THE MAN WHO PAINTS

Strolling the Saturday Market, I come across a man who doesn’t belong. He doesn’t have a vendor stall like everyone else.

His eyes are clear, and the bright blue colour is oddly unsettling. He’s carefully watching the passing shoppers. He does not speak but occasionally nods and smiles. His teeth have seen much better days. They are mostly light brown except for the gold one, front center.

His gray-speckled beard is straggly. Food-stained yellow around the lips. Or perhaps from far too many unfiltered cigarettes. The thin, wispy hair is in desperate need of a good washing. Several different coloured shirts are layered beneath a well-worn canvas outdoor coat. The pants appear to be a nylon windproof. The cuffs are frayed and dirty. His boots, newish with thick rubber soles, seem too big for his feet. An Army Surplus backpack that looks like it has recently been to Afghanistan or maybe Ukraine lies beside him. A couple of hours ago, he was probably at one of the stoplights downtown, asking motorists for loose change.

But now the man is here. At the market. And he shouldn’t be.

But no one seems to mind.

The man has set up at the end of the first row of stalls closest to the main street. An upturned yellow Lumber Mart pail for a seat, a small easel beside, with a lightly soiled canvas that looked like it had been rescued from a waste bin that had refused to give it up easily.

Spread out on his knees is a battered tin tray with watercolour paints and two brushes alongside – one fine, the other a bit thicker. They look expensive, which doesn’t fit with the rest of him. On the ground, between his legs, is a white paper coffee cup cut down to one-third size. It’s empty.

A rough-cut cardboard sign leans precariously against the easel. The printing is done in careful, wide letters. That surprises me.

I will paint you.

Free.

Not everyone accepted.

Ask me.

I pause in front of him. I’d intended to continue on by looking for Dailey’s Apples.

But I stop.

He nods. Smiles.

I return his gaze.

‘You interested, sir?’

My mouth answers before it consults with my brain.

‘Yeah, I might be. What’s the deal?’

I flutter my fingers at everything, then point at his sign.

‘Not everyone accepted?’ I ask.

He smiles. The blue eyes quickly take me in. Top to bottom. Then return to my gaze.

‘Not everyone, sir. It’s all about energy. If I feel it coming off you, I’ll do your painting. If I don’t, well then, I’ll tell you where you can find the apple guy.’

How in hell did he know I was looking for Dailey’s? That’s just too weird.

I stare back at him. He’s waiting for me to ask.

‘Well?’  I pause. “Do I? Have the energy, I mean.’

‘Yep. I’ll paint you, sir. But first, there’s something you must do.’

He leans over between his legs, picks up the coffee cup, and gently offers it to me.

‘Put out your hand, sir. The left, please.’

I have a sudden feeling that, for him, the cup is the most precious possession he has.

I take the cup and nod.

‘Thanks. What do I do with it?’

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘That’s the tough part.’ He rearranges himself on the upturned bucket and leans toward me. He whispers.

‘I need you to put some of your tears in it. Not a lot. But some. Enough to wet the bottom of the cup.’

He pauses, carefully gauging my reaction to his request.

What the hell? My tears? Into a cup?

But in that weird moment, it feels like a totally reasonable request.

‘You want them now? Right here in the aisle?’

‘Whatever works for you, sir.’

That smile again.

‘If I may offer a suggestion? It helps to think about one of the saddest times of your life. Get into it. Let yourself go. When the tears start down your cheeks, collect them into the cup. Won’t take long before you have enough.’

He pauses.

‘Trust me, sir.’

People are rushing by. It’s noisy as Farmer’s Markets always are. The guy wants me to cry. On the spot. Out in public. No walking away and doing it in private.

‘OK, give me a couple of minutes.’

‘Take your time, sir. Such things, I know, they’re never easy.’

All at once, my world collapses inward. There’s only this guy and me. Nothing else matters right now.

The saddest time in my life? That’s easy. It’s my wife. She died a couple months ago. ALS. It was nasty. When she passed, my entire world became empty. I miss her terribly. I miss our intimacy. Her laugh. I miss the way she played joyously with our dogs. I miss her touch. I miss her smell. I miss the way she sorted and folded the laundry. For her, it had to be freshly warm right out of the dryer. I miss –

The man interrupts my thoughts.

‘Yes, sir. She was truly a special woman.’

There’s a sadness to his voice. ‘To be married for fifty-four years – well, these days, it’s a very long time.’

My god, how does he know about her? Know what I was thinking and feeling? Know how long we were married?

He’s a stranger to me. And yet, at this moment, he isn’t.

My cheeks are slick with tears. I place the cup on the left, then the right, back and forth until I have the bottom of the cup and then some—probably much more than he wants.

Silently, I hand back his cup. He glances inside. Gives a soft grunt.

‘Thank you, sir. Now it begins.’

He smiles.

He gets up from the pail, re-positioning it a couple of feet to the left. He picks up the easel and turns it slightly away from me. Just enough that I can’t see the full canvas.

He dips the thin-tipped brush into the cup and swirls it a bit in my tears. He removes the brush and places the wet tip onto a small pad of black powder in his tray. A line. Then another. Then many. There are many changes of brushes and colours. He dips into my tears, swirls, removes it, and then mixes it into the paint powders. I imagine sharp lines and colourful swaths are being placed onto the canvas.

I watch him intently working on the painting. He’s not looking back at me.

I’m standing a few feet away in the river of people pushing by. Minutes pass. I’ve no idea of time. The Saturday Market? It no longer exists for me.

He looks up.

‘I’m done.’ A pause. ‘Come close.’

He beckons me in from the aisle with a paintbrush still in hand.

He stands and steps aside to make way.

His painting sucks the air from my lungs in a wet gush.

This man, a stranger, has painted my wife perfectly. She’s smiling the way she always did – the slight promise of mischief always about to happen. She’s wearing her favorite blue sweatshirt, the one with the Orca on it. On the left hand is her sapphire wedding ring I gave to her in India many years ago.

His skill with watercolours is remarkable.

It’s as if I’m staring at her photograph.

‘My work here is done.’ He starts gathering up his things.

I’m looking at him, but words cannot come.

‘You’re wondering how,’ he smiles. ‘Well, sir, I’ll tell you a secret.’

Picking up the coffee cup, he examines it carefully, slowly turning it this way and that. Satisfied, he places it gently inside a glass jar wrapped in gray duct tape, screws down the metal lid, and slips it deep into the center fold of his backpack.

‘It’s the tears, sir. It’s all in your tears.’ 

First Published. September 17, 2024, in the American online magazine - A Thin Slice Of Anxiety.

The Backstory. I had a dream. It was emotionally powerful, and I awoke with a start. As so often happens in such matters, I could only remember a vague plot and character outline and the words which are the title of this piece. But I knew I must write about it right then. I began to write just after 3 am and by 8 am, I had a first draft.

Legal Rights. I own the rights to this story. Please don't 'borrow' it from this blog and publish it somewhere without my permission. Ask me. Tell me what you want to do with it. We will probably be able to work something out.