The Painting

The Painting

There was this painting that hung on the wall of my parents' house. It was some Salvador Dali type bullshit: melting pianos and violins with slim ladies standing awkwardly in the background. And the worst part about it was that my parents had it encased in a golden frame like it was a royal artifact. It wasn't even an original.

No matter how much I tried to ignore it, the painting stared at me. This was especially so when Sarah was over.

"What'd you think of that?" She asked me one day.

"Amazing. What do theater people say? Bravo? You were bravo."

She laughed. "I don't think you're using that right."

"I'm sure I'm close enough! Did you want to try it again?" Sarah was practicing her lines with me. I sat at my kitchen table, the painting behind me, while she performed.

"Yes. It's my first show, I've got to - to..."

"Dazzle? That sounds theater-y."

"Will you stop?" She smiled. Sarah's smile was amazing - especially when she was passionate about something. It was big and goofy, the way it stretched the skin on her face. And it was pure; it went deeper than just her lips. "But, yes. I've got to dazzle the director."

She performed her long monologue again. I took peeks at the script while she spoke.

She finished. "I don't know how you do it," I said.

"Do what?"

"How you don't miss any words or anything. I swear you don't even miss any punctuation."

"Oh, stop!"

"No, really. You didn't. I don't get how you do it. It's incredible - almost unbelievable." Quickly, the eyes of the painting began to beam down on me.

"Was it... bravo?" She smiled again.

Silence. "Vic?" She asked.

"What do you think of this painting?" I had already turned to look at it.

"I love it. Why do you ask?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, of course I love it. It's wonderful. Dazzling." She chuckled. "Don't you like it?"

"Not at all."

"What?" Her blonde hair jumped with her body. "Why not?"

"There's no point to it. It's just random things thrown together, you know?"

"Well, not everything has to have a point. It's pretty."

"It's nonsense. It's like a speech from a baby. Sure, their voices can be cute or pretty or whatever, but they don't say anything worth repeating. People don't record pretty baby voices and put them into museums, do they? It wouldn't make sense."

"No," she laughed, "they don't do that. But some people like this kind of stuff a lot. Me included."

"I'm not."

"I know that now. I would've thought you liked it, though."

"And why is that?"

"You're always looking over your shoulder at it. And isn't this the thing you named your band after too?"

"The Melted Men?"

"Exactly! I would've thought you came up with the name because you loved the painting or because it was always on your mind. Like, an influence in your music or something."

"I mean, it is on my mind. But I don't like it."

"This sounds like an elementary school crush or something: I think you looooove the painting."

"No. I don't. I have to pass by the stupid thing every day just to leave my house. How could it not be on my mind? I'm forced to look at it."

"Okay, I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"Will you play a song for me?" This was her way of cooling down, whether it be from study sessions, deep conversations, or uncomfortable situations. It was a usual request of hers.

"Yeah, of course." I got my guitar and sat back down at my seat, she was sitting next to me.

"I'm excited. What are you going to play for me?"

"Just another cover." The Melted Men only played covers and we never quite graduated to writing our own songs. To tell the truth, I was tired of just emulating others. I knew if we started writing our own stuff it would have been good. Sarah would have thought so at least.

"Just another cover? Please! You always sound amazing and make it your own. Play it for me!" Admittedly, Sarah was our biggest fan.

"Okay, but, look, I just learned this song and I still mess up the words in the middle. They're kind of similar and..."

"Vic. Play it please."

So I did. And I messed up the words in the middle just like I thought I would. When I finished, she clapped and ignored my mistakes.

"Wow. I like that one a lot."

"Me too. Sorry about messing up."

"Oh stop. I didn't even notice. That one might be my new favorite."

I thanked her, but I knew she was only saying this. The mistakes were glaring like the painting behind me. I wondered how I could mess up words so often while she never missed one. For a moment, I flamed with jealousy. It was unfair.

"No, no. Thank you! That was fantastic. Truly." She extinguished the heat boiling in my cheeks with her smile. "Will I hear that at the next Melted Men concert?"

