Burnt Umber (short story)
Written by Nathan Truzzolino
The Court Room
The federal courtroom is at max capacity for the first day of the second biggest Ponzi scheme trial of the century. On the second day, the court was nearly empty.
That’s how fast news moves in this country. One day you are the leading news story in America, the next day you get second rate beat reporters lazily jotting down notes at your ho-hum expensive trial.
On the third day, the defendant takes the stand. This brings a few more bodies back into the court room but not many.
The old, deteriorating, grey hair and rail thin man who took hundreds of millions of dollars from some very high profile clients sits on the stand, right hand in the air and left hand sizzling on the Bible.
- -
The Painter
She hates when her hair falls in her eyes when she’s working. She checks both wrists for a hair band and when she strikes out she digs into her backpack. Nothing. Randomly though, she remembers that in her clutch is a twist tie that is reserved for a loaf of cheap bread, how it got there, a genuine mystery.
Her hair is longer now than it ever has been. The darks roots creeping down multiple inches where it butts up against the fake orangish colored hair of yesteryear.
The Painter is mid-way through her 30th year on Earth. Her expired contact lenses dull her vibrant brown eyes and her skin is healthy and pink. She lucked out, the gene for blotchy Irish skin had not been in the recipe when she was conjured up all those years ago. She was blessed with her Mother’s Greek skin tone. Not as dark as her Mom but it was soft and one color all around.
She gives the bread twisty a try and it does the job as well as any patch would in a pinch. Some strands of hair still fall but not enough to distract her now.
Her expensive oil paints are set out neatly on her left on the pew she occupies towards the back of the court room . She systematically sets up the same way she did back in her bedroom when she started painting seriously at 13 years old. Light to dark, from left to right. Each blob one and a half inches from each other with a two larger blobs specifically for the biggies, Lamp Black and Titanium White.
Her brushes are old and tired but they still perform without issue or complaint. The small and clean 5x5 stretched hide canvas is cradled in her left hand. She loves this size canvas canvas because it fits perfectly into her hand. She eyes the canvas for blemishes and after further review, deems it ready to perform.
On her left forearm is strapped a custom palette she made in her garage when she was a teen. The light polished pine wood palette is strapped to her arm with thick leather straps that are reclaimed from her Father’s old belts.
The Painter is ready. The subject has sworn to God that he will not lie and has now taken his seat. The lighting in the court room is as good as it’s going to get. Every light in the room is harsh and unforgiving. She takes 90 seconds to perform a breathing exercise she learned in therapy to calm herself, get into the zone and focus. Clear out all the negative energies.
No bad vibes she tells herself internally.
One last deep breath.
She repeats a passage from one of her favorite poems
‘Beauty is truth - truth beauty - that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know’
The judges asks the defendant to state his name for the record.
Her eyes flutter open and she starts to mix her oils.
- -
The Fixer
His shoes are hurting his feet again. This is the third pair he has purchased this year and it’s only May. The slip-on Italian loafers are just not holding up as advertised. The pediatrist said that thinks he walks too much. It wasn’t the medically prescribed shoes that were the problem, it was how many miles he was marching a day that made his shoes break down so quickly.
To the Fixer, it sounded like a bullshit excuse to him. He estimates he walks 7 to 10 miles a day and possibly up to 13 or 16 on days he is in the city. Walking helps him think, all the great thinkers did it. It calmed that brain of his which made room for better thoughts. When walking the streets, he was able to use every firing cylinder in his brain. It was peaceful. Driving has the same effect for him but in the city he couldn’t drive. He hated anything with a paper trail so he refuses to use Uber and has a deep rooted distain for all yellow cabs. The subway was an alright option but again, too boring, to quiet and too predictable. Walking was best.
He blazes into the Federal court house and breezes past others waiting in line to clear security. The Fixer walks around the metal detector alter, but does it with so much swagger and confidence no one hardly notices. All the security guards know him there. The fixer spots his favorite, a tall man with a bald head and a face that reminds him of George Forman. They give each other a smile. They do a fist bump and at the end the Fixer grabs the security guards hand and slips the $20 in his palm. They had this routine down to a science.
The Fixer is described by those who know him as an anxious, fidgety and neurotic man on his days off. Those who know him when he is working, well they describe him as one thing. A smooth criminal.
He lies about his hight. He’s 5’10 but says 6 foot just to round it off yet he exudes so much confidence he may as well be 12 feet tall.
He’s not in great shape but not fat. All that walking shovels enough extra calories into the human furnace to enjoy that extra slice of pizza. His hair is losing color fast especially for a 41 year old. His beard comes in almost with a thought. Shaving is the bane of his existence.
The security guard at the courtroom door sees him strolling his way and so badly wants to say something to him as he approaches; like he just remembered a banger of a joke but is quickly reminded by the look on the Fixers face that now isn’t the time. So the guard just sticks out his fist and the Fixer kisses it with his own left fist. The guard notices his busted up shoes and his eyes go wide. He’ll be hearing about this. For a long time to come.
