The Impressionist

by Tim Clinton

  Indian Mounds boasts of numerous paved trails weaving throughout a canopy of trees and gardens with periodic fitness stops along the way. The main trail circles around a tranquil sixty-acre lake complete with an assortment of duck and geese. On any given day a plethora of die-hard fishermen line the banks casting their lines. During the summer months, wind surfers and small sailboats abound. Dotted strategically around the area are playgrounds and picnic tables with barbeque pits. At the park’s entrance there’s a fifty-foot totem pole overlooking five historical Indian burial mounds, thus the name. Across the boulevard is a convenience store where I stopped to pick up a drink before hitting the trail.

  Once inside the store I marched up to the cooler, opened the glass door, and reached for a Dasani but jerked out the Red Bull instead. Yes, that’s what suited me at the moment, a triple shot of caffeine! When I spun around to head to the cash register, I ran smack dab into Eric from church. I nearly knocked him over. He was standing right there! I couldn’t believe it! What are the odds?

  “Hey, Adam,” he said beaming like he’d just won the lottery or something. He was dressed to the hilt in running apparel—tight, long-sleeved, dry-fit, fluorescent green shirt, black tights, and high-dollar matching shoes. “How you doing, brother?” he asked. “You okay man?” No doubt he could tell something was up with me. Hiding my emotions has never been one of my strong suits. Still, I put on the best religious face I could.

  “Great!” I said, “Couldn’t be better.” I lied.

  “Good to hear.” He zeroed in on my Red Bull. “You know that stuff’s bad for you?”

  “Yep, but the kick is ridiculous!” I said moving to go around him.

  “I get my kick from the Lord, brother!”

  “I’m happy for you,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” I said over my shoulder.

  “So how are Paige and Josh?” he asked following me, oblivious to my not so subtle hints. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you guys at church.”

  “We’ve been going to the early service.” I lied again.

  “Well that’s the one we go to,” he said with a puzzled look. “I should have seen you.”

  “How’s Carolyn?” I asked to change the subject. That was a mistake.

  “You know me,” he said with a big grin plastered across his face. “I married way out of my league. We’re soul mates! The longer I’m married to her, the better it gets.” He pulled up a picture of him and Carolyn on his iPhone. “Check it out,” he said, shoving it in my face. The two of them were standing on a picturesque beach in Hawaii. She was in a skimpy swimsuit with her arms around him. “Am I the most blessed man alive or what?”

  He was lucky all right, though I never could figure what she saw in him. He’s just a total punk, I thought.

  “God’s doing so much in our lives,” he continued. “And I have to brag on Garrett too. He just got back from his mission trip to Haiti. They provided shoes for over three hundred homeless children. When he got home, he received The Most Dedicated Disciple Award in youth group.”

  “There’s an actual award for that?”

  “Yeah man. I’m so proud of him! I mean, with so many kids making poor choices these days. Did you hear about Allie’s scholarship?”

  “No,” I said, but I was quite sure he was going to tell me.

  “She got a full ride,” he smiled so big the glare from his white teeth made me squint. “She’s thinking pre-med.”

  “That’s really great, Eric,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. Allie and Josh had dated a couple times. He was smitten and she told him she just wanted to be friends. It killed him.

  “God is faithful, brother!” said Eric.

  I figured maybe they should give Eric The Most Humble Christian Award. He’d hang it on his fireplace mantle so everyone could see it! “Look, Eric,” I said agitatedly, “I’d love to chat more, but I really need to take off. Family needs me. You know how it is?”

  “Sure do, man! Shortage of fathers these days. I’ll look for you guys tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  At the counter, Yolanda rang me up—$1.97. I reached into my pocket to pull out my wallet and realized I’d left it at home along with my iPhone. “Crap!” I said. “Left my wallet at the house.”

