Paint (one-shot)

[Gavin Luper]

Hullo. This was just some weird stream-of-consciousness-ish thing. Don't take it too seriously I guess. I just wrote it now and felt like sharing, though it was unplanned and is still unedited. If you can make any sense or meaning of it, great!

Paint

At eleven o’clock I have to bring the shirts in off the line. It was a warm day but the last hour has come over all cloudy. And they call this a heatwave. Nobody can get anything right. So if it rains, I’ll have to take the shirts in off the line, because Luke spent more than an hour this arvo painting on them. Painting big white letters, perfect for their announcement, perfect to be seen and applauded. But even if it doesn’t rain, I’ll have to bring them in off the line at eleven, just in case.

At eleven-thirty I have to put myself to bed. I am a big boy now after all. I am an adult now. I’m a single man. And I have work in the morning, so I need my sleep. If I don’t get enough sleep I wake up in the morning at six-forty-five when my alarm screams with breakfast radio shit and I wash my face but it doesn’t wash away the bloodshot and I walk into the branch and everyone casts sideways glances and wonders if maybe I’m a bit of a stoner.

At half-past midnight I throw myself into bed, but I’m not angry at myself, because I know myself and I know how unreliable I am. I couldn’t expect to be less than an hour behind schedule, because I never am. I try to close my eyes but there’s a chink of light coming in under the blinds. God how I want to go to sleep. I wish I could remember my sleep, because whenever I wake up I always have the feeling that I left something really good behind.

At twelve-thirty-three, I swear at the ceiling with the kind of language only workmen and sailors and whores used to use in the eighteen hundreds, but of course now anyone can swear, because we’re egalitarian. I swear because I forgot to bring in the shirts off the line. It’s not raining yet, and it might never rain, but do I really want to take a chance that the shirts might get wet? Luke spent well over an hour on them, after all. He drank his full strength (but low carb) beer and daubed white fabric paint on those navy singlets, making big fat white letters while the computer pumped out pub rock in the background. Can you imagine if they were destroyed?

At five-sixteen, I’ll stumble out of bed, my eyes still closed. I’ll slam my shoulder into the doorframe as I negotiate a clumsy path to the dunny. It’ll take a while to piss, cause I’ll have the usual morning boner, and I’ll half lapse into sleep again while I stand over the bowl. I’ll yawn and grunt and wash my hands and go back to bed.

At six-forty-five, my alarm will scream breakfast radio shit at me and smoke me out of my bedroom. I’ll throw some pants on and trudge down the flight of fourteen steps. One day I’ll probably be too bleary-eyed to see the steps properly and I’ll miss one and go flying and end up breaking my neck or my spinal cord and I’ll never walk again. But this morning, I’ll make it down okay. Josh will be snoring on the couch; the table will be obscured by the forty-eight bottles of beer and seven cans of bourbon and coke we had last night. Nobody will have had the arse or the consideration to clean up. I’ll probably do it, because I’m a big boy now. I’m a single man, and I have to take care of myself.

At seven o’clock, I’ll have breakfast. Three weet-bix in a bowl of milk. I’ll put the bowl in the microwave for one minute, because that’s the way I’ve done it since I was a kid, even though everyone has always said to never eat soggy weet-bix. Apparently it gives you direction. But I’ve always eaten soggy weet-bix, and I like it, though I’m not meant to tell anyone.

At seven-fifteen I’ll be dressed in my black pants and black long-sleeved shirt and yellow tie and I’ll look out the kitchen window with its dated brown edges and swear like some kind of workman or sailor or whore from the eighteen hundreds, because I’ll realise that I fell asleep again after I woke up last night, and I left the navy blue singlets hanging on the line. Luke spent well over an hour daubing fabric paint on them, massive white letters for the ten boys to wear proudly tomorrow at the cricket. One letter on each Bonds singlet. “T-H-A-N-X G-I-L-L-Y.” They were hoping to get on TV with it. They wanted to be seen at the cricket in their navy singlets, with their message of stoic gratitude.

But it rained.

At one-thirty in the afternoon they’ll be going to the cricket, but I won’t be going with them. I have to go to work in the morning, and I have to work all day. I have to go into the branch, where they’ll all shoot sideways glances at my bloodshot eyes and wonder if maybe I’m a stoner. I won’t be going with them; I won’t be going with them because I have to work. I am an adult, after all. I’m a very big boy now, and I have to take care of myself.

[darktyranitar]

A random fic about the record of (what I assume) your typical day… cool! I love random fics.

At one point when I was reading this fic, I have this feeling that the fic would be good if it was to be read with Radiohead’s Fitter Happier being played in the background. Must have been something to do with how the fic is narrated. Oh, and I never knew about the word egalitarian until I read this (You learn something new every day, no?) And speaking of word… what does ‘arvo’ mean? Is that an Australian word for evening?