- -
The Trial
OJ Simpson ruined court room drama forever. After his televised trial in the 90’s was meticulously and expertly scrutinized on every major news outlet night after night, no other trial could ever compare in excitement and drama. Some came close over the years. Lately it’s been political trials and congressional hearings that have been attracting all the attention. Yet the ugly truth is court rooms are completely and utterly dull. The proceedings are so calculated and tedious, that if you miss one second of it and you could lose the plot quickly.
The Fixer enters the quiet courtroom and to his surprise, there are a lot more people than he had expected for day four of a white collar crime trial. He focuses on where he needs to sit and soft pads it over to the pew he desires.
He squeezes by the Painter, making sure not to touch or impede her view for more than a fraction of a second. He sits a tad too hard into his seat and he notices just the slightest change in the eyes of the painter.
Son of a bitch he thinks. He was so close. Almost the perfect entrance. But she was, for a millisecond, disturbed and interrupted. His diary would be hearing about this tonight.
The Fixer sits quietly watching the man on trial answer questions on the stand. He pinches his inner thigh to punish himself for his blunder. The questions won’t stop for the defendant. The prosecutors are relentless and no matter how many “I don’t recall’s” or “invoke the 5th amendments” the defendant utters into the stick microphone, they won’t stop. They know what kind of golden goose they had drop into their laps when this idiot willing took the stand. They were out for blood. All of it.
“That is amazing.”
The Painter looks up from her left hand where the canvas is securely clinched.
She looks at the Fixer with disdain. He is watching the defendant at first but then looks to the Painter.
“That there. In your hand. I love your work.”
She looks at it as if it had magically appeared and suddenly her reaction is as if someone squatted down and shit in her hand. The fact someone had complimented her work now irrationally makes it garbage to her.
The Painter goes back to what she thinks is the only thing she is good at. She paints. Alone.
The Fixer notices her bread loaf hair tie and smiles.
—
The Recess
The judge decided he was tired of watching this man on the stand get whipped like a caged animal and called for an early recess. Most stood up right away, sore from second hand trauma from said lashing.
The Painter keeps painting.
The Fixer stayed put. He oh, so subtly scoots his butt towards the Painter.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
The painter looks up again. This time, her hair slips her bread tie and falls into her face.
“And now I guess I’m done” she thinks to herself. She’s visibly pissed off now, having been interrupted while working.
She sets down the small canvas next to her on the pew, away from the Fixer.
She unclasps the palette and stands up to stretch.
The Fixer is astonished and amused. She’s really giving him the run around. He smiles again.
The Painter does a Popsicle stretch with her arms all the way up and back curved inwards. Her cardigan lifts up enough to show her pant loops. She feels the sweater trying to escape to space so she terminates the stretch before reaching terminal velocity. She lets out a squeak and exhales loudly. Her vision goes fuzzy then almost black, causing her to sway from side to side.
She sits back down, reaches into her backpack and grabs a plastic reusable water bottle.
The Fixer isn’t use to being ignored. He switches up tactics.
“It’s a Fugazi”
The Painter looks at him again. She reaches for the bread tie and tries to wrangle her messy mop one more time. She is unsuccessful so she just lets it all drop.
“What?” She asks irritated.
“This trial. It’s a Fugazi.”
She stares at him with the blankest of stares. Her brilliant brown eyes dulling by the second.
“Fake. It’s not real. You are painting a well rehearsed play. That canvas should be the DVD cover art.”
This finally breaks the dam.
“How do you mean?”
“He’s innocent. That’s why he took the stand. He wants the public to think he is innocent even though it’s scripted for him to be convicted. Don’t they always say in the movies to never take the stand, only the insane and innocent take the stand? He just wants to protect his image.”
The Fixer crosses his leg and leans in the direction of the Painter. His suit jack wide open to expose the Oxford Blue button up and navy metallic blue tie. He puts his right arm along the top of the pew.
“He didn’t orchestrate the Ponzi scheme. He did a number of other illegal activities but he didn’t do this.”
The Painter recaps her water bottle and sets it down by her feet.
“I’m not into conspiracy theories.” She says.
“Neither am I. Well that is a lie, I like them a little just because, like all good rumors, there is a hint of truth in all of them.” The Fixer says moving his raised foot in a rhythmic motion.
“In a way it is a conspiracy. We need him to lose. I made certain he will. One way or the other.”
She stares at the Fixer.
“Earlier. I asked a favor of you. You were in the zone over there painting away so I think you didn’t hear me.”
“I heard you.” She says in a flat monotone pitch.
“Great! I’ll cancel that hearing test. Now as for that favor. I want that painting. That one there next to you. When it’s finished of course.” The Fixer flashes his million dollar smile.
The Painter looks over at the 5x5 mini canvas. On the canvas is a miniature painting of the defendant on the stand. It is so small that a magnifying glass is needed to truly appreciate the awe and wonder of her work. The smallest of strokes, so delicate, detailed and precise. The tone is muted, the colors matching the sadness of the subject. A masterpiece to the hawk eyed only.
“I saw your work on the 11 o’clock news. It’s amazing. It’s hones, amazing and profoundly…sad.”
