Short Story: Gary And Mary

The heavy screech of the F train shook Gary and he thought of trying to sleep another ten minutes knowing another train would be along shortly. Then he thought better of it. And as he did every morning, he sauntered over to the lone window across from his bed to survey the warming sky and cancel the 5:33 AM alarm he’d set on his watch. I don’t know why I set my alarm, he mused. This damn city is determined to get me up every morning. And as he did his morning duty, he remembered the ad he saw for his tiny studio and laughed. Neither the ad or property manager mentioned the screeches or noxious fumes of the subway, or the enraged shouts and blaring car horns aimed at those dashing through traffic to catch the train. Both constant. Similarly, the rhythm and noise of Brooklyn captivated and wore on him. I won’t live here forever. Best to make the most of it, he concluded while brushing his teeth. 

Gary moved to New York to pursue his dream of attending art school and becoming a painter. And he chose to live in Brooklyn because it was affordable- if one may call it so- and because of the F train. Though loud and grimy, the line ran from his Brooklyn apartment to Manhattan, through Midtown, past the Art Students League campus and Central Park.

The decision to leave his comfortable farm equipment sales job was a shock to some in his south Georgia community. But his mother was not surprised or amused. If Gary wanted to live in a cramped apartment and draw apples for a year or two, so be it. She preferred he remain in south Georgia and begin to fill a house with grandchildren.

Gary’s best friend Mike said Gary was being cliche, then suggested he enroll in online courses. Why blow your savings on the most expensive city in America, he asked. In the end, as all good friends do, Mike stopped objecting to Gary's decision and began to plan visits, as all good friends do when they have a buddy living in New York.

Today was the first day of the summer session and Gary hummed as he pulled on skinny jeans and a navy blue t-shirt. He’d spent the fall and spring sketching fruit and nude models, and labored through color theory in the spring. But now, he’d move toward his ultimate goal of being a painter, a serious painter. Anticipating the day ahead, he laced up his dirt colored running shoes and began to gather his supplies.

Little did he know the day would be more than he hoped or imagined. How could he? No one is prepared for fate, for a blessing beyond comprehension, all anyone can do is go to work and give destiny a chance to find them. And that’s what Gary did by moving to Brooklyn, what he set in motion by going to class every day. And, when Gary grabbed his navy blue backpack and loaded it with clean paint brushes and tubes of oil paint, he thrust himself squarely into the path of his destiny, on his way to meet her.

To Gary, the morning was as routine as he’d come to expect of south Brooklyn. The sidewalk was mad with commuters dashing up and down 7th Avenue. And he loved the feeling of purpose in the day, moving hurriedly through the mass to his favorite bodega. After paying for an egg and bacon sandwich, he ate his breakfast inside the shop while staring at the schools of commuters swimming up and down the block. 

Nothing in south Georgia compared to the pace and hustle of a weekday morning in New York. And every morning Gary took a moment to observe the hustle and chaos as though it was his first encounter with it. This city is hectic and mesmerizing, he thought and then wondered how to capture such magic on canvas. Just then Gary heard a faint muffled voice behind him and when he turned to address the noise, he saw no one other than the usual cooks and customers going about their predictable transactions. Odd, he thought as he slurped down a bottle of OJ. After checking the time, he stepped out of the shop and bolted across traffic to the station.

On the platform, Gary noticed a few regulars who also took the 6:03 into Manhattan. Then he slipped his headphones over his ears and smiled as he pretended to pick a playlist. Gary loved what headphones said to the world, that he wanted to be left alone. They gave him cover from which to observe his fellow commuters without being disturbed or questioned. When the train arrived, Gary worked his way through the other passengers already on board to a spot in the corner, then he scanned the car for anything worth watching.

At the East Broadway station, a mother and two young girls stepped onto the train and caught Gary’s attention. Most of the other passengers were glued to their phones or trying to catch a few bits of rest before work, but now as the train entered Manhattan, life flashed on the train.The taller and presumably older girl stuck her hands on her hips and tilted her head back. With her eyes closed tight, she appeared to sing. The shorter child waved her arms and then shook her friend. The older leaned further back and appeared to sing louder, before snapping her head forward, wide-eyed and grinning at her friend. Both girls then burst into giggles and whispers, their mother smirking above them.

From his perch at the back of the train, Gary smiled too. He hoped their world was small and uncomplicated, and would remain so. Then he was caught up in memory of summers at the lake with his cousins, the sandy-haired little boys, laughing and dodging blobs of red mud they threw at each other. Then Gary glanced up to notice the contrast of the two spark plugs in contrast to the rest of the train. I hope they never change, he thought before wondering how to capture the joy and wonder of a child.

