It's Worse Than You Think

“Ezekiel, do you move this slowly on purpose, just to infuriate me? You know, I wouldn’t doubt it sometimes, the way you’ve acted this week. Your work ethic is what I’d expect from my four year old nephew. Maybe I should hire him, instead? Would you prefer that? Because I’m pretty sure none of us here would complain.”

I turned around to look at my boss with a weary expression on my face. Zeke. Zeke. My name is Zeke!

It was actually funny, from his entire rant that’s all that I’d gathered from it. But I absolutely hate the name Ezekiel. There’s just something about it that drives me absolutely insane. It makes me feel old, for one thing. Who wants to be called Ezekiel at the age of twenty one? Imagine what it was like in high school for me: gay, lame, artistic, and named Ezekiel. I’m just surprised I made it out alive. Besides, let’s save that name for when I’m about eighty, okay? I honestly I doubt that I’ll mind it much, then.

It’s also what my mom used to call me. No matter what, whether I was in trouble, or she just wanted to talk to me about something: that’s the name she used. And since it was her, I didn’t even mind it. Sometimes Finn says it just to piss me off, and even coming from my best friend, it makes me mad. It’s weird how something as simple as a full name can set me off like that.

“Sorry, sir,” I responded politely, assuming that that was the correct thing to say seeing how I had hardly listened. I gripped the heavy stack of books and moved across the store so that I could start putting them away. I was hardly even glancing at the titles like I usually did, feeling almost like a robot who was just grabbing the hard covers mindlessly. Most of the time, I’ll read through a few pages, or glance at the back to see if it looks interesting.

I hate my boss. I hate his little bow tie that makes him look like a douche bag, and his comb over. I hate this job. I hate everything here. And the thing is, I actually like reading. I like going home, and looking through all my bookshelves for a book to lose myself in for the rest of the night. This store though, just ruins that for me.

I can think of a million things I’d rather be doing. Like . . . painting, for example. Sleeping, going for a walk downtown. Or talking to Finn, going to the coffee shop, or you know; maybe having sex with someone? All of those are much more appealing then this, yet I’m stuck here, earning a little more then minimum wage that I can hardly live off of.

“C-Can you help me find a book?”

I turned around to face a young boy, probably around seven, who was wearing a terrified expression on his face. “Sure, what are you looking for?” I asked, plastering a polite smile on my face so I wouldn’t freak him out with the previous grimace that I had before.

“Something w-with action,” he murmured, looking unsure of himself. “Or maybe something with space a-and things like that.”

Dear God, this is going to be a long afternoon.

--

I trudged my way up the fourth and final set of stairs, and pulled my keys out so I could enter my apartment. I really did love my place, despite the exhausting effort to actually enter it.

I’ve lived here for about three and a half years, and it’s just perfect for me: completely lame and average. It’s relatively small, and right across the street from Quimby’s. And I don’t even know if that’s a good thing or not.

I have my bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen and a decent sized living room. On every wall is some type of art, whether it be a painting or a drawing. None of it is my own, though. It just seems weird to decorate the place with my art. That’s pretty conceited if you ask me.

I threw my green messenger bag onto the couch, and headed to the fridge so I could scramble something together to eat. Shit, I don’t even have anything. Well, I consider half a jar of peanut butter, some instant noodles, and a stick of butter nothing.

If my mom was here, she’d probably curse me for not knowing what to make with nothing, and then shove me aside to whip out something four star; all the while shouting out random recipes that she’d want me to write down for the future.

My eyes clouded over at the thought, and my chest tightened. I subconsciously went to my arms, but quickly withdrew my hand; shaking my head softly to myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the message light blinking, and eagerly dashed for it; pushing play. “Zeke, you dozy fucker. It’s Finn. Either wake up, or stop painting be-”

I laughed, and pushed skip. “Hello, this is Richard Cross, calling for Zeke Carelock. This is in reference to the place at the Ortega Art Gala you applied for last month. We’ve looked through your pieces, and decided that you deserve a place here. The show is two weeks from today, and we’d love to have a few of your paintings displayed. Call us back if you can make it, we’d really appreciate it. Thank you.”

I stood frozen for a moment, slowly trying to comprehend the words I’d just heard. My mouth opened, only to let out a loud shriek. I’ve actually been accepted! The Ortega Gala, holy shit.

I remember first applying for it, and the self doubt I’d had because so many others were hopeful applicants just like I was. This Gala is such a big deal, because it only happens one day out of every year. Anyone who’s interested in anything to do with art goes there, excited to discover new and older artists.

I need to tell Finn.

Five minutes later, I was out the door. I figured that it was too important to say over the phone, and it was an excuse to see him again as well.

I bolted down the stairs, down a few blocks until I was at his apartment: knowing that with this somewhat late hour, he’d most likely be home. Eventually, I was at his front door. “Finn! Finn! Finn!” I chanted, pounding on his door with an excited smile tugging at my lips. “Finn! Finn! Fi-”

My mouth closed immediately upon seeing him, his eyes amused and a fake frown on his face. “To what do I owe this great pleasure?” he asked, stepping aside so that I could head down his hallway.

“You won’t believe this,” I muttered, ignoring his sarcastic question while resting my elbows on the top of a dining room chair. “I’ve just been accepted into the Ortega Gala. They want to display some of my paintings!” I exclaimed, jumping up and down a bit. Like the gay guy that I am.

Finn immediately busted out into a huge grin, walking forward to pull me into a hug. I returned it, and he broke away so he could rest his hands on my shoulders. “That is so awesome! Zeke, this is huge!”

I chuckled, and nodded. “I know! Who knows what this means. Someone might be really interested and have me do more paintings for them, and then I’ll actually get paid for doing it-” I continued rambling about the endless possibilities, and Finn listened with a polite smirk on his face. “Sorry, I’ll stop.”

He chuckled, “I was wondering how long you were going to go for.”

“You suck.”

“No, that’s you.”

I mocked a hurt gasp, “Is that a serious attempt at a gay joke, or something Finn?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Was it funny?”

I thought for a moment, and wrinkled my nose. “Kind of.”

“Then yes.” We laughed and then became silent for a moment. “Well, do you want to stay for a bit?”

I nodded, and followed him over to his couch. “So, has anything happened to you in the last few hours that I haven’t seen you?” I asked with a smirk, pulling out my pack of cigarettes; taking one for myself and offering him one as well.

Finn perked up, and took it with a grateful smile on his face. “Thanks, I need that. Err, not really. Oh, I forgot to mention it before. We have this new kid working down at Bridgeport. He’s been there for a few days now, and we’ve actually been getting along pretty well.”

“That’s good. Our coffee shop could use another employee,” I commented, pursing my lips so I could blow the smoke from the side of my mouth.

“Amen,” he murmured, and I chuckled softly.

I could live like this, easily. Finn and cigarettes. The two come hand in hand. We continued talking for a few more hours, and that phone message was always in the back of my mind no matter what we were talking about.

‘We’d love to have a few of your paintings displayed’. I never knew that my art was good enough for something like this. That’s just unbelievable.