Chapter Six Key To An Enigma

The next few days weren’t as eventful as the first. I began to get more of the hang of things around Gerard’s apartment and pretty much just started cleaning the moment I set foot in the door. I would make small conversation when I first got there; the normal ‘hello, how was your day’ type of thing before I would gather up his numerous unwashed brushes and begin my task. A lot of the time, Gerard would be off in his own world, furiously painting his new design. I would watch him paint sometimes, as I stood over the kitchen sink and let the water and sticky paint flow through my fingers. The way he moved as he flung down colour after colour amazed me; his arms were so wide and sturdy as he did this, moving as if they were a painting themselves. He’d throw something down, like it was nothing, then back away and admire what he had done. There would be times, however, when he would get really close to his piece of work, dotting and touching fine lines with his paintbrush, completely absorbed by the art itself or the fumes that filled the room. I felt like I was going to get high most days with the strong scent of everything around me. And I had begun to consume more wine, the harsh bitterness of it no longer turning me away, but attracting me to it. I liked how the liquid felt in between my cheeks, how it numbed my tongue slightly and made my mouth feel tart for hours after, even if I had only had one mouthful. I didn’t get drunk off of it too often, only finishing a glass here and there. I would come home buzzed sometimes, but I think that was more from the paint fumes than anything else. When I helped out with Gerard, I only stayed util five o’clock each night. My mom was expecting me home then for dinner and I never wanted to get too drunk beforehand. Besides, there was only so much cleaning I could do in those two hours without getting mind numbingly bored.

I didn’t just clean his art supplies, but his fucking house as well. I’d always have to do his dishes, which consisted of coffee mug after coffee mug and plates with caked-on tomato sauce, to get at the sink in order to clean the brushes. I’d clear off his kitchen table most of the time as well, putting the newspapers either in recycling or on the couch where I would sometimes find him sleeping on when I came in. He’d sleep a lot of the time, grabbing a whole bottle of the wine we shared and placing it next to him as he snuggled into his putrid orange couch. He’d cross his arms over his chest as he slept, turning his body towards the worn back of the sofa. He looked so peaceful then; like a toddler taking their afternoon nap. His eyes would remain still most of the time, but when he started to dream, I could see the pupils dart back and forth under the thin skin. His mouth parted open too, breath going in and out shallowly. A majority of the time, he would be asleep when I got there, my consistent knocking at his door being the only thing to rouse him from his slumber. He’d come to the door with his stiff joints and clogged voice, the sleep still visible in his green eyes as he waved me inside before returning to his couch. He always had to keep his door locked, considering the area he lived in. He joked about giving me a key to his place a few times, but I insisted that I didn’t need it. I didn’t mind knocking on the door to get him up, because then at least he’d be conscious for a portion of our meetings and I could get some kind of human interaction with him.

Surprisingly, Gerard didn’t talk all that much. When he wasn’t in his own world, painting or sleeping, he was singing bad opera music at the top of his lungs. He roamed around his place as he did this, having no shame in his abilities (or lack thereof) whatsoever. He didn’t even seem to care or notice that I was in the room when he sang. I had to force my mouth to remain shut most of the time to keep from laughing, as his own mouth freely hung open so wide it could catch flies. Even though he never said it, I didn’t think he would appreciate me making fun of his singing skills. Knowing what I did know about Gerard, he’d probably just challenge me to get up there and sing with him, to see if I could do any better. So I stayed quiet and suppressed my giggles, especially when he hit the high notes that could shatter glass. I think the cutest thing about it all was that he actually thought he was doing well. The man was an amazing artist, but he could benefit from some singing lessons; that was for sure.

In my days at this artist’s house I began to realize one thing; his life seemed pretty damn easy as far as I was concerned, especially since he was getting this teenage boy to do his dishes, clean his paint brushes, and clean the bird shit out of the old cage. All he had to do was pay me in wine and I did almost everything for him as he worried himself with his creative muse. He told me a few times, after some sessions during which barely any verbal conduct had occurred between us, that I didn’t have to come anymore, but I always shook my head no and said I’d see him the next day. I don’t really know why I kept coming back. My clothes were getting paint splotches on them, my nails were becoming permanently stained and I almost always had a fucking headache because of the fumes. It didn’t seem to matter that much though. I didn’t know what else I would do with my time. Sam and Travis were still my friends, but I could sense a barrier between us now. They hadn’t hung out with me outside of school in almost a week, and it was becoming clear to all of us that we didn’t feel the need to hang out as often. We saw each other in school, exchanged stale conversation and regurgitated lines and ate together at lunch. That seemed to be enough. I had plans after school now; I had something to fill my time. And even if it was just cleaning, it served more of a purpose than I anything ever had before in my entire life. Even if Gerard didn’t seem as talkative anymore.

