Raymond

second version Raymond's lifestyle and his growth

Raymond (4247words)

Drops of sweat fell and bloomed on the art pad sitting on Raymond’s lap. His ox-hair brush jumped across the painting, leaving short stiff strokes, moving on its own. Painting outside, en plein air, was a race with the changing light and moving people. But the acrylics were drying too fast. Raymond had to be careful. Too much water from his spray bottle left rivers of pigment rushing into his lap. He sprayed his face again and tried to focus on his subject. 

Elizabeth had paid for her gas and was leaving the Quick Stop when she noticed the man painting. She looked over his shoulder and then across at the scene he was capturing. The subject was as thin and bent as the dry leafless tree he leaned against. His tight weathered skin barely covered the knots that stuck out from his elbows. The dog laying at his feet was as grey as the gravel it was lying on. The unsuspecting models barely moved. Both were trying to hide from the heat, hoping the sun would forget they were there. People tried to forget the summer months in Hahira. It was a city that could actually sweat.

A drop of water ran down the soda can Elizabeth was holding. It hit Raymond’s arm like a lite match. He jumped and grumbled at the silhouette of the woman.

“Do you mind?”

She bent over looking at the sketchbook on his lap.

“Sorry. Your work is good.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Could you leave me?”

He was sitting on a milk crate at the edge of a homeless camp. The people around him for the most part were living rough. Some were a little off in their minds, others were drunk. Some just didn’t give a s**t or were just trying to disappear. He was in that last group. He tried to brush her shadow off the painting hoping it would make her disappear.

“No really. Are you showing anywhere?”

“No, I am not showing. Not interested.”

She was not going to leave or stop talking.

“Your work is really good. I know this sounds crazy, but I have a gallery and I think your art would be good there.”

“Look I don't show my work. It's just for me.”

It was a stupid answer. He had always wondered what it would be like to be in a gallery. What artist wouldn't want that? But the moment was just a little too surreal. When he looked around, he could see the situation was about to become more heated.

      A loud guttural hack with the sound of someone spitting filled the air like a growl. Raymond recognized it as Billy the Bully’s challenge. He was always on guard for situations that might threaten his position as the head of the homeless hierarchy. He had caught Raymond's eyes in an angry stare that asked, What the f**k are you doing and how much is it worth to me. Raymond couldn’t determine the degree of trouble he saw coming and thought it best to leave. He was watching Billy as he spoke and tripped when he stood up. His canvas pad and shoe box of paints were scattered on the ground. The sleeve of his white shirt tore, and his elbow was scraped and bleeding.

“Are you okay?”

He sat on the ground for a second listening to Billy's hyena laugh. At least he had stopped heading toward them.

“Fine,” he told her wiping the grit off his hands. He started gathering up the acrylic tubes. She picked up the pad and started flipping through the pages. Raymond saw what she was doing and snarled at her.

“That's mine, do you mind.”

It wasn't a question. The fall had hurt, and he was now embarrassed and sweaty. She held the pad out to him.

“Your work is amazing,”

She stood there with an empty hand still outstretched.

“Look around. Can’t you see I’m homeless? What, do you think I come around here because it’s a great place to socialize and do art?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you were portraying social realism and chose to be here.”

She had hit a chord for Raymond. He did want to be here, but he didn’t want to explain why. Now he just wanted to get away.

“Look, I told you; I own a gallery and would love to show your work to some people. I'll pay you. Just let me show some.”

“It's not good enough.”

He had turned back to her because he felt an unusual excitement with the conversation. For some reason, he wanted to look more presentable. He wiped his hands on his pants again.

“No, your work is good. Please. Look you’re an artist. You’ll always try to make better work. That's what makes you do more. Isn't it?”

“I've never shown it to anyone.”

He realized he was stalling, considering her offer. Maybe he could show his work.

A movement caught his eyes. Billy had taken more of an interest in what Raymond was doing.

“Look it's not safe for you to be hanging around here. This isn't some local Bistro.”

She reached out and put her hand on his arm. He could hear a determination in her tone.

“I know you said you don't show your work But, it's really good!”

Raymond was getting frustrated. He looked over her shoulder trying to find Billy. He didn’t want the gallery opportunity to slip away. But he knew how belligerent Billy could get, especially when he thought there was money involved. Now he could see him on the move. That was just not good. Raymond was panicking and turned to walk away. She grabbed his arm.

“Here's my card. I'm serious about your work.”

“OK, OK. I understand. But you gotta go.”

She was so focused on the idea of showing his work that she thought he was brushing her off.

“Please, I mean it about your work. It's really good.”

Billy was getting close. Raymond grabbed the card out of her hand. He needed to defuse the situation. He flipped open his pad and ripped out a page.

“Here take this. Just go.”

She reached for her wallet. “Let me pay you.”

