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| The Artist's Corner | Started by: Carter-P on Jun 07, '09 13:21 |
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The streets of Chicago, not a soul lurks. A ghost town, seemingly. The wee hours of the day beckons a mist--a fog--enveloping every street corner and every business. What is on the agenda? Where do we go today? My alarm sounds. It's 6:30 A.M. Rolling out of bed I'm still clothed in my blue jeans, white shirt, and baseball cap from the night previously and with one hell of a hang over, I might add! Stinking of stale boos and vomit, I head to the shower. Today's a different day, I speak to myself. The mirror in the bathroom is enveloped by the condensation of the shower's mist. Today is a day for the corner I would like to find myself at -- where an artist like me can really create and show the world what true talent is. On the corner of Henry Blvd and Clinton, many others have gathered, with pallate and paper in tow. I gather my things together, and set up where I'm greeted by an attractive woman, wearing a white, silk blouse, a black skirt, and high-heel shoes. A brunette, in her mid-30's who seems to be not having a good morning. But she wants me to draw her. I oblige. "Is this your first time here?" I ask her, trying to make idle conversation as a way of professional courtesy. "No, I've been here before, but saw you and was intrigued." "Intrigued?" I smile couriously. "What makes you so intrigued?" I playfully respond. "Because of my talent." She aserts herself. "What kind of talent would lead you to being intrigued about me?" "I read people well, and I knew first-off the sadness in your eyes. I thought you could use a way to forget about what makes you sad..." she grins, "by drawing ME." "Sad? Me?" I approach a defensive stance. "I have everything going for me right now. What on earth makes you think I'm sad. I'm not sad!" I try fighting the inevitable. "I apologize if I offended you, but I can see it in your eyes. You can't hide that." Diverting the conversation, upon completing the portrait, I tell her that'll be five dollars. Handing me the cash, she let's me know she'll be down this street everyday this week and if I'd like to talk to anyone, she'll be here -- available for me. The next day, I'm back on my corner--after conducting some family business--to persue this hobby of mine. On the corner, I never saw the woman. She never showed, yet I was approached by two detectives in trench coats who ask if I was here yesterday. With nothing to hide, I let them know I was. "A woman was found murdered last night and the only thing in her possession was this portrait of her...with your name signed at the bottom. Where did you go after you handed her the portrait?" Nervous, because I was running drugs and knocking over stores, I had to lie. "I went home." I reply with all the sincerity I could muster. Detective Jenkins looks me up and down. "Anyone to corraborate that story?" "I'm sorry, but I just went home and stayed in all day. If I hear of anything, I'd let you know though." The woman who got her face drawn, dead, with no other contacts, just me. Finding myself at the wrong place at the wrong time, yet again, and now my hobby lands me in deep. I get a phone call: "Hey, Carter. I can't believe we went through with that last night. Any word?" Huh? I think to myself. Last night, what did I do? I can't remember, I can't recall, and now I'm bewildered and confused. So I play it off, "Oh, yeah, no word yet on..." I begin to fish for information. "The fucking brunette, Carter. You don't remember?!" "Oh...her!" I didn't remember last night, I just remembered the girl, but now curious about what's to happen next. "Alright, Carter, just lay low till the heat cools off. Just be smart, man." After hanging up, I gather all of my artist belongings and begin to head to the HQ for some friendly and familiar faces. Hands in my pocket I discover a folded piece of paper. "What is this?" Unfolding it, I discover the words Kitty Kat #73 Barlou written in pink ink. Remembering "Barlou" to be a street name, I head to that address. Yellow tape surrounded this location with big, black letters, "Crime scene." "Is this the woman apartment who had me draw her portrait?" I ask myself. Picking up todays newspaper is the heading, "The Artist Serial Killer: CHICAGO" The paper went on to relate how an artist who draws portraits may be behind a sleu of murders here in Chicago. But it can't be me! I'd remember that, wouldn't I? I blacked out, I became someone else, and I'm sure I'll do it again. 6:30 A.M. My alarm goes off and I roll out of bed. Today is a day for the corner I would like to find myself at -- where an artist like me can really create and show the world what true talent is. |
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