However, Gerard’s withdrawn nature wasn’t totally his fault. He was painting; creating, therefore in his own world. Other voices would have disturbed that. So, I respected his privacy and kept my mouth shut. Even when the older man did reach out to me in verbal conquest, I still didn’t say all that much. Our discussions from before kept replaying in my head, and it made me deaf to everything else. Most of the time, Gerard would talk and I simply wouldn’t listen. I’d watch the colours blend together in front of me, and then drain down the sink. I’d brush my fingers up against Van Gogh’s back and marvel at how brown her feathers were.

Though I was not speaking, I wasn’t completely oblivious when I was with Gerard. I noticed some things that gave me a clue into this man’s life. The amount of coffee cups I had to wash gave me some indication that he was never alone in the house all the time. He had guests, and regular guests at that. But these mysterious people I could not fathom. Who would come and see an old ageing artist? What did he have to offer them? It occurred to me that they could be customers buying his art, but each time I went to the old place, the amount of paintings seemed to increase instead of decrease, so that assumption went out the window.

I made a lot of assumptions about Gerard, I realized. I didn’t know much about this man and yet he was allowing me into his home every day. When I thought of the situation like that, it seemed downright creepy. But that was only an assumption. I saw the way Gerard acted, the way he painted and the way he was around his fragile bird. He couldn’t do anything wrong. He wouldn’t hurt anything, especially me. He was just being nice. And all those people who I couldn’t figure out, I realized were probably doing the same thing I was; being around a kind and gentle artist who meant no harm at all. When I realized that, it was then, I think, that I started to ease into the apartment, getting the feel for it. All along, I had been watching things and making my assumptions. I had never opened my ears and eyes to fully observe the real Gerard. He was a hard character to observe however; he was full of mysterious qualities and traits. He was a work of art himself; an enigma coated in paint. He was challenging to solve, and though I was trying, I was focusing on the wrong person.

“What do you do, Frank?” he asked one day. I was over at the cage, scooping out the residue and waste from the week prior and putting in new lining for the delicate bird. Gerard’s voice nearly made me jump out of my skin. I had been used to hearing Van Gogh’s silent coos over and over again in my ear; the clear deep sing-song voice was a distinct change. I looked over at him, still hunched over and gripping the new lining in my hands, my face twisted in slight confusion. At that point, I was getting used to being confused for the majority of time I was with him.

“What do you mean?” I asked slowly.

“What do you do?” he repeated, going over the words a little slower, pronouncing each one separately. He looked over from the canvas he was working on, cocking an eyebrow at me. That was one of the traits I had noticed about him, and secretly envied. He had so much mobility with his face that it amazed me. I had gone home one night and tried to do the things he could, practicing in the mirror, but only came up looking like an idiot. I wrote it off as something that he had acquired through age. “Like, what do you do to keep sane? To pass the time?”

I thought about his question for a moment, trying to grasp what I did indeed do. I spent a lot of my time alone, just thinking and passing the time until something better came along. But I couldn’t say that, not to Gerard. It wasn’t good enough for him, and I knew that. I spent my time alone, and though I enjoyed it, when I told others that, it seemed far from stellar. It sounded like a waste of time.

“I come here,” I answered slowly, stating the clearly obvious but not delving into my personal time. Gerard rolled his eyes at my remark, but I didn’t really know what else to say.

“I know that much,” he lectured, laying on the sarcasm thick. “But what else do you do? When you go home tonight, what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”

“Eat dinner with my family?” I said, stating the answer as if it were a question. And though it was really what I was going to do, I knew it was wrong in Gerard’s eyes.

“You don’t sound entirely sure about that,” he countered. “What will you do after that? What can’t you wait to do after?”

“Um…” I began, thinking long and hard. There hadn’t been that much I had wanted to do in the past few weeks. It seemed like my life had begun to form a succession of events, merely repeating one after the other. After dinner I would go to my room and piss around until later when my dad went to bed. Then I’d watch TV until my eyelids were too heavy, before returning to my room again. Despite its lack of appeal, I told Gerard this anyway, knowing how his response would go.

“TV is the devil,” he said almost immediately. He gritted his teeth into a growl, almost, which only made me laugh, especially since there was a TV in his very apartment.

“Gerard?” I asked, pointing to the so-called devil sitting in the middle of his living room.

“It doesn’t work. I keep it there to remind myself of how many hours I’ve wasted in my whole life looking at that fucking thing,” he replied, the bitter resentment towards the chunk of metal and wires on a table clearly evident. He made a point; I didn’t really like watching TV that much. The commercials seemed to suck my soul and time away, but that’s what I wanted, to suck time way until I could be back at his place. If my soul got captured with it as well, it was a necessary casualty.

“But what else do you do?” Gerard pressed once more, when the silence had dragged on for too long. I wondered why he suddenly cared about talking when the past few days had been the quietest we had ever had. Maybe he was running low on opera music to deafen me with. I played along, listening to him as he continued. “You said you ‘pissed away time’ until your date with the infernal TV. What do you do then?”

