Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 4.
Gary was not himself the rest of the morning. He entered the wrong classroom for figure drawing and promptly hurried out when the instructor said,”welcome to advanced watercolor, bodies of water and skyscapes.” Then Gary’s embarrassment doubled when the figure drawing instructor- a well groomed and slender white man in black jeans, a navy blue pullover, and penny loafers- eyed him for being late. And unlike oil painting, this class got down to business within minutes. Unprepared, Gary scrambled to find his sketch pad and pencils as a large, balding still very hairy, middle-aged man disrobed in the middle of the room.
After lunch, Gary spent his free period in a studio meant for students working on projects. As it was the first day of class, only two industrious students were at work when he slipped into the room, one small black man about Gary’s age and a large latino lady sporting orange and green running shoes and hot pink leggings. Headphoned and focused, both artists focused on their work. The quiet suited Gary and he slumped into a red chair in the far corner of the room.
And then, for the third time that day, Gary heard the mumbles. And they clearly came from his backpack.
Ok, let’s do this, he thought. At first he didn’t know what to do. Then Gary unzipped the smallest pocket first. He reached in and pulled out a few scraps of newsprint- used for drawing practice- and his pencil sharpener. Next, he rummaged through the next pocket, larger than the first and mostly empty. Gary sat back in his chair for a moment before he heard it again.
“Muh, meh, meah,” responded the mumbler.
Instantly, Gary felt his heart in the throat and was more aware of his chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath. He hesitated before opening the last and largest compartment of his backpack. Part of Gary wanted the mumbler to speak again and part of him wanted the prank to resolve itself. After a beat, he turned his ahead as though what lay inside might attack him and slowly pulled the zipper up one side of the pack across the top and down the other side. He did not reach inside but sat afraid of what was to come.
“I won’t bite, Gary. I’m in here.” said a distinctly female voice.
This is crazy, Gary admitted. My backpack is talking to me.
“Not your backpack. I’m a paint brush. My name’s Mary,” the voice responded.
Gary didn’t know if he should cry or run, but he remained frozen to his seat.
“You’re not crazy Gary,” the voice continued from inside the backpack. “I assume you don’t know many talking paint brushes, do you?”
“N-no,” He finally stuttered.
“Ah. Well that makes sense. May I make a request?”
Gary slowly began to find humor in the moment, relieved the by the gentle voice. This will make one hell of a story for a therapist, he mused.
“A therapist? Why a therapist?” she responded as though reading his thoughts.
Giving into the situation, Gary finally found his courage and answered,”First, what’s your request? And two, either I’m losing my shit, or…I’m losing my shit.”
“I can assure you Gary, I’m real. And you are not losing your wits or sanity.”
“Solid,” Gary quipped sarcastically. “Good to know.”
“As for my request, can you take me out of your backpack? It’s dark in here and I much prefer the light like I experienced earlier today.”
“Right, that was you who said ‘thank you’ earlier today.”
“Yes. I am quite polite.”
Then Gary reached into the darkness and fumbled around until he heard laughter and giggling.
“That’s me Gary. You have me.”
And with that, Gary Mellmack met his paint brush, face to face.
