The Secretary of State-of-the-Art KEEPS DRAFTING ME TO PAINT
Ridiculous Portaits of Michelangelo By Ariel Leal Fella, I know you read the title. To be honest, I’m not looking for advice, this isn’t one of those plea for help deals. I know for a fact that there is literally nothing I can do about it. I just want to vent, I guess. Question 1, to myself: Did I know there was such a thing as a Secretary of State-of-the-Art? No. That sounds wildly fucked and silly. Question 2, to me: Did I know there was such a thing as a Secretary of State? Also no. I don’t know any of these things. All I know is paint. I got so good at doing painting that I was contacted by the United States Government to paint some “really good” pictures. I remember the sultry, nicotineencrusted voice that spoke to me on the telephone as if it were a few hours ago. Don’t be too impressed, though. It was really only nine hours ago. That’s a few hours, a few times. No biggie. “We are entering a new age,” began the person on the other line. I was already peeved. Where had I heard this line before, Bernie? “Just as the kings and queens and popes and bishops and knights and rooks of the Renaissance commissioned young thespians and artists to paint pictures of legal-aged men, I shall also commission you to do this. Rather than pay you, however, we will give you the occasional glass of water. Your first mission is to paint a portrait of Michelangelo himself. Yes. The third Mario brother.” I went to work with scientific cunning, scholarly precision, and intellectual accuracy. I painted a portrait of the Renaissance Hunk himself, Michelangelo, and I was pretty sure I nailed it. Suddenly, a call came in. Who would be calling me so soon after someone else has, I wondered. “Chuckle chuckle chuckle. I meant it when I said the third Mario brother. Overalls. Mustache. Hung like Christ. Ruin him. Call him Marco Englewood.”
Initially it seemed obvious that my artistic integrity would’ve prevented me from doing something so ridiculous and vaguely sexual. But, it had been about ten minutes, and I was feeling kind of dehydrated. I looked at myself in the reflection of my wet paint and thought about it. Just one glass of water. One. Then you’re clean. You’re out. You can put all of this behind you. One more job, and then you get to be with your little girl again. Sure enough, a glass of water is exactly what I received. The finger-like pincers of the delivery drone nearly shattered the glass into my eyes and mouth, but in retrospect I’m pretty sure they just had it on the wrong setting. No harm, no foul. I drank the water until it was all gone, the way you would drink a beer or a soda. As I gulped down my last glug, another call came in. “You should be expecting a visit from me soon. Until then, I want you to paint Michelangelo, the first documented DILF, as a beloved, blue, but notably Aryan, popculture figure.” I was growing angry, and, more importantly, thirsty. But I knew exactly what she needed. Before I could even finish glossing up his startlingly caucasian nipples and lips, a lamp I had never purchased clicked on from behind me. The silhouette of a woman emerged, except by the time she was in the light it was no longer a silhouette. Now I could just see her. She was wearing army fatigues, those shades that people think Kurt Cobain wore all the time, and red high heels. She had short, black, spiky hair that made me feel like shit. “Phil. How good for you to see me. Tell me, you’ve titled this one…” “M-Megaman Anglosaxon.” “Marvelous. You know, Phil, I figure you must have some questions. There’s no way more me to know for sure, though, so I will simply assume what they are and answer them. Why am I forcing you to do this? Well, let me answer your question with a question of my own: in a time of transition such as this one, what’s more fitting a modus than shattering the image of an Old God to pave the way for the Brand New? Ever since I was appointed to this position, I’ve been drinking from the cup of power like a parched artist expecting only water as payment. Do you know what real power is, Mr. Mister Broken Wings? Real power is tarnishing the image of a saint. Real power is building a pop-up Denny’s that is pop art-themed and naming it The Sixteenth Chapel and letting teens get married there.” Finally I spoke up, I couldn’t take it anymore! “I...I’d like to speak to the head honcho here.” I said, confidently, while flexing something. “The big guy in charge of this whole thing, this
whole operation. Y’know, everything. All that.” “You mean the president?” she asked, teetering on the edge of shocked laughter. I stayed quiet just in case it was a trick question. And also my mouth was dry as the hung Christ. “That old fool...why, he just finished using your bathroom.” I suddenly grew very nervous, and confused as well. I don’t have a bathroom. On cue, the president emerged from my bedroom and tried to do the whole silhouette thing without knowing it was already done. He really was really being dumb as Christ about the whole thing. “How ya doin’, champ? This lady givin’ you any trouble?” He slapped me on the back, sending waves of testosterone down my spine that crashed in a crescendo of anxiety in my lower rectum. “She’s making me paint devastatingly absurd pictures of Michelangelo, your honor. You have to do something about this, I can’t just-” “Michelangelo? Oh fuck. You got him painting Michelangelo? That’s my favorite Ninja Turtle. Are you doing this as a gift for me? Because I’m president? This rules. This fucks hard. God bless you for your service, Phil Mister Broken Wings. P-boy’s gotta bounce, though.” He stumbled out just as fucked up as he had entered, abandoning both my house and my hopes of escaping this nightmare. The Secretary of State-of-the-Art suddenly leaned in much closer and, despite there being no need to keep our voices down, because my landlord is nice now, whispered to me. “You will now paint the Grån Maéströ, Michèl Angelaus himself, as an extremely talented and inspiring female poet. You know of whom I speak.” “But...but Rupi Kaur’s name sounds nothing like Michelangelo’s!”, I protested. She laughed in my face once again. “Phil, Phil, Phil. We both know what the painting will be titled. Say it.” I swallowed hard. I had to; my throat felt like it was full of Christ’s bones. “Come on, Phil. Aren’t you feeling...a little thirsty?” She had me trapped, and so I paused pregnantly for emphasis. I knew what I had to do. “Maya” I sighed. “I’ll name it...Maya Angelou.” With that, the drone dropped me some drippings, and lifted the Secretary of Bittersweet Passions out through the hole in my room. I could not scream or cry. I could only sit in my once-favorite recliner and hurt. Oh wait. Was there something about me having a daughter up there? Shit. Shit.