Painting Lessons

I turn off the lights and lock the lobby door to J. Lewis & Sons Accounting Services. It’s only eighteen minutes after five on a Friday afternoon and I am the only fool who hasn’t started the weekend festivities of soaking in the long-missed sunshine. In downtown Chicago, we know how to celebrate a mild and sunny spring day in April because they arrive few and far between. 

At least, I think it’s warm out. I check the weather app on my phone. Sixty degrees with no wind. A stellar day for most, but I am dragging. Every part of me moves slowly except for my mind which is racing. My thoughts have been teetering between work and emotion all day.

I push the elevator button and wait to hear the car trudge up to the thirty-ninth floor and give me a ride.

I still hear their comments.  Am I the naysayer, the doomsday guy my family thinks I am? I had thought of myself as at least royal blue on my personal color spectrum, not the grayest of the grays.

They told me I am an eternal pessimist. My family. Last weekend at Sunday dinner between the pot roast and my Uncle Sal’s dissertation on bunions, all eight of my family members told me I fail to see the good in anything. A Daniel-downer. The last one they would want to be stuck with on a deserted island. In fact, my grandmother called me a curmudgeon.

I knew my view of the world had become negatively skewed over the years, like a window that was overdue for a cleaning. One that soapy water and a slide of a squeegee would fix. Not like one boarded-up with plywood and a “keep away” sign. They made me sound hopeless. And while my family did not believe I was listening to their choice words, I was. And they hurt.

I know not getting into law school soured my taste for career success. And Maggie calling off our engagement less than three weeks after accepting my proposal last summer sucked the water from my roots. 

But to call me the saddest person to walk the streets of Chicago? Even more sad than a mob target jumping at every garbage can clank on trash day thinking it is a gunshot? My family needs to stop watching the drama series that are filmed here because they are turning the plotted fiction into my life’s story.

My mother warned me if I did not choose to see the brighter side, I would die a lonely, desolate man. Did she remember I am only thirty-one?

The elevator doors open and I climb in not yet ready to face the sun and the spring flingers celebrating the earth’s gradual rotation closer to summer.

I stand alone and have at least the time of thirty-eight floors, more if other late-to-stop workers jump on, to contemplate my weekend plans. If I go right out of the building, I head three blocks to my apartment where I could grab a beer out of the fridge and search for my next binge-worthy series on Netflix. Or I could go left to Madison and up a couple of blocks to Millennium Park and join the crowds.

I push through the building’s revolving door and the momentum takes me to the right. The law of physics speaks and I go with its decision.

Four paces out, I set the timer on my phone for twenty-nine minutes. Enough time for brisk walk and a stop at Fierro’s for a footlong with mustard and extra pickles.

The sun peeks through the alley ways between the buildings. I stop at a crosswalk to feel its full effect on my face. Warm, but not hot. The type of rays that won’t burn my unprotected pale skin. 

Surprisingly, I like it.

The stoplight ticker seems longer than usual today and a crowd behind me surges when the scissor legs appear. I move with the flow, but am spit out on the other side where the sidewalk narrows. I find myself near the entry way of the condo building I aspire to move to when I can afford the down payment.

On most days, I trot past the doorman, but today a burst of purple draws my eyes towards him. Massive stone scroll planters with clumps of tulips debut their petals amid the greenery. A splash of color against the building’s façade. I find myself wanting to pick a few tulips for my parade home, but the watchful doorman protects the blossoms in his guarded space. I reach for my phone and snap a picture before he repeats his steps.

The smells of Fierro’s drift further today. I can smell the Chicago combination of Italian beef, steamed hot dogs, and sizzling fryer fries a half a block before I reach their door which is propped open with one of their red faux-leather chairs. Fierro’s fifteen seats are crammed with tourists in winter coats and locals sporting their short sleeve apparel.

The scents inside Fierro’s make me glad to live in the Windy City. The ambiance alone seems to increase my appetite as I wait in line. I watch the crew whip together customized hotdog orders that are barked from one of the two order takers. I hear a swell from the staff when a guest in front of me orders a hotdog with extra ketchup. I respectfully chuckle at the guest’s lack of research on regional cuisine etiquette. Ordering a hotdog with ketchup is almost as bad as not knowing who the Monsters of the Midway are.

I take my white paper-bagged order number 401 with a large fountain Dr. Pepper and proceed to my designated route when the late day sun and the rhythmic pace of the passersby beckon me to turn right down Randolph Street and head towards the lake. I wonder what is my plan now that I am heading away from my apartment.

I quickly guide my way through the crowds and end up on the edge of Millennium Park. The exact place I felt fate told me not to go. My stomach rumbles for the food in my bag, but eating near The Bean sculpture with its endless reflecting picture opportunities appeals little to me. I head towards an oasis inside the park that I hope is less crowded and interesting to tourists than the multiple sights stacked along Michigan Avenue.

I feel like I am on spy mission with the goal of not being seen. Swerving around tourists stopped in the middle of the walkway for a selfie. Dodging a child on the loose from her creaming parents. I head to the small gap between the hedges that will lead me to the boxed-in plant refuge I found on accident early last summer when Maggie and I inadvertently agreed to meet at two different spots in the park. I suddenly realize that I missed two full seasons of nature in the city.

The hedges are not the emerald screens I remember from last year, but a brown canvas of intertwined branches with emerging specks of green waiting to reconstruct. It discourages me some; not sure what I was expecting. Before I can wallow further, my stomach again reminds me of my agenda.

I search for a seat in one of the alcoves nestled in the surrounding naked hedges.  A group of teenage boys looks willing to vacate their space after the girls previewing their Coachella wardrobe moved from the boys' sightlines. Chicago is the only city I know where residents are ready to skip the new beginnings of spring so they can wear pieces of their summer wardrobe while covered in goosebumps.

I claim a space large enough so I can rest my soda while I two-hand the footlong. Surprising still warm, I bite into the mustard first. The zestiness of it offsets the juicy hotdog and the garlic dill pickles.

I notice not all of the landscaped plots have started to bloom, but the ones that have do their best to make up for the still dormant vegetation.  Vibrant daffodils stand tall with other early bloomers in checkered rows. Tulips line up in random order as if someone lost count of what color bulb should have been planted next.

With the last of my hotdog swallowed, I gaze at the balance between the bloomed and unbloomed plants. I imagine finding this in my life. Balance where there is color even if it is muted or haphazard.

I notice the sun’s rays beginning to disappear and the temperature begins to drop. This is the problem with Midwestern springs. Warm days lead to nighttime lows close enough to freezing to toy with the new plants’ awakenings and palettes.

The chimes ring from my phone. I realize I could have already been home, but I am not.

Twenty-nine minutes of color for my color-blind psyche. I feel blessed.

I remember the artist Seurat who painted using singular dots to from his images on blank canvases. I had thought his labor-intensive style warranted nothing greater than a painter who used broad brush strokes. I think I misunderstood his dots.

I count the number of tulips by color until the day’s natural light is nearly gone.  Thirty-six purple. Forty red. Sixty-one yellow. Three pink. Zero grey.

I text my mom that to tell her I stopped today to notice the spring colors.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a rainbow.