“Um…” I trailed off, trying to think. I knew what I had been doing, I just didn’t know if I wanted to tell him, or anyone for that fact. Despite my dad’s forbiddance, I had begun to play my guitar again. I wasn’t very good at all, but things were coming back to me. I was looking at the old magazines that I found in my closet, going over the notes again and playing something that sounded like music. I could never play very loud for fear my dad would hear but I did something. I just didn’t want Gerard to know because I knew exactly how he would react.

“Have you been playing your guitar like I told you to?” he suddenly cut in, fucking reading my mind. My body tensed and I seemed to stop breathing. He took that as my answer and a cunning smile spread across his pudgy face.

“Good,” he stated proudly, nodding his head. If he wasn’t right about everything, I would have called him an arrogant bastard. But I could do nothing. “I want you to bring your guitar in someday.”

His statement completely caught me off guard, more so than the one prior. I swallowed hard, debating how to proceed.

“Why?” I asked shakily.

“Because I need some noise to fill in this dreaded silence,” he stated, flicking the brush across the page. He paused for a second, admiring his work and then checking me out from the corner of his eye. “Besides, you’ve seen my creative outlet. You clean up after it every day. It’s about time I see yours.” He raised his eyebrows at me, as if opening up a deal.

“I don’t know…” I said unsurely. I had finally finished loading the new floor in for Van Gogh and now my hands were bunched up at my sides. “I’m not very good.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he insisted. He took a step back from his painting and scrunched up his nose, making himself look like a bunny. He shook his head before shooting his glance back over to me. He then said, in response to my own judge of talent, very bluntly, “I don’t think I’m a very good painter.”

My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “What?” I almost screamed. He had to be fucking kidding me; he was fucking amazing. If I had that much talent in my pinky finger I would be honored. And he didn’t think he was good? Maybe he was high from his paint fumes. Or drunk from his own wine. I walked over to where he stood in front of his own art. I looked at the canvas and my point of view was only heightened.

“Look at what you just painted,” I told him, my eyes darting from his bland countenance to the streaks of red and purple, bathed together into a sunset in front of me. “You just painted something that looks like a fucking photograph. The way you blended the colours here is fucking astounding. I would love to do something like this – how can you think you suck?” I looked at him and only him this time, not darting my eyes back to his work. My eyes were wide and pleading and grew shocked as he started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You just proved my point,” Gerard said smugly, folding his arms over his chest in a defiant stance. “Your point of view on your own work is invalid. You’re too close to it; you have no idea whether it’s good or not.” Gerard paused, looking at me with those deep, dark browny-green eyes. “You may think that you suck, but just like you proved here with my work, things may not actually be so bad. I’m sure you play guitar fine. And I want to hear it to be the final judge.” He tilted his head to the side. “What do you say?”

I bit my lip thinking and turned to gaze around the room. I didn’t know what to say. What he was asking was really serious. He was asking me to bring my guitar and bare my soul to him. I hadn’t done that to anyone in so long, and I didn’t know if I could. I looked back at him again and got this warm sensation in the pit of my stomach.

“Okay,” I agreed, nodding my head slowly and not taking away eye contact. I wasn’t ready to show him anything, not yet at least. But I had a feeling that soon enough I could trust this man in a way I hadn’t been able to trust other people. I could spill my soul to him and I knew that he wouldn’t merely watch me bleed. He’d just give me tips on how to make a better image with the contents I was exposing. I could trust him, but there was something else I needed to do first.

“Okay…?” Gerard asked, sensing there was more to what I was saying. His head swayed to the side and he tightened the grip on his folded arms.

“I’ll play guitar for you if,” I in took a breath, scared and excited about the next part I was going to ask for, “you teach me how to paint.”

The words hit the room in a thick wave, just like the fumes that consumed it. The offer dispersed in the air before finally touching Gerard’s ears. I wasn’t sure how he was going to react. Painting was his art, his skill and I wasn’t too sure if he wanted to share it with me. It was different when he encouraged me to find my own creativity. Him showing me how paint the way he did may have threatened his arrogant appeal. But that was the reason I wanted to paint; I wanted to find that confidence he possessed. I needed that push forward before I could show him my own skill. I wanted him to teach me how to paint, to teach me how to be like him, and ultimately, to teach me confidence. I waited anxiously for the response, shifting my weight from foot to foot, glancing around the apartment, before my eyes met his. He smiled one of his trademark smiles and nodded his head. I let out a sigh of relief.

“Deal,” he uttered, and then extended his hand for me to shake it. I did, and it was final. His grip was strong, surprising me and making my own limp hand seem even more inferior. His hands were warm and comforting, the heat extending through his fingers, into my hand and down into the base of my stomach. I felt like my hand belonged there; like I belonged there, in his apartment even more now. He was going to teach me how to paint, to spill my soul first, before I even started on my own.

And the next day, Gerard gave me a key to his apartment.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14