The White Fence

26. Shot on Highway 51

            Derek was as good as his word. On Monday, he was waiting for me outside of my seventh period class when the final bell rang. He greeted me with a shrug and a smile. “I didn’ know where you went aftuh school, and I didn’ want you ta think that I’d cancelled on you or nothin’…”

            Derek lived only a few minutes from Mason, in a building downtown that had once sat above a now vacated bakery. The entrance was off an alley, and was little more than an aluminum door with a metal grill protecting it. Since the bakery was no longer there, it seemed more ominous than it must have been when there was the smell of fresh baked goods wafting up from below.

            Derek paused in the entrance way. “I should warn you,” he cautioned, “you have to have uh bit of an imagination. It’s not much.” He switched on the light. “Bienvennue le Chez Dèréq.”

            I had to compliment Derek on his use of the word ‘apartment’ to describe the place. It was just one giant room with a kitchen and a bathroom. The walls were all concrete and there were five pillars-four cement, one metal-placed seemingly at random around the room. Off to the side was a set of rickety looking stairs. They led up to a loft where Derek had placed a mattress on top of a plank and milk crates. Other than a few more crates for storage, two bean bag chairs, and a red couch that seemed like it was falling apart at its seams, there was no other furniture. 

            “I told you, it takes some imagination,” Derek reminded me, nervously. “But I think that it’s great for uh first place. It was uh real dump when I got it,” he added. I imagined the dwelling worse off than it was now, and found that I had a lot of trouble picturing it. “I’m in tha process of cleanin’ her up,” he went on. I noticed on the furthest wall, the largest wall, white primer served as the only decoration.

            “It’s not much, I realize,” he shrugged, “but it’s somethin’. I’m out of my parent’s house, and this place has real potential.” He looked around as if to reassure himself. “Besides, I get to live here for free. It belongs to uh friend of my daddy’s. He’s been tryin’ to sell tha place, but no one wants to buy it as is, so while I get this place to halfway resemble somethin’, he’ll let me stay here for free. All I have to do is pay half for materials, and when he sells this place he’ll give me uh split of tha profits. It’s uh hell of uh deal.”

            He correctly gauged my reaction. “I know that you’re thinkin’ I got tha shaft end of it, but you’re wrong. Just give me uh couple of months, and I’ll prove it to you.”

            I took note of the word ‘months’. ‘Months’ was an almost guarantee that I would be seeing more of him. I realized that Derek was waiting for me to say something, so I said, “You’ve definitely got your work cut out for you.”

            Derek only smiled. “I nevuh run from uh challenge,” he declared. The look he gave me made me wonder if he was just talking about this place. 

            “So where do you do your painting?” I questioned. “You’re supposed to be showing me your great works of art.

            He steered me over to a little alcove that had sunlight streaming down liberally from the skylight; a perfect place to paint on a sunny day. There were three easel’s set up, two paintings propped against them, one unfinished. Surprisingly, I recognized the inspiration for the unfinished painting. He noticed my attention and nodded at it. “I’m attemptin’ to do uh tribute to White Fence, do you know Crichlow?”

            “I know his painting,” I remarked. Ernest Crichlow’s White Fence was a painting of a group of black boys who were standing on one side of a fence, crowded together. In the foreground there was a white girl, who stood on the other side, alone, not looking at them.