IN PAINTINGS
by
Leslie R. Lee
This painting! It snatched the very air from my lungs. I must own this. I must! The trick now was concealing that very fact. Adjusting my silk tie in a most convincingly nonchalant manner, I sauntered down the chain-link fence.
I do not know why I had stopped at this little outdoor art venue. Usually, I detested the common reproductions these pathetic street vendors displayed in the blazing hot sun. The ultra-violet rays would soon bake the color completely out of the cheap copies. The tawdry frames served only to complete the ruination of the great masters. Yet, something did make me drive my car into the lot and park beside people grimly trekking their way into a video store in search of cheap entertainment. Perhaps I stopped because I recognized none of the works leaning against the filthy fence. Where were the lethargic suns wilting into endlessly mundane seas? Or the terminally cute little children staring out with eyes so huge that I just wanted to kick in their puny little faces? Or the smeared abstracts that looked as if someone had used the canvas to clean their hands after painting some kitchen cabinets?
None of those horrible clichés were to be found.
Instead, here was a portrait of a woman so enchanting, it left me breathless. Confident, strong, intelligent, she regarded me. Beautiful. And not like a model whose sterile looks were more consistent with some related but mutant humanoid species. No, this woman possessed a just and simple beauty. Plain and forthright. Nude, she lounged against a plain background. Sun-tinted, brown hair fell in disarray about her shoulders. Her tanned face reflected an outdoor, fresh life. She did not smile, yet perhaps, if I were patient enough, she just might.
“Hey, tubby!” I looked around at someone yelling. Was he addressing me? “Yeah, you! The chink. You want this one?”
“Hmm?” I said, suddenly seeing the painting I had stopped in front of, some breed of landscape with the macabre touch of including a cemetery.
“You want this one?” asked the man, a grimy, drunken specimen common to gutters in every city.
A collection of corpses rotting in the ground? “No, I do not believe so.”
“I’m not talking about that one,” he said impatiently.
I looked at him and realized he was slouched exactly in front of the painting that I truly wanted.
“This one here. Do you want this one?”
“Well, let me see.” Had I been so transparent?
“You like this one,” he insisted, sucking on a bottle.
“It is quite nice,” I said, trying to ignore the stench of alcohol befouling the air.
“How much, man?” Impudence! “How much you gonna offer?”
“Well, I do not know. Who is the artist?” There was just an indecipherable squiggle at the bottom of the canvas.
“How should I know?” he said, exasperated. “I just sell the damned things. All the same as far as I’m concerned.”
“Hmm.” I stalled and thought furiously. I just could not tell how much to start with. “How about a hundred?”
That was half the contents of my wallet.
“Done!” He held out his grubby hand in drunken triumph.
Furious, I restrained myself. Anger was much too destructive to one such as I. Even though I had obviously offered too much, I firmly refused the temptation to do Something. Reluctantly, I extracted a hundred from my wallet.
He snatched the bill from my hand, snapped it irritatingly, then grinned, his teeth glinting malevolently in the hot sun. He suddenly caught sight of the painting and his smirk faltered. For a moment, I thought he would to return the money. Instead, he turned his back and staggered away to slump on a milk crate.
“Are we done?” I asked.
“Take it if you’re sure you still want it,” he muttered.
I struggled to lift it. The painting was heavy for some reason. True, it was almost life size, but it should not have weighed a ton. I considered asking for his help but he would probably want more money. Sweating and almost cursing, I staggered back to my car. I looked back through the fence at the little gnome squatting in the sun. His face was buried in his hands. His shoulders shook. His chest heaved in great gulps of air. Was he laughing? Laughing at the sweat soaking my silk shirt? Or at the fact that he would have sold the painting for a paltry ten dollars? Laughing so hard at his little joke on me that tears streaked his scum laden skin? Again, I was sorely tempted to do Something particularly nasty to him, but withheld. I would need all the Power I could muster for later.
I drove home quickly where it was all I could do to wrestle the portrait into my bedroom. The artist had framed the painting with pure lead I decided. I am going to be most displeased if all this exertion damages my heart, I thought, gasping in exhaustion. I propped the portrait against the wall, then dabbed the perspiration from my forehead, my muscles shuddering.
“First,” I panted to her, “a shower.”
After wearily shedding my soiled clothing, I entered my bathroom. I despised that feeling of clammy perspiration. I did not want her to see me so unclean. The shower ran as hot as I could stand it. Something about that horrible little transaction had polluted me. I scrubbed my skin with deodorant soap working up a good and rich lather. I shampooed my hair. Twice. Then, I carefully examined my self for damage. The little nicks and bruises of every day life took their toll on the unwary and were sometimes difficult to repair. I was hurrying more than I should. Since I had nothing but an abundance of time, I deliberately slowed despite knowing she was waiting.
