Self Portrait Part 3: "There You Go Asking Questions Again..."

Self Portrait is a four-part serial short story based on experiences described in my “Street Cred” series.

←——Part 1: Coffee Black.
←——Part 2: Unh huh. Unh huh.

Podcast of entire story is at the top of Part 4.

The next morning, Virgil was sitting on a stoop with Richie, when Bridget appeared with a portfolio case in one hand and wicker backpack of supplies over her shoulder.

“Where we goin'?” He asked a little suspiciously. “And why’s your hair all up on top of your head like that?”

“The Commons,” she answered. It was clear from his reaction that the Commons was definitely not one of the stations of Virgil’s daily cross. “I have to wear it up when I paint.”

“Unh huh. Unh huh.” He turned towards Richie. “She think it’ll be good for her reputation to be seen outside painting me.”

Richie nodded. Made sense to him.

“No, I think it’s good for your reputation to be seen being painted by me.” Bridget said, handing him the case. They began walking up the same street in different worlds. They said hi to different people (“Wazzup, Wazzup” in Virgil’s case). They walked with different strides. They focused on different sights and sounds. They thought different things.

She wondered why they hadn’t used local slate instead of standing seam on the roof of the little post-and-beam bus shelter. She visualized the root systems of the sidewalk oaks spreading deep underground, entangling themselves around hidden pipes and cables and trying to find a way into building foundations. She considered the best angle for painting the Baptist church with its impossibly high steeple. She was distracted by the noise of a dozen motorcycles roaring down Main Street like they’d suddenly appeared from some distant hostile planet.

Virgil was sizing up the farmer-looking guy getting into the beat-up pickup with the rusted front bumper and air freshener hanging from the mirror…and the old guy with the Marine cap sitting on the porch of the Mason’s Hall, typing on a laptop with his feet up on the railing…and the people in front of the post office silently holding their peace posters…and the dude on the motorcycle that reminded him of the bike he’d left back home. Unh huh. Unh huh.

When they arrived, she started figuring out the light, while he got himself oriented in space and time.

Bridget decided the best place for him to pose was on a bench right in front of the maple two over from the hemlock. There was a picnic table about six feet away for her to set up on. The sun was still pretty high in the sky. But she wouldn’t be able to do all the studies and final in one session. For $15 an hour she could probably persuade Virgil to venture into her world again.

She took a Masonite board from her portfolio, taped down the paper, and arranged her supplies. “Starting the clock, Virgil! Let’s go.”

He sashayed over and sat on the bench where she indicated. “You take your time Mizzz Bridget…” Why I must have just earned a quarter just getting settled here.”

They both laughed. She knew his submissive tone was anything but.

“How ‘bout I have a cigarette while you paint?”

“How ‘bout you don’t, unless you can do it without moving your hands or lips,” she smiled.

Watercolors turned out to be a good medium for painting Virgil since even when he was sitting still, it felt like he was in constant motion. Usually, she used highlights and shadows to give life to people, most of whom she found rather dull. With Virgil, she had to use them to set boundaries, while keeping them fluid. She started with a quick study of his right arm and hand up on the bench.

“Turn your head, Virgil.”

“Thought I was supposed to sit still.”

“Unless I tell you to move.” She did a quick wash of the profile, the signature tilt of his head as if he were about to ask you what you thought you were up to.

“Now, where are you really from Virgil?” She was emboldened to ask him the question. The dynamic always changed as soon as you started painting someone.

"There you go asking questions again." That was how he answered personal questions, as if he were an informant with valuable information.

“Cut it out, Virgil. When people first meet, they usually ask each other where they’re from.”

“Yeah, that might be what they usually do. But it’s not what I usually do. Can’t give away that kind of information for free. Same reason I wouldn’t let you give me money when I first met you." He made the analogy sound logical.

She began to try to get the lights and darks of his face. The sun made a little highlight on the tip of this nose…that wasn’t going to be easy…but she quickly got the wash from the side of his eye down to his left nostril.

“I’m from Alabama,” he said to her surprise. Of course, she didn’t know if he was kidding or not. It was as likely as anyplace else he might have said he was from.

“Hope you’re ready for the cold.”

He started to move.

“Whoa…you can shift the weight on your butt a little bit but try not to move the position of your head or your arm.”

“Well, shit, no way I’m staying here in winter.”

She laughed, imagining Virgil on the bench, just sitting there, the snow falling, shivering from time to time. She started working on his wispy black beard with a bit of gray in it. Wished she’d brought a tinier brush.

“So, you’re going back home.” A statement.

“Yeah…I be going back home. Once I get the money together.” It was a statement not an ask.

“OK, take a break.”

He got up, jangled his body a little, walked over to look, and laughed. “What…you get more money if you sell me in pieces? I like that. You just another kind of drug dealer.”

