The Illustrator

What do we expect from one? Would we believe another just as capable, if not more?

Not a sound. Let everything remain quiet as if he's not even there. That was his intention. He gained entry into the building and immersed himself in the quiet and darkness. He wasn't there. Slowly he made his way around the desks and tables, uncertain of what he might find, but he was hoping to find something valuable. He checked what was obviously a receptionist's desk, then moved on. Some stuff he might take there, but if he didn't find anything else, he'd come back for it on his way out and didn't want to be saddled with those items as he ventured further into the area. 

He moved with caution into the next section, a larger arena, and began looking around. He suspected this place was some sort of advertising company or something, but he wasn't sure. He looked at drawing tables in cubicles with various forms of artwork upon them. He froze and studied some of the pictures, but didn't touch them. He looked over one rendering, contemplating how long it took the artist to draw the picture. Some of them could draw quite fast. His mind was wandering, so now the rest of him needed to as well. 

He moved further into the assembly of office cubicles, spying various potential items to be lifted such as the usual phones and laptops, but the more he moved inward, the more he wanted to see. He jumped with a start when he saw a man staring right at him. He waited to see what the guy would do. Surely the person had seen him. Then in the dark, he realized it was a portrait, hanging up. He looked at the image and was captivated by its realism, even tho it was in the dark. 

In still silence he journeyed further into the work place. He would have liked to be an artist. Well, not really, but he might have enjoyed it had he somewhere, sometime had the opportunity. He glided like a cat past another table. More illustrations. 

Then he froze. Therre was a faint light in the distance; in a far corner he hadn't seen before because it was concealed by a column. He watched the light, then noticed a flat screen at another location. That would be good to have. If he took the flat screen and made his way back out and grabbed up a couple of phones and lap tops, he'd be covered. Slowly he crossed over to the screen. He didn't make a sound. Didn't tap a thing. Nothing. 

"Is someone there?" 

He stopped breathing. He stopped existing. The person in the light would never be able to see him in the dark, especially if he didn't move. He was certain of that. 

The little figure stared for a bit, then slowly turned back to what he was doing. In the dark office area, there was still no motion. Time was frozen. Finally, he comprehended the little man was not overly keen about goings-on around him and was more the office type, so he would venture once more to that flat screen. He turned to see the lone man and realized there was no way he was going to get the screen unplugged and disconnected to remove it with the toad sitting over there, no matter how far away he might be. Maybe he should take him out. Just move up on him and grab him and throw him in a closet or something. It was apparent the fellow was no muscle man just by looking at him and with his doing this kind of work. He decided that's what he'd do. 

Once more he began taking stealthful strides toward the stranger. Ever so cautiously, making not a sound. 

The person coughed. Movement in the dark stopped. He coughed again and reached for a small wrapper, probably a cough drop, and a glass of liquid. Once he was as before, he proceeded with his task under the single overhead light. All the while, his predator began moving again coming ever so closer to him. Once he got the worker here out of the way, making sure not to be seen, he could finish this midnight chore and leave this business. He was nearly upon the little man with his back to him. He was just about to hit him once he stepped into the light. 

And he stopped. For one moment, he forgot about the man at the desk. Instead, he looked at the drawings upon the desk. Wonderful renditions of men and women, properly attired, laughing, smiling, even in a fantasy vein as vikings and soldiers. An astronaut. All African-American. Like him. 

He gazed into the welcoming faces of the pictures. The people just seemed to bring him into their offerings. Compelling depictions of figures who seemed capable, commanding, positive. Offering no challenge to anyone. He completely forgot about the flat screen. 

He reached out to move one drawing aside so he could see the people on the paper beneath it. Young people charging forth from the page. He wondered where they were charging to. Only then did he look at words on the papers. Back to School, Finest footwear around, easy to prepare. Then his eyes moved up to the spaceman, the viking. How grand they appeared, these brothers of race, willing to accept any challenge. He was just about to move the spaceman aside to view a military picture beneath it when a voice spoke up. 

"do you like them?"

"They're wonderful," he whispered. "Simply marvelous." 

"I get better use out of the supplies here at work than what I have at home, so sometimes I stay here late to see what I can come up with."

