Today’s
Prompt: “My business is to create,” wrote William Blake. This week, write a
story whose protagonist is also in a creative enterprise. Your character can be
an artist, or he or she can be involved in a field your typical reader may not
initially think of as creative. Try to find and describe this creative impulse.
— Courtesy: PW.Org
Word
Count: 1,544
It was five in the evening and the feasting
was done. Me and Reuben had grabbed a rattan chair each and walked off to the
bank of the river a few meters behind his house. We took glass cups, a bottle filled
with water and a little table for entertainment. The evening air was fresh and
cool; a perfect culture for a serious conversation.
“What
do you guys do down where you said you worked?”
I
took a deep breath and said, “The Enterprise?”
“Yeah,
that. What are you up to?”
I cleared my throat. “I am the Creative
Director.”
“Break
that down into chunks I can gobble in one swallow.”
“I
create stuff and I have all authority in decision making.”
“You’ve
lost me for the second or third time in as many minutes.”
I looked at him and spoke one word I knew
he’d understand. “Art.”
“I’d
have come to ruin towing that line,” he said. “I tried it often even with you
standing close by doing your own thing. Remember the times we came by these same
waters as kids to paint the scenery?”
I nodded.
“You,
you were always the gifted hands in the family. Always.” His face congealed in
a scowl. “How did you drift so far apart from the promising kid we all believed
in, Markus?”
I swallowed and even though my mouth was
empty, a lump slid down my throat like XL bitter-leaf-flavored pills.
“Called
and said you got a fine job and we was happy for you. Said you ‘created’ stuff and we believed you were
a genius of some sort and beamed with pride everywhere we went…”
Reuben sniffed on his inhaler. He always
had one on him whether he caught a cold or not. God knows why.
“’Kay,
I give up. I can’t narrate your own story to you it’s like preaching to the
darn choir. So help me out. I want to know what you did. Don’t spit it like some
god darn official report. Spin the yarn as simple as simple does without making
it sound like a ball of confusion.” He sniffed some more on his inhaler. He sank
in his rattan chair. ‘Your turn’ that
gesture seemed to say.
“‘The
Enterprise’ wasn’t that big an organization if big represents the area of land covered. But it had men of power
twirling round its little finger.
“What
we did… what the world thought we did was produce art. What we were involved
with was poles apart, like a seahorse passing for a land horse. Of course,
there was an element of truth in all the ‘art’
talk but that was about as far as we were willing to wager. We got orders from folks
for exquisite and original artwork and they got what they wanted sealed and
delivered. A scientist created some chemical substance which I mixed into my paint.
I started using the stuff on pigmy monkeys, you know what those are?”
He dismissed the question with a flick of
his hand.
“I
poured my passion into my art, creating grotesque body art on those monkeys. After
it dried it solidified its surface so when I painted on the faces of the monkeys,
their faces took the shape of whatever I painted. It was a temporary thing but
good enough to fool anyone. The Enterprise had caught on to it and hired my
services.”
“So
you were on to it before they hired your
services?”
I shrugged.
“Let’s
clear the air on something. What was the nature of these services?”
“Remolded
faces to do odd jobs for ‘The Enterprise.’”
“You
helped con acts get away with a little more ease than they afforded without
your art?”
I ignored his question. “Then came the day
I was given the big job. It involved
a lot of risks but I knew I had gone in too deep to turn around and walk out on
them. So I played along.
“I
had to become a visiting Evangelist to fit into my role. I used the paint on my
face and set the alarm to go off so it didn’t wear off while I was stuck in
there. We got a van and painted some crosses and books lying open to signify
the Holy Book on the body then we drove down to location. We’ve booked an
appointment early on and so they were expecting us. We got the Chief Warden’s
approval and I got an escort, one of the penitentiary wardens to take me to the
designated cell. He was going to hang around while I preached to the condemned
man just in case he tried to attack me but I told him I was gonna be okay and
he could check on me every once in a while, which he did not until I called for
him. He was reluctant at first but then he agreed and said it was my loss. He
disappeared down the hall and I set to work. I told the convict who I was and
why I had come. Then I started painting and reshaping.
“When
I finished painting, I waited about five minutes for the effects of the
substance to set in then called out to the warden. I made the con go on his
knees and do his confessions, repentant and humble. I knew there was no way
they were letting him off so easy but I had other plans. The warden stepped to
the door of the cell, opened the lock and stepped in, drawing his weapon as he
did. He was eyeing the con, suspiciously. I observed his physique just happened
to match the convict’s. ‘Ain’t no paradise for that bugger, ever. There’s one
son of a bitch that’s gon’ spend eternal life, if he ever gets it, in jail. A
big Amen to that, bro,’ the warden said. I smiled and told him not to talk in
such manner to a new convert and then I stepped outside and started retracing
my steps down the hall without waiting for the warden. He joined me half way
down and, after nodding my thanks to the Chief Warden, I had the warden escort
me to my van.
“That
night, there was a prison break. I bet nobody knows till this day how exactly
the con managed it.”
“Do
you know the gravity of the crime you’ve committed? Helping a mass serial
killer escape jail and putting hundreds of lives on the line for the dough?”
“I
never took the money.”
“Why
the hell not? You fulfilled your end of the deal, right?”
“I
did it under compulsion; I could have said no. but if I’d argued the point they
would have guessed I wouldn’t go through with the plan. So I conned a conman.
“The
prison break,” Reuben said. “Tell me about it. I believe there’s a story in
there.”
“I’d
spent time watching every angle of the warden’s face while he walked me to the
cell blocks. He could have passed for the con if the situation was reversed but
the face needed a little work. I
believe the folks at The Enterprise
had mapped out the coincidence before my coming so everything would go
smoothly. I don’t know who their insider was but I played my part.
“What
I did was paint the face of the warden on the con and armed him with a Glock fitted
with a muffler. When the warden stepped in, I left the cell and the con
probably shot him and rid him of his uniform. The warden that met me down the
hall was a piece of my artwork; it was the con, not the real warden. He escaped in the nighttime probably, feigning he was
going off-duty as a prison warden.
“Tell
me, Markus,” Reuben said, sitting up in his rattan. “How do you live with the
guilt of the grievous crime you and your bunch
committed? Have you ever thought about the consequences? How many more people
are going to die because of your stupidity? Your love of money?”
I let the silence swallow the bitterness
I felt in the air.
“There
was a safety catch,” I said, after a while. The sun was setting and it was
getting increasingly difficult for me to make out Reuben’s features.
“Markus,
Markus, Markus. Every time I think I have him in my grasp, he goes vague on me.”
“I
mixed venom into the paint. It was going to take a while before it took effect.
I tested it on a couple of times on animals.”
“Pygmy
monkeys?”
“Yes.
The cops are following a dead trail. The serial killer; the psycho; the
condemned man; the convict is dead by now. They ought to be out searching for a
bloated corpse with a sunken skull.”
“You’re
dead serious, ain’t you?”
I nodded.
He stood up and patted me on the back. “I
always figured you’d come around someday. Come, let’s go inside and leave the
chairs. We’ll fetch ‘em tomorrow. Right now, they’re dead weights.”
I got up and carried the rattans anyway.
“Always
loved having your own way,” Reuben said. I caught the glint in his eyes before
he turned around and walked back toward the house.
Eneh
Akpan
June
5th, 2014