The trial is closed to cameras both of the video and photo variety due to the sensitivity of the case. The man on trial ripped off a lot of very powerful people and those people do not want their names out there. Billionaires only care about one thing, not being embarrassed in front of other billionaires. Hence security is of the upmost importance during this trial.
This brings us to why a painting from a court room artist is being featured on the 11 O’clock news in the biggest market in the United States and not the same old boring HD footage we’ve seen over and over again.
“Sad?” she asks.
“Profoundly sad.” He corrects.
“I got that part. Why do you think my paintings are sad?”
“It’s obvious if you know what to look for. The style, the color pallet and obsessive detail all combine to create a screaming soliloquy of sadness all condensed, balled up and lain out on one canvas for all of the world to see. A big comedown from a terrible high. Its all very well done but the most impressive part is how fast you complete them. You have 6 hours to complete it and from my estimation you have them done around hour 3, no?”
She looks over to her tiny painting again. It’s nearly 1pm and all it needs is a few minor touch ups. Details only she would notice if not completed. In an essence, the painting is done.
“You look somewhat happy when you are painting but I think that is a natural thing ones body does when it’s performing the function that God created it to do. Inside it is clear you are sad. Not depressed or suicidal. Just sad.”
The Painter is caught off guard, offended by his comments and now she’s pissed off.
“Ahh I know what you are going to say and let me spare you the breath. Yes, I am an asshole but deep down you know I’m right and that is why mademoiselle I am going to trade you one favor in exchange for that painting by your side. One favor that is within my scope of power and lucky for you my scope can turn nearly 360 degrees and can see for miles and miles.”
She stares at this guy. Is he for real she thinks. He looks like a shitty gameshow host. Her body feels slimy just looking at him.
“I’m not sad. I’m just. I’m tired today and more focused than usual.”
The Fixer nods and implements the age old sales tactic of making your counterpart in negotiations speak first. So he waits.
“This one is spoken for, I have to give this one to Channel 4. I can’t sell it to you, it goes against the practices and ethics of the court room agreement.”
The Fixer very well knows there is no such agreement.
“Ah yes, well you see you are not selling it to me for any currency. You are trading it to me for an act of labor. Thus protecting you from ay legal issues or if you are so inclined, any ethical conundrums you may harbor.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want it?”
“I am a fan of practical jokes.”
“My paintings are jokes to you?”
“Yes and no. I don’t think the painting themselves are a joke, but I intend to use it in a practical joke tomorrow morning.”
“What kind of joke?”
“Well the man you painted in the picture, I intend to give it to him as a gift.”
“That’s the joke?”
“Not the painting, that isn’t the joke. The painting is vehicle of the joke. The Space X rocket ship that will take the joke to fucking Mars.”
“Who are you giving it to?”
“The man in the painting.”
“Seriously?”
“Deadly.”
“Why?”
“He hates himself.”
“Don’t we all?”
He giggles at this quip.
“Not necessarily the way he does.”
“In what specific way does he hate himself?”
“It’s called body dysmorphia. Anytime he sees a picture of himself he thinks himself too fat, too ugly, too skinny, too pasty, too blah blah blah. It’s near crippling for him. His home has no mirrors or reflective surfaces. He doesn’t allow people to photograph him. It’s a real mess for the poor fucker.”
“That’s actually really sad.”
“Not as sad as he looks in that painting. When he sees that little canvas, that fine crafted, extremely detailed, meticulously cared for painting, it will most likely drive him to want to take the shoe strings out of shoes and hang around his cell for a while. This painting is worse than a photo or looking at himself in the mirror. This painting is a honest reflection of his soul. That is why the painting is sad. Your subject is without a soul.”
The Painter sits silently for a few moments. She breaks the silence by reaching into her backpack and pulling out a brown paper bag.
She pulls out a tuna sandwich and small pack of Lay’s Original Potato Chips.
“Well what do you think?”
“I think this needs more mayo and less celery.” she says through a tough bite of tuna.
“It doesn’t smell great.” The Fixer says with a snort.
“It doesn’t does it?”
She stuffs the sandwich back in the bag and snaps open the chips.
“This would be much easier if you were poor.” the Fixer says looking at his manicured finger nails.
“Who says I’m not.”
“I do, the internet, your credit score, your Amazon wish list, your fucking apartment building. You’re actually well off to a degree that most would find envious.”
“How do you know that?”
“Research. Why do you think I offered a trade versus cash? I knew what chips I had to bargain with.”
“What other research did you do?”
“The normal amount. Childhood, school, jobs, lovers, family. Just enough information to the dangerous.”
She stares at him in astonishment.
“Who are you?”
“I’m the man behind the curtain. The big lever that drives capitalism. I am John Galt. I am a Fixer.”
She finishes the chips and stuffs the bag away. He takes another drink of water to drown out the saltiness.
“So what do you say? You make the deal with me; I get the painting, you get a nice favor, wham bam, thank you mam, we all have a Merry Christmas.”
She stands up, grabs her jacket and umbrella and starts to walk towards the doors that lead to the lobby.
“Let’s go for a walk.” She says.
The Bodega
“I’ll take a ham on rye with mustard mayo, a short black coffee, salt and vin chips, two red grenades and a loosey.”