Moisturizing lotion penetrated deep into the pores of my skin. I shaved. Closely. Now a cologne, but which one? Should it be, perhaps, the virile Thrust? I did not think that the sensitive Era Nouveau was quite appropriate. My final decision was the holistic approach of Man! Yes, just right. A little here, a little there, perfect.
It was time. I took a deep breath and took one last look in the full length mirrors. My naked body was delightful. I could not keep myself from beaming with pride at the handiwork of years of toil.
“Ready or not,” I called from the bathroom. “Here I come.”
With not a trace of embarrassment, I left the bathroom. I strode confidently to the painting of the woman.
“Well?” I said, pirouetting slowly. “What do you think?”
It must have been a great moment for her. Those cool eyes appraised me with just hint of admiration. I looked around at the rest of my women hanging on the walls.
“I think she likes me,” I confided to them.
They too stared out at me appreciatively. I had chosen them specifically for their frank honesty. An honesty that could not deny the wonders I embodied for them. They were indeed lucky I had bestowed myself upon them. How many times had I strode through this city, the subject of admiration and respect of the imperfect masses? How many verged on the edge of confessing their awe and amazement? Eschewing their fleshy advances, I instead saved myself for these women hung on the walls.
“This, you will love,” I told her. “Be not afraid.”
I reached out both hands and touched the face. The Power flowed from my fingertips into the canvas. I closed my eyes as the Rush approached the pinnacle.
“What are you doing?”
I jerked back from the painting and stared at it. That was not supposed to happen.
“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”
Almost jumping out of my skin, I turned. Somehow the woman in the painting had leaped full blown into my bedroom! I turned to look at the painting. No. She was still there. I still did not know what to say.
“Your door was open, and no one answered the knock.”
Ack! I was naked! I hurriedly squeezed behind the painting.
“What are you doing here?” I squeaked. I hated my voice doing that.
“That’s mine,” she said pointing at my lower extremities.
“I beg your pardon?” I demanded indignantly.
“The painting,” she said patiently.
“It is not! I paid for it.”
“I know,” she droned on. “That was my boyfriend, or more accurately, my ex-boyfriend who sold it to you.”
“So?”
“He decided to steal all my work from my studio and sell them. Needed a drink he said.”
“Well, you cannot have it. I have purchased it.”
She sighed. “Look, I’ll give you back the hundred bucks, okay?”
“How did you find me?”
“One of the many things that I don’t like about my ex is his photographic memory. He saw your driver’s license.”
“Do you have my payment?” She dug in her purse and pulled out my crumpled money. And I had spent so much time ironing that bill. “Then why do you not just keep that and I will keep the painting.”
“Look, mister, it’s not for sale.”
“I will give you two hundred,” I offered.
“Hey, I said it’s not for sale.” Angry, though in a monotone sort of way.
“Come, come, young lady. Surely there is a price for which this can be had. Four hundred.”
She didn’t even hesitate when I bid up to ten thousand.
“I don’t want your money,” she intoned. “You’ve just bought stolen property. The cops have already hauled that dumbass into jail. You don’t want to be charged with receiving stolen goods, right? Now if you’ll give it back, I’ll leave.”
“There is a robe in that closet.”
She looked as if she would refuse this simple request, but then yanked out my robe and threw it at me. I donned it awkwardly, trying to keep the painting between me and her gaze.
“Why will you not sell it to me?”
“It’s not for sale,” she said, quietly.
“Just name an outrageous price. Perhaps I will pay it.”
“It is not for sale,” she repeated, impatiently.
“Why not?”
“My other paintings are for sale. But not this one.”
That was an answer? “It is a self portrait I perceive” I leaned it up against the wall and stared at it. Yes, the Transformation had begun. She contemplated the piece in silence. “It must be relatively recent too.”
She turned to me. “Not a lot of people would see that.”
Despite the heat outside, she was covered from head to toe. A large hat and dark glasses covered most of her face. She even wore gloves. Black like her jeans and shirt. The shirt was buttoned up to her chin. She was thinner than in the painting. Her face was heavily and clumsily made up. An unsophisticated eye would not have made the connection between the woman standing there and the woman reclining in the painting. There did not seem to be, in the actual woman, any of the life captured so eloquently in the portrait.
“How do I know that you painted this? That you really are the artist and not simply the model?”
With a magician’s flourish, she pulled a cell phone from her purse. “Do you want me to call the cops?”
I sighed. I could not let this painting go. There was no way to stop the Transformation. And retrieving the painting would be inconvenient at best. “Is there something that I can trade for your painting?”
“No.”
I speculated about her strength. “Alright then. Take it.”
“Thanks.” Suspicion tinged her voice.
