Devon Hartford - Painless

Did he mean the painting as it was now?

He hadn’t said anything about the red slash.

“Err, no?” I said with what I suspect was an incriminating degree of guilt. “I mean it’s really good? What’s not to like? I can’t imagine anyone not liking it? Can you?” I stopped myself before I used any more guilty question marks.

He chuckled. “Thanks, but, I don’t know. It seems lifeless to me. Like it needs something to spruce it up.”

Like a red slash?

Shit! Had I said that out loud?

Fuck!?!?!

I took a deep breath. “It’s amazing, Christos. I mean, I couldn’t paint anything this nice.”

“Thanks, agápi mou. I know it doesn’t suck, but it’s not grabbing me. There’s millions of good paintings in the world, but less than a hundred, maybe less than a dozen, that people remember. I mean, how many famous paintings can you name off the top of your head?”

“The Mona Lisa? Van Gogh’s Sunflowers? Munch’s The Scream? Monet’s Water Lilies? Dali’s Melting Clocks? Uhh…Rembrandt’s Night Watch? Uhh, I’m running out! Help me here?”

I didn’t sound nervous, did I?

“See what I mean?” he said casually, “It doesn’t take long for the average person to fall short. Most people don’t get past the Mona Lisa. Beyond that, about the only other thing people remember is Picasso’s Blue Period, because it sounds funny.”

Oh geez, he was dangerously close to putting the clues together. I needed a distraction quick! Guilty exclamation point! D’oh! I meant, d’oh. I’d already used my body to full effect in the bedroom, and it hadn’t stopped the inevitable. All I could do now was string together the first ideas that popped into my head. I said, “I know, right! A blue period? The first thing I think of when I hear ‘blue period’ is pulling my tampon out one day and it’s Cerulean blue! And that’s like, the most expensive paint of all, right? I could turn myself into a paint factory if I bled Cerulean blue! But I could only sell paint once a month because it’s such a rare color!”

What was I saying?!? I was crazy!!!

!?!?!?!?!?!

Guilt! Guilt? Guilt! I needed to have my brain removed! ASAP?

Christos chuckled, “Blue period. Have I ever told you how much I enjoy your bizarre ideas, agápi mou?”

Bizarre was too kind a word. I giggled nervously.

He put a loving arm around my shoulders. “All this talk about blue periods has got me thinking. I need to come up with my own thing, like Picasso. Have any ideas? I bet you could think up something no one’s ever thought of.”

How about a red slash period? Oh wait! You already thought of that!?!?!?!?!

I was three seconds away from collapsing into a puddle of tears. I couldn’t take it anymore. I cracked like fine china on cement.

“I DID IT, CHRISTOS! I WIPED AWAY YOUR SLASH OF RED GENIUS YESTERDAY! I’M SO SORRY! BUT YOU WERE DRUNK! I THOUGHT IT WAS A MISTAKE! I WANTED TO CLEAN IT OFF BEFORE IT DRIED AND RUINED YOUR PAINTING!!!”

I sobbed.

He wrapped his other arm around me. “What are you talking about, agápi mou?”

After I calmed, I looked into his loving eyes. They welcomed me with warmth and affection. I wiped tears from my cheeks and sniffled, “When I came home yesterday, you’d fallen asleep drunk. There was a big red slash of paint on the canvas. I cleaned it off, thinking you’d done it by accident, but then I thought maybe you hadn’t! Now I’ve ruined it!” I sobbed some more.

“A red slash?” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t even remember that.” His face darkened into a frown.

Oh no, this was it. This was the moment he realized what I’d done.

He smirked, “I feel like an idiot, agápi mou.”

Him?

I thought I was the idiot.

He shook his head with disgust, “I’ve been drinking so much lately I can’t even remember what I’m doing anymore.”

Hope. Maybe I hadn’t snipped off Christos’ red slash period at the bud.

“So,” I said, “you don’t think you put the red slash on the painting on purpose?”

“Are you kidding? I was probably so loaded I didn’t even know what color paint was on my brush,” he chuckled.

“So I didn’t destroy your genius?”

“My genius?”

“It was a pretty awesome red slash,” I quipped.

His face went serious and he arched an eyebrow, “Then maybe you should’ve left it alone? Sometimes genius works in mysterious ways…”

Gulp. I wondered if I could commit suicide by holding my breath until I suffocated. It was the only escape option I had while wrapped up in Christos’ arms. Tears welled in my eyes, so I buried my face in Christos’ shirt out of embarrassment and guilt.

Guilt!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!

