A Nice Guy Like You

An artist, but one with a day job. The whole romantic “starving artist” idea is nice in theory, but the people that live it tend to be odd. Mid-20’s. Best feature by far is that this person is grounded. Realistic. Sensible, but still hasn’t lost his sense of fun. Not perfect. A tendency to talk before thinking, but not in such a way to be offensive. A tiny bit disheveled, not always moussed and buffed and perfect. Just comfortable in the skin he was given.

Jeff thinks all this as he looks in the mirror. He knows all of this about himself to be true. He knows it. But…

He can’t shake the feeling that his eyes aren’t his own, his clothes not what he picked, his hands not controlled by his brain.

He tries to remember what’s happened today. Waking up on the futon in his studio, cramped and sore from sleeping in an awkward position. Walking Guinness to the park and back, stopping for a newspaper and an iced chai. Coming home, showering, and heading for the Visual Arts 101 class that he’s teaching in exchange for graduate tuition this semester.

This is where he gets lost. He knows he put on his paint-stained jeans and shirt today, because the class is working with oils and it gets messy. Everything after that is blank. Not hazy, not fuzzy. Blank. Nonexistent. Gone.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but now, standing alone in his tiny bathroom, the moon as the only source of light, he knows he has to talk to someone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He wakes up to the sound of jogging feet. Get up quick, get moving, get going before the cops come around. He’s been lucky with this bench so far. It’s never taken at night, it’s close to a cozy place for Guinness, and it faces the sunrise that reminds him that he was once an artist. Now, he’s just another street bum, too proud to admit to the schizophrenia that now defines him.