We Might Be Heroes: The Painter

Well Martha, I’m dream-adjacent now

That’s the new term they’re using

People, people like me

People who are next to their dreams

The things they once envisioned achieving

But now feel satisfied in just the, the—

The glow of the original

You know?

Dream-adjacent

I wanted to be an artist

And now I own a gallery

It’s close—it’s close enough

Closer than a lot of other people get, right?

So this idea—this scheme

The idea that somehow my painting

Could help in some way is just…

They weren’t that good

The paintings

Did people like them?

Sure—but what does that mean?

Nothing

Not if nobody’s buying them

I burned everything I ever made

Every painting

Every scrap

Every scribble I ever did

Gone, all gone

A man from the government came to see me

He brought up things

Things from my past

He asked about my old work

He said he heard I used to be inspirational

Revolutionary, even

I said, Unfortunately, I lost my touch a long time ago

But I wanted to be polite

So I invited him into my apartment for a cup of coffee

He saw the easel in my living room

The empty canvas

The lone brush just sitting there

Some dried black paint

Stuck to the bristles

It might as well have been a loaded gun

But he didn’t even glance at it

They must not have given him the whole story

If you don’t paint anymore, he said

What’s with this?

And he motioned to the easel

And the canvas

I walked over to it

Picked up the brush

And brought it up to the cool, white surface

Where there could be all sorts of things

Rivers and cold stares and open wounds

I drew a circle

Then colored it in

A black hole

When I stepped back from the canvas

The man from the government

Was shaking

Now he knew

Now he knew why they’d sent him

But they thought that I was out of practice

When the truth is making art

Is like making love

It’s all in your body

And it never truly goes away

The black circle sucked the man in

Leaving nothing but his shoes in my living room

It’s not the first time I’ve had to bury a man’s shoes in my backyard

I suppose I could just keep them in a box somewhere

But burying them seems more poetic

I’m sure they’ll send someone else to get me, Martha

I’m not naïve

I know I’m desirable

Now that aliens are approaching

And I’d like to help, really I would, but—

For so many years they didn’t want me

And now they want what I can do, but—

They still don’t want me

So I’m keeping what I have

I’m keeping it close to my chest

Just like I have all these years

I’ll keep standing next to my dream

And marvel at how tall it is

And if they send anybody else, well—

There’s always something to paint on

There’s a whole world out there

And I can paint over

All of it