  Yolanda smiled back at me compassionately. With that weathered look, I could tell life had not been particularly kind to her. She needed some dental work and crow’s feet formed in the corner of her eyes. I could relate. “That’s okay baby,” she said with a wink. “You just drop back by later and pay. I know how it is.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

  Behind me, Eric spoke up. “Don’t worry about it, brother. I got it!”

  “You’re the best, Eric,” I said wanting to slap that ridiculous grin off his face. I know. I know. I have issues.

  While Yolanda took Eric’s money, I dashed out the door, through the store parking lot, and hurried across the boulevard to the park before Eric had time to check out and follow me. I supposed he was on his way to the park as well. The last thing I wanted was to talk to him or anyone else for that matter. I just wanted to be left alone.

  3

  Walking briskly along the trail constantly glancing over my shoulder hoping to evade Eric, my mind reeled with all the things in my life I was disappointed with—my marriage, my son, job, but mostly myself. I was my own worst enemy. “Just look at you, Adam,” a voice hissed in my ear. “You’re a pathetic loser. You can’t even please your wife. Paige was right. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You surely thought things would be different by now, didn’t you? Remember all those big dreams? The great things you were going to do? So, how’ d you become…this? Everything’s such a struggle isn’t it? You’re a failure as a father too. And Josh is just like you—a loser.”

  As my mind spun and one fitness buff after another zipped past me in their spandex and Reeboks, guilt and shame bore down on me pushing me to the edge of despair. My stomach churned making me feel like I might vomit, so I plopped down on a bench facing the lake to take some deep breaths. While sitting there some ducks waddled up from the water and quacked around my feet begging for food that I didn’t possess. I shooed them away with my foot.

  “God, are You even there?” I mumbled, taking a long gulp of my Red Bull. “If You are real, You surely can’t be ‘all powerful’ because You made me. What a huge mistake that was.” In quiet desperation, I locked my hands behind my head. A beach in the Caribbean strongly appealed to me—not a vacation, but a permanent escape. I’ve heard about guys who do that. They chuck everything, get a sailboat, and then work at a little beachside resort or something when they’re not sailing around the islands. No worries, no dressing up, just shorts, hat, and some flip flops. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Closing my eyes, I reasoned if I fell asleep and never woke up, it wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Don’t you get it, Adam?” the voice poked. “God’s not listening to you. He’s disappointed in you. Just like Paige. He loathes you—everything about you. Josh hates you too. They’ d be better off if you were out of the picture. They wouldn’t even miss you. Just admit it. You’re a fraud. You’ve let God down so many times.”

  “Shut up!” I yelled crushing my empty Red Bull can in my hand and then flinging it toward a garbage barrel that was several yards off to my side. Clanging against the metal drum, the tin can fell short of the goal, just like so many other things in my life. How many opportunities had I let slip through my fingers? So many things that could have been. When I stood to pick up my litter, an elderly man who I figured to be somewhere in his eighties stepped off the trail from behind me and up to the garbage barrel. “That’s okay, friend,” he said. “I’ve got it.” He reached down, one hand bracing his back, and picked up my crushed Red Bull can and dropped it into the trash.

  “Thanks,” I said with an edge.

  Straightening up to a good six-t
wo or three, the old gentleman nodded humbly while tipping his white cap with the black and gold New Orleans Saints logo stitched on it. “My pleasure,” he said. Oddly, a few feet away from him on the trail, he’d left what appeared to be a small, handmade cart filled with an assortment of painting supplies—brushes, rags, a palette, tubes of paint, rolled-up paper, an umbrella, a collapsible easel and stool, and a plastic jug of water among other necessities. I’d seen the fishermen pull similar carts, but never a painter. Not around here. Probably got mental issues, I thought.

  “Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind,” he pressed, stepping closer to me.

  “At least you still have your eyesight old man,” I shot back at him, glaring. Like I said, I just wanted to be left alone.

  He only smiled warmly and rubbed his chin. “Would you perhaps allow me the honor of painting your portrait?” he asked.

