I sat perched atop an 8 foot ladder, holding a gallon paint can in one hand and a 3 inch brush in the other. My wrist ached from making random X patterns just like in the instructional video for faux finishes. What the video failed to mention was how frustrating this technique is, especially if it’s not even your walls you are painting. And to make matters worse I was missing the NFC championship game. “How did I get roped into this?” I asked non sotto voce. From the kitchen all I could hear was the clanging of pots and pans. “You hear me?” I asked, almost yelling. There was a loud bang, possibly a pot being flung across the room and then a frustrated, “You’re a big boy. You could have said no.” She was right of course, in a legal sense but practically speaking what could I have done? I sure as hell couldn’t cook meatloaf and mashed potatoes and the TV was easy pot tossing distance from the stove. I sighed as I watched a drop of paint drip off the end of my brush and run down the wall all the way to the baseboard. “How did I get roped into this?” I asked again, this time in a quiet voice but I already knew the answer.

About a week ago I was rummaging through the kitchen looking for something to eat and had found, to my despair, that out of the 4 half-gallon containers of milk in the refrigerator only one contained any amount of milk and its expiration date was sometime last month. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway because none of the dozen or so cereal boxes on the kitchen counter contained more than a few Cheerios lost in a pile of cereal dust. But I was determined to find something to eat and eventually I discovered a can of Campbell’s tomato soup hidden under a pile of used paper towels and some half empty tubes of caulk. Well at least canned soup can’t go bad. I wouldn’t say it was a delicious meal or even a good meal or even a meal but it did take the edge off my hunger enough so that I could go back out to the studio. Later that night, as I lay in bed listening to a book about Paul Dirac, I felt a slight pain in my stomach accompanied by a loud gurgling noise. It was warm under the covers and I was comfortable so I tried to ignore the pain. But it only got worse and two hours later I finished the book while seated on the toilet. The next day I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and looked ruefully at the empty cereal boxes and the various piles of tools. “This is a disaster.” I thought, and it was only getting worse. Now a sensible person would have rolled up their sleeves and started scrubbing but I grabbed a bag of clothes and jumped into the car and headed far away.

We sat opposite each other looking more like a married couple than I ever cared to be. My plate was loaded with a healthy serving of fluffy mashed potatoes and two large slices of a curiously shaped meatloaf. “It sure does smell good.” I said, glancing across the table with a thankful look. “And it tastes even better!” I exclaimed, almost feeling guilty for my half-assed paint job. We ate in silence as I greedily scarfed down mouthfuls of the delicious fare. This was the best meal I’d had in months, like sell your soul to the devil good. She heaped another spoonful of mashed potatoes onto my plate and smiled. Something about that smile gave me pause and mid chew I suddenly realized I was being caught in some sort of Faustian bargain. I swallowed hard and stared suspiciously across the table. “And there’s strawberry shortcake for dessert.” She said, still smiling. Now I was sure I was being had. She knew me well enough to know my Achilles heel is sweets. And I knew myself well enough to know I was not getting up from the table until I had a slice or two or three of dessert, no matter what the consequences. There was no hope for me tonight. But tomorrow I would get up very early, before she had time to cook, and get into the car and drive back home.

My brother sat curled up in the passenger seat, occasionally mumbling or letting out a loud snort. I couldn’t decide if it was funny or annoying but I tried to force a smile because it was 3 AM after all. The car was packed full of art and the seat back was straight up, making for an uncomfortable sleeping position but he seemed to be managing all right. Nate had flown in from Washington DC to help out at a show during his winter break from school. He had never been to Delray Beach, Florida and I promised him a cut of whatever money I made. It was nice having a travel companion even if he slept most of the time. And anyway I really only needed him in case I got a flat and had to unload the entire car in order to get to the spare tire, all while stranded on the side of the interstate in the middle of the night. I was sure he would make up for all the snoring if that ever happened. It’s pretty much a fact that something will go wrong at every show and I usually put odds on the car breaking down but so far I’ve been lucky. Somehow with Nate in the car I wasn’t as worried.

We were on the way back from what had turned out to be a beautiful weekend where nothing had gone wrong. And it wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of opportunities for things to get mucked up. While setting up the tent early on Saturday morning, the 25 mph gusts of wind could have easily turned our booth into a kite. And Nate didn’t help things by constantly staring off at the ocean and commenting on how beautiful the sunrise was. “Yes, it is very beautiful but right now we have to make sure the tent doesn’t blow away.” I had said, not hiding my annoyance. And then there was a brief but torrential downpour that threatened to flood the back of our booth. Nate had bravely volunteered to run out into the rain and rearrange some sandbags without an umbrella or rain jacket and managed to save the day with only a minor wetting of his hair. Perhaps the most dangerous moment of the trip had come when I left Nate sitting at the hotel bar, well into his third beer and showing no signs of quitting. “You’re going to be fine, right?” I asked rhetorically. “Sure, sure. I’m just going to hang out for a bit.” “Yeah right.” I thought and went off to the hotel gym to exercise. I managed to lift weights, run and do about two hours worth of paperwork before he stumbled into the room, a little bleary-eyed and full of stories about his new airline friends and the pretty Polish bartender. After a brief struggle to undress he made it to his bed, sent a few text messages and was asleep in minutes. “Well that wasn’t bad at all.” I thought.

