Just a House?

Autumn hung gracefully in the air. Leaves shifted from green to red, orange, and yellow. It is definitely the best time of year to be an artist. Colors and costumes inspiring all sorts of fantasies could be found right in the middle of the street.

Memphis Dupree might've considered himself an artist by trade if he ever made a dime off his landscapes. He stood on the edge of the bustling street trying to sketch the old train trestle hiding his sunset view. The languid lines flowing from his fingertips seemed wrong. He wanted it to be edgier, more dangerous, because even as a child Memphis found trains to be the perfect illusion of safety. They allowed for vast escapes, but bandits robbed them with ease. Trains could take you anywhere for the right price, or for free if you were willing to risk sneaking onto a moving pile of sharp, speeding metal.

He lost track of the world around him as he began to make the sharp edges and graffiti more noticeable. He shaded in areas that he wanted to make extra rustic in his painting later. The strokes of the pencil became short and jagged.

"That is a beautiful sketch, Son!" A man wearing black slacks without a speck of lint on them and a pale blue shirt exclaimed. His baritone voice startled Memphis out of his thoughts and nearly caused his pencil to slip.

"Thank ya, sir." Memphis put down his pencil and wiped his hands on his holy, faded jeans and pushed his greasy autumn hair behind his ear before offering a hand still covered in charcoal dust to the man.

"You are welcome." The man gave Memphis a hundred-watt smile and shook. The wrinkles of a lifetime of worries, laughs, and regrets were evident in his features. He brushed a straggling strand of his salt and pepper hair back into place. He caught a glimpse of the worn holes in Memphis’s dusty leather jacket. His smile never wavered as Memphis shoved his hand into his pocket and hid the bigger hole in the elbow of his jacket by squeezing it tight to his side.

"I prefer paintin’ though." Memphis returned the man's excitement, wondering if he noticed while he scratched the stubble on his chin. He made a mental note to shower and save the next chance he got. “As soon as I finish here I'm gonna head out to give this a fresh coat."

The man nodded, almost knowingly, as he stared into Memphis' eyes. The young artist felt as if his thoughts were pulled from his head. His smile fell slightly; every part of Memphis wanted to run, but with men like this he always stood his ground. “Son, you don't have a place of your own, do you?"

Memphis looked at the ground. His hands began to shake as his shoulders slumped. “No, Sir." He didn't want to say anymore. His heart pounded at the thought of blue lights swirling on the ruined walls of the abandoned building he called home for the last month as uniforms surrounded the place preparing to arrest him for squatting.

“It’s alright. Your painting should fetch a good price. Sketches like this have to sell for good money, now, right?” The man smiled.

“Not really.” Honesty dripped from Memphis’s soul; he shouldn’t be saying these things. His mother didn’t raise him to air his dirty laundry to complete strangers. “I’ve never sold anything,” he sighed, picking up his pencil. “And it’s not for lack of tryin’, believe me!” He lowered his head, wishing his mouth would stop working.

“Do you paint anything else,” the man asked. His eyes focused on the pencil in Memphis’s hand.

“Mostly landscapes; like trees and mount’ins,” Memphis shrugged.

“What about houses?”

“You mean, like, pictures of houses?” He put down his pencil again before turning to face the man, confusion clouded eyes.

“No, I mean actual houses?” The man drew a triangle atop a square on an air canvas. “I have a house, but all the contractors I hire tell me they can’t do the job. I thought maybe the job is wrong for a team of idiots.” The man smiled, “it will be a free place to stay while you work.”

“What’s the catch? Why can’t anybody else do the work?”

“They think it’s haunted, but it is not! Nothing bad, that I know of, happened there,” the man’s fingers twitched nervously as his eyes glanced away from the artist. “There’s no catch except I need the house remodeled so I can sell it. You can live there rent free; I’ll pay for plumbing and electricity when you fix it.”

“I don’t know about that stuff!” Memphis stepped away from the man.

“Listen, maybe I’m asking too much right now. I just met you, so here…” He reached inside jacket pocket and pulled out a cream colored card made out of heavy duty card stock with an extravagant text. “This is my card. Call me anytime, and we can talk about it, if you’re interested.”

Memphis couldn’t move a muscle as fear crept up his spine. His faded sea green eyes looked like saucers. ‘This man can’t be serious,’ Memphis thought as he adverted his gaze, finding something very interesting about his sketch in the bottom right corner. The man sighed laying the card on the left corner of Memphis’s easel. “I really do like your work, Son. If nothing else, call me when you finish this so I can buy it.” The man walked away into the crowded sidewalks.

“What the hell?” Memphis asked aloud, taking a moment to let it sink it. He looked at the guy playing guitar a few feet away before stating, “was that guy serious, or was he a few floors short?” The offer seemed legit, but he couldn’t take any chances. He lost concentration on his sketch, so he waited about twenty minutes, making sure no one was eyeing him, before gathering his supplies in a hurry. Memphis could add to the sketch later, but he had to get away before the awkward feeling in the pit of his stomach turned out to be more than just a gut feeling.