The Fixer stands wide eyed at the order that the Painter just put into the cashier. He steps up to order next.
“I’ll take the same minus the cigarette.”
The cashier shouts out the order to the cook in Spanish.
Their orders take a five minutes to make. The Painter bends down to pet the bodega cat. It scurries away after a few seconds of soft scratches. They stand in silence as the Fixer is the first to get to the register and pays for both meals. They bounce outside the bodega to eat at the small park down the block.
They find a half occupied bench. A sleeping giant with at least four layers of clothing on and a mop of hair that covered the entire head, making it impossible to distinguish race, creed or gender sits on the right side of the bench.
They squeeze into the other half of the bench and eat with their knees tightly pressed together. They eat for a few moments, each woofing down one half of their sandwiches. The Painter stands up, lights up the single cigarette from the Bodega and takes a long drag.
“Ok stranger. Let’s start over.” The Painter says with a stern look.
“Please allow me to introduce myself…”
She cuts him off.
“Yeah I don’t care what you name is.”
He nods his head in appreciation of her straightforwardness.
“Pleased to meet you.” He says.
“Explain to me this favor BS again.”
“What is there to explain? You give me the painting and I do you a favor of your choosing. Easy peesey Japaneesey.”
The giant stirs and coughs up something unmentionable. The giant then leans over and calls the Fixer a racist. The giant waddles off down the path towards the small duck pond.
“Is there a catch?”
“Just one.”
“Which is?”
“You have to make the favor request before we part ways today.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t lie. I withhold a lot of information but I never lie.”
“Why?”
“I hate liers.”
“Not that, why must I choose now?”
“This isn’t some Godfather ripoff, call me up on my daughters wedding day fantasy shit. I am a man of considerable wealth and taste. I have a life to live and I have a business to run and I happen to be extremely OCD about every earthly second of my schedule. That is a long way of saying I’m busy and I need time to plan shit out. Capisce?”
“Ok that makes sense.”
The painter finishes the cigarette with one last puff before stamping it out with her flat, worn down black shoe.
“Can we walk as I think about it?” She asks.
“It’s literally my two favorite things to do.”
They circle the park slowly, people watching and thinking. They see the giant standing knee deep in the duck pond chanting a Viking war song. Joggers warn them before passing on the left and bicycles wiz by trying their best to get as close to them as possible with out wrecking.
“What is that orange color you use so much in your paintings?” The Fixer asks.
“What? I don’t use orange a lot.” The Painter says defensively.
“Yeah you do, it’s like a dark orange. Mars colored kind of but not copper. It seems to be your background color of choice.”
Jesus he has done his research she thinks.
She puts her head down slightly.
“Burnt Umber.” She says.
“Burnt Umber. I love that color. Really captures a mood doesn’t it?”
She looks at him seriously and sees to what she thinks is sincerity in his voice and expression.
She nods yes and gives a slight smile.
“Its a vibrant enough color to stand on its own as a background but also sucks the eyes into the focal point of the paining. It’s probably my favorite color.”
The Painter smiles for a fraction of second, having discovered something new about herself. All her years painting, no one had every asked her what her favorite color was. The smile disappears.
The Fixer looks at his expensive watch.
“Recess ends in 10. We should pick up the speed and get back to the court room.”
The Painter, wishing she had one more cigarette stops.
“I know what favor I want and I’m telling you if you can pull this shit off then well you may be the devil himself.”
The Fixer smiles a flat smile and squints his eyes.
“Nope. Can’t remember anyone ever calling me the devil before. Challenge accepted. What will it be?”
“I want my life back.”
The Fixer tilts his head like a dog picking up a chiming silent whistle.
“A little vague.” He says. He wonders if she is pulling his chain which always hurts him because deep down inside the Fixer wants to believe the best in people but years in his profession have proved the opposite is typically true.
“I want to feel how I use to feel. I want to be me again.” She says. She looks serious, almost on the verge of tears. She clearly is not messing with him. Fuck she wants another cigarette.
“I think I know what you speak of. Your ex-husband?”
Her eyes widen and her face turns red. Her eyes narrow and now her eyes turn red. Steam escapes her ears.
“I did my research.” The Fixer says with is shoulders shrugged high to his ears and his cold empty hands turned up towards her. He’s trying to be delicate but he knows he crossed a line just then.
“You don’t know me asshole. This is stupid.” She turns to walk back toward the court room. The Fixer is next to her in a flash.
“Nothing is stupid about this. I just need some clarity on what exactly you want me to do?”
She walks faster and keeps her eyes forward.
He is stumped but he is also undeniably and irresponsibly persistent.
“Ok try this. Describe three things that would help get your life back?”
She enters the courtroom without saying a word. She speeds through security while the Fixer hangs back, defeated.
This doesn’t happen to him often. The loop was finally caught around his foot, his day was starting to be classified as a failure.
People are funneling into the court room and back into their seats. The Painter is back in her spot, rustling around in her bag. She comes out with a fresh canvas, this one slightly bigger than the 5x5 she completed this morning.
The Fixer sits next to her as quiet as a mouse pissing on cotton.