“NO!” he shouted.

He stooped to pick up a tube of paint. Looking back at her he shouted,

 “GO!”

Raymond wanted some separation from the woman before Billy caught up to them. He wasn’t sure where he was or what he would do.

“GO!” he shouted again over his shoulder.

Elizabeth couldn’t believe he had given her a painting. It was of a homeless woman in the park. She had a small child tethered to her shopping cart as she dug through a mesh trash can. In the foreground was a well-dressed young man tethered by earbuds to his cell phone. He was walking by, eating. His abandoned sandwich wrapper floated just above the ground. The little girl’s eyes were focused on the paper, and you couldn’t help but look where she looked. A couple sat on a bench playing checkers The blend of atmospheric colors was subtle. Cool colors of the sky against a warm sunset. Primary colors with a soft contrast. Not an easy arrangement to achieve.

Raymond felt he dodged a major confrontation and decided that his painting was done for the day. That’s when the oppressive air became filled with the stench of sweat and fermenting alcohol.  Even at six feet tall, Raymond had to look up at the barricade that Billy the Bully created. In this world, actions were your most valuable currency and Billy was rich in this denomination. It was especially true when he had one foot on top of yours and a sticky finger in your chest.

“Gimme your f****n money, Dick.”

“Billy, I don't have much.”

“I don't give a f**k. Just gimme the money you got. I saw you talking with that Leg.”

Billy always referred to women as Legs and men as Dicks. It was an ironic reference that usually made Raymond smile. Today, it was too personal. Raymond realized that maybe he had misjudged Billy’s intensity. If he wasn’t careful, it could cost more than just money. He yanked his foot out from under Billy's and reached into his pocket. He pulled out what he called his safety wad, a few dollar bills wrapped with a rubber band, a definite survival tactic. Billy grabbed it out of his hand and stuck it in his pocket.

“What else did she give you Dick? I saw her hand you something. Pull your pockets out.”

It took Raymond a moment to remember the card. But he didn’t want Billy to know his business.

“She gave me her card,” he said holding it out to Billy.

 “She said she wanted me to do some painting work for her.”

He knew if he said work, Billy would be less interested. Billy grabbed the card and stuffed it back in Raymond’s shirt pocket

“Just make sure you get paid upfront. I’ll be watching you, Dick.”

Raymond watched Billy walking away. He was sure Billy would head to the liquor store and hopefully be occupied for the rest of the afternoon. The air had become as overwhelming as his conflict with Billy. It ruined any chance of more painting. Besides, the day already had too many curious people, especially that woman. Walking away he looked over his shoulder wondering if Billy was done with him. He wanted to get to the storage unit he rented nearby to drop off his art supplies. He didn't like leaving his art stuff laying around at the homeless camp.

Elizabeth watched the two from her car. For a moment she thought they were going to fight. She saw the guy in the white shirt hand something to the bigger guy. It didn’t look friendly. Whatever it was it ended with the big guy stuffing something in the other’s shirt. The artist looked over his shoulder as he disappeared into the woods.  A few seconds later she saw the big guy come back and head in the same direction. Elizabeth hoped this wasn’t going to end up as some crime scene on the news. She needed to stop watching those stupid police dramas.

         Raymond looked around before he opened the storage unit. He wanted to make sure Billy hadn’t followed. He was exhausted.  Between the heat, the strange woman, and the confrontation his body sagged against the steel door.

“S**t!” he screamed.

A burn shot down his arm from the hot metal, sending him sprawling to the ground for a second time. He needed to get inside and compose himself. Willing his legs to lift him and his hands to stop shaking, he managed to turn the small dial on the lock. With a click, it dropped open. He shoved the metal door up along its tracks and stepped into the cool room. It cost extra for electricity, but it was well worth it.  A small portable air conditioning unit was set to a day timer to go on every 3 hours. He looked back out of the unit. The narrow road that ran across the front of it was empty. This was a day that had taken to many weird turns. Raymond thought it best to retreat to this private world. He took a breath and looked around his secret place.           

       Raymond took the torn shirt off and pulled the business card from his pocket. Elizabeth Prescott, Gallery 124. What the hell was she doing there, he thought. The stupid woman, didn’t she see the trouble she was causing? He needed to calm down. He had felt helpless with Billy. It was stupid not seeing it coming. He paced around the 10 x 20-foot unit. It was fixed up with some furniture and sheetrock walls for hanging art. The place was rented long before he decided to leave his job. The money he got from his self-imposed retirement came from a healthy pension and some lucky investments. He had tried living in a condo but too many people wanted his time and there were just too many rules. Becoming homeless and mostly anonymous suited all he wanted out of life.

Raymond held up the ruined shirt and was able to see the tear in the elbow. The hole caught his attention. He saw himself scurrying around in the kitchen trying to gather papers and a travel cup for coffee. His wife was holding a freshly ironed white dress shirt in her hand.

