Twice as Hard - 3rd Excerpt
TWICE AS HARD - (3rd)
First Excerpt
Second Excerpt
“Dis will nevah sell for 75 – the best we’re gonna get is about 50,” said Mike, the pungent, disheveled and overall cagey-looking man behind the counter of the 'head shop’ on East Main Street. “Trust me, I know dis business.” AJ considered the man’s words while he studied the object of discussion, a painting titled The Band rendered in vivid acrylic colors.
A guitarist stood in the foreground of the picture, leaning back with his right hand raised high, as if for a sharp down stroke on his instrument. To the guitarist’s left, a bass player stood, half-kneeling; thumping. To the bass player’s left (far right in the painting) a trio of female backup singers shook tambourines and hips. Right of the guitarist a keyboardist leaned over his eighty-eights while a sax player and trombone player had a brass face-off to the far right. Behind all others, a drummer half stood over his stool, whacking away as if he had eight arms.
The painting was impressive, a Realist style rendition of what one might find on the stage of almost any given Pop or R&B concert. In fact, it suggested a level of mastery seldom found in a 16-year old. The Band had won “best of show” at the annual Franklin High School art competition and AJ’s three additional entries each received Honorable Mention.
“C’mon, Mike,” the young artist pleaded. “You gotta at least try. I was offered 75 on the spot by one of the parents at the art show.”
The shop owner frowned at AJ. “Well maybe you should just sell it to that parent,” he sneered. “Then you ain’t even gotta worry about my 20 percent.”
“Aw, man – ain’t nobody trying to stiff you out of your money,” AJ grumbled. “I just think I should get something closer to what I’m worth.”
“Well even Picasso had to start somewhere, hotshot.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t trying to be Picasso,” AJ retorted. “In fact, I think the only thing he has going for himself is a really bold use of colors. Beyond that, in my opinion, Pablo Pee’s shit looks like finger-painting.”
The older man shook his head, then shook his finger at AJ. “That’s the problem with you kids, no respect!” he said. “You should pray to be half as good as Picasso someday!”
“Yeah, whatever,” AJ waved nonchalantly as he walked toward the door. “Just try to sell some of my shit for a change, I got some heavy bills, man.” He pushed out of the door and set off toward Goodman Street, where he knew a fellow that sold very potent weed. Sometimes the only way to find meaning in existence is to fade back, he reasoned.
A guitarist stood in the foreground of the picture, leaning back with his right hand raised high, as if for a sharp down stroke on his instrument. To the guitarist’s left, a bass player stood, half-kneeling; thumping. To the bass player’s left (far right in the painting) a trio of female backup singers shook tambourines and hips. Right of the guitarist a keyboardist leaned over his eighty-eights while a sax player and trombone player had a brass face-off to the far right. Behind all others, a drummer half stood over his stool, whacking away as if he had eight arms.
The painting was impressive, a Realist style rendition of what one might find on the stage of almost any given Pop or R&B concert. In fact, it suggested a level of mastery seldom found in a 16-year old. The Band had won “best of show” at the annual Franklin High School art competition and AJ’s three additional entries each received Honorable Mention.
“C’mon, Mike,” the young artist pleaded. “You gotta at least try. I was offered 75 on the spot by one of the parents at the art show.”
The shop owner frowned at AJ. “Well maybe you should just sell it to that parent,” he sneered. “Then you ain’t even gotta worry about my 20 percent.”
“Aw, man – ain’t nobody trying to stiff you out of your money,” AJ grumbled. “I just think I should get something closer to what I’m worth.”
“Well even Picasso had to start somewhere, hotshot.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t trying to be Picasso,” AJ retorted. “In fact, I think the only thing he has going for himself is a really bold use of colors. Beyond that, in my opinion, Pablo Pee’s shit looks like finger-painting.”
The older man shook his head, then shook his finger at AJ. “That’s the problem with you kids, no respect!” he said. “You should pray to be half as good as Picasso someday!”
“Yeah, whatever,” AJ waved nonchalantly as he walked toward the door. “Just try to sell some of my shit for a change, I got some heavy bills, man.” He pushed out of the door and set off toward Goodman Street, where he knew a fellow that sold very potent weed. Sometimes the only way to find meaning in existence is to fade back, he reasoned.
* * *
The smell was hideous, nauseating – like three-day-old garbage, which a lot of it was. AJ stood at the unloading bay of a recycling plant as Laurence, his brother-in-law, explained the job and what it entailed. Dump trucks would come and dump loads of garbage in a wide receiving area. Laurence and his coworkers were responsible for sifting through the refuse for paper, plastic, glass and metal items, and toss them onto wide conveyer belts that took them... wherever; some strange unknown place beyond the portal through which the recyclable items vanished.
“Because you’re underage, they have to pay you under the table,” Laurence was telling AJ.
“What does that mean?”
“It basically means the boss gets a cut of your pay, but you don’t get taxes deducted.” This seemed like a decent trade-off to AJ. However, he still wanted the details explained. He knew what under the table meant, but AJ didn’t trust his brother-in-law as far as he could throw a stick.
“So, after all that, how much will I be getting?” the teenager asked.
“Twenty dollars a day, and you get paid every day,” said Laurence. “Any weeks with more than five days, you get 30 bucks for each day. We always have lots of extra work.”
AJ did a few quick calculations in his head. A hundred dollars a week, plus whatever extra days he could get. He had found an apartment where the rent was $170 per month, which included utilities. His thoughts churned so fast he thought he could hear them rattling around in his head. Will I be able to buy food, maybe diapers and formula, and get transportation back and forth to work with the other $230 a month? What about the medical expenses? Hell, what about school?! Well, like Momma always said, 'we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it...'
The smell was hideous, nauseating – like three-day-old garbage, which a lot of it was. AJ stood at the unloading bay of a recycling plant as Laurence, his brother-in-law, explained the job and what it entailed. Dump trucks would come and dump loads of garbage in a wide receiving area. Laurence and his coworkers were responsible for sifting through the refuse for paper, plastic, glass and metal items, and toss them onto wide conveyer belts that took them... wherever; some strange unknown place beyond the portal through which the recyclable items vanished.
“Because you’re underage, they have to pay you under the table,” Laurence was telling AJ.
“What does that mean?”
“It basically means the boss gets a cut of your pay, but you don’t get taxes deducted.” This seemed like a decent trade-off to AJ. However, he still wanted the details explained. He knew what under the table meant, but AJ didn’t trust his brother-in-law as far as he could throw a stick.
“So, after all that, how much will I be getting?” the teenager asked.
“Twenty dollars a day, and you get paid every day,” said Laurence. “Any weeks with more than five days, you get 30 bucks for each day. We always have lots of extra work.”
AJ did a few quick calculations in his head. A hundred dollars a week, plus whatever extra days he could get. He had found an apartment where the rent was $170 per month, which included utilities. His thoughts churned so fast he thought he could hear them rattling around in his head. Will I be able to buy food, maybe diapers and formula, and get transportation back and forth to work with the other $230 a month? What about the medical expenses? Hell, what about school?! Well, like Momma always said, 'we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it...'
“Alright Laurence,” AJ finally said. “It sounds like a good deal to me. When can I start?”
posted by JahStorm @ 11:29 AM
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