The judge endured the court and everyone was asked to please rise. All did except for the Painter. She sat transfixed on her work, completely zoning out all distractions, including the Fixer. She mixes up four or five different colors and gets straight to work. It’s clear that she is painting the defendant on the stand again, starting with his massive head and shoulders.
An hour passes and the defendant is finally done being torched on the stand. It is now the defendant’s team to do the grilling.
The Fixer keeps the corner of his eye on the Painter, watching her paint so small and with tiny strokes it hurts to to watch, knowing how painstaking delicate and time consuming each stroke is.
That must be why she uses such small canvases, otherwise she would be here for days to complete one painting.
As the trial went on the Fixer’s mind wanders to the other assignments he needs to complete. He remembers his massage appointment tomorrow and that makes him happy. He loves his massages.
A hand gently squeezes his thigh and this makes the Fixer jump.
A slim and paint blotched hand attached to the Painter wrist is resting on his leg.
“Give me your phone.” she whispers.
He mouths back a definitive HELL NO. He looks offended.
“I need to type something. Can you just open a note for me?”
The Fixer looks at the Painter like a big brother looks at an annoying little sister.
He does as she wishes and hands her his iPhone. The information on that phone could collapse several governments he thinks, his palms sweating. .
She used both hands to type on the phone. After a minute she hands it back to him. She nods at it for him to read it.
He holds it out far enough for him to read it but not too close for it to blur.
On the note was this.
I need three things to get my life back:
-Meaning
-Confidence
-Satisfaction
He reads them three times and even sounds them outloud on the second reading.
“Is this the favor you ask of me?” The Fixer asks.
She nods yes.
“You know this is three favors?” He asks.
“You said to describe three things.”
He nods with a smile. He reaches out his hand to shake.
“Deal.” He says.
She shakes his had and as he lets go with her other hand, stuffs the old 5x5 canvas into his hand.
He then did something the Painter was not ready for. The smile on his face grew larger and larger until it looked like it was going to walk off of his face.
“Why do I felt like I just made a deal with the devil?”
“Devils aren’t real. People like me, we pretend to be them, but they aren’t real.”
The Fixer stands up and straighten out his jacket and slacks.
“I’ll give you a call in the next 48 hours with information on how to retrieve your favors. Until then, take some time for yourself, go hiking or maybe take a drive to the shore? I can get you a table at Rao’s if you want?”
“First off I don’t even know what Rao’s is and secondly I have to be here tomorrow to paint more.”
“Oh don’t bother coming in. Your artistic talents will no longer be needed at this time.”
“Why is that?”
“Call it a hunch.”
The Fixer starts to walk away and when he gets to the end of the pew he mouths to her “Smell ya later.”
The Campaign Office
The tall slender man with the crooked nose at the back of the room stands erect at attention. His hair is matted from his morning baseball cap and his half buttoned shirt looks older than he does. At the front of the room, the campaign manager is just about to wrap up and the slender man wants to hear if he has anything to say about him. He’s the campaign head speech writer and like all good writers, he believes this meeting should be all about him.
“Ok, one last thing.” The manager says.
Here it comes.
“We have a new consultant in the house today. He’s going to be looking over some of our strategies with social media, traditional media, dark media and our ever so important public appearances. So if you see him around.”
The campaign manager whirls his head then adjusts his body to try and see if he can spot the consultant.
“Well I don’t see him in here but if you do, please share, be honest and treat him with the respect you would to me. That is all.”
The group breaks and the speech writer is officially pissed off. Others see it on his face and intentionally avoid his gaze.
Not a single fucking word on the speech used for the Iowa address last week. Nary a word on the victory speech in Iowa. Not mention of anything.
This is what he gets he thinks. He deserves this. They all said not to take the top job, not right away. But he was arrogant, pig headed and above all else, extremely talented. He knew his written words would speak for themselves and for the most part they have. It’s just no one has said a god damn word about it to him!
The speech writer, dejected and mad, storms down the hall finds the door to his janky makeshift office ajar.
As he pushes the door open he glimpses in the dark office a handsome, blonde and medium built fellow of about 40, maybe 50 sitting in his chair behind his desk, reading his daily copy. His old, green tinted desk lamp the only light illuminating the room.
“The fuck is this?” The speech writer blurts out.
“An intervention.” says the man behind the desk with out looking up from the papers in his hand.
The speech writer walks up to the desk and looms larger over the man, who’s reclined in his rolling desk chair.
“This is good. Really good.” The man says handing the papers over to the writer.
“I know it is. I wrote it.”
“Of course you did. It’s what you do best right?”
The man gets up from the chair and leans over the desk and thrusts his hand out.
“Howdy.” he says.
The speech writer is not impressed.
“Who the fuck are you?” Not shaking his hand.
“I’m the Consultant. The one your boss told you about.” He takes his hand back and places it square on the desk, right on top of what looked like a nice sandwich inside a clear plastic zip lock bag.
“Right. Listen, you guys come in here all the time to just fuck shit up and what you don’t know is you are all a dime a dozen my friend. You are dispensable, unreliable and above all else you are a fraud. I’m glad you get paid a lot because otherwise how can you live with yourself?”