“You might want to put this on before you go.”

He slipped his arm into the waiting sleeve and wrapped it around her.

“Maybe I’ll take the day off”

“What will I say to my Boyfriend?”

“Tell him you had a better offer.”

 

“You're a devil.” He had both arms around her and settled his hands on her bottom.

“You know I love you. UMMM and lust after you too.”

 Jane had made sure there were always a few clean, ironed white shirts hanging in the closet.

She told him they were his Ready for Action shirts. Now the habit of wearing them was normal.

He squeezed her a*s and laughed.

“Nice.”

Putting a hand on his chest she gently pushes him back.

“Button up your shirt and get out of here.  I've got my own work to do.”

She never spoke to him again. They never saw it coming. Damn her for dying.

He pulled open the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of single malt scotch.  Another relic of a past life.

From where Billy was hiding, it was easy to see the unit. He let out a weird sort of giggle.

“I knew he was into something else.”

Elizabeth sat in her car with the painting on her lap. In the few minutes that she was with him, she realized he did the kind of art that made you feel sad and angry yet almost hopeful. She didn’t even know his name. She headed back to the Quick Stop. 

On a shelf behind the counter next to an old fan, was a painting she hadn’t noticed before. She was sure it was his. It was of a homeless man sitting cross-legged on the curb lettering a sign. Behind him was the storefront she just walked into.

“I'm looking for the man that sits outside painting. He painted that one,” she said pointing at the picture.

“Sorry lady he's a good man. I don't know where he lives.”

“There's no problem,” she said as she tried to hand the man her card.

“Look I own a gallery and I think his work would be good there.”

The man smiled but didn't say anything.

Pointing to the small painting again, she said.

“It would mean the painting you have up there. It could end up being very valuable.”

The man looked at her with a broad smile.

“I really don't know where Picasso lives. You might find him in the homeless camp.”

“Picasso?”

“Yeah, that's what my son calls him. He probably knows more about him than I do.”

He called his son to come out and left them to help a customer.

“I'm trying to find out about the guy you call Picasso.”

“All I know is he doesn't like to be bothered.”

“Yeah, I already found that out.”

The young man laughed trying to decide if she was okay.

“Look, he's not in any trouble. I own a gallery and I think I can make him famous.”

The boy just stood there.

“I'll tell you what.” She pulled out her wallet.

“You tell me what you know, and I'll give you 20 bucks”

“Forty.”

She pulled out a second bill and quickly handed it to him. “Okay, now everything!”

 He smiled and stuffed the bills in his back pocket.

“I’ve talked with him a few times when I brought him lunch. He told me he was the main guy in an advertising company. But he was getting burned out.”

Her old art research skills were stirring. She knew how to gather information.

“Do you know who he worked for?”

“Nah, But I'd sit with him sometimes and he would tell me stories. He did my portrait once and gave it to me. But I don't think he's very happy. I saw him walking down the street one day wearing a suit. When I asked him where he was going all duded up, he said to visit his wife. I thought maybe they were like separated or something.”

“Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. Do you know where he lives?”

“I think he stays in the camp in the woods. But he has an art studio over in the storage units on Hill. That's where I brought him sandwiches a couple of times.”

“Do you remember which unit?”

“Yeah 161”

Elizabeth parked under the units for rent sign. The lot looked like old Levittown on Long Island where each house looked just like the next one. She could almost hear Pete Seeger singing in the background. Yet it was amazing how much was going on in the units. She passed a bicycle fixit shop, a guy with a small engine repair sign, and what is now a cliché; a geeky-looking guy with a computer pulled apart on a large bench. He looked up wiping his forehead and smiled. This was the new Small Town America. A place where people could afford to open a business.

When she found the unit, she could feel a coolness coming from under the door.

“Hey, Picasso!” No one answered.

She leans over and shouted. “Picasso!”

She was about to shout again when the steel door flew up. The clanking set her back a few feet. There was a man standing there in a neatly pressed white shirt and jeans. The bottle in his hand was half empty and his buffy red eyes were set in anger. When he spoke, the words come out very sharp and slow.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to talk to you about your art”

“I told you…”

“There's a feeling in the work. I just can’t completely describe it.”

Raymond suddenly threw up his hands.

“S**t!”

 He walks away mumbling, wiping the scotch off his shirt. She can just barely understand him.. He slumps into a chair and looks up at her. 

“I said, that’s what she used to say to me!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't …”

She stopped in mid-sentence realizing he wasn’t separated; his wife had passed.

“Look I'm in no mood for conversation.” His voice softer. “Why don't you just leave me alone?”

“I don't think you want to be left alone. These paintings are about the people around here. And you're the one telling their story.”