  “What?” I snapped. “Do I look like I want my picture painted?” That’s why the old coot picked up my can! He saw it as an opportunity to sell me! Clever, but I’m no fool. “Leave me alone, please! Go paint a duck or something.” I thought for certain that my crude remarks would dissuade him, but the old guy simply stood there unfazed. “Are you deaf?”

  “I heard you,” he said.

  “Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but you don’t want to be anywhere near me right now—seriously!”

  He still didn’t move, just stared at me. The whites of his eyes sat deep in their sockets behind silver-framed bifocals. His milk-chocolate skin enhanced a silver mustache, bushy eyebrows, and silver hair. I thought about pulling out a five and throwing it at him, but remembered I didn’t have my wallet. Then it hit me how sharply and well-dressed he was—obviously not needy. His sweater sleeves were pushed up on his forearms revealing a long since faded military tattoo of a shield with two swords crossing over the front of it, indicating that he’d possibly been a tough character once. I turned my head toward the lake waiting for him to go about his way, but after thirty seconds or so I could sense he was still standing there, watching me. Thirty seconds is a long time when you are counting the seconds.

  “You don’t give up easily do you?” I said, jerking my head back around in disbelief, feeling the buzz from my Red Bull. “You’re a stubborn old guy!”

  “Too old to give up,” he said. “Learned that sometimes you gotta stand your ground and fight for what’s important.”

  “Well good for you. Me, I’m tired of fighting. Besides I don’t have any money on me anyway.”

  “Don’t want your money,” he replied. “Just want to paint your portrait. My painting is a gift.”

  “A gift?” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Are you for real, man?”

  “Pretty sure I am,” he chuckled, feeling his arms and legs.

  “Look,” I said, standing up from the bench to bolt. “I’m dealing with some serious stuff right now—very serious. I don’t have time for this. If you’re not leaving, I am.”

  His back stiffened and instead of retreating, he actually moved a step closer, now almost in my face like a drill sergeant, or a coach. Shocked at this, my first inclination was to shove him away and run, but for some peculiar reason I did just the opposite. I froze. His eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. “Sit down!” he thundered with an absolute authority that seemed to originate from far beyond him. “You must stop your running! You need your portrait painted!”

  Dazed, I staggered backward and dropped down on the bench. What was going on here? What was I doing? He was just some old eccentric painter who was probably off in the head. He had no authority over me. Yet if that was the case, why did it feel like he did? At that precise moment the sun burst through the clouds casting down rays that illuminated his face. As the beams of light shone on him, his countenance softened and his eyes called out, pleading, reaching beyond my coldness and cynicism, penetrating to my core causing my pent-up anger to fade and a calmness to rest upon me. As I gave in to this soothing sensation, he sat down on the bench next to me and I scooted over offering him more room. Squinting, he shielded the light from his eyes with one hand and pointed out over the lake with the other. “See those ducks over there?”

  I followed his finger to a particular group of smaller ducks flocked around some reeds. “Yes,” I said curiously.

  “Those are Hooded Mergansers,” he explained. “Did you know they’re one of the few breeds of duck that actually migrate north to spend winters? Something special. Don’t see them much. They’re one of North America’s most magnificent but rarest mallards. You know why they call them Hooded Mergansers?”

  “No sir.”

  “They have a sail-shaped white crown on their heads that can expand or collapse. It makes their head look oversized, like they’re wearing a big ole hood. Quite fascinating. But most people don’t even notice. Just pass right on by. …And when the sunlight reflects off their feathers it makes their colors blaze.” A gust of wind swirled up the leaves around us. He patted my leg and unfolded his long frame to stand up. “Sometimes people don’t realize the special things that are right there under their noses.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “All right,” I said throwing my hands up. “How long’s this gonna take?”

  The old man’s eyes locked back onto mine with a kindhearted stare that pierced right through me. “Now, that depends on you,” he said with not so much as a blink. “That all depends on you.”