And then, for a second time that morning, he heard a muffled voice coming from behind him. Startled, Gary spun around, bumping his backpack into the dark, curly haired passenger to his right. The intrusion drew a sharp look from the confused man, and Gary mouthed the words my bad to ease the tension. Of course, Gary saw nothing but bland beige walls behind him, a fact he knew before his freakout. He was in the corner for Pete’s sake. Bewildered, Gary found humor in the confusion and laughed quietly to himself. The mother and children exited the train a few stops later leaving.

Closer to Gary’s stop, the commuters from Brooklyn began to give way to students and tourists, the quiet dullness replaced by anticipation and smiles. And Gary lowered his headphones to eve’s drop on their conversations- two college aged women discussing the previous night at a rooftop lounge on the Lower East Side, a collection of teenagers wearing identical strawberry colored t-shirts clung to the handrails and discussed the Met, and a family from Asia stood in quiet observation, cameras dangling from their shoulders. 

Then, as he did every morning before class, Gary climbed the 57th Street steps and strolled north to Central Park. The routine gave him the opportunity to experience the gradual progression of the seasons through the lens of the Park. And in early June, the young green Maple and Elm leaves were now giving way to the deep green of summer. In fact, the whole park appeared to be full of rich contrasting color, not to mention artists, performers, and excited visitors. From a green bench near the famous Dip Archway, Gary watched tourists snap selfies and reenact movie scenes shot near the landmark. After his sit, Gary checked his phone again and decided it was time to head to class. Happy with his choices and in the moment, he stood, stretched his legs and began to head down the path toward 7th Avenue.

The classroom was half-full when Gary walked through the door, and he quickly scanned to see if he knew anyone else. Other than one semi-familiar face, the class was devoid of friends, so he chose an easel on the right side of the room near the back. On the ledge of the easel he placed his paints, thinner and cleaner, and finally his brushes. And as he set them down he heard a distinct and clear “Thank you!” Not believing what he’d heard, Gary looked up at the front of the room, then to either side. The pink-haired woman on his left was staring at her phone and the seat behind him was empty, only a blank cement wall to his right. 

The previous episodes in the bodega and on the train were easily dismissed as random noise, but just now Gary heard full, distinct words. And it disturbed him. He began to sink into anxiety and wondered if he was losing his mind. 

The sharp voice of the instructor pulled Gary out of his thoughts and back into the room. “Hi everyone, I’m Carol Townsend and this is Basics of Oil Painting,” boomed a tall yet wide woman with straight red hair. Over the next hour, Ms Townsend took roll, reviewed her syllabus, and answered questions. Gary’s thoughts drifted and circled back to the voices he heard. Dazed, he looked up to notice Ms. Townsend writing on the whiteboard and he tried to focus. She was halfway into a lecture on mixing paints and mediums and canvas prep. 

Only then he noticed he’d been the only student to unpack his tools and paints. Of course we wouldn’t paint today, he thought much to his embarrassment. After another hour, Gary quickly packed up and bolted out of the classroom still confused by the sound that had followed him from Brooklyn to Manhattan. He found an empty bench outside in the courtyard and tried to regroup, but the effort proved difficult to accomplish.

Gary was not himself the rest of the morning. First, he entered the wrong studio for his second class. After a few moments, he promptly hurried out the door when the instructor said,”welcome to advanced watercolor, bodies of water and skyscapes.” Then Gary’s embarrassment doubled when the figure drawing instructor- a well groomed, slender white man in black jeans and a pink three button pullover- eyed him for being late. And unlike the oil painting, this second class got down to business just as Gary found a seat. And he scrambled to find his sketch pad as a large, balding yet hairy everywhere else, middle-aged man disrobed in the middle of the room. 

After lunch, Gary spent his free period in an open studio. As it was the first day of class, only two students were at work when he slipped into the room, one small black man about Gary’s age and a large latino lady sporting fluorescent green running shoes and hot pink leggings. Head-phoned and focused, both students scribbled away on their pads. The quiet suited Gary and he slumped into a plastic red chair at the far corner of the room.

And then, for the third time, Gary heard the mumbles and he no longer questioned where the noise hid. The voice issued from his backpack.

Gary’s breath quickened and he shivered in his seat. Then he unzipped the smallest outer pocket first and carefully reached inside, pulling out a few scraps of used newsprint. Then, he rummaged through the next slightly larger pocket, also nothing. Gary sat back in his chair. One zipper left. And as he steadied himself, the voice mumbled once more. 

“Muh, meh, meah.”

Gary felt his heart in his throat and was more aware of his chest, rising and falling with each breath. Whatever was in his pack was trying to talk to him. He hesitated before opening the last and largest compartment. 

Part of Gary wanted the mumbler to speak again and part of him wanted the prank to resolve itself. After a beat, he turned his head as though what lay inside might attack him and slowly pulled the zipper up one side of the pack, across the top, and down the other side. He did not reach inside but sat afraid of what was to come.