She was moving toward the back wall of paintings when Raymond suddenly stepped in front of her. The smell of alcohol forces her back a step. He holds the bottle out toward her. There’s paint smudges on his fingers, and red and orange stains on his sleeve.

“These people are important to you. I can see that. That’s why you keep painting,” she said pointing at his arm.

“So why won't you let the rest of the world see what you see?”

“You don’t understand. Sometimes being an artist is about being alone with your imagination, and sometimes being lonely. Artists can't just leave things to themselves. We look, we feel, we absorb, and we examine just about everything we see and hear. We do it automatically. It’s how we live our lives. And sometimes you just lose the reason to share it.”

“You could make enough money to live better.”

“Money isn’t important. Besides I've got enough.”

“But you're homeless. I mean besides this studio.”

As she was talking, she realized there were things around that cost a lot of money. The art supplies and the easels were of high quality. She also recognized a number of names on the paints he used.

He follows her eyes for a few seconds and walks over to the desk.

“I choose to live here. There's nothing out there for me.”

Elizabeth could see that he was hurting. Without his wife, living people didn’t seem to matter to him anymore.

“You may not need money but what about the others around you? You could help them.”

She had made her way to the back wall and pointed to the paintings.

“People that live here could use your help. I'll bet the mother and child in your other paintings could too. People need to know their stories.”

        She knew she sounded like one of those television pleas for support. But it must have hit a chord. She watched as his body shuddered. Raymond knew you couldn’t stay away completely from people. He was trying to balance the life he lost with his memories and what he thought he could become. When he spoke, he seemed to have resigned himself to doing something.

“Okay, my name is Raymond. What do you need from me, to do a show?”

           Billy kept track of what Raymond did and where he went. So it wasn’t by accident that he was outside the gallery on the opening reception night. It was easy to pick out Raymond thought Billy. He wore jeans and a stupid, long sleeve white shirt. Billy was getting angry watching the food and drinks being passed around (inside the gallery).

“Why does he get to be in there? part of that party? He’s no better than me. He shoulda invited me if he knew what was good for him.”

Over the past couple of months, Raymond’s life was changing. Elizabeth had convinced him to rent a room near the gallery. She also introduced him to clients and collectors that were interested in his work. He went to a few parties and met other artists. But he just wasn’t comfortable.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it bothered him. It seemed like everything revolved around something other than art.

Billy was mumbling as he walked back and forth outside the gallery. The glass windows made the building look like a movie screen.  Elizabeth recognized him. It was the same big guy from the parking lot.  She had been talking to a client when Billy caught her eye and smiled. It was a strange smile, when she looked again, Billy was gone.

Raymond was getting more comfortable as people were asking him questions about his art. Some even seemed to understand the underlying ideas in the work. But he didn’t think any of them had ever been homeless like he was as a young boy. He had a connection to the people and places in the paintings. While it had been a horrible situation for his mother, she kept him safe, shielded from much of what was around. His father had been killed in a (factory fire) car accident. Raymond learned first-hand about the disappointment and shame of looking poor. Raymond knew it wasn’t going to be his future. But he had to laugh when he realized he had been hiding in the world he swore would never touch him again. How easily things could change. Raymond’s world had lost its meaning. His wife dying from a stroke, burning out at his job, and just not caring. In painting, he was not only recording the life around him but finding a way to come to grips with his regrets and losses. His life made sense again.

Elizabeth tugged on his arm snapping him back to reality. It was getting late, and before he left for the evening she wanted to point out the two paintings that had sold.

Sirens from fire trucks woke Raymond. He looked out the window and saw smoke billowing up from somewhere a few blocks away. It seemed to be close to the homeless camp. Raymond was worried about the people. He got dressed and made his way to the site.

The next morning Elizabeth was at her desk making plans for a bigger show of Raymond’s work when her assistant came running into the office, holding her laptop open to a news program.

“Isn’t that where your new artist’s studio is?” asked her assistant.

Elizabeth watched as a newscaster pointed back to a row of burning storage units. Hoses were blasting water and papers were flying around the area.

“This is the site where an arsonist started a fire early this morning. The police took William Bennet into custody without incident. It appears he was sitting on the curb watching the fire when the police arrived.”

An image of Billy the Bully in a white long-sleeve shirt came on the screen as the newscaster spoke. He was smiling at the cameras. Someone asked why he did it and he said he left me outside and then he just laughed.

The reporter continued his newscast.

“The unit where the fire started was rented by a local artist. It appears that none of the work in the unit survived the fire.”

“Oh my God,” yelled Elizabeth.

She was up and heading for the door. 

“I need to make sure he’s all right.”

“Wait, he’s on the screen.”

The reporter was asking Raymond what he was going to do now.

He had a few papers in his hand and tears were in his eyes. He didn’t answer, he just walked away.

END