Slowly, he slid another drawing away from the seated form to get a better look at it. 

"Did you draw these?"

"Yea. I have all these ideas."

"Why . . . . why are they black people?"

"Because you don't see a lot of black people in advertising like this. At best, it will be one black person toward a side or something like that."

"Building jobs for a better tomorrow," the intruder read on another picture. 

"I drew that for a bank, but they said they had to think on it. When they say that, they aren't interested in it."

"How can you envision drawing black people like this?"

"What ya mean?"

He turned to look at the seated man, who looked back up at him. He reached up to angle the light better on the two men and not so much on the desk, making certain not to blind either of them. 

"You're . . . . you're white." 

"So?"

"So how does a person such as you see such effort and dominance from black people such as this?"

"You don't ever see black people in advertisements this overwhelming."

"So you said, . . . but, . . . . do they use any of your work?"

He fumbled with another throat lozenge. "No," he said. "They usually go with something a bit more . . . . established?"

"White."

"Yea, that won't increase any sales figures or promotion and gets dropped after about two weeks, tops."

"Have you tried taking these somewhere else?"

"Don't know where to take them."

He studied a different styled drawing, not as detailed, but still just as absorbing. 

"I know some people who would welcome seeing your art. They could find a use for many of these drawings you have here."

The white man looked down and ran his hand along the side of his desk. 

"How are they going to see them?"

"What's your name?"

"Paul," he said, pushing the glasses back up the round nose. 

"Paul, my name is LeJeronte. I actually do know of some teachers I had that would welcome seeing these."

"Ya think?"

"Oh, definitely."

"Allright>"

"Which ones can I take for now?"

There was a sorting process that then took place; the spaceman, the viking, the bank ad, the military man. All he had drawn for himself, more or less, could be shown to anyone who might be interested. LeJeronte then got about five more drawings of one kind or another. 

"Paul, my man. Trust me, this will definitely put you on the map!"

LeJeronte turned to leave and had walked not quite halfway through the area, when he turned and came back. 

"When are you leaving here? It's almost . . . . " looked at the clock, "two in the morning."

"I'll leave in a bit." 

"Why don't you come on out with me?"

"That's okay. I'll see you later when you know something, Ledge, . . . ledge . . . "

"LeJeronte. Yea, man, you will definitely be seeing me later, if you continue to draw like this."

Paul watched LeJeronte depart into the dark this time and make his way out of his vision. Paul sniffed and ran his finger under his nose. 

LeJeronte reached his point of entry and carefully exited the building once more. He was careful not to wrinkle any of the drawings as he stood outside. He even straightened them up a bit better, so no corners were folded. What stunning artwork, he thought to himself. That he entered the place with one idea of thievery in mind and came out with an entirely different perspective. 

About an hour later, Paul made his way out of the department. He waddled down to his car and was ready to open the door. He actually looked around to see if there was any sign of that fellow, whoever that was. He didn't even remember that name. That had to be a phony name. 

Paul knew he was tired, but he didn't realize he might be that tired. He got home, got ready for bed and stared at the alarm clock. He seemed to be somewhat awake, so that must surely explain it. He nodded off at work and dreamt all of that with that black man. That was the only explanation he could think of. 

Not quite a month passed. Paul didn't work so many late nights, if he was just going to fall asleep like that. He stayed on days, no matter how unhappy he became with other employees ridiculing him. He just did his work and went home. 

He did notice the drawings were missing. Was that fellow real? Maybe it wasn't a dream. But he couldn't remember that name at all now and had no idea how to even contact him or anything.   

Time moved on and finally Paul allowed himself another late night excursion to sit and draw at work. He would envision a famliy in a car, smiling, happy. And they were every aspect of African-American. He didn't even like that term. He wanted them black. Eye-catching, thought-provoking, disapproving or approving. He wanted the challenge. 

Now he was lost in the drawing. He was on the side of the street, looking at the family in the car. Maybe he was waving at them. Maybe he was giving them a look of scorn. They rise above it. They react. Then Paul was truly surprised when the father spoke to him. 

"Paul?"

