3 Pieces of Art

When I first walked into his apartment, I did what I always do. What I used to do every time I got home from school back when I lived with him. I checked the counters and studied the look on his face.

There! I see it.

And it’s to be expected. No surprise. No invisible sigh of relief.

A large cup filled to the brim with whisky and ice. He looked up from the couch and I could see the alcohol in his face.

I could say that I forgot something. Pretend I’m getting a phone call and turn towards the door. But even if anything I said was true, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. I’ve missed calls from him that he’s brought up years later because it “made” him drive drunk.

I just wanted to leave at least before he could ramble, but at least I didn’t live with him anymore. Any ramble could be cut short. Especially if it was going to get aggressive, or even violent. I sat down on the couch chair near the couch. His new cat’s fur encased it. My eye was already getting puffy with allergies, enforcing my need to leave.

We’d been looking for him all of the previous night. Calling his friends and hospitals. After enough phone calls, we found the police department that was holding him. He had been sitting in his car with his phone on the charger, parked in his parking stall. One of the neighbors had called the cops on him even though he hadn’t actually been driving. Turns out when the cops got handsy, they’d shoved my dad into the neighbors car hard enough to put a dent in the car while breaking his rib. Snitches get stitches, right? At least in some way or other.

He had a court date and was bailed out that morning. I wasn’t called over in regards to him going to jail. Well, not exactly.

The night before, my two sisters and I had a dilemma. My older sister had been crashing on my dads couch, and unable to pay the upcoming rent, was considering selling some of my dads belongings since none of us knew how long he’d be away. It was his 3rd DUI and we all knew that can lead someone to be in jail for a bit longer.

The reason I had been called to see my dad that day was because he had found a list. The list my sister had written stating which items we could sell in the case that he would be gone for a long time. Things such as the T.V. and entertainment stand. Now this probably sounds selfish. And I admit, in a way, it kindof is. But my sister wouldn’t have been sleeping in my dads living room if she could afford anything else. Besides, in all reality my dad bought those nice things using the money from my brother's life insurance policy from when he died a year prior. He and my mom had wasted that money. Sixty thousand dollars completely down the drain. Almost as stupid as every other decision my parents had made in their lives. Knowing that I have an insurance policy on me as well, I hope that if I die before my mom (who holds the policy), that she will at least use it for something good. Like a down payment on a house.

When my dad had found that list, he decided that when his time comes, none of his children would split his stuff. He would have his friend tell us what we each get. To be honest, he doesn’t have a lot. And I’m not sure I would want anything other than some simple memorabilia.

Sitting on his couch, the smell of incense, cats, and whisky filling my nostrils. I waited for him to talk. But he did what he sometimes does when he’s completely blitzed. Which is most days after 6pm.

He just stared at the ground. With something of a pouty look on his face. Thinking about what to say. And as usual when he did this, I dreaded what he would say when he opened his mouth.

His eyes turned to one of the pictures on his wall.

“When I die, do you know what I’ll give you?” he asked.

I questioned what kind of trap he had just laid. What answer would be the least likely to get him mad.

“I honestly don’t know”

He replied quickly. Still not looking at me, “Guess”.

I had my hands between my knees. Something I do when I’m uncomfortable. I was talking to a very unpredictable man. The conversation could be funny or thoughtful one minute, but quickly turn into threats in an instant. I did what I always do when I don’t know what to say, I just beat around the bush and say something stupid. It’s honestly become somewhat a curse to this day. When someone desperately wants me to be serious, I often just can’t. I turn everything into a joke. It offends people sometimes. Or in a relationship they think I can never take them seriously. I don’t know exactly why I do it. But I guess it makes some things easier. Or maybe it’s just what I learned to do to get anything but a bad reaction from my dad.

He turned his gaze towards me.

“There are three pictures I’ve had. They’ve been around since you were little. Do you know which one you’ll get?”

He looked back at Starry Night. He meant his Vincent Van Gogh paintings. Photocopies I mean.

I actually put some thought into it. And I remembered the other two pictures he had, Sunflowers, and Irses. I thought it would be egotistical for some reason to say Starry Night. Knowing that I had always stared so long at Sunflowers, I said that.

He smiled, as if I was supposed to know the correct response. “No, Chelsey will get that one… Which one do you think?”

I looked at Irises on the other wall and just pointed.

“Hmmm.” His face turned questioning and thoughtful.

“You know why I love that one so much?”

I said “no”.

“Really. You don’t know?...

Your sister and I have talked about that one for hours. Abby will get that one…

What do you think he meant when he painted that?”

I studied the painting for what must have been at least 5 whole minutes. Sometimes my dad gets thoughtful and makes no sense. But sometimes, just sometimes he says something that makes me really think. And sometimes it’s a really beautiful thought. So every now and then, I’ll really listen.

Having not been able to figure out the enigma of the painting, he tells me.

“The white iris, what do you think it means?”

I pondered for a while again. Feeling stupid at this point, feeling like it’s just a bunch of flowers at this point, looking for a reason in nothing. Maybe it is just some flowers. I feel like a lot of paintings are just paintings. Like a book is just a story, but then those English teachers have to go looking through them for the purple cactus in the background which means that the author was adamant about his beliefs in god or some bullshit like that.

“There’s only one. A field of purple irises, to one side. And a field of marigolds to the other. The iris isn’t either of them. It’s alone…

But it’s the boldest of them all. It stands against the crowd. Maybe that was him.”