Author's Note: I'm in a strange mood. Summer does weird stuff to the brain, don't you think? Perhaps it's good that I'm away from all other forms of human life (besides my younger sister, but she doesn't really count); now I can't hurt anyone. Except you. Which brings me to the point of this author's note: READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. This is bound to be incredibly bizarre and kinda eerie, and NOTHING LIKE my other stuff. You have been warned. :-D
Disclaimer: Lyrics belong to their respective bands/artists/whatever, Swifty and Bumlets belong to Disney, and any other unfamiliar characters probably belong to me. :-D :-O :- (Ohh I'm having fun with these little smiley faces...)
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"Art is a step from what is obvious and well-known toward what is arcane and concealed."
-Kahlil Gibran
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I hadn't eaten anything in about three days. I had a tendency to do that, to forget to eat. Everyone had always thought I'd gain some sense of responsibility when I moved into my own house, but I never did. It drove my brother insane.
I didn't much care. Right now I was hungry.
I got up from my desk and headed down the hall. At one point I supposed the walls had been white; it was impossible to see the color now underneath the hundreds of thousands of paintings, sketches, and posters tacked up all over the place. Some of them were mine, some were remakes of a Renoir or Daubigny, some were original paintings I had somehow managed to get my hands on.
I loved French impressionism. My favorite was Monet, but who didn't like Monet best? He had such a way with colors, the way he could capture the shadows and light of one particular moment in a day ... Even the way he signed his name was beautiful.
"Honey, you are a rock upon which I stand," I sang softly as I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. "And I came here to talk ... I hope you'll understand. The green eyes, yeah the spotlight shines upon you ... And how could anybody deny you?"
I stuck my head into the refrigerator and pulled out a jar of pickles. "I came here with a load, and it feels so much lighter now I met you ... And honey you should know that I could never go on without you ... Green eyes."
I couldn't find my Coldplay album, so I had to make do with singing it myself. Needless to say, it wasn't exactly the same. I decided to eat my pickles and stop trying to sound good.
There was a knock on the door. I froze. Nobody ever knocked on my door — I was Thomas Jenkins, the mildly insane and potentially dangerous 25-year-old rejected artist just scraping by selling a painting every now and then. Nobody wanted to knock on my door.
Whoever it was knocked again, a little louder this time. "I'm comin', I'm comin'," I mumbled, getting up from the couch. I walked over to the door and pulled it open.
I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I was wearing a pair of old blue jeans ripped at the knees, a baggy gray t-shirt with paint speckled all over it, and a New England Patriots baseball cap that was almost falling apart. I was looking like complete shit, and standing before me was the single most gorgeous boy I had ever laid eyes on. Shaggy black bangs framed his angular face, complete with high cheekbones and full lips and everything. He was wearing baggy blue jeans and a loose-fitted t-shirt, but I could tell the body underneath was incredible.
I stepped back slightly, trying to discreetly conceal the major erection I was having. He smiled at me and took his hand out of his pocket to shake mine. "Shane Michener, Redwood House Repairs, nice to meet you."
"...Hey," I said lamely, shaking his hand.
"You're Thomas Jenkins, right? Or, ah..." He looked down at the clipboard in his other hand. "Swifty?"
I turned pink. "Yeah."
"Was that you singing Coldplay before?" he asked suddenly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. I nodded and his smile broadened. "Awesome band. Anyway. I'm not here to discuss music with you, although that would be very nice. Your brother Eric called the other day and made an appointment for us to fix up your roof; said it was dripping on you like crazy, and we've got a couple of good thunderstorms comin' up."
"My brother called you? For me?" I asked, eyebrows raised.
"If Eric Jenkins is in fact your brother, then yes." He winked then checked his watch. "So, ah, do you mind if I get started? It shouldn't take too long, unless your roof really is as bad as your brother tells me."
"Sure." I looked down at the jar I was still holding loosely at my side. "Want a pickle?"
"Y'know, they say there are two kinds of people in this world," he said. (Those with loaded guns, and those who dig.) "Those who like sour pickles, and those who like sweet ones."
"And which kind are you?"
He grinned. "I'm a mutant; I like both."
"Surely not!" I gasped. "Well, would you like one?"
"Why not." He reached into the jar and pulled out a pickle. I pretended not to be turned on as the juice dripped gently down his fingers. "I hope you know that if you're poisoning me, my company's gonna sue," he said as he took a bite.
