Epiphany

Angry clouds fighting across the city skyline. Buckets of uncaring rain dropping here and there at will. A dimly lit alley with rainbows in the mud puddles. What a fuckin’ night. The fool walked slowly in the downpour, staring in this window and that, clutching tight his faded gray trench coat and khaki hat.

A neon sign hung over the doorway of the gallery. Candies, it was supposed to read, but the "s" had burned away, so the sign left hanging seemed to read only Candle, for the "i" was less pronounced. Candle in The Wind, he mused quietly to himself.

Evening, the man at the door greeted the stranger.

I'd say, the fool said in passing.

Here I am. In the doorway of the place called Candies, in his dark hour. The many women he'd painted had come, and now were gone, ghosts in the attic for a rainy day, he'd told himself, but it was raining and he was still lonely, and when he tried to resurrect those old dead souls, all he could find were blank stares.

Can I help you find anything? the man at the door asked him politely.

I'd say, the fool repeated, and ignoring him, brushed aside the love beads that graced the open doorway and stepped into the gallery.

A Van Gogh was there, as well as a Mattisse and all the other big name imitations. He didn't waste time on them. A Rembrandt showered him with flowers, and he brushed away the sight. It was chilly, to the bone, even inside the building, and the clientele, the paintings, seemed just too much. He considered leaving.

Hello, the cashier addressed him, how are you tonight?

He only winked at her and made his way to the door. But there a strange cameo caught his attention. She stood shyly in the shadows, away from the other paintings and patrons. Were it not for her eyes, green and mysterious, staring hopefully into the heavens as if in prayer, he might have passed on about his way without a thought or care. But tonight was an exceptional night, and he felt himself lucky to find her.

This is it. She was a simple bust portrait, nothing spectacular or award winning. She wore what appeared to be a faded orange cashmere sweater, with a string of pearls around her neck, and earrings to match. Her hair was long, naturally wavy, strawberry blonde. Instinctively, he looked for a name at the bottom left, but found no signature. Epiphany, the sign in the lower middle read. That's all. Just Epiphany.

A no-name by a no-author. Perfect. With her delicate and soft complexion, innocent yet kissable lips, drawn down into a puzzled pout, and the strange green tint in her shadowed eyes, he was taken, and knew he'd found his girl.

How much for this one? he asked the cashier.

Epiphany? the woman asked.

That's what it says right here, he told her, pointing to the sign.

Ah yes, the woman said, her beauty is in her simplicity. But she's not for sale.

The fool, taking her no for an opportunity, prodded her further.

This is a gallery, isn't it?

Not everything is for sale, mister, she said dryly.

But I want this painting.

At that, the cashier eyed him carefully, taking him in from top to bottom, bottom to top.

Would you promise to take care of her? the woman finally asked, stepping out from behind the counter to stand toe to toe with the wet fool. She's very special to all of us here.

You have my word, he reassured her in his best and most charming way, with a slight bow and grin, a nod of his top hat.

She isn't for sale because she cannot be bought, the cashier said softly, almost compassionately. A soul like that can bear no price, but I'll give Epiphany away, to you, for free.

No shit? The fool smiled, lifted the painting from its place in the doorway, and silently patted his ego for charm's sake.

I'm trusting you, the woman said sternly, petitioning his eyes once again.

Don't worry, he winked. I'm a collector.

And as he walked through the love beads and out into the pouring rain, he heard the cashier say behind him:

That's what I'm afraid of.

By the mantle? No, that's no good. Might catch fire. Kitchen? Hell no, catch food. God, she's beautiful. Better make it the living room, beside the sitting chair and pipe table. Take it slow, he reminded himself. Don't wanna' ruin this one. Real potential here; maybe a painting will satisfy me for once in my life.

Unlike the other faces that had passed through and gone, Epiphany immediately added life to his lonely apartment, turning the gray into a lighter white, the dismal yellow from the light fixtures into a setting sun glow. In days to come, he spent more and more time admiring the work of this unknown artist, this fine work of art named Epiphany. In a week she moved from the sitting chair to the sofa, and from the sofa to the doorway, to greet him when he came home from a hard day's work. In two more weeks she moved into the bedroom, just beside his king-sized bed, so he could fall asleep under her strange green eyes, those mysterious and hopeful eyes, and waken to the light of her soft and innocent skin.