Paul froze for what seemed like an eternity. 

"Paul." 

He turned around to see who it was. 

"It's me, Paul. Lejeronte."

Paul stared at the figure emerging from the dark as tho he were imagining him. He recognized the fellow, but noted now he was dressed a bit more accomodating. 

"Do you remember me?"

"Yes," Paul whispered. "I was thinking I must have dreamt you."

LeJeronte laughed. 

"No, I'm real."

"The drawings," Paul said quietly. 

"Yea, I came back to tell you, nearly all of them were sanctioned by either churches or businessmen in African-American areas. Some will be published in books, posters, with determination of audience taken into consideration. A couple of writers are interested in using some of the pictures on the jackets of their books."

"Jackets," Paul commented. "How peculiar that sounds." He turned back to his desk. 

"As the artist, here's your payment for the work you have done thus far. With royalties, I'll have to make sure you get what you are entitled to."

Paul took the paper from LeJeronte's hand and looked at it. 

"Well," he said somewhat smiling, "it seems I will soon be able to quit this job."

"Eventually, but not yet," LeJeronte said with a laugh. 

Paul looked at the monetary statement again, then looked at LeJeronte. 

"You."

"Yea, man."

"What do you get out of all of this?"

LeJeronte laughed. "A legitimate career? I guess I have to be your agent. We didn't sign anything, but I knew there would be better responses if the belief was I was the artist, . . "

"As opposed to a fat little white man," Paul said. He and LeJeronte stared at one another a bit, then Paul turned back to the table top. 

"I've . . . done these. Still working on that one."

LeJeronte began examining the pictures as Paul slid them over. 

"That one is finished." 

"Paul, these are astounding. I haven't seen anymore of your work since the last time, but these are just as incredible."

"And this one."

LeJeronte was quiet as he looked at them. 

"What do you say when they ask you about your inspiration?"

"I just say I draw what I think about. Or what I'd like to see," LeJeronte answered.

"I suppose that works," Paul said, then asked, "should we exchange a phone number or emal, . . or something."

"We can do that later," LeJeronte said as he placed the drawings in a folder. 

Paul watched him. What keeps this man from fleeing with all the money, he wondered. 

"Maybe we should try to set up a better meeting place then," Paul asked. 

"We'll work on all that later. Right now, we just got to keep things moving."

"How did you know I would be here tonight?" Paul asked abruptly. 

LeJeronte looked at him. 

"I didn't."

"Had you tried to meet up with me before and I wasn't here?"

"No. I had to get everything thus far set so you could see the results and make sure you knew I wasn't cheating you or anything."

"So why aren't you cheating me?" Paul asked rather frankly. 

LeJeronte stared for a bit. 

"Should I be?"  

Paul looked at the statement again. 

"No," he said. "I suppose not."

"Well, I think I have enough for this go-around. I'll catch up with you later, man. And thanks. You've changed both our lives."

"No," Paul said, "we've changed both our lives."

He couldn't deny this LeJeronte obviously knew people who would find his art suitable, something he didn't seem able to do. Paul watched LeJeronte leave again, realizing the door was locked and LeJeronte must be departing through another access; climbing out a window or something. Paul thought about if a policeman should see him, what that would do, but he couldn't get up and run after LeJeronte now, so he sat and stared at the statement once more. He didn't know how much the agent was paid, but he was clearly being paid for his work. 

Paul faced the desk and looked up from the family in the car to another drawing he did of a black man, just a random image. Paul stared at it, with shadows made long by the overhead light, tossing the figure in darkness, pretty much as he saw LeJeronte both these times now. 

It was then Paul realized where LeJeronte was that first night, several months ago. Paul was in a closed up building and suddenly LeJeronte turned up, like he had just been strolling by. Why was he there? Should Paul assume the worst. Paul couldn't assume anything. His artwork was sold and would be seen by many people very soon. Isn't that what he wanted? 

He folded up the statement and tucked into his shirt pocket, then looked up at the black man again. The picture was arranged upright as tho the man would be looking back at him. Paul contemplated it being LeJeronte watching him, seeing what he could do when no one else would. 

And he began drawing once more.