Interviews With a Painter

Chapter 11: Gus Mosby

I stepped out of the shower and put on my pajamas. It was getting colder and colder at night, and I wanted to be comfortable in bed. Nothing too fancy, just gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. I had a quilt on my bed that would keep me warm enough.
I pulled the covers up over me and got settled in. I had a big bed. Sometimes, I thought about getting a smaller one. I didn't need this much bed anymore, and taking care of the sheets for it on my own was a little more work than I would've liked. But I didn't need a new bed. This one was just fine. I was used to it, even if it was a little lonelier now.
Just as I was getting ready to nod off, though, I heard a knock at my door. Now who on earth could that be? I was a bit of a night owl myself. Watching TV always had me staying up later than I probably should've, but I wouldn't be out and about this late. I checked the time — it was about two in the morning. Everything in town was closed up. There wasn't any reason for anyone to be out this late, unless they were planning something nefarious.
I didn't want to deal with a break-in, though, so I grabbed the shotgun I kept under my bed. It wasn't loaded, but it should scare off anyone who thinks they can rob me. I slowly made my way downstairs and looked out the window onto my front patio.
"Martin?" I asked. He probably couldn't hear me through the window. I opened the door. Sure enough, it was him. I had known Martin for almost two decades now. We were about the same age. I watched his daughter grow up. Now, he looked... tired. Like he had gone for a winter run, but also like he had resigned himself to something — he looked like he had given up. "What the hell are you doing out so late?"
"Gus," said Martin. "It's good to see you, friend."
"Good to see you, too, pal," I said. "But seriously — what brings you here?"
"Well, Gus, you know how I've always been a bit of a painter," said Martin. "Recently, I've started doing portraits of people around town. And I thought to myself, you know who would make a great subject? Gus!"
"You want to paint me?" I asked. "I'm... I'm honored, but it's two in the morning, you know?"
"Do you have somewhere else to be?" asked Martin. "I have to strike while the inspiration's hot. I rushed all my things over here as soon as I thought of you."
"That's..."
"May I come in?" asked Martin. "It's getting chilly out there..."
"Yeah, yeah," I said. I opened the door and let Martin inside.
"Thank you," said Martin. He very quickly got to work setting up an easel. It looked like he was in a terrible hurry. "Oh, and... I'm guessing you just changed, but would you mind putting on some normal clothes for the painting? Don't worry about me. I'll have everything set up for you in just a few minutes. I promise this won't take too long."
"Okay, Martin," I said. I put my shotgun down by the door, quietly and gently. "Are you really okay?"
"Fine," said Martin. He smiled. "Never better, actually."
"You don't look fine," I said. "Fine people don't knock on doors at two in the morning."
"Please, can we ignore the time for now?"
"Are you on drugs?"
"What? No, of course not," said Martin.
"You're a little sweaty," I said. "And you're acting a little strange."
"I'm sober as a judge, Gus," said Martin. "I promise. I'm just feeling... feeling a lot of feelings right now. I have to paint. Please, get changed. I'm very excited to paint a dear friend of mine."
I felt bad. Martin was clearly going through something really tough right now. He wasn't in a good spot. The least I could do for him is to just go along with what he wants for now. Maybe I'd refer Dan to him. Dan was a great help to me getting over my wife's death. I know Martin's relationship with Laura has been rocky recently. Dan could probably help him work through some of his struggles. Painting was a good creative outlet for him. Maybe that would be enough for him. I hoped he was good at it, at least.
I headed back upstairs and quickly got changed into pants, and threw a green sweater on over my t-shirt. It wasn't fancy, but at least I looked a little nicer. I was clean, at least, and so were the clothes. Hopefully it would be good enough for Martin. I headed back downstairs. "What do you think?" I asked.
Martin took two seconds to look me over. "Great, great," he said. "Now, if you could just have a seat right there, I'll get started."
I sat down at the table in the dining room and looked at Martin. He began painting rather quickly. I knew he was a painter, but I had never really seen him in action before. Somehow, he had completely changed from the person he was just a few minutes ago. I felt like I was watching some sort of transformation right in front of me. I couldn't believe my eyes. It's like he was funneling his crazy into his painting. It was actively calming him down — I watched him begin to relax. "Does painting take your mind off of things?" I asked.