But then things began to change. His dreams turned to nightmares, his vision began to pale, and he once again grew lonely. It wasn't her, no. She didn't change. That was the problem. Try as he might, he could never spot what it was that captured her gaze so, turning it away from himself, the painter, the transformer, the one in control. The fool. Epiphany always seemed to be looking away into a far off place, a place where the painter knew he wasn't welcome, in a world that was not his own. So with sullen resolve, he moved Epiphany to the bathroom, where his shower and soap were, and dragged out the paints.

Okay, baby, he said to her, talk to me.

Start with the shirt. Yeah, that's it. A little bit of highlights on her shoulders, from moonlight? Sunlight? He couldn't decide. He settled on late summer day sun, just a touch of white and yellow, like daisies, just below her chin. But what about her hair? Needs more shadows, he decided. A touch here, there. Just a touch. Remember, don't spoil this one. She's special.

But spoil her he did. He got bigger brushes, more paint. He even moved a powerful halogen light into the bathroom so he could see better. But the more he saw, the more changes he needed to make. One day her hair was the wrong color, so he added some yellow and made it blonde. When that didn't work, he added some pale blue highlights and a new background, a new history, a new past. He changed her shirt from cashmere to silk. He did away with the pearls around her neck and added a golden cross. He painted new strands of hair to cover her ears. He even added some color to her innocent complexion, but he never touched her eyes, for they were the window to her soul, the very thing an artist is created to expose. That’s what he told himself.

Three more weeks passed by, and he found himself perched on the porcelain toilet seat, unshaven, out of work, flustered to the boiling point, and staring, just staring, at this strange and unknown girl, so pure and innocent, a young girl coughed up from nowhere who had once made his life so pleasant. Now she was making it a misery, he told himself. And on that thought, he lost control.

Grabbing two tubes of paint in each hand, he flung them at the canvas, right and left, up and down, diagonal, all over the place. When those tubes were empty, he grabbed some more. Those gone, he sprinted to the hardware store, bought three gallons of wall paint, and returned to his apartment with a vengeance. When he was finished, his bathroom was a wreck, like a scene from a Jackson Pollack gallery, and the canvas lay in a heap on the floor, coated in the colors of a tainted rainbow. As he watched, a trickle of Cadmium blue ran down one horrified greenish-brown eye and pooled up on the paint-stained tiles. Flustered, he left Epiphany there, in a sobbing heap on the floor of the bathroom in his uptown apartment, and headed to the neighborhood bar for a walk and a stiff drink.

Soon he found himself in the alley again, underneath the unlit neon canvas that read, in morose letters, Candies. The Gallery. Love beads in the entranceway. The way she caught his eye in his dark hour. Abruptly he stopped, bathed in the sodium light, and only stared at the closed door before him. Her beauty is in her simplicity, the cashier had said. Take care of her. She's very special to all of us here. Strangely, he remembered what his mother had once asked him.

Do you know what love is?

No, he'd told her plainly, I really don't.

Set it free, she'd said, and let it be. If you can frame it, put it in a bottle, or mold it, throw it away. If you can’t, hang on for dear life.

Nearly tripping over his coattails, he sprinted the entire half-mile back to his apartment.

Epiphany, he called out naively from the front door, I'm home!

Of course, there was no answer.

In a mad dash, he toppled the sofa on his way to the moonlit open door of his bathroom. And that was where he found her, just as he'd left her. A mess. A paint-stained and ruined mess.

Oh God! What have I done?

Sobbing heavily, he panicked, a fool staring into the mirror of his folly. She's gone, he thought. She's really gone. I had her, I loved her, and now she's gone.

Gotta' do something. Go back to the gallery? No way, he'd given them his word. Find another painting? For Epiphany, there was no replacement, he knew. Painfully, he knew. Not the paintings in the attic, not another gallery. He was all alone.

But as he stared at the mess of paint on the walls, the commode, and the canvas, a slow burn began in the pit of his stomach, and grew up and up, touching the tender ears of his new found heart. He would make things better again; there was still another chance. Just one more chance, Epiphany, he said, just give me once more chance. I fucked up. I'm sorry!

She didn’t respond.

Hurriedly, he turned both the shower and the sink faucets on as hot as they could go, quickly steaming up the bathroom. Immediately, to his delight, the paint streaks began to drip from the tiles. He kept his mineral spirits under the kitchen sink, and pouring some into a champagne glass, he smiled. I'll bring you back to life, he said through the steam. I'll undo what's been done. I'll make it all better again. And with hope his companion, he flung the mineral spirits onto the paint-stained portrait, but watched with horror as the fading rainbow of colors melted away, revealing only a bare, naked white canvas.

And Epiphany was no more.

Hanging his defeated head between his knees, the fool wept the bitter tears he was due.