The Artiste

Word count 300

The Artiste

         “Why aren’t you dressed?” The woman commanding me orbited my body like some out-of-sync moon, making me dizzy.

         “I don’t like the clothes you picked. I do own…”

         She wasn’t paying attention. All her energies were pushed through the cell phone wire attached to her as if it were an umbilical cord to the underworld. She finally ended her call, honing in with malice-filled eyes, as she scrutinized my outfit. “Were you about to say something about your clothes?”

         I shrank a little. “Yes.” I looked at my paint-ridden overalls. “Well, not these.”

         “Did you think that haircut flattering? We could buy a wig.”

         “Then I can be in public without people noticing. Okay.”

         She smirked with disgust. “You need to dress for success. Everyone who’s anyone will be at your show tonight. You’re an artiste, not some housepainter from Queens. I’ve arranged for perfect foods, the best champagne. Of course the limo will deliver us.”

         Delivered. How appropriate, birthing from a vehicle’s belly.

         “People clamor after your paintings; you’ve become an overnight phenomenon. You’re on top, there’s no turning back, we have to keep your name out there. Baby, you’re the next Michelangelo.”

         More likely Michelob. “What’s wrong with a housepainter from anywhere?”

         “Nothing, if you’re one of the boring nothings not creating vitality for the world. You should be happy you’re not one of them.”

         Good to know. “My fans are waiting. Since I’m so phenomenal, I won’t need your nothingness ruining my name. You’re fired.”

         I loved watching the vein on her face jump with the news. I’d been a housepainter by day, struggling artist by night. This overnight phenomenon worked twenty years before the glare of fame blinded. I’d made it on my own thus far. Here’s to another twenty at the top of my game.