The garage, dank and dim that December afternoon, opened to a small yard. Pigeon brown hedges and wilted flowers peeked out from the fence encircling the gray garden. Slabs of plywood flattened the grass, hiding the fact that Peter had unintentionally sprayed most of the vegetation blue. Blue footprint-shaped stains graced the garage's doorstep and floor, leading to a skinny man and his cluttered workbench. The man hunched over a smattering of wood, paint bottles, and tools. His elbows wagged up and down as he tinkered with a screw. Peter wiggled the screwdriver until the screw plummeted on the table with a tiny clink. Peter sniffed in deeply, as if his nose sought the stench of drying paint.
"Smelling paints kills neurons, you know," Peter's mother always said. "That's why you shouldn't spend so much time in the art room after school. Besides, you always come home dirty. Get here as soon as you can. Or go to George's house. But I'm tired of trying to get paint out of your clothes."
Nodding submissively, Peter flung his blue (or red or yellow or green) hands behind his back. "Okay, Mom," he said.
"You know your father's trying to get a promotion at work. And with the boss living next door, Peter, and him seeing you everyday, well...what will he think of your father if you're always running around like a little painted savage?"
Peter stared his mother blankly.
*Thanks to everyone who came to see me perform my satirical monologue, "The Merry Princess," on Thursday!
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment