5. He opened the office door and saw the two workers working at their desks like always. He opened the filing cabinet drawer and took out his coveralls and the paint bucket. The bucket felt a little light and he was most likely going to have to get more paint before the day was over.
He left the office with some sort of feeling sitting on his chest. He probed at the feeling, trying to diagnose it as he approached the wall. Was it indigestion? Heart attack? Was it panic? No. It wasn’t fear or melancholy or fatigue or anger. He turned in the direction of where he’d been working the day before and as he drew nearer the hole something caught his eye that intensified the feeling in his chest. He knew what the feeling was now: foreboding. There, about four feet beyond the hole, was painted a large, broken circle. At the point of the break in the circle where the lines should have connected, they diverged instead in opposite directions. The red of the paint stood out ominously against the wall like a single fiery eye.
He wondered what it could possibly mean as he pried the lid of the bucket and began to paint over it. It was frustrating as this was a portion of the wall he had just painted a few days before. After painting over the graffito, he could still make it out, glowing faintly under the coat of white and so he applied another. As he painted he tried to think if he had ever seen anything like it before. Who would have done such a thing? And despite his knowledge that it flew against everything any good person would stand for, a smile found its way over his lips.
After three coats of paint the sign was basically covered but he had run out of paint and would have to go and get more. The paint store was only a few blocks away.
In the paint store the florescent lights were glaring down upon rows and rows of cans, jars, vats, buckets, and tubes of paint. He walked up to the counter but no one was behind it. There was a little silver bell on the counter which he rang and out of the back stockroom came the clerk. The clerk asked him if he was there for his usual bucket of paint and he said that he was. The clerk went back into the stockroom and came out with a bucket. The clerk took the empty bucket from him and made an annotation in a ledger. He didn’t have to pay for the paint as it was charged to his employer. He hesitated a second before asking the clerk his tentative question.
"Do you sell red paint?"
"What do you need red paint for?"
He told the clerk that he didn’t need it. That he’d seen it somewhere and wondered where it had been bought.
"It might have been spray paint," he said.
"Oh, no. We don't sell anything like that here. This is a respectable business." The clerk sounded insulted.
"What about just generic red paint?"
"I think you should probably go."
He tried reassuring the clerk but nothing he said was very appeasing.
"Do you know where they sell red paint?" he asked, almost at the door.
"I don't know anything!" the clerk shouted.
He hoped he hadn’t sacrificed his relationship with the clerk with his questions. He needed to stay on good terms with his paint supplier.
When he got within sight of the wall, he saw one of the office workers there and for a second he thought it had something to do with the graffiti and his questions. A thin trickle of sweat ran down from his armpit before he told himself that he’d done nothing wrong. So what was the office employee doing there?
He was still about a block away when the office worker walked in the direction of the office.
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He left the office with some sort of feeling sitting on his chest. He probed at the feeling, trying to diagnose it as he approached the wall. Was it indigestion? Heart attack? Was it panic? No. It wasn’t fear or melancholy or fatigue or anger. He turned in the direction of where he’d been working the day before and as he drew nearer the hole something caught his eye that intensified the feeling in his chest. He knew what the feeling was now: foreboding. There, about four feet beyond the hole, was painted a large, broken circle. At the point of the break in the circle where the lines should have connected, they diverged instead in opposite directions. The red of the paint stood out ominously against the wall like a single fiery eye.
He wondered what it could possibly mean as he pried the lid of the bucket and began to paint over it. It was frustrating as this was a portion of the wall he had just painted a few days before. After painting over the graffito, he could still make it out, glowing faintly under the coat of white and so he applied another. As he painted he tried to think if he had ever seen anything like it before. Who would have done such a thing? And despite his knowledge that it flew against everything any good person would stand for, a smile found its way over his lips.
After three coats of paint the sign was basically covered but he had run out of paint and would have to go and get more. The paint store was only a few blocks away.
In the paint store the florescent lights were glaring down upon rows and rows of cans, jars, vats, buckets, and tubes of paint. He walked up to the counter but no one was behind it. There was a little silver bell on the counter which he rang and out of the back stockroom came the clerk. The clerk asked him if he was there for his usual bucket of paint and he said that he was. The clerk went back into the stockroom and came out with a bucket. The clerk took the empty bucket from him and made an annotation in a ledger. He didn’t have to pay for the paint as it was charged to his employer. He hesitated a second before asking the clerk his tentative question.
"Do you sell red paint?"
"What do you need red paint for?"
He told the clerk that he didn’t need it. That he’d seen it somewhere and wondered where it had been bought.
"It might have been spray paint," he said.
"Oh, no. We don't sell anything like that here. This is a respectable business." The clerk sounded insulted.
"What about just generic red paint?"
"I think you should probably go."
He tried reassuring the clerk but nothing he said was very appeasing.
"Do you know where they sell red paint?" he asked, almost at the door.
"I don't know anything!" the clerk shouted.
He hoped he hadn’t sacrificed his relationship with the clerk with his questions. He needed to stay on good terms with his paint supplier.
When he got within sight of the wall, he saw one of the office workers there and for a second he thought it had something to do with the graffiti and his questions. A thin trickle of sweat ran down from his armpit before he told himself that he’d done nothing wrong. So what was the office employee doing there?
He was still about a block away when the office worker walked in the direction of the office.
next