“I Want to Paint Houses”

I want to paint houses. Or something like that. I want my clothes to be teemed with spots of paint, and arrays of colors. I want to work in ladders and jumpsuits and Sherman Williams’s. I want to hang out on roofs while eating my bag lunch, looking out on the neighborhood. I want to dip my brush into a tin of paint and call that my exercise for the day. I want to do this until I’m old and withered. I want to paint houses. 

Don’t know how you get your foot in the door in the business. Is it a form of blue collar nepotism? Word of mouth? Is your application filled with paintings and coloring books, making sure you can draw inside the lines? Or is it one of those jobs that just comes to you? Either way, I can picture myself doing it. I don’t know where this desire came from, never did know anyone who did it. No family in the racket. Although, my neighbor a few houses down was a house painter. Could tell by his truck. Never saw him actually doing it, never got any business on my block I guess. No discounts for Mrs. Carrol on the opposite side of the street.

I’m sick of dreaming or reaching for something. It's exhausting, my arms are getting tired. It’s starting to feel narcissistic at his point. Is it narcissistic to have a dream? Or is the expectation that it will become true the narcissistic part? Or is it something that everyone innately possesses? I know hard work pays off, but I don’t think I need anything to pay off anymore. Not in a way of achievement. I no longer want to shake the president's hand or be recognized while seeing Friday matinees. I dreamed big, I think every kid does, but I think I’ve fully given up on achieving something in this life. Unlike Heather Owens, lead cheerleader, daughter of the only dentist in town. Or Nolan McCarthy, 4-star tennis recruit, son of the only lawyer in town. The type of kids in high school you can tell want to do or be something in this world with seemingly no effort at all. And by the look of it, they had a good shot of succeeding. Not that the match being extinguished involving not having a dream has made me immobile or incapable of doing things. I try to keep myself busy. Not in a real conscious way I suppose, I drift, but it’s something. 

I live on my own, in a studio apartment with a detached kitchen, an unnecessarily low shower head and a broken smoke alarm. Just about five blocks away from the house I grew up in. Family’s still there, still working, still living. I see them once in a while. Can’t remember the last time I did. I moved out of there about a year and a half back, using $30,000 I inherited from my childhood dog Sparky, who passed away two January’s ago. Only having him for three years as a kid, it turned out he was deemed for the track. A dog racer saw him playing fetch at the park and thought he caught lightning in a bottle. He offered my mom $10,000 for Sparky on the spot, and she agreed. She called it a good return on investment, as her, my dad and my brother were all allergic to him. When I pouted about it, her solution was to receive stock in the dog, in my name. Telling the man that for the deal to be confirmed, that I, A six year old girl, would receive 30% of the race winnings Sparky would accumulate during his career. Receiving the money after Sparky eventually passed away. After some more back and forth, he agreed on 25% and they shook hands. We never went to the track and I never saw Sparky again. The popularity of- the sport died out eventually in this town. But rumor was that most of the racers took their dogs and gambling habits and moved to Michigan, as there was a rise in the sport there. About two years back, stamped with a Michigan zip code, I received a letter containing a check for $30,000 and a note saying that sparky passed from a hip replacement gone wrong, but had lived a long and good life. I was happy the man added that footnote.  

For the past year I’ve used that money, along with my college savings and some cash from a little league umpiring gig I did in the summers, to pay rent and figure out who I am on my own. Sail the waters as they say. My mom doesn’t really approve of it, especially when I took up smoking. Smoking and reading have become the same thing at this point. Bookmarks have turned into cigarettes and cigarettes have turned into bookmarks. I read books I don’t finish. I linger at bus stops for pleasure. I look out windows more than I should. I hang out at coffee shops I used to go to as a kid and bring my own coffee. No-one notices, or they do and don’t seem to mind. I visit my old high school once and while and smoke cigarettes in the dug out, as a fuck you to the freshman softball coach who cut me at tryouts. I rearrange my apartment every few weeks although I don’t have much to rearrange. I put anything I have laying around in old boxes on my wall for decoration. I woke up one day and thought that I should start framing my posters. I got one poster in and haven’t framed one since. I fall asleep on my couch when I’m tired of my bed. I sometimes stay up all night because life seems to feel better then. The 3am feeling I call it. Something happens atomically that I can’t put my finger on. I just know life feels different. Unique. Better. I feel creative although I’m not. 

