Green Onions
December 25th, 1965
Dallas looks at his latest masterpiece, wiping the paint from his hands with a filthy rag. He looks it over, checking for any imperfections before nodding his head and leaving it to dry, satisfied with the results.
After his therapy session with Ms. McConnell, she began their "treaty": make one painting per day, and shave off one hour of therapy. As much as Dallas hates it, he finds painting beneficial than just telling some stranger his problems. He just grabs a paintbrush and whatever he's feeling, whatever comes to mind, just bleeds from his paintbrush and onto the canvas. His mind goes blank; he no longer thinks of his problems, his anger, the hostility against the rich. All that matters is getting his message out before it eats him alive. It becomes a drug of his; whenever his temper boils over, he has to draw, color, and paint. It keeps his anger in check and it makes Ms. McConnell proud to see astounding results in such a short period of time. She even admits to liking his paintings; she gives him heaping praise for his work, but it makes Dallas believe she's just brown-nosing.
Honestly, he finds his paintings nothing special; they're no Frida Kahlo, Salvador Dali, or even Picasso. They're just...paintings. They're simple, they're his messages, and they're personal to him. They're his therapy.
He keeps his paintings; each one he makes he hangs them on the walls of his apartment, some getting a special place in his cabinets, stacked high like plates. Within the four days of this treaty his art became clutter; art supplies, paper, drawings and paintings are scattered all over his apartment, filling Dallas with an indescribable frustration of not finding what he needs, or ruining a new piece from misplacement. Defeated and desperate to de-clutter, he decides to get rid of them.
One chilly afternoon, Sodapop was busy putting firewood in the fire when he hears a loud rapping on his door. Curious and tired from the recent consumption of turkey, he walks to the door with a yawn and opens it.
Here, face red as a bing cherry and blonde hair whipping every which-way, is Dallas.
"Merry Christmas, Soda. I got somethin' for ya."
-0*0*0*0*0*0-
Soda can't believe his eyes. Such color, such detail, it's amazing how the colors just...pop.
The painting, done so well it could almost pass for a photograph, is of...chopped green onions sizzling in a frying pan. The highlights made the oil cooking the onions look believable; the green onions seemed to cook right in front of Soda. Hell, he could almost smell them. The vibrancy of the green contrasted with the blacks in the pan and the browns in the background; Soda took it in by bits and pieces.
"So, you want it?"
"How'd you get this?"
"I painted it."
Soda whipped his head so fast his hair flew.
"You painted this? I never would've thought..."
"It's a hobby I picked up. A hobby that's leaving junk all over my home. You want it or not?"
"I want it, Dal. It's amazing work. You know, you could sell these paintings and make a lot of greenbacks for it. Those snooty rich people pay top dollar for art like this, many by the hundreds." Soda looked at him with a smile.
"You got talent. You could make money easy." He takes the picture and hangs it in the kitchen, where it is the first thing one could see when they walked in the door.
"You know something," Sodapop dug in his refrigerator, "I can help you give some of your paintings away to help get rid of your junk. How's about I take them off your hands and show them to my co workers at the DX?"
Dallas frowns, eyes unreadable as Soda begins to prepare something for a frying pan.
Should he do it? Give away his paintings to complete strangers so they can criticize his work? So they can tell him he's gone soft for painting instead of fighting, drinking, and chasing girls?
Painting? You've started painting instead of getting a real job? What are you, a fruit? His father would sneer as he popped the top of his cheap beer. Painting is for those uppity bitches and faggots. You think you're better than me because you paint? Cause I could teach you how to be put in your place, how to not be such a faggot...
Dallas doesn't want to remember the rest.
"No," he finally answers. "I don't want anyone here looking at it."
"What's wrong with here? Our friends and people are not good enough for your art?"
Uppity bitch...
"Look at me, Soda." He spins around slowly for emphasis.