The Consultant smiles and walks around the desk to where the door is. He shuts the door gently and notices no windows in this shitty office.
Perfect.
He locks the door.
“You are 100% correct friend. I am a fraud. Well in a way I am and in a way I am not but nuance and semantics are not important right now, what is important is this.” He gestures his arms wide around the room. “I’m as dispensable as you are and I can guarantee I am a whole hell a lot more reliable than the barely sober, ex-junky, failed novelist, disgraced journalist and lousy poet who stands before me.”
The Speech Writer, who is indeed all of the things, is also something else the Consultant forgot to include in his synopsis. The Speech Writer is an ex-professional boxer.
A left jab slams the Consultant square in the nose and a right hook came just as fast.
The Consultant was able to weave away and get his left arm up to his ear to deflect the hook. Otherwise that punch could have been the end of this conversation.
The Consultants staggers back a tad and grins through bloody teeth.
“You kiss your mother with that fist?” The Consultant asks.
There is a pregnant pause. The Consultants tags the question.
“Or was it your ex-wife?”
This sets the writers eyes to blazing and before he can lunge again for the man who so rudely insulted him, a pistol is produced from inside the Consultants jacket and that’s enough hesitation he needs to follow up with his own left jab to the Writers nose.
The punch makes his eyes water. No matter how many times he fought in the ring both professionally and for fun, the Writer always shed tears involuntarily on the first punch.
They size each other up. The Consultant having blocked the door now and with a gun on him, the Writer goes silent.
“Have a seat friend and try not to talk so loud. I have some business to settle with you and I promise after that I’ll get out of your hair.”
The Writer holds his nose and slumps into the extra chair in the room. The Consultant wipes his mouth with a handkerchief he produces from the inside of his jacket.
“I met the young lady yesterday.”
“Wah?” The Writer says through two hands covering his nose and mouth, catching any blood that may have come loose.
“Your ex-wife. I met her yesterday. Very talented. Tough nut to crack that one.”
“What is this about? Did the Senator send you in here?”
“No old sport. This is about your ex-wife. Well her and I made a deal of sorts. I am here today to hold up my end of the bargain.”
“Better pray you didn’t get yourself into something you can’t get yourself out of with her. Trust me, I know how she acts when she’s gained the high ground in the relationship. Bitch about killed me in the divorce.”
“Yeah thats not how I heard it. How I read it I mean. I scanned over the divorce documents on the way over. I’m no lawyer but if I read the affidavit correctly you took her to the cleaners my greasy friend. Even going as far as taking away the dog that she had before she met you. Stating “lack of mental capacity to care for another” or some bullshit. That my silver tongued friend is as low as it gets.”
The Consultant ends his monologue with a whistle and a huff.
“So here is the deal. I’ll clue you in via James Bond villain style to speed things along. Your lovely ex-wife gifted me…no traded me one of her paintings. That painting helped me get my money, my client’s money, and countless others their money back.”
“How does a painting do that?”
“The man I gave the painting to, he took one look at it and he immediately did the right thing.”
“He gave the money back?”
“No he hung himself in his cell at Rykers. Thus unfreezing his accounts and opening up opportunities for people like me to recuperate lost funds through whatever means necessary.”
“He was on trial? Wait, she’s doing court room paintings?”
“Yeah, pretty sad isn’t it? This renowned artist is wasting her talent away in a florescent lit room surrounded by burocratic shit bags that a painter wouldn’t want to look at let alone have to illustrate. All because of you.”
“That isn’t true.” the Writer bursts out, causing a few droplets of blood to fall from his schnoz.
“Come on now, no need to lie to me. You already lied to the divorce attorney and district court judge. You took away her will to achieve her goals. You pulled her out of art school, saying you wouldn’t pay for it anymore. Told her she wasn’t good enough. Even had some of your friends and her own family try to discourage her from continuing her art career. Pretty fucked up if you ask me.”
“That’s not true!”
“Shhhhhhsh now, no need for the dramatics. I’m just speaking truth. You know what they say about the truth?”
The Consultant gives a nod towards the Writer to answer his question.
“Come on, you’re the writer you should know this one.”
“The truth will set me free.” the Writer replies angrily.
“Yes it will but first it will piss you off.”
The Consultant chuckles at his own tag seeing how red in the face the Writer is now.
“Alright, I’ve wasted enough of your time and I have a massage appointment to get to. So here is what we are going to do.”
The Consultant moves towards the Writer now, causing him to try and scoot back his chair but it slams into the wall, causing his framed degree and picture of his dog to rattle.
“Easy does it pall.” the Consultant says with a menacing smile.
“Today is your last day as head speech writer for madame Senator. Effective immediately you will hand this resignation letter to the campaign manager and excuse yourself from any further Presidential campaign duties. Feel free to read it before you sign it at the bottom.”
The Consultant produces a heavy stock document from his portfolio on the desk and hands it to the writer.
With professionally trained eyes, the writer scans it fast and is distraught by what he reads. The blood runs out of his face and fingers. His feet feel numb and the high pitch ringing sound he has developed from years of getting punched in the head starts to chime.
