient war, noble and resolute. Skeletal whales beneath the sea. A beautiful woman, with a golden strand of hair, laughing. Happy.
But that was not him.
A single line. Just a single, perfect line.
The line was jagged.
The phone rang. He ignored it.

* * * * * * *

The pencil danced somewhat as he pressed it against the page.
            “Ron,” Mr. Karras said, frowning. “The cooler.”
            “On it,” Ron said, and moved over to reorganize the contents within. “Milk is expired,” he said. “Should I toss it?”
            Mr. Karras grunted affirmation.
            When he returned from the rear of the store he saw that Bill was thumbing through his notebook. The old him would have been irritated, but he merely sighed as he returned to the counter.
            “Your drawings still suck,” Bill said.
            “I know,” Ron said, staring down at the sketch of the human face on the last page of the notebook. It was crude.

But I’m getting better.

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