"It certainly does," Martin said. "I've always felt at the top of my game when I'm painting. Even if I know I'm not, or if I can't control the world around me, I can control what I paint."
"Must be nice," I said. "I never really had a productive outlet in my life."
"Surely there was something you liked to do? I remember you used to talk about pool all the time."
"Well, I played pool every once in a while," I said. "But I wasn't exactly the best at it. All the sharks in town were way outta my league. They all wanted to play with cash, so I got priced out of that pretty quickly."
"You never practiced? Never tried to reach their level?"
"I practiced, sure," I said. "Still do, sometimes. But it's not something I'll ever be one of the greats at."
"There's nothing else you can do?" asked Martin. "Maybe you just haven't found your thing yet."
"Maybe," I said. "But Martin, not all of us have a thing. Sometimes, guys like me just go on through life without worrying about being the best at something. Or even really all that good at something."
"That seems like a missed opportunity," said Martin. "You should pursue your dreams, Gus."
"My dream died years ago, Martin," I said. "You know that."
Martin went silent. I didn't have to spell out what that meant for him. He continued to paint for a while before piping up again. "You know, Gus, we had a lot of fun over these past few years, didn't we?"
"Sure, Martin," I said. His tone sounded... final. "What are you implying?"
"Oh, nothing," said Martin. "Just... maybe that's your thing. Being a good friend."
"I like that," I said. I smiled. "I don't know that I always was a good friend, but it was something I tried at, at least."
"See? There we go!" I said. "Maybe everyone does have a thing after all. When you put it that way, my painting doesn't sound so impressive anymore."
"Don't kid yourself, Martin," I said. "You were a good friend, too."
"I wouldn't say that," Martin said. He looked grim. "I was not in a good place during the divorce. I made mistakes that I'll have to atone for."
"You still worked hard at your job," I said. "Hell, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you took most of it without missing a beat. It was almost uncanny. I know you had a tendency to shut people out after it happened."
"Yet, you were there for me, weren't you?" said Martin. "Through my worst moments, Gus, you were there for me. I used you as a crutch. That's not being a good friend."
"You helped me out, too," I said. "Though you may not have realized it. Looking at how you handled the death of your wife helped me come to terms with the death of mine."
"They aren't the same, Gus," said Martin. "My wife left me before she died. Yours didn't."
"All the same, I looked up to you," I said. "Even if you didn't think you were there for me, Martin, you were. You had an impact on my life."
Martin sighed. "I suppose our fates are just intertwined, then."
"Maybe so," I said.
"The painting's almost done," said Martin. He seemed hesitant to finish it now. I noticed his manic efficiency had slowed down. Maybe talking things out with someone had cooled him off a bit. That was good news, at least. To be completely honest, Martin and I weren't really all that close, but I felt the need to do what I could to help a brother in need. I saw it all the time in the army. Someone would go crazy, I'd give him a few words of reassurance, and he'd get his head on straight.
"Hey, Martin," I said, "so this painting thing you've got here. Is that why we haven't seen you at work recently?"
"That's part of it," said Martin. "There's another part of it, too, though."
"What's the other part of it?" I asked.
Martin gave a weak smile. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt anything to tell you," he said. "I just don't like it when people see me as weak."
"Martin, you've always been strong," I said. "Shit, you beat half the guys on the floor at arm wrestling without even trying. The other half you still beat every once in a while, too."
"Gus... I've got pancreatic cancer."
The smile on my face faded. "Martin."
"I didn't catch it early enough," said Martin. I've got, if I'm lucky, three years to live."
"Then you don't take two weeks of sick pay!" I said. "You retire and spend time with your daughter!"
"I just want something to leave her when I'm gone," said Martin. "These paintings... art is worthless without a story. Attach a story to it, and even simple pieces can become priceless."
"So the story is what? You run around making paintings until you die, and then that's supposed to make them skyrocket in value?"
"There's a bit more to it than that," said Martin. "But, you seem to have gotten the basic gist of it."
"What I've gotten the gist of is that you need to spend time with Laura, ASAP," I said. "Seriously. Does she even know?"
