BE STILL

Be Still

Several Limes 9:00 am. I walk through the automatic doors. To my right is the Subway attached to Walmart. It always smells like stale bread. Ahead is the Women’s Apparel. I pass swi ly by, pushing ahead of the Sunday Night Football crowd. Tonight is some sort of big game. I never cared much for sports. Never cared much for anything. To my right, rows of young boy’s shirts and shorts y by in a blur. I reach the end of the aisle and turn le . Ahead are Children’s Toys, Outdoor Necessities, and Electronics. I walk past various garden supplies and turn right into Electronics. e people I pass are already annoyed with me. I am carrying very heavy and bulky cargo, of which sticks out from under my arm and prods unsuspecting shoppers. I understand. I can be annoying.

I move through the Electronics labyrinth, until I nd my treasure at the end. A large tub stands before me- plastic but sturdy. Electric blue with the Walmart logo laid sideways across its circular torso. e body is transparent. And inside, hundreds of movies, like leaves piled on top of each other. A metal sign sticks out from the center- “$5 DVD Classics- Unbeatable Prices”.

I set my easel down, and my canvas on top. My hand reaches inside my bag and pulls out some core

90

materials- palette, brushes, paint, a smock, an old tarp, my record player to play Hyden, a picnic basket lled with Spaghetti-O’s for lunch, and a picture of Bob Ross, for good luck. I dot colors onto my palette, and lick my paintbrush to begin. e rst stroke is of my own uid, as always. Paint rips from its spot on the palette as I draw my brush outward. A web of Seafoam Green connects the material to the medium. I am running through my subject. Every Adam Sandler lm is here, and I’m trying to capture them all.

Indiscreet bodies bump and jar into my sides. Names are thrown out but lose their weight once they hit my ears. ey become annoyed when they trip over my tarp but sometimes people have to recognize when something isn’t being made for them. And then, someone decides to challenge me.

A man in a soulless grey jumpsuit comes with a paintbrush of his own. It is large- about the size of his body, and kept in a yellow bucket. e water inside is the same as his suit- soulless. Grey. Devoid of the color of life. I notice he has no paint with him, until he reveals what his canvas actually is. e oor of Walmart itself. He lungs the paintbrush from the bucket and begins to paint the world around me. Literally and guratively- he encases me in a circle of water, but also re ects what surrounds him. People walk through his masterpiece, not noticing what his imagination has brought to life- monochrome prairies

91

of dirty water, an ocean of dust. Each groove is an emotion. Every stroke tells a story.

I set my brush down as he works. Foolish to assume that I wouldn’t nd amazing talent here. I want to bow to his superiority, but two men in navy uniforms approach us.

“You need to leave,” the rst one said.

“Yeah, what he said,” the second one said.

I said, “What did you say?” e second one said, “Yeah, what he said.”

“I said, you need to leave.” the rst one said.

I said, “Why do we have to leave?”

And the rst one said, “Not him. You.” ey both took my arms. In a fury I tried to break free, but when their grip strength proved to be stronger than my own strength, I decided to show them my jaw strength and bit them. When he recoiled I dashed for my painting, but hit the other painter instead. We both landed on my easel, wood chips nding their way into the crevices of my skin.

“Fools!” I proclaimed. “You can’t see the beauty in anything! Look at this bin! It’s more than just bad movies. Look- can’t you see the mountains that form from jagged edges? Can’t you see tulips about to sprout from the ground? A pile of dead leaves in the early fall? is is a graveyard. Hundreds of names are

92

contained in the credits of these lms- names you can only encounter here. Have some respect for the dead! For the inanimate! For still life! Because there is still life-” ey had enough, and changed at me again. I ducked under them, grabbing my canvas. Yet when I picked it up, underneath was an impression of both my body and my rival painter’s body. e colors bled into the murky water of the oor, and in the scu e some Spaghetti-O’s found their way into the mix. e wonderful aspect of this piece is that the impression of two bodies were there- something alive created this. It could have been my best piece yet. But those two guards carried me away before I could name it, install it, or even appreciate it.

Yet, I could have sworn the other painter looked at me before I le Walmart. I saw him earlier pick up my picture of Bob Ross, and while looking at both the picture and the bargain bin, said under his breath: “Mountains, huh?”

93