With effort, she limped to the dresser to place the hundred on it. She then tried to pick the painting up. She could not. Even in my current form, I had to be stronger than her. She grunted with effort. She would be Damned if she was going to ask for my help. Suddenly, she had the bright idea of sliding it along the carpet. A pang of anxiety stung me. Fortunately, the frame had sharp little decorations along the bottom that caught the carpet pile. My gamble was paying off.
“You’re not going to help me are you?” she stated grimly.
I sat down on my bed and smiled.
“You know, I could still call the police and tell them that you weren’t letting me have my painting.”
“Be my guest. But you will have to leave.”
“Alright then. I’ll be back.”
“Uhm, if I find things in my house that do not belong, they have a nasty way of disappearing into the garbage.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would not?”
“You want the painting too much.”
I shrugged.
She swore under her breath. “Alright. How about if I give you another painting of myself in return for this one?”
“You have another?”
“No. But I can copy that one.”
“Then why not make the copy and keep it? Or just paint something new? The model is always available.” Her petulance was certainly wearisome.
“That’s not possible.” Strangely, her face struggled to display her anger as if her features were unpracticed in the art of emotion, even one as powerful as her rage. None of the portrait’s spontaneity and passion appeared in this woman. The painting was clearly some misguided ego mania on her part.
“I believe that you are still angry at your boyfriend…”
“Ex boyfriend.”
I stopped myself from grinding my teeth. I hated people correcting me in the middle of a sentence. “I believe that you are still angry at your EX-boyfriend and misdirecting that anger toward me. Why not be mature concerning this? Paint yourself again and be done with it.”
She dropped her purse with a loud thud.
Uh oh, I thought.
Then she pulled off her jacket.
“What are you doing?” I said, clutching my robe to me.
She started to unbutton her shirt.
“Stop that!” I said. I was not about to have my special haven defiled by the nakedness of a stranger. I leaped from the bed and slapped her hands away.
“Ouch!” she yelped. “Let go of me.”
She tried to undo more buttons. I desperately tried to re-button them. She pushed me away, but I threw her onto the ground. She gasped and grunted under my weight. She kicked and squirmed away, ripping the shirt open, buttons flew everywhere. I caught sight of her flesh.
Scars.
I shrieked and scrabbled away. She got to her feet, sweating, and pulled off her shirt.
“No, don’t,” I gasped out.
“What’s the matter? Can’t take it?” she said as she tentatively unzipped her pants.
I squealed, and tried to shut my eyes. “Please, keep them on.” But then I had to peek, I had to.
“No. I don’t think so,” She smiled grimly and pulled down the pants. “I think you deserve this.”
My mind provided the horrible burlesque accompaniment as she stripped off the last of her clothing. But she was not finished. She reached up and yanked at her hair. It was a wig.
“No more, please,” I pleaded.
She pulled at the cheek of her face. It was clever makeup. She pirouetted inflicting the horrid sight upon my sensitive eyes. Scars stalked angrily up the back of her legs onto her torso, crawled in multi colored fury around her neck, then snaked up the side of her face onto her totally bald scalp.
Nausea erupted deep within me. Vainly, I tried to stand but my legs betrayed me. I could not help myself. I started to vomit. But I did not want to foul my carpet and grabbed the first things that I could.
“Not my clothes!” I heard distantly. But It was too late. I emptied my intestines upon her things. Then fainted.
A wet towel returned me to consciousness. I looked up at her and shrank away from her touch.
“Well, at least you’re honest,” she said wryly.
Who, me? “What do you mean by that?” I said feebly.
She stood and went into the bathroom. I looked around. Her things were gone. I could faintly hear my washing machine working in the kitchen. The smell of vomit covered my robe. I would have to throw it away. Or better yet, burn it.
“You did not clean me up,” I accused her as she reappeared.
Ungrateful for my suggestion, she struggled to give me one of those Why don’t you just dry up and blow away looks. But she could have at least washed me a little better. She was carrying something wet in her hands.
“What is that?” I asked, thoroughly revolted.
“It’s my damned wig.” I shuddered. “I had to wash it. You should try out for the Olympics. You know, projectile puking. You’d get a gold for sure.”
I threw my soiled robe out the window. The time for modesty had long since passed, noting that she had managed to don my most favored robe. And, irritatingly enough, it was obviously too small for her as she evidently knew by the way she jerked and tugged at it in a vain attempt to cover herself.
“What did you mean at least I was honest?”
She hung the wig on my dresser where it dripped water onto the carpet. I suppressed a snarl. I wanted to shred the wig into individual little hairs. Instead, I went into the bathroom and ran an almost intolerably hot shower. She still did not answer, though she did come in and look at me bathing. I supposed that she could not help herself. I turned my back on her so that I would not have to look at her horrible deformities.
