That night, I was working on my mixed-media project when the phone rang.
“Fuck,” I snapped to nobody, as I fiddled with a glue-drenched screw that wouldn’t stick to the canvas. I put the screw down on my desk and realized that it would probably wind up sticking to that. Never mind. I picked the screw up, wiped the traces of glue off the desk with my shirt, and as carefully as I could, transferred my canvas from my easel to the desk. I poured some more glue on the screw and put it back where it was supposed to go. It just sat there looking at me in its puddle of glue, but it didn’t move. I stepped back, sighed, and wiped my forehead with the side of my arm leaving, as I later would discover, a long smear of blue paint.
I was painting a tiny crowd of people when the phone rang again. I jumped and smeared a dash of green paint above their heads. It looked like a green comet was about to land on them or something.
“I’M NOT ANSWERING,” I shouted at the phone as I raced to undo the green smear. Then again . . . maybe the green comet was a statement of its own. Although, wouldn’t people be in underground bunkers instead of clustering in the streets if a comet was coming to earth?
Suddenly, the green smear was confusing.
The phone rang again.
“I swear to God,” I said, tossing my paintbrush down and grabbing a towel to wipe my hands off, “this better be important, because I’m really fucking busy here.” I ran up into the kitchen to grab the phone. “Hello,” I snapped into it, without looking at the caller ID.
“Lissy?”
“ . . . Who’s calling?”
“You mean you don’t recognize my voice?”
I sighed. “Hi, Joy.”
“Lissy.” She harrumphed. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure? You sound strange.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
I sighed again. “What do you want, Joy?”
“Don’t you talk to me like that. You treat me with respect.”
I bit my tongue, literally, to keep from asking her why, was it only because she had a good 30 years of life on me? That was the reason I needed to treat her with respect? Or perhaps it was because she was better at verbal bludgeoning than I. That’ll command you “respect” anytime, anywhere. Most people call that respect “fear” though.
“I didn’t raise you,” she went on, “to be so disrespectful. I taught you better than that.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to tell yourself,” I said.
“You have no right to talk to me that way.”
“Really?”
“What did I ever do to you?”
I laughed incredulously, like I always do when she acts innocent. No, acting isn’t the right word. She truly believes she is innocent. “I think the better question is what didn’t you do to me?”
Labels: january brings few faces
