Page 16 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“If there’s anything I can do, let me know, alright?”
“Thank you,” I say again, chewing on more dust.
The rest of the day, I sit in front of the painting I need to work on and don’t move. I don’t pick up a paintbrush. I don’t go out to eat. I don’t even use the bathroom. I just sit there and stare at the painting—at those sweeping strokes of red and blue that twist into each other. A muddy tangle of emotions, indeed. Red andblue should turn into some sort of violet or purple or magenta or indigo—but here, today, it just looks like a muddy gray. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad decision by the artist after all. The mud resonates with me today.
The offices start to empty around 5; most people are gone by 6 PM. When the museum turns quiet again, I finally manage to pick up a brush. That’s usually my favorite time of the day. It’s why I’m always the first one in and the last one out of the office. If daylight wasn’t vital for part of my work, I would probably just do night shifts instead.
I work until 8 PM when Elaine returns to the lab. She carefully opens the door and softly calls my name. Then she turns on the big ceiling lamp, drowning out the small spotlight I use for working. “You’ve been in here for at least, what, fourteen hours?” Elaine watches as I slowly lift myself from above the painting and lean back in my chair, my spine cracking audibly. “Look, I know I have no right to tell you what to do—but I really do think you should go home.”
As my boss, she probably does have a right to tell me what to do, especially since I must have violated a number of rules by not taking breaks or working too much overtime. Then again, I didn’t really work today. I don’t tell her any of that, though. Instead, I just walk over to the sink and let the water run over my face again. The cold liquid cuts off my breathing, making me feel like I’m submerged underwater. Then I take a deep breath and drink so much at once that my empty stomach sounds like the inside of a conch shell when I move.
“Here,” Elaine hands me a plastic bag fromThe Art of the Sandwichdeli. “It’s their Brothko. Something soothing. Take it home, eat, and then sleep.”
I suppose she’s right. So, for once, I do as I’m told. I put on my jacket, grab my empty backpack, accept the food, and thank her for everything.
“Believe me, I wish I could do more,” she replies, and holds the door for me.
The next two days go by pretty much the same. Except that I manage to get more work done. In fact, it’s all I’m getting done. I sleep as much as I can—which is not a lot. I turn myself into a more-or-less productive member of society with the help of makeup and painkillers. I go to work, do my job, go home, sleep—and when I wake, I repeat the cycle all over again.
It’s essentially the routine I used to follow in prison, where there were no distractions. After I got out, with time, that routine relaxed a bit and allowed for more moments for myself instead of just work. But time for myself is not what I need right now.
When I get home on the third day, there’s someone waiting at my door. The person swivels around when she hears me struggling up the stairs, her hair bouncing with the motion. It’s Sienna from the place where my grandpa lives.Used to live.
“Dark circles under your eyes, pale, too exhausted to properly walk. You look like a zombie.”
I huff through my nose. “‘This must be really hard for you’should be your line, I think. Or maybe‘Thoughts and prayers. We’re all thinking of you,’or some bullshit like that.”
“Would that help?”
“Yes. I think usually it helps people feel better. Not the people it’s directed at, but the ones saying it.”
Sienna nods and makes way for me. “You sound like you know too much about that,” she says, an empathetic expression on her face.
“Well, at least you got the whole compassionate look down fairly well,” I note and fish for my keys.
“Thank you. I came by to practice just that. And to give you these, of course.” She hands me the envelope she’s holding in her left hand. “It’s the end-of-life documents. I don’t know if you remember, but when your grandpa moved in two years ago, he had to go through all that paperwork with our lawyer so you wouldn’t have to deal with it now. It’s his last will and testament—he’s obviously leaving everything to you—and a prepaid funeral contract for cremation. Pretty standard stuff.”
I accept the envelope and open the door to my apartment, ready to disappear inside.
“Oh, and this is from me.” Sienna hands me the bag she’s holding in her other hand. “It’s lasagna. I figured it pairs well with my thoughts and prayers.A dry red works too, though.”
A tired chuckle escapes before I try to swallow it down again. Laughing—even just smiling—feels wrong right now.
“That wouldn’t have been necessary,” I say, but accept the food anyway. The last thing I ate was the soup Elaine got for me two days ago.
“Oh, it’s my pleasure. And my husband’s. He made it. It’s just the right amount of salty, and fatty, and sweet. It’s got all the good stuff. So don’t go and eat all of it at once, or it might give you a heart attack as well.”
Now I do chuckle, out loud. And then I choke on my own spit. Must be karma. “I don’t think you’re allowed to joke about death in a situation like this.”
Sienna puts on that empathetic expression from before again. “And I don’t think you’re supposed to laugh about it. Although, you do have a great laugh.” She sighs. “I know right now is tough, but it’ll hurt less eventually. The offer still stands, of course. If you have any questions or need help with anything, or just want someone to talk to, give me a call, okay?”
I nod, thank her, and close the door once she descends the stairs.
It’s Sorry-For-Your-Loss Lasagna.
A nice gesture.
For the next thirty minutes, I sit in darkness, staring out of the window, listening for any sirens that might be coming for me. If they still haven’t found me yet, there’s a good chance I got away with it. Maybe the police doesn’t really care who smashed in the window of a fancy gallery anyway.