So, hm, by reading this fic, we can conclude that… you’re cynical, world weary and you... like to swear occasionally? ^^;;

Yessir, you’re a big boy now Enjoy life.

[mistysakura]

'Arvo' is an Australian word/abbreviation for afternoon. Rather like 'brekky' for breakfast.

Yeah, this was random. I like the repetition, and how it opens and closes sort of in reverse. Favourite quotes: "At twelve-thirty-three, I swear at the ceiling with the kind of language only workmen and sailors and whores used to use in the eighteen hundreds, but of course now anyone can swear, because we’re egalitarian" and "everyone has always said to never eat soggy weet-bix. Apparently it gives you direction". (Eww, soggy weetbix... warm milk...) Kinda obvious you wouldn't bring the shirts in and it would rain though. Hang on, singlets or shirts? Singlets aren't a subcategory of shirts, last time I checked.

No intelligent comments at the moment.

[Gavin Luper]

Yay, reviews!

So, hm, by reading this fic, we can conclude that… you’re cynical, world weary and you... like to swear occasionally? ^^;;

Yep, totally. Although, there's still a chunk of me somewhere that is idealistic and hopeful, though I'm not sure how big that chunk is anymore. It still exists though: it's the part that makes my spine tingle when I hear a good song, and makes me read Harry Potter and genuinely believe that the messages are true. Because I think they are. So I'm not a total cynic. Thank God, eh?

I'd never heard that song before ... it's awesome. I'm now really looking forward to listening to their new album that I got on vinyl. I totally see where you're coming from with the tone in the story, too; once I reread it, I could easily imagine Fitter Happier in the background. It definitely has the same kind of drone to it, although I guess Paint is slightly less ... defeated ... I think that's the word I'm looking for.

Cheers for reading, Faiz! I'm glad you enjoyed the randomness!

Ada: Aw, they were intelligent comments. Honest. Cool that you found the repetition pleasing; that was about the only calculated thing as I wrote this, and I'm glad it worked. I wondered if it was a bit too mallet-over-the-head-esque. You don't like warm milk on weetbix? Sigh. It's me against the world still. It tastes fine. Try it! I dare you!

Hm, I never really twigged with the whole shirts/singlets thing. I guess (at least among my family/friends) we tend to use the word 'shirt' as a generic term for anything that goes on the top half of your body - excluding, you know, bras or whatever. Maybe that's just some country hick thing, but yeah, that's why I used the two as synonyms in this fic: it just genuinely didn't occur to me that it might sound out of place to other people.

Thanks for reading and reviewing - both of you! Great to get some feedback, even if it was just a random little thing like this. Cheers!

[mistysakura]

Okay, I've realised I don't know what a shirt is either. I always thought they were things with collars, but then people talk about collarless shirts... it's all so confusing! Go and listen to In Rainbows. Now. How did you manage to get it on vinyl? The arrangements are so beautiful... If you like it, try the rest of OK Computer, Kid A, and Absolution by Muse. With Fitter, Happier I reckon the tone's more defeated whereas with Paint it's more resigned. Which sounds like it's the exact same thing, but with resigned you can be resigned to do something and keep on doing it, whereas with 'defeated' it seems more passive.

[Gavin Luper]

Okay, I've realised I don't know what a shirt is either. I always thought they were things with collars, but then people talk about collarless shirts... it's all so confusing! Go and listen to In Rainbows. Now. How did you manage to get it on vinyl? The arrangements are so beautiful... If you like it, try the rest of OK Computer, Kid A, and Absolution by Muse. With Fitter, Happier I reckon the tone's more defeated whereas with Paint it's more resigned. Which sounds like it's the exact same thing, but with resigned you can be resigned to do something and keep on doing it, whereas with 'defeated' it seems more passive.

Yes, it's resigned. That's the best way to put it, I think. Like ... Fitter, Happier has this aura of no hope at all; whereas, even though there's not really a hopeful tone in Paint, there's no tone of "no hope" either, which I think makes it different. I'm not sure if that makes sense, but I see a distinction, and I think it's the same one you spotted with the whole resigned/defeated thing, just in different words.

Shirts ... with collars, they're "shirts"; without, they're "T-shirts". Beyond that ... bleh.

They had the record at JB HI-FI, so I picked it up for something different. Okay, I'll try to listen to it tonight. My record player is upstairs. Ugh. Fourteen steps!

[darktyranitar]

Yeah, I guess now that you put it that way, Fitter Happier does sound rather hopeless. Probably something that can bring to the edge of suicide too. I dunno; just an impression I got.

I have brought In Rainbows the other day too. I have only heard it twice, though. Perhaps I should listen to the album again.

Y'know what, Kristian? My dad's probably gonna be proud to know that someone else is still listening to vinyl (he doesn't have one right now, actually; although he wished he could get one of those. For, uh, nostalgia, I suppose)

Funny how a random fic can stem off to discussion about music, eh?