Prettyboy

3: I, The Artist (Pt. I)

"I'm thinking about a little excursion," Lana had announced at the table when her youngest son, her, and I were having breakfast. She threw me a fleeting glance and pairs of eyes proceeded to dart around the room. Wavering. Thoughtful. "Now, if Gerard ever wakes up—" she paused there and I got that as a hint.

"Should I go wake him up soon?" said I.

She sighed and gave me a smile. "If you'd be so kind, after you've finished eating, honey."

As she had told me about her plans earlier this morning, I turned to her youngest son and asked, before taking a sip from my coffee, "Michael, what do you think about fishing?"

Lana threw me an ambiguous look and giggled.

"Fishing, you say?" the young one asked and I nodded. "I think it's unintentionally cruel when people fish for fun and not for necessity," he began, looking down at his food and not at me, "it's mere cruelty if it's for fun, and not fun at all. Do you know what happens to fish when you take them out of the water?" I shook my head, slightly regretting asking in the first place. I heard Lana beside me giggle heartily again. "Their body weight crushes their internal organs. In their natural environment, they are not subjected to gravity. Whether they recover from this? Well, in many situations, they seem to be exhausted and eventually swim away once released, even though they could easily run directly into the mouth of a predator immediately afterward because they can no longer outrun them. Or they die from injuries shortly after. It's just cruel, you see."

I was left staring at him with my mouth slightly agape, wondering what I'd asked in the first place, because the kid's words were rather hypnotizing. He paid no mind to me and proceeded to eat his breakfast.

"How about flower picking then?" I suggested moments later, hoping I hadn't done a mistake of the same fashion.

"Flower picking's nice," he shrugged, in spite of my surprise, "I can make nice wreaths."

Lana placed her hand on mine. "You should grow to love flowers, Frank. Mikey here loves them; he can name most of them."

Mikey raised an eyebrow at his mother. "I want to be a botanist, mother, what do you expect?"

"A botanist, huh?" said I.

"A botanist," he repeated, firm, stern look on me, "is there anything wrong with that?"

"No, not at all. Quite the contrary. If you want to pursue that professionally, I could introduce you to my friend, Ray. He's a botanist, four years of college. A compiler of flowers or something. Now, I can't promise anything, but he's always gushing about that one time he became a mentor, and probably is willing to do it again," I explained, and as I did so, it dawned on me that I hadn't called Ray since my wedding night and felt chagrin seeping into me. Not that he would pick up the telephone immediately; with the new baby and all, he shunned me quite frequently. But that seemed to be the beginning of the end with Raymond and me.

The younger Way looked at me with astonishment and pointed a finger at himself. He banged his hand on the table and smiled widely. "I'm a compiler of flora! Fuck! I've got three scrapbooks, all completed!"

Even though I paid no mind to it and only smiled, Lana clicked her tongue and scolded, "Language, Michael."

"Far out! You should introduce me! I totally need a mentor!" Michael ignored his mother and went on, enthusing about botany and further on the study of flora, meanwhile, Lana gave me a peck on the cheek and asked me to go wake her teenager so that he could join us, late, at breakfast. Still internally fussing over my friend, Ray, I ascended the stairs and immediately, stopped when I discerned a mellow sound.