“Why are you not answering my question?” I said after thoroughly scrubbing my body. I toweled my body dry and started to apply lotion. When I started to do my back, she took the bottle from me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll do it.”
“Do not touch me.”
“Quit being such a baby. They don’t come off.”
“Then use that hand.” I pointed at the hand that had the least scarring. At first, I thought she was going to hurl the bottle at me. Instead, she massaged the lotion into my back using her not so grotesque hand. I had to admit that she did a an adequate job. And it felt good. It was always difficult reaching that spot right in the middle and I always worried that it was drying out a little. I took the bottle from her.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
I ignored her and finished reapplying all my colognes.
“You sure have one hell of a routine,” she marveled.
“Thank you, but perfection does take discipline.”
“Perfection? You?”
“I am the embodiment of perfection.”
She snorted in an ugly, animal sort of way. “You’re just a bald, fat, little chink,” she blurted out. “Oops, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you should not have,” I turned away from her and put on my second most favorite robe. “And I am not completely bald.”
“Did I hurt your feelings?”
I ignored her, allowing her to follow me out to my bedroom.
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
“You did not. Now, tell me what you meant by me being honest.”
She smiled and with her fingers, absentmindedly traced the scars on the side of her face. Most distressing. She did not have to make a point of her ugliness.
“I meant that most people try to hide their shock and disgust when they see me. You didn’t hide your feelings at all.”
“Hide my feelings?”
“Don’t tell me that shrieking, tossing green barf all over me, then keeling over is your way of being tactful?”
I grimaced. “Why should I hide my feelings? Tell me how you came about such ghastly deformities.”
She looked incredulous. “You really do just pop those questions out there don’t you? Alright. I went down to the mall and said gimme about a dozen o’ them there acid burns.”
I was shocked. “Acid?”
“Yeah.” She looked bleak. “And I didn’t get them from no mall.”
“What in the world were you doing playing with acid?”
“I wasn’t playing with it, you idiot. My ex was using it for an art project of his own. It spilled. On me.” And she was calling me an idiot? “That was two years, no, three years ago. I survived. Barely. I’m partially blind and deaf.”
“He was your ex before he did this to you?”
“What? Oh no. He became my ex after I got out of the hospital. Guilt has pretty much eaten him up.”
“He should certainly feel shame for such sheer stupidity.”
“That too.” She looked wistfully at the painting. “But guilt that he can’t find the woman in that picture anymore. He can’t bring himself to look at me let alone touch me.”
A wry smiled worked it’s difficult way to her countenance. How pathetic.
“Well,” I said, smiling myself, “with such absolute grotesqueness, you can hardly blame him.”
Shrieking a curse, she fled into the bathroom.
“Did I hurt your feelings?” I mocked through the door, chuckling to myself.
The shower turned on briefly, then I heard her toweling dry. Everything in the bathroom would have to be expunged. The door flew open. “You’re really a monster, you know that?”
“Moi?” This was really quite enjoyable.
“You want to know what I want to know? I want to know why you want this painting so much?”
“I paid for it,” I said, primly. “It is mine.”
“Uh, uh. You were doing something to it when I came in.”
“Doing something?” I asked archly. “You are joking.”
“You were doing something. And more than just running around naked. You weren’t going to use it to, you know...” She made a gesture.
“Your imagination is quite dreadful!” Really! “I had merely come out of the bathroom after showering.”
“I don’t think so, bub.”
“You may think what you like.”
“If you don’t tell me, I might just rub one of these horrible scars all over you.”
I jumped away from her. “Keep your distance, young lady.”
She advanced and I quickly scurried around to the other side of the bed. “Look at these gross things,” she said waving at her body. “Can you just imagine them touching you?”
I started to feel faint again.
“Hey! You’re not going to throw up again, are you?”
“Just stay away from me.” I collapsed onto the bed.
“No.” She sat on the bed and crossed her legs, intensifying my revulsion. She tried to cover herself with the robe but she was far too tall. And too close. Much too close. But I was too weak to move.
“Take the painting and leave. Please.”
“I can’t. You barfed all over my stuff. When they’re dry, I’ll leave.”
“Are the scars the reason you want the painting back?” She looked away. “Do they remind you of the beauty that you no longer have?” I tried to look serious. “Let me tell you, you were not that beautiful to begin with.”
Her mouth dropped open like a landed fish. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“And who do you think you are?”
She hesitated, then held her hand out. “Tracy.” She looked out the window as if she were reading cue cards. “I used to be an artist.”
I looked the hand over carefully and decided that, unlike its partner, it was not unduly scarred. I shook her hand using my thumb and index finger, and said, “Stanley.” I thought about it a moment and thought that perhaps she deserved it. “I used to be a Demon.”