Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Fourteen - Ezra

The door of my apartment swings open, my keys dangling from the lock as I flip through my mail. Credit card offers, bank advertisements, coupons. It's as if the post office is somehow aware of my financial situation.

But just as I'm about to toss the stack in the trash, my eyes catch a bright postcard hidden between envelopes. I pull it out from among the junk and toss the rest in the trash. Written in bright yellow print, it says: BATTLE OF THE ARTS. And in smaller red print: SUBMISSIONS DUE DECEMBER 31ST. WINNER TAKES HOME $25,000 AND THE CHANCE TO BE DISPLAYED IN VOX GALLERY OF THE ARTS.

I hold the postcard between trembling fingers and read it over and over again until the words and their colors are embedded in my eyes. Could this be my chance? Could this be the moment everything changes?

My excitement is quickly replaced by the sudden recognition of one big problem: I haven't been able to finish a painting in years. How am I supposed to create an award-winning piece in just four months when I haven't been able to paint anything at all for far longer?

I start to toss the postcard in the trash, but stop myself. Instead, I take in a sharp breath and stick it to the face of my fridge with a magnet.

I have to try. Because right now I have nothing else.

For the next three days, I don't leave my apartment. Where I was prowling the city for a job, now I'm on the hunt for something else. The painting. The answer to Mom's question and, quite literally, the one that could save my life.

Day One. I drive around the city and go to every pawn shop and rummage sale I can find in search of old paintings for me to repurpose the canvases since I can't afford new ones. Piling the bed of my truck high with a decent haul, I bring them back to my apartment and immediately get to work with the paint thinner. Removing the original artwork feels wrong in some ways, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Day Two. I pull out the paint, the brushes, the easel and situate myself in front of the first blank canvas. Mostly I just sit there with a bottle of beer and stare at it for hours. Occasionally, I set my brush to work to paint anything that comes to mind. Fruit, landscapes, portraits, abstract – I try everything, but nothing turns out quite like I visualize in my head.

I'm still stuck.

Day Three. The canvases scattered all over the floor of my apartment, some still blank and some half-finished, start to feel more like ghosts than award-winning and life-saving works of art. Perhaps it's just a delusion of my sleep-deprived mind, but each ghost seems to develop a voice of its own and they mock me and taunt me, determined to remind me of my failure.

As the sun sets behind the city, the glow of dusk filters through my open window with the cold chill of night. A shiver dances across my bare chest and arms as I sit on the floor in nothing but my boxers, dozens of canvases flat on the floor around me. On the building across the alleyway, the neon GO sends its light as if to warm me.

Running my hands through my hair, I close my eyes and submerge within myself in an attempt to discover what it is that speaks to my soul in this moment so I can try to set it to paint. Finishing off my umpteenth bottle of beer, I toss the empty bottle across the room and into a pile with the others.

A loud knock at the door jars me from my fugue. Stiff and sore, I pull myself to my feet and tiptoe through the maze around me. With a tug, I open the door. My landlord is stands in front of me with, a scowl etching deep lines in his face. He looks me up and down and shakes his head.

My heart beats, frantic with anxiety. "Mr. Blake. W-what are you doing here?"

"Greyson, your rent is fifteen days past due. If you don't pay me right now, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to evict you."

"Please, if you'll just give me some time, I'll have more than enough money to pay you everything that's due in a few months." My fingers squeeze the door knob, knuckles white as all the blood seems to leave my body.

"Months? You can't be serious! I'm sorry, but if you don't have the money today, then you're out. I can't keep giving you all these breaks. If you're not going to pay, then I need to find someone who will." He shoves the eviction notice toward me and I hesitate, then take it from him.

"Mr. Blake, look, there's this art contest coming up and if I win, I'll get $25,000 dollars. It's all yours if you'll just give me a little more time."

His eyes turn toward the scattered canvases on my and he bursts into laughter. "There's no way you're gonna win with that trash. I'll take my chances with a new tenant." His face turns dark again. "You have ten days to get out of this place."

He storms down the hall, leaving me in the doorway, unable to find any more excuses, unwilling to beg for anything anymore.

Nostrils flared and teeth clenched, I slam the door shut and take a step back, eyes still fixed on the door now closed. With a roar, I hurl my fist against the wall. The impact sends a shock of pain up my arm as my fist breaks through the drywall, a cloud of dust and spackle falling to the floor.

I remove my fist from the hole and examine the wounds, then examine the damage done. Jaw set, I consider this to be a small act of vengeance on my part. But the feeling passes quickly and I'm left wondering once again how I'm supposed to move on from this.

In ten days, I'll be homeless.

Everything is breaking.