Martin shook his head.
"Martin..."
"I have to look strong for her, Gus," Martin said. He dipped his brush into his palette and began painting again. "Be strong for her."
"She'll think you're a coward if you run and hide from this," I said. "She'll hate you for not spending you last years with her."
"And what would that accomplish?" said Martin. "She watches me wither away into nothing? I take her time, I take her energy, I take her life from her? For what? A few miserable years?"
"She would do it gladly," I said. "She loves you. Don't you love her?"
"I want what's best for my daughter," said Martin. "These paintings are what's best for her. I've already failed as a father to her. The best I can do now is to provide for her. I can't do that if I'm dead, unless these paintings have meaning."
"And how do you plan to give them meaning?"
Martin put his brush down. "Why don't you come have a look at this," he said. "I'm going to get a drink of water." He headed to the kitchen.
I stood up and looked at the painting. It was me, all right. The painting was warm, happy. He had captured my dark skin perfectly. I was putting on the pounds, I won't lie, but in this image I didn't seem fat. Just... jolly. Colors danced around my sweater, making me look far more fashionable than I actually did. My wire-rimmed glasses brought out the life in my eyes. The painting was inviting. I had never really connected with the world of art before, but what Martin had made here was genuinely impressive.
Martin returned. He had a glass of water in his hand. "Here you go," he said. "I had mine in there. Sorry for the intrusion."
"No worries," I said. "But Martin, please consider what I said. About seeing your daughter. You'll do that for me?"
"I'll consider it," said Martin.
"Good enough for me," I said. I took a sip of the water he handed me.
Something was wrong. The smell made my nostrils curl. But I had already put the water in my mouth. Something told me it wasn't water. Before I could spit it out, Martin had already moved toward me. He pinched my nose shut and slammed my jaw into my skull, locking my mouth shut. He covered it with his hand and pinned me to the wall.
I would have to swallow, or asphyxiate. I had no choice. The burning sensation got stronger. Was that bleach? Did he force me to drink bleach? I couldn't ask questions, but Martin was free to talk. "I really didn't want it to be you, Gus," he said.
I had no idea what he was talking about. Martin watched my throat, and waited until I swallowed. I had to. The burning in my throat was unbearable. I screamed through his gloved hand. I screamed, and screamed some more. I wasn't kidding about the arm wrestling thing. Martin was strong — I could try and knock him to the ground with a leg sweep, but I was out of shape. I reached my hands out to grab his neck and put pressure on his windpipe. Martin let me go, and I collapsed to the ground. I didn't have the strength to actually choke him out. I started coughing. Martin grabbed the bottle of bleach from under the sink. It was a gallon bottle. He grabbed me by my hair and forced the open bottle into my mouth. Bleach would keep spilling all over the place, but now that I was on the ground, I couldn't get him off of me. He plugged my nose again and kept the bleach pouring into my throat. I couldn't do anything to stop him. My eyes watered. My throat was on fire, and my stomach was starting to feel the burn, too. I felt dizzy and nauseous. I was going to pass out any minute now, and to be honest, I welcomed it. The pain was unbearable. I was completely helpless. Helpless and suffering.
Why? Why did Martin have to do this? We were friends, weren't we? Is it because he told me about the cancer thing? I didn't understand. I certainly couldn't ask him.
I felt my consciousness fading. I wasn't coughing as much. Maybe I had given up. Bleach was everywhere. Martin had made a terrible mess of the place. I didn't have the strength to flail around anymore. Martin got off of me, and pulled something that looked like a file out from his bag. He put it on the table. "Stay down," he said. "I'm sorry it couldn't be cleaner."
I tried to speak, but my vocal chords were shot. I just ended up gasping weakly.
Martin took the painting of me with him and started packing his bag up. My eyes closed. I wasn't capable of moving anymore. Someone would have to save me, but I couldn't cry for help. While I felt completely betrayed, the last thing I saw before I was completely gone was the look in Martin's eyes. He looked genuinely sad — as if this was some sort of obligation for him. A point of conflict. He didn't want to do this, at all.
Martin walked out of my home, and as I was dying on the floor, the last thing I could think about was whether or not his plan would work.