"Maybe, if I can get the guys together enough to actually rehearse it," I chuckled. "And if we can sell enough tickets to actually justify a show."

"You will sell enough tickets."

"I don't know. We're like Mrs. Randolph's supposed husband: thought to not exist by most and not cared about by anyone."

She laughed. "That crazy bitch. I swear he's imaginary. She constantly says he'll come sit in on a rehearsal, then he isn't there, and then the next one she tells us he was saying how amazing it was looking."

M(r)s. Randolph was the part-time theater director and a full-time psycho. She had a never ending list of anecdotes about her "husband" that seemed too spectacular to even be fiction. Also, she didn't wear a ring - not that she had to, but when someone talks about someone or something so much, I think they either love them or want to be them. I imagined this situation constituted as love. So, love + marriage = ring, right? Thus, 0 ring should = 0 marriage.

"Exactly. By the way, how's spending so much time with her."

"Excruciating." Her eyes rolled. "But what you said isn't true. Some people really like and care about you guys."

"I guess. I just want everyone to love us. I want everyone to think we're amazing."

"Well, I think you're amazing."

"Thanks. You want to keep running your lines?"

"You're right, we probably should."

And so we did for another hour or so. After we finished, she told me again how much she loved my playing and singing. She hugged me at the door, then left.

Weeks later, she performed in the play at our high school. I saw it twice. My review of the show: Eh. My review of her: Wow. She's the kind of actress you watch even when she's not talking just to see if she's as good in the background as she is in the spotlight - she is. I knew she was good, but you really don't know how good someone is until you see them glowing on stage while you're looking up at them in the theater's darkness.

I met up with her after one performance to tell her how amazing she was.

"Oh shush! You're too kind." She said. The stage makeup that still circled her eyes made them pop even more.

"I couldn't stop watching you. You were so good."

"Oh, I just say the lines, that's all. Acting isn't too hard; you just say the lines and pretend to be someone else."

"Well, you're a fantastic actress. So cool to watch."

"Now you're just flattering me, Vic!"

"Was it fun to do and everything?"

"It was a blast. I love it. It makes me feel like a little kid again, acting. I just imagine I'm in my backyard pretending, like when we used to play together." She smiled big.

"Imagine you're pretending? You're such a goof!"

"Well, now I sound crazy."

"I'm just messing with you. That's great. I'm so glad I got to see it." I hugged her.

"Me too," she said and then pulled me in tighter, "me too."

Other people saw the play and loved it, and Sarah, as much as I did. Maybe even more than I did which didn't make sense. I was the one who ran lines with her. I was the one who helped her cool down. If anyone should have loved it most, it should have been me.

I didn't see Sarah that whole next week because she was always crowded by at least three other people, congratulating her on her performance. I just caught glimpses of that big stupid smile of hers.

I began to hate it. She was fantastic, I already knew that - I went and saw it. Still, I couldn't take a step in the hall without being asked if I saw it or overhearing how everyone wished they had seen it more times. No one cared or even knew that I helped her. I suppose I should have expected that. Rocky's movies are called "Rocky," not "Rocky's Trainer." But that didn't stop it from hurting to know that she was on stage and I was stuck in the darkness in more than just the theater.

After that week, I stopped covering songs and began writing my own. I wasn't going to be limited by the Melted Men for any longer. They were what kept me from being the one talked about.

I sat up in my room strumming and thinking through chord progressions all day for a week. The moon often became my source of natural light as I wrote and scratched out lyrics.

Then one night, I finally finished a song. I must have stayed up playing and singing it for as long as it took me to make, probably longer. My fingers flowed from fret to fret, my voice rang inside my room, the words coursed through my veins, and my heart fluttered. I felt weightless. Had I made something really special? I kept playing it. I kept feeling weightless. Sarah was going to love it. She was going to wish she was as good as me.

When the next play rolled around, and Sarah was preparing a new monologue, I was happy to have her over. It was the perfect time to unveil my new project.

I sat at my usual spot at the kitchen table while she performed for me. She tried her piece over, trying different movements and emphasizing different parts each time.

"How's it sound? What do you think works?"

"Oh, I don't know. You're the big actress now." But when I really thought about it, she wasn't. Seeing her under the light of my kitchen seemed to make her less - less magical. She was good and all, but she wasn't an untouchable actress. She was just Sarah. She memorized text and gave inflections at the right moments most of the time. I realized she was no better than me. Just lucky once.

She laughed. I didn't. "But I trust your opinion. I value it. That's why I come here. If I wanted to drive myself insane trying to figure out what I liked best, then I'd just do it in front of a mirror."

I told her which way I liked best. She took a deep breath and redid it, adding more feeling and purpose this time.

She finished, paused, and then came back to life. "How was that?"

"Fine. Don't drop to your knees, though. It's cheesy."

"Oh my god. I can't believe I did that. I tried my best not to cringe." She shook her head. "But, besides that, it was good?"

"Definitely. You'll be great. Like always."

"You're so sweet." Her stupid smile stretched her face.

"Want me to play a new song for you?"

Her blue eyes shined. "I'd love that!" And she sat down.

I was already up and running to my room. "I've got something good planned for you."

"You always do."

I came back to the table quickly. "This one doesn't have a title yet."

"Whose it by?"

"I made it."

"You did? No way! Some Melted Men originals?"

"Actually, this is just a Vic song. I think I'm going to do my own thing for a little bit, you know?"

"A Vic song, huh? I like the sound of that."

"I think you'll like it."

"Oh, I'm sure I will. I'd love it if you played Mary Had a Little Lamb! I'm, like, your biggest fan." She giggled and tried to hide her mouth with her hand. "Play it for me already!

I played it for her the best I ever played it. She never stopped smiling. I hoped that every time she looked at the neck of the guitar, she was in awe. I hoped that she was wishing she had come up with the words I sang. I hoped, with every drop of me, that the smile she had plastered on her face was to hide the fact she wished she was as good as me. I worked hard to make that song. It wasn't just a random bit of luck.

"Vic. That was fabulous. Seriously! You're so talented. I can already see your name up in lights." She hugged me.

"Well, I hope other people think so too. I need more people than just you to like it."

"They will. I can't believe you wrote that."

"Do you not think I'm good enough or something?"

"Oh shush! It was just so good. I'm so proud of you, that's all. You've gotten so good at what you do."

"Well, thank you." I looked away before her lips distorted her face again.

"You should put it somewhere, on the internet or something. People are going to want to hear it. I promise you that. If they love it half as much as I do, you'll have a hit!"

"That's not a bad idea at all."

"One of my brother's friends is on this website where musicians post their music and other musicians can comment and review the stuff. You should put it on there."

"I will, probably. Thanks."

"Thank you for letting me hear it. I'm honored, Vic. Truly. It was bravo."

"Yeah, totally."

We paused for a moment. She looked at me, then beyond.

"It's funny, I feel like when you're famous from playing music, even if it's just you and you're not with the Melted Men, you should have that painting as the backdrop for your stage at concerts. It could just be that I've always watched you play with it behind you, but I think it adds a certain something, you know?"

"No." I laughed, "I'd never do that."

"Oh, right, because you hate it!"

"I don't hate it, I just think it's a stupid painting."

"You hate it."

"I just think the painter was lucky. The picture has no reason to be famous or even liked. I mean, look at it. It's goofy as hell. You can't say the painter knew that a bunch of melting instruments would really knock everyone's socks off. It was luck. He got the perfect amount of high and painted what he saw - at least that's what I think happened. He's got to be laughing in his grave right now because we bought it. I'm sure he's losing his shit over the fact that my parents put it in our kitchen and framed it."

"Maybe you're right. But I still think it's pretty."

"I guess."

"It is pretty. Really. And, honestly, I think it makes it even prettier if he didn't think about what he was doing, or if he was high, or whatever and just did it. Because that means he had an innate sense of what people would like. And I think that's beautiful."

"Beautiful? It's luck. Is it beautiful when someone wins the lottery? I don't think so."

"I don't think those things are comparable, Vic."

"Whatever. I hate the painting, okay?"

"At least you finally admitted it." She laughed.

I laughed too - sort of. Not long after, she left. Once she was gone, I recorded the song into my computer and uploaded it to the website she told me about.

The next few days passed and I checked the website to see if I had received any feedback. I was surprised to find several reviews were waiting for me. All of them had paragraphs of criticism. They were all the same: a short bit about the good and then a novel about the bad. I closed out of the reviews before I got too deep into them. What the hell did they know? I didn't want their opinion anymore. Sure, I'm glad they listened and all, but that doesn't give them a right to act like their god's gift to music. I knew that not everyone was going to like it, but I didn't think that everyone was going to have a million ideas of how to change it. My song was good. Better than any of my reviewers stuff, that's for sure - I checked.

Nobody gave Sarah criticism on her performance. And she didn't even make anything new, she just recited lines! She's not that special. If I wasn't special, there was no way she was. We were the same. Only she did theater while I played guitar.

"I want to try out for the play too," I said one day after school.

"You do? Yes! You should. You'd be so great. I'm so excited!"

"Yeah, I do. I need a monologue, though, don't I?"

Just do the same one I'm doing. You've already heard it like a million times because of me, you probably already know some of it." She finished putting her books into her locker and closed it.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. It only took me like an afternoon to learn, like half an hour actually. You're free to use it. Really. Plenty of people are going to be doing it."

"Thanks. And auditions are this Friday?"

"They sure are. I've actually got to get going home, but I'll see you there?"

"Yes. Yes, you will." I told her. Then we turned and went opposite ways.

The week went by and soon it was time for the audition. I practiced each night and took the monologue in a different, better direction than Sarah. I could do this. I was going to be better than she was too. After all, she came to me for advice. And I spent more than just a "half hour" on it.

I walked into the auditorium on Friday, signed up for a time, and sat down to wait for my turn. Sarah came in after, and sat down next to me after also picking a time. We were equals in this moment, sitting in the same seats, auditioning for the same play. And in a few weeks, I was going to be the star while she was in the black offstage.

We watched for some time as other actors and actresses attempted, and failed at, monologues from classic and contemporary plays. I held back some laughs during some of the more pathetic performances.

Before long, it was Sarah's turn to go up. I watched her intently. She got to the stage and stood in the center. I cringed when she introduced herself and the work she was reading from. The pseudo sweetness oozed from her mouth, acting like she didn't know she was the best one there. There was something different about her when she was on stage than when she was sitting next to me. I didn't know what it was. Then, she started moving around and performing her monologue. She looked beautiful and natural. I hated watching her. I looked away. But I couldn't stop hearing her voice, it cut through me. Finally, I looked up at the end of the piece and watched as she slammed to her knees and called out the last lines. I started crying. And once she smiled that big stupid smile of hers, I knew what separated me from her. At that moment I knew she was and would always be a star on stage, while I would have only been someone under lights. I was never going to impress everyone. I was unspectacular. I was nothing. I left the auditorium immediately.

I got home and slammed the door. Once to the kitchen, I came face to face with the painting that hung there. The ladies in it laughed at me. "I hate you!" I yelled at the painting. The ladies only laughed harder and the pianos melted more as the room felt hotter. In a sweat, I tore off my shirt and pants. I couldn't get comfortable. I paced the kitchen - the painting kept laughing. I didn't know what to do. I screamed.

Then, I got an idea.

I snatched the painting off the wall, threw it onto the floor, and began stomping on it.

The doorbell rang soon after. Without bothering to put my clothes back on, I opened the door. It was Sarah! I couldn't believe she was in front of me. I hated her. I hated her so much. Why couldn't I remember all the words to things? Why did nobody fall in love with me because of my talent? Why won't I ever have anything framed in gold? I wanted to punch her. I wanted to throw her away from me.

"Vic!" She said, seeing my tears and the painting on the floor. She hugged me in the doorway. "I love you."

"I love you too." I sobbed in her arms. "I love you so much."

We pulled away to look at each other. She smiled, all big and goofy. And for just a second, a thought - a desire - took hold of me. I imagined biting her lips off and swallowing them.