  4

  The old gentleman calmly walked the twenty or so feet and retrieved his cart from the trail. He then positioned it directly in front of where I was sitting and began preparing his work. Sitting there without my iPhone on me, I started to get fidgety. Time was passing and I needed to check my messages. Because of a major deadline the pressure was on at work. This was the first Saturday I’d had off in over a month, but I was still on call. I’d be okay for a while if there wasn’t a crisis.

  Really, I wanted to text Paige and Josh. Now that the insanity was lifting, I needed to check on her and let her know how bad and stupid I felt. I figured it couldn’t hurt, though I also figured it wouldn’t do much good either. It’s frightening how anger can blind me and how differently I feel after stepping back from the situation and cooling down a bit. Hopefully Paige felt the same way and we could make up.

  Surely this portrait thing wouldn’t take that long— twenty, thirty minutes tops. As much as I wanted to get away, there was something about this guy that kept me glued to the bench. For some reason I felt safe with him, like I’d known him forever. Besides, I needed to be somewhere other than home right now. If I just went with it, I’d be back soon enough. What could it hurt?

  “Okay,” I said taking a deep breath, still not believing I was actually taking part in such an eccentric activity. “Paint me. The clock is ticking.”

  The old gentleman glanced up at me then dropped his head back down and continued sorting through his supplies, apparently unfazed by my comments. “It’s important for an artist to think before he works,” he said. “I’m thinking how to paint you, in order to catch your soul. You see, oil reflects a completely different likeness than watercolor or sketch.” Scratching his chin, not the least bit uncomfortable or threatened, he went on. “You know what I think?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “I think watercolor fits you. Watercolor dribbles and makes splotches. It’s not neat and clean—doesn’t stay in the boundaries—gives a more impressionistic look. And watercolor is vulnerable to its surroundings. You know, the temperature and breezes, even the angle of the paper. A watercolor work reflects every bit of contact the painter makes. Each stroke of the brush leaves an imprint just like each experience in this ole life leaves an imprint on us and others. You can’t hide or cover up anything in watercolor. You have to blend in your mistakes to create a unique work. Mistakes become part of its character—makes it special. You can’t undo them, so you use them to make the work stronger.”

  “Great,” I smirked. “With all my mistakes this s
hould be a Van Gogh!”

  With that, he smiled and pulled out a thick piece of water-color paper from a cylinder, gently unrolled it, smoothed it out with his hands and then fastened it to the easel with some clips. The easel adjusted and he brought it to a slight angle, almost flat like a table, but not quite. Then he unfolded a portable stool and sat.

  “Did you know that you are made up of seventy percent water?” he continued. “Your blood is eighty-three percent water, lungs eighty, brain eighty-five, and your muscles seventy-five. Sounds impossible, but it’s true.”

  “I took biology.”

  “Then you know that water is necessary for your body to digest and absorb vitamins and nutrients. It detoxifies the liver and kidneys and carries waste away from the body. When you’re dehydrated your blood becomes thicker because of the lack of water, and your body has to work that much harder to cause the blood to circulate. As a result, your body feels fatigued. We need water for our survival. You’re dehydrated in spirit—struggling hard to survive in this life—working hard, but seeing limited results. So…I think I’ll paint you with water.”

  “Is it that obvious?” I asked.

  He raised one eyebrow and smiled.

  “You take this painting stuff pretty seriously don’t you,” I said. “You sure you don’t want any money, because I told you I forgot my wallet?”

  “Like I said, painting’s my gift and a gift is only a gift if it is received. If you pay for it, then it’s not a gift, now is it?”

  “How come I get the feeling you are doing more than painting a picture here?”

  “Just exercising my gift.”

  I exhaled a long breath of air. “I’m going to be here awhile, aren’t I?”

  “Need to use my cell?”

  “Uh…yes,” I stuttered, “as a matter of fact, I do.”

  After handing me his slightly outdated Blackberry, I started texting while he took out the plastic jug of water and poured some into a glass jar.