“I won’t bite you, Gary.” said a distinctly female voice.

This is bat shit crazy. My backpack is talking to me. Gary exclaimed to himself in a hurried whisper.

“Not your backpack. I’m a paint brush. My name’s Mary,” the voice responded.

Gary didn’t know if he should cry or run, but he remained frozen to the chair.

“You’re not crazy Gary,” the voice continued from inside the backpack. “I assume you don’t know many talking paint brushes, do you?”

“N-no,” He stuttered.

“Ah. Well that makes sense. May I make a request?”

Gary slowly began to pull himself together, relieved by the gentle voice. This will make one hell of a story for a therapist, he mused.

“A therapist? Why a therapist?” she responded as though reading his thoughts.

Giving into the situation, Gary finally found his courage and answered,”First, what’s your request? And two, either I’m losing my shit, or…I’m losing my shit.”

“I can assure you Gary, I’m real. And you are not losing your wits or sanity.”

“Solid,” Gary quipped sarcastically. “Good to know.”

“As for my request, can you take me out of your backpack? It’s dark in here and I much prefer the light like I experienced earlier today.”

“Right, that was you who said ‘thank you’ earlier today.”

“Yes. I am quite polite.”

Then Gary reached into the darkness and fumbled around until he heard laughter and giggling.

“That’s me Gary. You have me.”

And with that, Gary Melmack met his paint brush, face to face.

He set Mary on the easel in front of him and waited. If not for the giggles emanating from his hand, he’d assume it was an ordinary two inch oil brush- hog’s hair bristles, metal ferrule, and a long unfinished wooden handle.

“Oh thank you so very much,” said Mary, “Will you set me up? I’d like to see your face.”

The request confused Gary as he saw no noticeable face, no eyes or mouth, or ears, but he acted without hesitation.

“That’s better. Thank you.”

And as Mary spoke, Gary’s eyes found the tiniest moving lines across the face of the ferrule, and a pair of eyes where the ferrule was fastened to the handle.

"You’re welcome,” Gary managed to choke out as he stared at Mary’s metallic face.

“Yes. This is my face. I suppose it’s odd to you.”

“This whole situation is not normal, Mary.”

And as the words left his tongue, Gary remembered where he was. And he quickly glanced over to where the other artists were seated. The black man was gone, but the hefty lady was still face deep in a drawing. Whatever was happening, it was only happening between Gary and Mary. Again, he collected himself.

“Where are your ears?” he whispered.

“I don’t quite know, but I can obviously hear you. I think. Or maybe I can only perceive your thoughts.”

“Oh no. That’s not good.”

“How come?'“

“I think a lot of things and some of them are not meant for anyone but me.”

“May I assume all people are like this?”

“Yes, Mary. All humans like me think thoughts they don’t want anyone to know or perceive.”

“Well, then. That’s something to consider.”

The reality of Mary as mindreader weighed on Gary. And Mary knew it. As a few moments of silence filled the room, she decided it best to continue to answer his questions. “What else would you like to know?” she prodded.

The mere question caused Gary to burst into laughter. Did a paint brush really just say that? And he laughed again. Mary did not answer Gary’s thoughts, though she wanted to. Gary needed his mind to be a safe place, and so she decided to let him be. Mary saw how her presence caused Gary great confusion, yet she sensed his curiosity too- a more noble human trait than fear.

Gary sensed the earnest nature of being before him and put a clamp on his laughter. Alright. Time to talk to a brush. 

“How…I mean, what are you? Are you alive? Am I going insane?”

“Gary, all I know is I heard your thoughts earlier today on the train. It was like I was awakened from a deep sleep. And I instantly knew what I am, who I am, and what my purpose is. And I couldn’t wait to meet you. And I wanted to talk to you if I could.”

“Yep, I thought someone was messing with me,” Gary offered.

“You know Gary, I’m new here too.”

Her words landed on Gary as intended and he sat up, pushing his shoulders back. He hadn’t considered Mary’s perspective on all this, but now thought it proper to do so. Mary warmed as Gary worked his way to this conclusion. .

“You said you know your purpose, what is that?” Gary asked.

“My purpose?” she answered with a smile. “To create. I’m a brush and I need to get my bristles into some paint. Soon I hope.”

Gary loved the simplicity of the answer. How wonderful to be so sure and confident, he concluded.

“Gary, I believe I need you, that we are meant to work together. I need you and you need me.”

And suddenly, without warning, the mood collapsed. The words ‘you need me’ pricked Gary’s mind. He’d worked and saved and planned and moved without help. The very notion melted his curiosity into defiant rage. The sudden shift alarmed Mary as she saw the spark growing in his mind. And, she hurried to undo it. “Your creative process brought me to life, this morning in Brooklyn. The wonder, your wonder, called to me, as you watched the madness surrounding the metro station.” 