On Sunday it was me and not Nate who almost caused a row when a customer volunteered a derogatory comment about my art. I was just about to call his wife a walking modern art masterpiece before I realized he was talking about another artist who paints little dogs in martini glasses. Still, Nate and I both agreed it was a little like the pot calling the kettle black. We spent the rest of the day lounging in the back of the tent, watching customers’ feet from behind the walls as they drifted in and out of our booth. Nate discovered independently that legs are indeed the last thing to go and I won the award for the ugliest feet when I spotted a pair of what looked to be lobster claws squeezed into an undersized set of strappy sandals. At the end of the day we managed to be the first to pack up, load the car and wiggle our way out of the maze of badly parked vehicles, all without a single incident. For once nothing had gone wrong. With the help of a few Red Bulls and a pack of Oreo cookies and despite Nate’s snoring, I managed to stay awake long enough to get us home by 4 AM. As we pulled into the driveway I looked over at Nate and asked, “Didn’t we leave some lights on?” “I thought we did.” he replied, still a little sleepy headed. “Crap, crap, crap.” I cried, suddenly remembering I’d forgotten to pay the electric bill. “At least it’s not freezing out.” I offered, watching Nate’s expression turn sour. We brushed our teeth in almost complete darkness and after a little bumping around made it to our beds. “God it feels good to be in my own bed.” I said, hoping Nate was thinking something similar. “Just wiggle around if you’re cold. It’ll be fine once the bed warms up.” But Nate was already snoring softly.

I was on the road again. Only I wasn’t going places I’ve never been before. I was going to Florida. As I pulled out of my driveway in the early morning light of a cold New Year’s Day, I tried to imagine all the good things that can happen on a trip to Florida. I could eat Oreos and Twizzlers until I got sick. I could watch cable TV and take extraordinarily long hot showers in three-star hotel rooms. I might even be able to go to the beach. But none of this cheered me because the fact was I was facing a 16 hour drive and a 4 AM setup for the show with no rest in between. I hadn’t been to a show in over a month and a half and the truth was I had grown content with my hermit lifestyle. Weeks had gone by without talking to a single person face-to-face. I spent my days making art and listening to books with no inconveniences from the outside world. I did notice that I talked to myself more often. One day I even carried on a running conversation with an ESPN360 commentator who lacked a colorman. But overall I was satisfied with this lifestyle. A psychologist friend of mine warned me that I was becoming a misanthrope but I preferred to appreciate my fellow human beings in the abstract. Sure I could laugh at a travel tale by Bill Bryson but somehow I knew that sitting next to him on a plane would probably mean that one of us would not arrive at our destination. But I’m an artist and that means eventually I would have to go to a show and talk to people and like it. I pointed the car southwards, set the cruise control to 75 mph and tried not to think about the future.

As the miles rolled by and the sun rose in the sky, I gradually warmed to the outside world and found myself drinking in the scenery as if I’d never seen trees and barns and fields before. Everything had a peculiar newness that heightened my curiosity and I wanted to park the car and amble down dirt roads that disappeared into the woods or explore the black pole barns with doors slightly ajar. I was smiling like an idiot and thinking how grand all this was when just a few hours ago I was content with a blank white wall. And it was like this all the way to Georgia when I pulled off the highway at a rest stop. The parking lot was full of holiday travelers anxious for a pee and a snack and I actually had to wait a moment or two to find a place to park. As I stood at the urinal still smiling with my newfound appreciation for the world, I became conscious of a presence directly behind me. I peered over my shoulder and my nose almost bumped into a smiling Japanese man looking as if he was about ready to join me relieving himself. The restroom was packed but everyone else was waiting their turn in an unofficial bunch at a more appropriate distance from the urinals. This man, it seemed, decided to break with convention and queue up right behind me as if we were in line at a concession stand at a ballgame. This annoyed me for no other reason then it flouted the self-governing bunch of gentlemen waving each other on to the next open urinal based more on goodwill than arrival time. I stretched my neck as far as it would go, trying to make eye contact so as to let him know my disapproval but unfortunately my hips decided to follow suit and I felt a splash of moisture on my hands. I wouldn’t say I peed myself but the ricochet off the side of the urinal left me looking as if I had. This is precisely why I don’t leave the house. And the bathroom didn’t have paper towels, only those useless hand dryers and I wasn’t about to stand there with my crotch pointed up at the dispenser. As I got back into the car I looked down at the dark spot on my pants and sighed. I still had 10 hours to go. I pulled back onto the highway with the heater turned all the way up, opened a pack of Twizzlers and tried not to think about the past.