“I can’t sign this! None of this is true!”
“None of it?”
The Writer looks at the memo and spots the few instances that are true but still the rest are unequivocally false.
The Consultant stretches out a sad smile.
“Come on bud, you had a good run. Just sign at the bottom, I’ll run it down the hall and you can catch the first train out of town.”
“I won’t sign it!”
“Well you won’t like the alternative.”
“Which is what?”
“When was the last speech you wrote given by the Senator?”
“Three days ago, in Iowa.”
“Was it a good speech?”
“It was alright.”
“But not the best.”
“No”
“Do you want that speech to be the last one you wrote with two hands? Or worse yet, the last speech you wrote with both your testicles?”
The Writer tries to get up out of his chair but the Consultant is ready this time. Shame on him if he gets the drop a second time.
A size 12 extra wide Italian loafer is planted in the middle of the Writers chest, sending him back into his chair and this time the impact and reverberation is too much for the picture frames. They crash hard on the ground.
“Someone will hear. They sure as fuck heard that!” The Writer cries out.
“Maybe. But don’t you throw hissy fits in here all the time? At least that’s what the Senator told me. What did she say exactly? People avoid you and ‘Kid gloves’ or ‘eggshells’? I don’t recall.”
The shock runs through the Writers body.
“The Senator?”
“Maggie is an old colleague of mine. She’s my Bridge partner at our quarterly Illuminati retreat. She gave me your dossier with honestly a tad too much eagerness.
“Who are you?”
“A manifestation of all the rotten things you’ve done in your sad life.” The Consultant says exhausted with the conversation now. He looks at his watch. “Really going to cut it close for this massage.”
The Consultant raises the gun to the Writers head now.
“So what will it be? Loss of pride or loss of reproduction?”
The Writer looks at the resignation letter and spits a mixture of salvia and blood on it.
The Consultant gives a heavy sigh. With the quickness of a tiger, he pistol whips the Writer along the temple. The Writer slumps to the floor. With the gun still trained on the Writer he takes a step backward and leans up agains the locked door of the office. He reaches into his pants pocket and retrieves his cell phone.
He swipes three times and puts the cell to his ear.
“Silvia!” He sings with love.
“Hello love, yes I am fine but in a way I am very not fine. I won’t be able to make my appointment today. Can we reschedule for next week? Same time and day? Perfect. Ciao Bella!”
He returns the phone to his right pocket. He switches the gun to his right hand and now digs into his left pants pocket.
The Writer starts starts to cry.
The smell of piss fills the room.
From his pants pocket the Consultant retrieves and flips open a black serrated knife.
The sobbing starts to get louder now.
“You really are a hell of a writer. So for that reason I won’t take away the tools needed to continue your career.”
The Writer slithers under the desk, kicking his legs at the Consultant.
“But I’m still going to need a receipt.”
-
The Apartment
The Painter pours her first cup of coffee an hour after she was rudely awakened by a yapping dog out on the street. The first taste is surprisingly hot and bitter, like she had never had coffee before.
Groggy, she shuffles over to the fridge to retrieve her coconut flavored CoffeeMate to mellow the dark sludge . Before she can open the refrigerator door, the buzzer to her apartment rings.
It’s 7 in the morning.
She walks out of her small kitchen and walks to the door and engages the intercom.
“Yeah?”
“Delivery.”
“For what?”
“Packages”
“Alright”
She buzzes him up.
She rushes to her bedroom to find her robe. She had on a thin bamboo based pajama set with no underwear. Best to keep things under wraps she thinks.
A knock comes to the door.
That was fast she thinks. Her walk up is on the top floor, five stories high. Guy must have been hoofing it up the stairs because the elevator moves at the speed of smell as Ron White says.
She opens the door and a short man with dark skin and big brown eyes is standing with a package under his arm and a clip board in his hand.
“Sign here.” He hands over a clip board and pen.
He has on a uniform but the delivery call letters don’t ring a bell. Just a dark grey and white boring uniform she thinks.
She scribbles her signature and hands back the clip board. The package is thrusted out to her by the small man forcing her to take the small package.
She eyes the package for any package details but there are no package slips to be found.
Next he takes out a cell phone from his back pants pocket. He again thrusts it into her empty hand.
“Sign this too?” She asks.
“Talk.” He says.
“Seriously?”
He nods yes.
She lifts the old iPhone to her ear. It’s kind of sweaty.
“Yeah?”
“No work today?” the voice on the other end asks.
“Uh no. Not today.” She answers.
“Then I was right wasn’t I? Your painting was a god send.”
She now recognizes the voice on the phone.
“What did you do with the painting?” She asks.
“Exactly what I told you I would do. Tell Fister to go get the other package.”
She looks at the short man and puts the phone away from her mouth.
“Are you Fister?”
He nods yes.
“He says to go get the other package.”
“Yes mam”
He scurries away like Super Mario with his little legs not really bending at the knees as he walks. Just a weird choppy goose step instead of a normal gate.