"Well I was planning on moving to Alaska anyway..."
He laughed. "You don't have to call me Shane, y'know. Most people call me Bumlets."
"Why?"
"Honestly? For the life of me, I can't remember." Bumlets finished his pickle and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Well, I'm headed up on the roof. It might be a little loud, but I should be done for today in an hour or two. Assuming, of course, that you don't distract me," he added, wiggling his eyebrows at me.
He walked back over to his truck to get the ladder, and I closed the door with trembling hands. That had been a very suggestive remark.
That had been really fun.
I put away the jar of pickles and went back up to my room. I could hear Bumlets positioning the ladder against the house and climbing up onto the roof, whistling happily. I sat back down at my desk and again found myself staring at a blank canvas, all inspiration having left me. Maybe I could get Bumlets to model nude for me or something.
Chuckling at my own wit, I reached down and patted Manet on the head. I had two dogs, Toulouse and Manet — yes, I was dorky enough to actually name my dogs after French impressionists. They were both ugly old muts, and I loved 'em to death. Half my room was covered with sketches of them, mainly of Toulouse because Manet was always on the go and never wanted to sit still.
Up on the roof, Bumlets let out a low whistle. "Man, your roof really is as bad as your brother said," he laughed, half to himself and half to me.
"Yeah, I haven't gotten around to fixing it," I called up to him.
"Don't the leaks bother you?"
"They bother my brother more."
He chuckled and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "Quite the Wicked Witch of the West, ain't he?" before beginning to hammer away at my beloved roof. He sang as he hammered, alternating between Coldplay and Green Day and The Sound of Music.
I looked over at Toulouse, an old dog with dark gray fur and groaning joints. "Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings! These are a few of my FAVORITE THIIIINGS!" sang Bumlets on the roof. Toulouse raised an eyebrow at me.
"I know, it's a little loud compared to what we're used to," I said, scratching him behind the ears. "But change is good, right? 'Sides, he's damn sexy. I haven't had a crush since..."
I stopped. When was the last time I had had a crush? I hadn't had much time for that kind of thing during my childhood; dad just kinda up and left when I was five and Eric was eight, and then mom killed herself a year later — we just went between foster homes for a few years after that, and then I went to college and majored in art. No girlfriends — or boyfriends, for that matter — at all in that period of time.
"Sheesh, I haven't had much exposure to other guys, have I?" I said, blinking. Toulouse nudged me in the ribs with his nose. "Well yeah, the fact that I'm gay doesn't help much, does it?" I added and nudged him back. I stood up. "Where the hell is Manet?"
The hammering stopped. "Did you just say 'Where the hell is Manet'? As in the impressionist?"
"As in my dog."
"Ah. Red-brown one? She's wandering around down here on the lawn, I think, if you can call it a lawn. Pretty soon your brother's gonna be callin' Lincoln Tree and Landscape too, eh?"
"She's not all over you?" I asked abruptly.
"Wha?"
"Manet. My dog. She's not trying to climb onto the roof with you and lick you all over until you drown?"
There was a slight pause. "No, I don't think so."
I shrugged. "Well, you are on the roof with a loud hammer. Whatever, sorry I interrupted, carry on!" And I went back down to check on my dog with Toulouse at my heels.
She was behaving oddly. Manet had always been more like a Golden Retriever than anything else; she was enthusiastic, overly friendly, and not exactly the brightest crayon in the box. Now she was lying on her back, whimpering softly.
"Manny?" I said quietly, kneeling down next to her. "You all right?"
She wasn't hurt. Toulouse poked her with his nose and checked her all over, but she was perfectly fine. Eventually she got up, and after a few minutes she was back to her usual hyperactive self again, hopping around and almost knocking Toulouse over.
I looked up at Bumlets. He shrugged at me, tossing his hammer from one hand to the other. "There's a reason I never got a dog," he said, smiling. "Like to mess with your mind, don't they? That must be one of the weird things dogs do when they think no people are around."
I laughed and went back inside. After a minute the hammering started up again, and I sat on my couch and listened to Bumlets replacing the old shingles on my roof.
Then I went upstairs and painted a picture of a huge, multicolored question mark that filled up the entire canvas.
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Author's Note: There will be more. I have no idea where this story came from, but it's kind of fun. Please leave a review, I'll love you forever!! :-D
-Saturday