"A guy like me, with my reputation, taking up painting? I'll be the laughing stock of Tulsa. It's better if no one but you knows what I do as a hobby. So zip it." His ice cold eyes froze Soda to his spot. After a moment of considerable silence, Soda agrees.
"Okay, but what will I say when people ask me where I got my painting?"
Dallas grabbed a white pencil then scribbled an intricate signature.
"Tell 'em Dominic Waters made it."
December 25th, 1994
"Dominic Waters? That's...pretty clever."
"Not bad for the top of my head." Dallas helps himself to a other glass of egg nog. The Christmas cheer is lost on Dallas; there's nothing good on TV but those cheesy films and holiday specials that he gets tired of seeing every week. But the egg nog is good, so he helps himself while the bartender sings drunken Christmas carols as patrons cheer. That, and Francine dragged him here because it's the only bar that can make her the best Shirley Temples.
"So then what happened?"
"I had lunch with Uncle Soda. Then, I went into the Soc side of town."
December 25th, 1965
It's Christmas, and Dallas is trudging through the snow and harsh winds with his artwork in a cart to deliver to random houses. When he found his house of choice, he'd put a painting on the porch and leave. He got to his third house when someone caught him.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" A voice shouts. Dallas whips his head around, ready to brawl. It's a man about his age, with clothes that tell he's a spoiled socialite. The man gets closer, looking at the odd man in his side of the tracks.
"None of your fuckin' business. Now scram!" Dallas barks, fists held up for warning.
"I want to see what the hell you doing on my side of the neighborhood," he looks at the painting tucked under Dallas's arm. "Are you giving those paintings away?"
"What's it to you? They're mine. I can do whatever the hell I like with'em."
"Those paintings? They look too good to just be throwing them away." The man touches the painting on the porch. The painting shows Dallas's mother sitting in a garden, smiling into the horizon. Etched, in crude handwriting on the far bottom right corner, is the title 'Mother'.
"How about I buy this one." He picks up Mother, admiring its work and beauty.
"Not for sale," Dallas snatched the painting back from him. He'll be damned if he sells anything to a spoiled rich kid.
"I'll pay you 50 bucks for the painting." Dallas is shoved in the face with money. Glaring coldly, he repeats, "Not. For. Sale."
"100. I'll pay you 100 dollars for the painting! Come on, man. You're giving away these paintings for free. Why not make some money off it?"
"Because I don't sell-out to a Soc. I do what I want and if I say it's not for sale, I mean it. Now either you get moving or you will be picking your teeth off the curb."
"Either you take my money or I'll tell the cops we have a burglar in our neighborhood. You even look like a hoodlum; you'll be in the cooler faster than they can say 'freeze'." The man retorted.
Dallas grinds his teeth, resisting the urge to punch this man's teeth in. One more arrest and it's a few more months in the psych ward. He'll be damned if he goes back.
"100 dollars. Take it or leave it." He grits out, clutching the portrait so tight it leaves depression marks in the canvas. The man smiles and crams the wad of cash into Dallas's hand. Dallas counts it slowly, making sure he's not being short-changed. Seeing he's gotten the right amount, he gives his painting to the snooty man.
"Thank you. Merry Christmas." With that, he turns around and leaves Dallas to himself in the cold winter night.
Dallas returns home that night, holding the wad of cash in his hand. He could buy groceries, finally get some heat in his cold apartment, get some more supplies for his work.
Work.
That's a laugh; his art has only been a hobby and yet, it made him 100 dollars and he didn't have to steal it.
You're giving away these paintings for free. Why not make some money off it?
You could sell these paintings and make a lot of greenbacks for it. Those snooty rich people pay top dollar for art like this, many by the hundreds...
He comes up with an idea.
AN: Thank you guys so much for waiting patiently for me to write another chapter to Tainted Blues (formerly known as Francine). I have been very busy like a bee and hope to get the next chapter posted. I'm so sorry to keep you guys for waiting! Thank you guys so much! :*