“You there?” The man in the phone asks.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t open that package in your hands until Fister comes back with the other one. I apologize I can’t be there in person. I missed my massage appointment yesterday so a friend of mine is taking me to my backup masseuse over in Jersey.”
“Yeah. Hey what happened with the trial? They called it off yesterday with no explanation and today only the council are permitted in the room.”
“Oh that, you’ll find out soon enough. Not my news to share.”
Fister comes walking back up with an animal crate swinging from his left arm.
Almost immediately she can smell and hear it. Shivering in its cage, waiting for someone to hold it.
“Oh my god.” she cries handing the phone to Fister and taking the crate from his stubby hand.
She brings the crate inside the apartment and opens the gate. Inside is a golden retriever puppy, female with a dark orange collar.
“Oh look at you. Come here.” The Painter says grabbing it from inside and cradling it to her chest.
She looks at the collar. There is a round name tag hanging form it.
It reads ‘Burnt Umber’.
“Umber.” She says holding it out and looking into her eyes. She looks past the dog to see the open door.
Fister is gone, along with the phone.
She scurries into the apartment hallway and he is nowhere to be seen.
She makes her way back into her apartment and locks the door behind her, holding the sweet new puppy close to her chest. She sees the other package on the floor. The box is big enough to hold a good sized paperback novel.
She sets Umber on the counter where she sits looking around nervously. The Painter uses her keys hanging up on the wall to slice open the tape keeping the top lid fo the box closed.
She opens it up and finds a small note card.
It reads.
‘Meaning’ - Introducing Burnt Umber. Enjoy!
‘Confidence’ - http://cnn.com/breakingnews/voittrialsuicideexplained
‘Satisfaction’ - ‘See package container’
Thank you again,
Yours
-F
She types in the URL into her laptop that sits on the counter and reads the news that the defendant of her trial she was working killed himself in his cell. Before doing so he told his lawyer he saw the court room painting of himself and it was so beautiful, raw and well crafted that he would die knowing he had seen real art for once in his life.
The article cites her in the article along with her website/blog and her twitter handle.
Oh shit she thinks.
She grabs the puppy and runs into the bedroom to get her phone.
There are too many notification to count. Emails, DM’s, text, missed calls and voicemails. A lot of them.
She shuts off the phone and walks back to the counter where she left the package.
Inside the package is a short and small circular glass jar with what appears to be a clear gelatin. She lifts up the jar to see that inside the gelatin are two brown oddly shaped spheres.
On top of the jar, written in Sharpie reads
“Satisfaction: A Writer’s Balls”
She unscrews the lid and sees inside. The smell of chemicals is too strong to bear. She shuts the lid immediately. She eyes the objects from the side of the jar again. They look like two apricot pits. Oddly shaped, brownish in color with a hint of sadness about them.
The puppy starts to whine for her new mama.
“Oh Umber.” she says with love. Her heart is too full she thinks. It has never been this full.
The Painter finds some old blankets and an old beat up pillow she reserves for stuffing under her head when she reads in bed or for setting under her arm when she gets too exhausted to hold a paint brush.
“Here. This is yours now.” The Painter says setting the pillows and blankets on the floor near her recliner chair.
She sets the little pup on the thrown together bed and she stands, then sits, then flops down to rest. Ember falls asleep within the minute.
Doing what every great artist does, she runs for her phone to capture how damn adorable this puppy is when she is sleeping.
She snaps a hundred photos and gets ready to blast them all over the internet and via text messages to her personal friends and family.
She has a group chat with her Mother and Sister that has been going on for as long as she could remember.
She adds four photos of a sleeping Umber and sends them with a thousand heart emojis.
The Sister replies with a standard ‘OMG’. Mom’s reply is a smidge different.
“Did you read about your ex-husband?”
The Painter scrunches up her nose and rubs her eyes. Jesus Mom. Just enjoy the fucking puppy photos!
Wait.
“What?” She relies back.
“MY ex-husband?” She replies back-to-back. All three had ex-husbands.
Another ‘OMG’ from the sister followed by a link to the Washington Post. She catches the first two words of the preview of the story. ‘Speech Writer’
The Painter turns to look at the jar on the counter. The one that contains the gelatin.
She runs over to the counter and grabs the note card.
Third item that she had asked for in return for the painting.
Satisfaction
A Writers Balls
She picks up the jar and unscrews it again.
This time she digs into the gelatin and fishes out both round orbs.
She sets them on the counter near the sink. She finds a small bowl, washes them off and sets them aside.
She stares at them for a long time. She can hear her phone buzzing and chiming over and over and over.
Inside the fridge is a three day old rotisserie chicken from Boston Market. She brings it out and sets it on the counter next to the jar. The painter tears off a few different colored pieces and tosses them in the bowl along with the two apricot pits.
The Painter walks over to the sleeping Umber and scratches behind her ear. She perks up with wild eyes and that puppy playful energy. The painter sits the bowl down next to the dog.
“Eat up.”
The Painter sits next to the dog as she eats the bowl clean.
Both Umber and Painter look at each other, completely satisfied.
###
Nathan Truzzolino is the author of
‘Middle of The End: A Novel’
Available for purchase on Amazon.com