When Are You Coming Back?

The fourth chapter of The Painter. While Gabi's away, Calvin spends his time playing guitar in a local park...

He loved the park--the colors, the plants, the noises, the smells, everything about it. What he really loved the most, however, were the people. He enjoyed watching them go about their lives, so caught up in the moment or other trivial things. Sometimes they were happy, laughing and talking with one another, and sometimes they were upset, leaning on a comforting shoulder or staring blankly up at the sky. He loved walking through the park, but he liked sitting and observing more.

What he truly loved more than all of that together was making the people happy.

Every now and then he would carry his old acoustic guitar into the park and play a few songs, strumming pick-less. People would sometimes throw money into his open guitar case, but that wasn’t the reason he played.

His only goal was to make people smile.

He usually only came to the park when Gabi was away, or when the coffee shop was closed. It wasn’t something he did often--in fact, he tried to do it as rarely as possible, that way it would retain its special feeling. Since Gabi was gone for a while, this was the second day in a row he’d come to the park.

It made him feel less lonely.

Guitar case in hand, he strolled down the blacktopped paths to his usual bench. It was a calm late-summer day; a few grey clouds dotted the sky, though the sun shined brilliantly, regardless. The air smelled of hot dogs and flowers--a strange combination, yet oddly appealing.

He wished he could’ve brought Max along, but he knew better than to bring a small white kitten to a park with big dogs. He felt badly about leaving him alone in the apartment.

Up ahead on the path was a small coffee cart. The man who ran the cart smiled and waved him over, having recognized him.

“Back for the usual, Calvin?” he asked, already preparing a drink.

“Mhm,” the other replied as he reached into his jean pocket for his wallet.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” the cart worker said while he worked. “What’s been going on?”

Calvin shrugged. “I’ve been doing a lot of painting in the studio. I’ve even taken up reading again.”

To this the worker laughed, handing him a small Styrofoam cup. “When are you gonna sell your paintings again? My wife and I are looking for something to hang in the living room.”

“I’m flattered you want some of my work,” he replied humbly, taking his order.

“Well, I’ve seen some of the things you paint when you’re here in the park. You’ve got skill for being so young.”

Calvin smiled. “Thank you.”

“Double shot espresso . . .” the worker said, taking Calvin’s money and tucking it in a drawer. “I’m surprised you’re not bouncing off the walls after one of those.”

“I don’t drink coffee for the caffeine,” he replied. “It doesn’t really affect me, anyway. I just like the taste.”

The cart worker shrugged. “Well, you have a nice day, Calvin. It was nice seeing you again.”

“Stop by the coffee shop next Wednesday--that’s when I’ll be selling again,” Calvin said as he began to walk away. “I’ll be sure to try and save some of the good ones for you.”

The worker smiled and said thank you as he waved goodbye. Sipping his piping-hot espresso, Calvin spotted his bench--empty, like usual. He wondered why it was always like that, why people avoided it. Maybe it was simply coincidence that it was available every time he was at the park.

Carefully setting his case down on the ground beside the bench, he sat down and slouched back a bit, admiring the view. He found it terribly convenient and adorable that an old couple sat on a bench directly behind one with a young couple, both holding the exact same poses, though not on purpose. He smiled to himself as he took another sip of his drink, savoring the way the warm liquid slithered down his throat. He loved the rich taste that resonated on his tongue afterward; it always reminded him of the little coffee shop he frequented so often. . . .

He enjoyed the rest of his coffee in the course of the hour, drinking it slowly and savoring every moment. After painting, drinking coffee was probably his greatest joy in life. Things went on before him, around him, like a four-dimensional show. No one really paid him any mind, aside from a few who recognized that he played there every now and then. But even they only gave him quick glances and carried on their way.

Having finished his espresso, Calvin sat it down next to him before brushing his bangs out of his face. He then reached down to his guitar case and gently opened the hinges, removing the instrument with tender hands. He liked the way it sat in his lap--it seemed to fit, like it was something he was meant to do.

He strummed the strings once, listening carefully to the way the sound reverberated. His perpetual, blissful smile upon his face, he was finally ready to play. Without putting much thought into it, he selected a song he knew by heart and began to play, running his fingers up and down the fret with catlike precision. Closing his eyes, he let himself get swept up in the melody of the music, allowing himself to be carried away on its gentle waves.

Opening his eyes at the end of the song, he saw the small crowd of people that had gathered around him--as well as the notable pile of money in his guitar case. He looked up at his audience and smiled.

“Do you take requests?” a woman asked. “I’ll pay you if you do, of course.”

“I’ll take a request if I know it,” Calvin replied honestly. “There’s no need to pay me, though.”

“Do you know ‘Remembering Sunday’ by All Time Low?” a young woman asked, flipping back her long black hair as she did so.

Calvin nodded. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Do you sing, too?” the black-haired woman inquired.

He shook his head and chuckled airily. “No, I just play guitar.”

Before anyone else could comment, he began to strum the gentle opening of the song, feeling his soul go along for the ride with the melody. It carried him away, far away from the park he sat in. Where it took him, he wasn’t sure--it was very bright with soft white sand. He could almost feel it giving way underneath his feet.

This went on for several more songs: someone would request a song and--being the cultured musician he was, knowing virtually every suggestion--Calvin would play it, pouring his heart into every note. The crowd eventually thinned as the sun drew lower in the sky, eventually leaving only a handful of young woman close to his own age.

As he finished the song, he looked up and smiled. Girls always came to talk to him when he played guitar; he found it amusing, but not in an insensitive or arrogant sense. He simply wondered what the draw was to a man who sat alone in a park and played an instrument. It was when he motioned to put his guitar away when one of the girls broke the awkward silence.

“Are you done playing today?” she asked, leaning toward him--she had seated herself on the open space beside him.

Calvin nodded, giving her a placid half-smile. “Yep. I’m sorry.”

“You’re really good at playing guitar,” another commented. It was the black-haired girl from earlier.

“Thank you,” he said, shutting the hinges on his case. “I appreciate the fact you take the time to listen to me. It means a lot.”

“How come you’re always here by yourself?” a different girl inquired, looking rather bashful. “You don’t have a girlfriend . . . do you?”

Calvin simply smiled, picked up his case and empty espresso container, and replied, “I’m sorry, I have to go now.”

“When are you coming back?” the black-haired girl said. “I like listening to you play. Will you be back soon?”

He gave this some thought before replying. “I don’t know. I just come here every now and then.” He then gave them a small wave with the hand that held the espresso container before walking away, a smile on his face all the while.

He felt a little bad that he hadn’t given the girls a real answer, but his guitar playing was really just a spur of the moment thing. Besides, set schedules really weren’t his thing. They were the reason he went into the line of business he was in--or really, the lack thereof. He wasn’t sure if you could call freelance painting a business.

Passing a waste receptacle, he tossed his empty cup inside. He’d really only come out the past two days as a way to pass time quickly.

Only three more to go.

Author's Note

I'm still not sure about the flow of the opening and closing paragraphs. Please let me know if you find them--or anything else--to be confusing or awkward. Thank you for reading. =]