“They’re called studies, Virgil,” Bridget said almost defensively. “After the break, I’ll do a rough of your whole face.” She glanced up at the light. “Then we’ll come up same time next sunny day to finish.”

“Must have earned $10 so far.”

“About that.”

“Enough for a pack of cigarettes.” He said it a bit curiously, like it’d be a new experience for him. Virgil didn’t buy cigarettes, he bummed them. “Store right over there.”

“Sure. But get back quick.”

He took the bill she handed him, slid it into his back pocket and headed off to the store. She walked back and forth a couple of times on the well-trod foot path along the tree line, blinking, clearing her eyes. In a few minutes, Virgil came back smoking. She decided to keep him in profile and, after he licked his fingers and carefully put the butt out, she began again. Talking on and off.

“Train would get you down as far as Washington. Then you could take a bus. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hundred bucks.” Like she was his travel agent. “Let me know if you need help. Maybe I’d buy you a ticket with the money I make selling your painting. Put you on a bus or train, get you back to your momma.” She knew the “momma” thing would be frowned upon by most of her friends but would be fine with Virgil.

“Well, wouldn’t do no good,” he said, clearly unfazed.

“Why’s that?”

“One, momma’s dead.”

“Sorry, Virgil.”

“You know my momma?” he asked dismissively.

She was a little annoyed. “I know she had to deal with you…OK, so what’s the other reason?”

“Ahh. See that’s the kind of thing you don’t know.”

She sighed. He wasn’t going to tell her so why bother trying. “Well, if I sell the painting, you do deserve some of the money. You being so good looking.” She grinned at him. He vamped a leer back. She felt the slightest tremor.

“Gotcha!” he said.

She would have objected, but knew he knew better.

“‘Course money isn’t so much the problem in this situation,” he said...his tone like some corporate executive.

“Well, that’s good to know.” Maybe the shelter had agreed to buy him a ticket to go home.

“I don’t have,” he suddenly went to King’s English, “Pro-per I-dent-i-fi-ca-tion.”

Ah…that was the second reason, Bridget realized. “But you don’t need identification to take a bus. An airplane sure. Maybe a train. But not a bus.”

“When you look like me you do!” Big laugh. “Bus! Train! Hell, walkin’ down the sidewalk people ask for my identification.” He wasn’t offended by the fact. If anything, it was a joke on anyone so clueless they thought he posed a threat.

“The shelter can’t vouch for you or something? Get you a temporary identification?”

“There you go asking questions again.”

“C’mon, Virgil. Enough. Why shouldn’t I?”

“There you go…”

For her, conversation was based on questions. It was part of her process. How could she talk without asking them? It was as good as any Zen koan let she'd ever heard.

“Unh huh. Unh huh.” It wasn’t clear whether he was reading her mind or agreeing with himself.

Bridget finally knew the sound of one hand clapping.

For a while she just painted. They took another quick break and he relit the butt. This one he stomped out after finishing.

“Pick it up,” she said automatically.

He did. Slowly. And then sat back down where she indicated. “No. You only had two fingers showing front on the bench, not three. And you have to tilt your head a little more towards me.”

She stopped after another twenty minutes. The light was getting too low, and he was getting too twitchy, no matter how often she tried to stop him. They’d have to come back up to finish. If the sun wasn't right, she'd have to darken the left side of his face. And she needed to slip in a little gray in his beard. Fortunately, she had only put a little light base on that tip of his nose.

He came and looked over her shoulder while she waited for it to dry. “Unh huh. Unh huh.”

“Ok Virgil. Help me carry the stuff back. See you in the morning for coffee.”

“Maybe. Maybe. What time you be comin’ by?”

“What difference does it make?” She laughed. “Wherever I go, there you are.”

They had their second painting session a few days after the first one. She finished it in her studio the next morning and told him to come up and take a look. It didn’t seem like a big deal having him up there now. He studied it carefully. Seemed uncharacteristically taken aback. Like he saw something he hadn't seen before. But he recovered quickly. "That dude is mighty good lookin'."

Final Part: Road Trip

On an entirely different subject…

A year or so ago, my wife Wendy and I attended a meeting of “The Kennedy Forum,” an organization that advocates for mental-health parity; i.e., covering brain health the same as physical health. [Note! This is Patrick Kennedy not would-be-President RFK Jr.]

There were a lot of presentations…all mildly interesting. Then this guy came out and started speaking and I thought: OMG this guy actually knows what’s going on in mental health and what needs to be done and can explain it with passion and humor in language anyone can understand. When I watched Kamala Harris announce her VP choice the other day I realized we’d been listening that day to Tim Walz. Politics aside, he’s a really smart guy and a great communicator.

And maybe it’s not so entirely a different subject. Mental healthcare is a huge issue for many people living without reliable shelter. Glad there might be a Vice President who gets it.