Gary leaned back into his chair and stared off into the distance, refusing to look at Mary. He pulled deep breaths through his nose and ground his teeth. And his thoughts simmered. Who the hell are you? And his heart became cold toward Mary. 

The complex emotions and memories shuffling through Gary’s brain overwhelmed the paint brush. She saw the sadness deep in him, and the moments leading to their birth.

And then plans began to take shape in his mind, awful plans. Gary sat up and began to glare at her. Mary stiffened and silently began to pray for help. A long, unsettled silence filled the space between man and brush. “If you’re going to throw me away or toss me in the river,” she began. “Why not give us a chance? One painting, then you may do as you like.”

The request cut through the anger and yanked Gary out of his slop. “Ok, Mary. One painting.”

____________

In quick, careless movements, Gary immediately began to prepare his palet. As he began to pull paints and thinner from his bag, Mary was struck by a new terror. How was this going to work, she wondered, feeling herself go heavy under the weight of a new anxiety. The fears piled up so quickly, she barely noticed when Gary was ready to begin. She steadied herself in time to force a smile. “Ready?” she squeaked in the most pleasant tone she could muster.

“As I’ll ever be,” Gary mumbled.

Before continuing, Mary read his mind once more then prayed another prayer. 

“What should we paint?” she asked.

“How about the scene this morning from the front window of the bodega, you seemed to love it. Right?”

Mary felt the sarcasm in his tone yet ignored it. Best to plow ahead, she concluded. .

“Yes, perfect. Let’s paint. But first, I need you to think about what you saw and felt, again. So, I can see it.”

Without trying and in a flash, Gary closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. Instantly, Mary envisioned the rush and life he observed every morning: the honk of yellow taxis, the ever present jack hammer in the distance, old ladies hauling metal carts to the grocery store, a handful of serious morning joggers, and children zipping between zombie-like commuters marching toward the train station. 

“Ok,” she said with confidence, “let’s go to work.”

Awkwardly, Gary grasped Mary by the handle, then set her back down.

“Trust me, I’m the only brush you need.”

“Well see,” he stiffly replied.

Then Gary deliberately gripped Mary, as a painter should grip his brush, and dipped her into liquid white and began to cover the canvas.

Over the next two hours, Gary and Mary jostled and argued, cut-in lines, mixed paints, added layers, and reworked faces. Gary worked straight through both of his afternoon classes and barely noticed the hunger gathering in his stomach. And when they were finished he stood up and marched out of the room. For her part, Mary was exhausted but content. She took one last glance at the wet painting and dozed off.

———

Gary froze as he re-entered the studio. The two from earlier were gawking at the painting, heads askew and pointing to various splotches of color. He took a breath and hurried to join them. As he approached the easel, the two turned to him.

“You paint this?”asked the colorful Latina.

“Yes. Just now.”

“How did you do that, bro?” inquired the tiny black man, his hand held open, palm up toward the work

“Do what?”

“That,” and this time he pointed to the cascading colors emanating from each person as they moved across the canvas.

“Yeah. It’s as though the people are under water, but not. They’re rippling across the street or something,” added the woman. “It’s fascinating. I can’t stop staring.”

Gary didn’t know how to answer and he looked down at Mary hoping for a sign she was listening. For indeed Mary was listening and happy. And when she saw Gary’s concern, she winked at him.

“This street corner is what I saw this morning on my way to class today. People talk about the energy of New York. I wanted to show it.”

After a few more questions, proper introductions and photos, Gary began to pack. Luna took the hint and went back to her work. But, Wallace continued to pester Gary with questions. 

He followed Gary to the drying rack and back to the easel, stooped when Gary bent over to pick up his bag, and straightened as Gary shoveled the last of his supplies into the backpack. Gary lingered over the two inch brush still on the easel. He hoped Mary was reading his mind, and thought he heard a faint laugh a moment  later.

Finally, exhaustion got the better of the man from south Georgia and he interrupted Wallace mid question, “It was really nice to meet you Wallace but I gotta go. Do you work in here a lot?”

Wallace looked disappointed, but answered the question, “Yeah bro. Everyday.”

“Good. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gary responded, his right hand out for a shake.

Wallace’s face lightened and he shook Gary’s hand. “Yeah man. See you tomorrow.”

Happy with the end of the conversation, Gary grinned to himself and grabbed the paint brush, which he then slid into a mess pocket on his bag. Wallace returned to his seat and found his headphones. And just when Gary reached the door, Wallace called to him one more time.

“One thing Gary, you can’t be talking on the phone in here. It’s distracting. Keep ya’ girl stuff out there. Cool?”

A secret smirk filtered out of Gary.

“Oh, my bad. Yeah, I can do that,” he stuttered.

“No worries. See ya’ tomorrow.”

THE END