I inhaled deeply. Christos had been drinking so much, I assumed he would smell of booze, and I was hoping I could inhale enough booze fumes to get a contact buzz and finally calm down. Nope. Apparently, he’d sweat all the alcohol out of his system during our vigorous lovemaking earlier. I would have to go back to holding my breath until I suffocated. But, after our shower, he now smelled like the sexiest man on the planet. There was no way I could hold my breath if it meant not getting to inhale more of his manliness at close range.

When I looked up into his loving, affectionate eyes, my guilt eased several notches.

“I’m totally kidding, agápi mou,” he smiled. “If all it took to make a painting genius was adding a red slash, people would be adding red slashes to everything. Loaves of bread. Smart phones. SUVs. Saucepans. The world would be filled with red slashes. But do you see red slashes everywhere? Nope. And no, this wasn’t the start of a worldwide red slash phenomenon. I think you’re safe.” He kissed the top of my head lovingly.

“You’re sure?” I mumbled inhaling his intoxicating sexiness. I could definitely get drunk or high off of Christos’ manly scent. “I didn’t sabotage the beginning of your red slash period?”

“No,” he chuckled, “I think we’re safe.”

I relaxed into his arms at last.

“But I do need something,” he said.

“Oh, what?”

“I need some fresh ideas, some fresh perspective. Otherwise, I’m going to grind all these paintings into the ground until I can’t stand to look at them or they’re all covered with red slashes. And I don’t mean the kind of slashes that sell paintings. I mean the kind that says, ‘This painting is crap, next!’”

“Where do we go to find good ideas? The idea store? I hear they’re having a sale,” I grinned.

“Funny,” he smiled, “but that would mean everyone would be able to buy the same good ideas. They wouldn’t be good anymore. They’d be run of the mill. I need to talk to someone who really is a genius and can suggest something truly special.”

“Who?” I asked, my interest suddenly piqued.

“You need to talk to your father,” Spiridon said, suddenly standing in the doorway to the studio. “He knows what you’re going through better than anyone.”

I glanced at Christos. He had gone white and his eyes were wide with what looked like fear.

After a long pause, Christos looked down at me and swallowed hard.

In a crackly voice he said, “He’s right.”

CHRISTOS

My ’68 Camaro dipped and bobbed over the picturesque rolling hills of Rancho Santa Fe as we neared my dad’s house. Rancho Santa Fe was an exclusive upscale community hidden a few miles inland from the coast. Suburban three bedroom houses on cookie cutter lots were replaced by lavish ranch style homes surrounded by oceans of acreage.

“There’s a lot of horses and mansions out here,” Samantha observed as she took in the countryside.

“Yeah,” I said.

“It sure is beautiful. How come you don’t go out to visit your Dad more often?”

I glanced at her briefly. It was the only answer I could give at the moment. The subject of my dad was guaranteed to piss me off or break my heart. I wasn’t in the mood to do either. I just wanted to get his advice and get through the visit as quickly as possible.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Samantha said sheepishly.

“It’s okay, agápi mou,” I said softly. “Do me a favor, when we get to my dad’s place, don’t mention my drinking, okay?”

“All right,” she said uncertainly.

I wanted to tell Samantha that it would bother my dad if he found out I was drinking all the time. Sure, that was part of the truth. Who wanted to find out their kid was getting trashed on a daily basis instead of making something of themselves? But the rest of the truth was I felt like an idiot for drinking so much. After watching my dad destroy his marriage with his own drinking, I should’ve known better. Right?

Like father, like son.

Man, I had become a fucking cliché.

But it went deeper than that. My dad hadn’t really started drinking until he’d felt bound by his golden handcuffs.

My grandad had once told me that when my dad was young, he’d made a clear headed decision to paint abstract art because he knew it sold well. He had a family to support and he didn’t want to tough it out as a realist painter and hope that he’d make money someday. That’s what my grandad had done. Sure, now my grandad was successful, but in the beginning, he’d had plenty of lean years and my dad lived through most of them as a kid.

So my dad went for the sure thing. Not that Joe Anybody could make money as an abstract artist. Tons of artists tried the ‘easy’ route over the decades and failed miserably. But my dad knew exactly what he was doing. His career blew up from the start and it started raining money.

But it didn’t take long for him to feel bound tight by those golden cuffs. He got sick of abstract real quick. Maybe because it was so damn easy for him. He never did figure out a way to Houdini out of doing the abstract art and transform his career into doing the realistic stuff he really wanted to do. I guess it wasn’t in the cards for him.