May 31st, 1970
I had been stewing for days. Cameron had been right; I needed the time to be mad at him and to calm down. I had entered the calming stage earlier in the day but kept putting off calling him to paint instead.
In the early evening, I made myself a quick meal and followed by a coffee and finally decided to call Cameron, when I received a call instead.
My boss was on the other end of the line, getting right down to business.
“Heard you got back from your trip. When are you going to take up your shifts again?”
“Hey, Bob, it’s nice to hear from you too,” I answered sarcastically.
“We’re doing niceties at this hour? Come on, Emily, we need you here. Could you come in for tomorrow’s night closing shift?”
I could tell Bob wanted me back at the general store, where my weekly paycheck regularly had over 45 hours logged and also where I had not shown my face in over five weeks.
After a tense and silent thirty seconds, Bob spoke again. “You know you’re a valuable asset to us and—”
I interrupted him with a single loud laugh, and caught sight of the numerous paintings strewn about my apartment that I had been working on since my return. “Oh, fuck off! I’m a valuable asset to your pocketbook,” I retorted, the decision made in an instant. “I quit. And don’t ever call me again.”
I slammed the handset down and sighed. The first thing I did as a jobless woman was pull out a large roll of canvas sheet I’d been given. I rolled it out on my weathered kitchen table, hammering nails into the four corners of the canvas to keep it in place. I took out my acrylic paints and began to mix them on a palette. I didn’t yet know what I would be painting, so I decided to put a record on before starting.
I rifled through my collection until I found something that struck me and placed it on the turntable. I put the volume midway and shrugged on my painting smock, going back to the canvas.
The first piece took the entirety of the first side to complete. A light sketch in acrylic, mainly, it was of a forest with a small creek running through it. No surprise there.
I cut the length of canvas off of the roll, nailing it to the wall to dry. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep it or not, but I was surely going to at least let it dry. I flipped the record and pulled out another length of canvas from the roll.
I let my mind wander, staring at the off-white canvas for the duration of a song. Then, I began to paint. A man surrounded by blue sky and greenery. He was wearing a navy blue sweater and black pants, long hair moving in the wind. I could almost see the man walking off the canvas and into my kitchen when I realized I’d been painting Cameron.
I put the brush down and wiped my hands on a scrap of cloth, hurrying to get to the phone. I didn’t know what time it was here, let alone in Scotland, but I hoped he would answer.
The operator quickly put me through and after a few rings, a man that wasn’t Cameron answered.
“Hello? Is Cameron there?” I asked.
“I’ll get him.” Then, a shout aimed away from the receiver. “He’ll be here in a moment. Is this Emily?”
“Yes. Who are you?” I wondered aloud.
“It’s Dale. Nice to hear from you. Ah, he’s here.”
A ruffle of static and then Cameron’s voice. “Emily?”
“Hi, Cameron.”
I had missed him.
“How have you been?” he gently asked.
“I’ve hated you enough, now. You’re forgiven.”
“That’s wonderful, I’m glad.” I could hear his smile. “Everyone’s here, we’re doing some rehearsing for the new album.”
“You’ve started it?”
“We've begun some of the tracks, yeah. Hopefully we'll get more done next week,” he chuckled.
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “It’s nice hearing your voice,” I admitted.
“As for me,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I posted something for you today, you should get it within ten days or so. Call me when you receive it, alright?”
“I will.”
“Talk soon, Emily.”
“Cameron, wait.” He didn’t reply but I knew he was still listening. “I’ve been painting you,” I confessed.
“I didn’t know you were an artist,” he answered.
“I haven’t painted for years. But I needed something to do. I quit my job.”
Cameron chuckled. “Then you might just like what I’ve sent. I have to go back now, Emily. Call me when you receive it.”
Click.
In the early evening, I made myself a quick meal and followed by a coffee and finally decided to call Cameron, when I received a call instead.
My boss was on the other end of the line, getting right down to business.
“Heard you got back from your trip. When are you going to take up your shifts again?”
“Hey, Bob, it’s nice to hear from you too,” I answered sarcastically.
“We’re doing niceties at this hour? Come on, Emily, we need you here. Could you come in for tomorrow’s night closing shift?”
I could tell Bob wanted me back at the general store, where my weekly paycheck regularly had over 45 hours logged and also where I had not shown my face in over five weeks.
After a tense and silent thirty seconds, Bob spoke again. “You know you’re a valuable asset to us and—”
I interrupted him with a single loud laugh, and caught sight of the numerous paintings strewn about my apartment that I had been working on since my return. “Oh, fuck off! I’m a valuable asset to your pocketbook,” I retorted, the decision made in an instant. “I quit. And don’t ever call me again.”
I slammed the handset down and sighed. The first thing I did as a jobless woman was pull out a large roll of canvas sheet I’d been given. I rolled it out on my weathered kitchen table, hammering nails into the four corners of the canvas to keep it in place. I took out my acrylic paints and began to mix them on a palette. I didn’t yet know what I would be painting, so I decided to put a record on before starting.
I rifled through my collection until I found something that struck me and placed it on the turntable. I put the volume midway and shrugged on my painting smock, going back to the canvas.
The first piece took the entirety of the first side to complete. A light sketch in acrylic, mainly, it was of a forest with a small creek running through it. No surprise there.
I cut the length of canvas off of the roll, nailing it to the wall to dry. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to keep it or not, but I was surely going to at least let it dry. I flipped the record and pulled out another length of canvas from the roll.
I let my mind wander, staring at the off-white canvas for the duration of a song. Then, I began to paint. A man surrounded by blue sky and greenery. He was wearing a navy blue sweater and black pants, long hair moving in the wind. I could almost see the man walking off the canvas and into my kitchen when I realized I’d been painting Cameron.
I put the brush down and wiped my hands on a scrap of cloth, hurrying to get to the phone. I didn’t know what time it was here, let alone in Scotland, but I hoped he would answer.
The operator quickly put me through and after a few rings, a man that wasn’t Cameron answered.
“Hello? Is Cameron there?” I asked.
“I’ll get him.” Then, a shout aimed away from the receiver. “He’ll be here in a moment. Is this Emily?”
“Yes. Who are you?” I wondered aloud.
“It’s Dale. Nice to hear from you. Ah, he’s here.”
A ruffle of static and then Cameron’s voice. “Emily?”
“Hi, Cameron.”
I had missed him.
“How have you been?” he gently asked.
“I’ve hated you enough, now. You’re forgiven.”
“That’s wonderful, I’m glad.” I could hear his smile. “Everyone’s here, we’re doing some rehearsing for the new album.”
“You’ve started it?”
“We've begun some of the tracks, yeah. Hopefully we'll get more done next week,” he chuckled.
I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “It’s nice hearing your voice,” I admitted.
“As for me,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I posted something for you today, you should get it within ten days or so. Call me when you receive it, alright?”
“I will.”
“Talk soon, Emily.”
“Cameron, wait.” He didn’t reply but I knew he was still listening. “I’ve been painting you,” I confessed.
“I didn’t know you were an artist,” he answered.
“I haven’t painted for years. But I needed something to do. I quit my job.”
Cameron chuckled. “Then you might just like what I’ve sent. I have to go back now, Emily. Call me when you receive it.”
Click.
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