Artist

           Some days I wander around feeling hollow, feeling like nothing will ever fill that hole that got drilled in me at some point and allowed everything to drain out. Unless you find some way of patching that hole, it doesn’t matter how much you take in, it’ll all just keep dripping out. The best you can do is hope it does so slowly enough to allow you to keep on running.

          Today is one of those days. I spend the day wandering aimlessly around town, not wasting my time exactly but not really using it wisely, either. On the bus back home, I bump into a woman who lives near me. I’ve seen her for years but I’ve long since forgotten her name and it’s too late to ask now. She knows mine though, and today she comes and sits near me and starts talking about some doctor appointment she had to get her meds changed and it was way out on 140th street and she couldn’t figure out where the bus stop was and then the Blazers played a lousy game.

While I have absolutely no interest in basketball, for the past few years I’ve been delighted to see their star player mentioned in the headlines. “McCollum Emerges as a Team Leader.” “McCollum Donates 40K to Vaccine Research.” Now I say to her, “I see they’re losing McCollum.” Speaking my own name aloud in public is oddly thrilling. She tells me she thinks he’s already gone.

          When I first met her, she was getting on the bus in front of the methadone clinic. She has since cleaned up her life and has a steady job. Despite all she’s been through, she is unfailingly sunny and friendly. Lately she’s taken to wearing rhinestones and wigs and the longest false eyelashes I’ve seen outside of Darcelle’s. She’s younger than me but she looks much older. Her hands are tiny and gray and always look filthy. 

         We get off at the same stop and walk toward her building, which is directly across the bridge from mine. At the intersection four cop cars are parked at crazy angles, blocking traffic. A man is strutting around in the middle of the street, completely naked. He’s tall and fairly well put together for, you know, someone running around completely naked in broad daylight. He’s yammering on excitedly and the cops are still at that stage where they’re trying to reason with him, or at least get him to not do his thing in the middle of the busy street. He points at me and shouts, “Hey I know this man! I know this man! He is a very accomplished artist! A very accomplished artist!” I look around, wondering if he’s talking about someone else, but there’s no one there. The cops don’t even glance at me as the man continues to strut around and gesticulate erratically. I have never seen this man before but somehow he knows me. He knows me, and sees that I am someone special. A generous donor. A team leader. A very accomplished artist.