My dad and I went to Walgreen’s for some chocolate syrup and nail polish remover. He liked to paint his toes to cover up the fungus. I told him all he needed was Vick’s vapor rub–that’s what Randle told me, Randle my cello tutor who once took off his socks to show me.
Dad said Randle lived with his parents, so what did he know.
When we came out of Walgreen’s there was a fat man sitting on a small chair in front of an easel. On both sides of him, resting against the building, were charcoal drawings, caricatures of no one I could recognize. His chair looked like it would break if someone put a baby on his lap. And he smelled, from ten feet away, like salsa left out in the sun.
“That’s a pretty good David Coverdale,” said my dad.
“I know. But I sold a better one to a guy last week.”
“Who’s David Coverdale?”
“Your kid don’t know Whitesnake?” he asked my dad.
“Before his time.”
“I’ll draw your boy,” he said, looking me up and down.
“How much?” asked my dad.
“Five bucks.”
“How bout four and some change?”
“The kid don’t have a dollar?”
My dad nodded toward the guy, “Give him a dollar.” I gave him a five and snagged the other four from my dad.
“What now?” I asked. “Want me to strike a pose?”
“This ain’t Rodin, kid. Just stand against the wall.” He flipped to a new page in his sketchbook, and several scribbles later, the man had finished. I thought he was joking—like he’d drawn some stick figure, some Picasso bird of peace—but he tore the page away and handed it to my dad.
“That’s uncanny.”
He showed me the drawing and in that quick sketch the fat man had captured me completely, except that one of my arms was shorter than the other.
I got in the car and my dad took a shot of the syrup straight into his mouth. It wasn’t for ice cream.
“Crazy,” he said.
“What?”
“That guy nailed you. And it only took him a minute.”
“Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s too distorted.”
“It’s a caricature, Sam. Come on.”
When we got home, I went to the mirror and took off my shirt. No matter how I stood—shoulders back or hunched—my right arm was longer than my left.
I went through all my shirts, all my coats and sweaters. Sure enough each one had been altered, but only by an inch or two.
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dude, the vicks killed me, and roland? yesss!!
There you go again on your own.
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