I do more than just this. I take a Polaroid everyday of the freckle on my left hand, to see if it moves. As in 5th grade I made a bet with my brother that freckles can indeed move over time. It hasn’t yet, but I’m not giving up on my 5 bucks that easy. I have a bad memory, so I try to do things to help kick the habit. Like attempting to memorize the ingredients list on cereal boxes. Or put tape over labels of my records, so I have to force myself to guess the song names and artists. I’m getting pretty good at it, but I can’t deny cheating sometimes. I tried meditation, but always end up dozing off every few minutes. I even tried going to college. Well kind of, I never enrolled. I never liked school or was any good at it growing up and I thought maybe college would be different or more appealing because you didn’t have to be there all day. So I snuck into a few classes and sat in on the lectures. Nothing's changed though, it’s the same concept. Still boring. 

As a kid I thought there was some sort of innate agenda everyone follows when it comes to going to school. I thought college was something everybody had to do. That and having kids. Growing up, I didn’t know you had a choice to have kids or not. I thought it was just something that happened eventually when you became an adult. Something that was inherent. Ice cream melts, light bulbs go out, dust falls, you go to college, you have kids when you’re older. I thought having a dream was something that was inherent, but I guess that’s faded. Faded like a lamented photograph you leave hung in the sun.

I’ve realized that dreams are meant for the pillows and sheets, and not for the conscious living. Look at my family for instance, they don’t seem to have dreams. They are, just who they are. All of them are pipe fitters, or something like that. Or secretaries, or something like that. And they seem to be okay with it. Maybe not at ease, but who is? They don’t worry about bullshit that doesn’t have to do with them or achieving something big in their lifetime. Maybe it’s all just a luck of the draw and I haven’t put my name in the hat yet. But when do you put your name in the hat? Is there even a hat in the first place? Come to think of it, most of my family members do indeed have dreams, or at least had them. I know Uncle Joey always wanted to be a saxophone player, but has yet to try and learn. Always said he’ll do it once he retires. My Aunt Tonia I know wanted to be on Jeopardy, and I’m sure that’s still true. Her and my grandma watch it all the time. My Dad always wanted to go to Alaska and see moose while climbing mountains. But hasn’t crossed state lines since he went to Mount Rushmore when he was a kid. And my mom. I know she always said when she grew old, she wanted to move back to the town she grew up in. Spend the rest of her days fishing and working at the bookstore she worked at in high school. I can’t imagine those dreams have faded, but then again I haven’t asked any of them if they indeed have. Haven’t asked or talked to them about many things as of late. Why do I do that? 

They all have jobs and live in the same old places, yet still have dreams that they may never achieve. But seem to not worry about that. They worry about what they have, not what they don’t. And they’re still here. Here without worry or pressure to achieve them, because that’s not what matters. They are who they are and that’s okay. Maybe even better than okay. I know that because they're happy people. Good people. Some of the best people I’ve ever known.

Maybe dreams don’t go, they just change. Life gets in the way.

Maybe that’s the achievement. 

Maybe I’m not tired of dreaming, I’m tired of dreaming too big. 

Maybe I’ve been sitting around worrying and dreaming, instead of doing anything. 

Maybe I started smoking cigarettes to keep myself company. At least the smoke sticks around for a little while. 

Maybe I don’t finish books, because I’m always chasing something new. Live a life through new eyes. 

Maybe I don’t linger at bus stops for pleasure, maybe it’s a way to see other people escape. Get out of here. Same goes for looking out windows most of the time. 

Maybe I smoke cigarettes at my old high school because I miss being there. 

Maybe I rearrange my apartment, because I’ll never like the way it looks, or more importantly the way it feels. 

Maybe I hang old things on my wall to keep memories intact, close. 

Maybe staying up late feels better, because I’m scared of what the day will bring. 

Maybe I want that freckle to move, for something to change with me that I have evidence of. 

Maybe I moved 5 blocks down from the house I grew up in to play it safe. I could have moved hours away, even a few states over. Sparky left me enough to do so. 

Maybe a child would be nice one day. 

Maybe I’ll take night classes down the road. 

Maybe all the stuff I’m doing, trying, my current life, is all trial and error. 

Maybe that’s being in your 20s, maybe that’s the whole thing. 

Maybe not, who the hell knows? I certainly don’t. 

I don’t want to do nothing, I know that’s not what I want. I know, because I can feel it. Felt it my whole life and if I ever didn’t, it was there. There's a desire somewhere in here to do something, be someone. I can sense it.

I want to paint houses. Or something like that. That’s what I want to do. I want my clothes to be teemed with paint spots, and arrays of colors. I want to work in ladders and jumpsuits and Sherman Williams’s. I want to hang out on roofs while eating my bag lunch, looking out on the neighborhood. I want to dip my brush into a tin of paint and call that my exercise for the day. I want to do this until I’m old and withered. I want to paint houses. But maybe that will change.