Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Eight - Ezra

Sitting on the stool, I stare at the mostly-blank canvas. In one hand, I hold a paintbrush. In the other, a nearly-finished can of beer. My knee bounces up and down as I stare at the painting for God-knows-how-long. I try to conjure a trace of creativity. I even pulled out my paints and started mixing colors, but every time I turn to the easel, my mind goes as blank as the canvas. Ideas come and go, but not the idea. Not the thing that Mom was talking about. Not the one that could save my life.

The light of the "go" in The Old Chicago's neon sign filters in through my window, casting a strange red and yellow glow across my apartment. I don't bother turning on the light above me – the light of the go is more than enough.

Setting my brush to the paint and then to the canvas, I attempt to mimic the way the colors spill through the glass of the window – rivers of red spilling through the glass like an unbroken stream, the color so vibrant against the shadows that it's almost otherworldly. As if something of another dimension – a brighter dimension – slipped through the fractures between realities and saturated my black-and-white world with a thousand colors at once.

Everything inside of me screams for this. As the smell of the paint wafts around my head, that urge to dive head-first into that world of color and magic overwhelms me. The passion rises up inside of me, but it has nowhere to go. Because even with the tip of the brush pressed against the canvas, my hands don't move and my mind can't seem to put the colors together into something coherent.

I will my hand to move with the currents of light in front of me, to let the color take root, to let myself believe for just a moment that this could be the thing to save my life. But the colors don't turn out right and the lines are wrong. It's all wrong.

I drop the brush to the floor, ignoring the paint that splatters across the wood flooring, and stand up so fast that I send my stool clattering. With a cry of frustration, I run my hands through the mop of blond hair on top of my head.

Eyes clamped shut, I take in a sharp breath and let my hands fall to my sides. My beer bottle lays on its side on the floor. Fortunately, it was already almost gone, so I didn't spill too much. In one gulp, I down the last of it and turn toward the kitchen counter where the painkillers wait for me.

Swallowing the pill, I turn to pick the stool up and grab the paintbrush. Overwhelmed by the heat and the sweat that coat my body, I strip the t-shirt off my back, toss it to the floor, and stand there in the cold of my darkened apartment. It isn't enough, though, so I make for the window and open it wide to welcome in the bite of the autumn wind. The connection of bare skin to cold air causes every nerve in my body to awaken and I take my place in front of the canvas.

"What's your name?" I ask the empty air of my apartment. "Ezra Greyson. That's your name. Don't ever forget it."

I set the brush to the canvas again and try, try, try to capture the color that floats through my window before it disappears. Maybe for good. But again the brushstrokes fall flat and in a flash of uninhibited anger, I grip the sides of the canvas and throw it against the wall. The frame splinters, the canvas torn between two halves.

On the wall above the broken canvas hang dozens of scattered sketches and portraits – the faces of people I once knew and loved. People who exist only inside my head. People who will never know breath. All these faces are attempts on my part to somehow capture what it means to be human, to breathe, to live, to feel anything other than the sting of guilt.

I fall to my knees and look up, considering each piece. This is who I was supposed to be – the kind of man who taught the world how to feel again. But that's hard to do when I can't even teach myself.

Fatigue settles over me like a heavy blanket and soon I fall to my side and drift off to sleep right there on the floor.

When I wake, every muscle and bone in my body punishes me for my poor sleeping habits. With a stretch and a groan, I peel myself from the hardwood floor. I strip my jeans and boxers off and leave them there in the middle of the floor as I make my way toward the bathroom to get myself ready for another rousing day of work. I hop in the shower, offering a flimsy prayer that Bob won't be there to make my day a million times worse.

As I dry off I turn to my closet and ponder for a minute what to wear. I don't feel like wearing the mandatory polo shirt. It's itchy and way too tight. So with a measure of defiance I decide to throw on a plain white t-shirt and my faux-leather biker jacket. Besides, this will make me more intimidating to the new guy – which is very important when training someone new. You don't want them to think they can come into your territory and act like they own the place.

Grabbing my keys off the kitchen counter, I offer a glance at the broken canvas and almost move to clean up the mess I made, but decide to leave it and turn to leave instead. I lock the door behind me and grind my teeth as I take the stairs down to the ground floor of the building.

When I get to work, the new guy is already here and waiting for me in the chair outside Bob's office. His bony knee bounces up and down as he chews on his lip, eyes darting all over the place. Erratic. Not a good quality for someone working in customer service. Of course, who am I to judge?

When he sees me, he jumps to his feet and sizes me up. He's a whole head taller than me, but wiry and wholly unintimidating. A trip or two to the gym would do this guy some good.

"Let's go," I say, hanging up my jacket on the coat rack and grabbing one of the bright blue, mesh vests with the mini mart logo on it.

"Aren't we supposed to wear the polo shirts?"

I spin around on my heel to face him, my face only inches from his. "Look," I glance at his name tag – Jerry. "Look, Jerry. Rule Number One: the only way you and I are going to get along here is if you stop pretending that you care about this job. You and I both know that this place is a hellhole. It doesn't care about us and we don't care about it and that's the way things work around here. Got it?"

With a gulp, he offers a sharp nod.

I smile half-heartedly. "Good. Now grab the mop. You've got a bathroom to clean."

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