Write a ficlet inspired by the word blue
As far as Lenny was concerned, the whole world was a canvas. Literally. The stranger the contours, the better. It only served to give his art more dimension and vitality. Not to mention notoriety.
Climbing into the threadbare seat of his Gremlin, he threw the blue K-market smock into the backseat and put pedal to the metal. He left the world of daily drudgery behind in an acrid cloud of burning oil and began the much more rewarding search for the evening's canvas. On the passenger seat was a knapsack full of aerosol cans of K-market's very best (and cheapest) paint in an array of vibrant colors. Lenny didn't think of his work as graffiti; in his heart of hearts, he believed he was beautifying the squalid inner city landscape. Instead of hunting him down, the city council should be asking him how much money they could throw at him for his contribution to their drab society. They should -
-- Lenny slammed on the brakes, skidding the compact to a stop. There it was! Tonight's canvas! He leaned forward, peering through the cracked windshield at the desolate street corner. There, just on the edge of a the weak pool of light from the street lamp, was a tall blue box.
Helluva place to put a craphouse, he thought. Glancing around, he couldn't see any signs of construction or utility work. Nothing that would explain the presence of a portapotty on a dark side street. Not that it mattered a bit to Lenny.
He parked a block away then slowly made his way back to his waiting art project. The streets were empty this late at night and he had the canvas to himself. Upon closer inspection, he saw that what he'd thought to be a craphouse was actually a small utility building of some kind. It had dusty, frosted glass windows high up and what appeared to be some kind of beacon light in the middle of its roof. To the left of the door was a grimy sign with instructions on how to use the 'police public call box.' When he reached for the door handle, he found it shut tight and apparently locked.
Now why the hell would the police need their own phone booth on an isolated corner when just about everyone and their grandma had cell phones?
Man, if this isn't a waste of taxpayer money, I don't know what is!
Lenny chuckled to himself and opened his knapsack. By the time he was finished with it, the box would be the talk of the town! Pulling out spray cans of yellow, orange, magenta, and lime green, the urban artist set to work on his latest canvas. As he worked, in his mind's eye he could already see the newscasters on the morning show, talking about the latest masterwork from the mysterious Alley Artist. "This appears to be his first political statement," the anchor would say with wry humor in his voice. "Yes it does, Chet," his blonde and vacuous co-anchor would agree with a giggle, "Although I don't think the Mayor will appreciate the artist's representation." "Too true, Boopy. I didn't know that position was even physically possible . . ."
Lenny worked fast and deftly, bringing the image in his mind to vibrant life across the blue box. He intended to wrap the image around it like a pictorial ribbon. Having laid the groundwork for the piece on the front, he moved around it's corner and began working on the eastern side. Half way through, the can in his hand petered out of color.
Damn! I hope I have enough to finish tonight! he thought as he went back to the front to get more cans from his knapsack. I might need to - what the hell???
The front of the Police Call Box was a solid blue. The old fading paint he'd laid color over just 20 minutes before was unblemished except for a few old scratches.
That's not possible!
He looked down at the sidewalk but saw not a drop of color. Even if the box had been sealed in something resistant to paint, the residue colors would have dripped to the ground, wouldn't they? Frowning, he went to look at the partially painted side and watched in amazement as the last of the color simply faded away and vanished. It was as if the wood of the box was absorbing it through its pours, leaving it's solid blue skin once more unmarred.
Lenny reached out and hesitantly touched the box. The wood was cool to the touch, the old paint rough beneath his fingers and completely dry.
"What is this thing?" he said aloud.
"That thing is a lady who has some very firm ideas on what she likes to wear, said an amused, but somewhat imperious, voice from behind him. A tall, stocky man with a curly ginger hair and bright blue eyes stepped into the pool of light from the streetlamp. He wore a riotously colorful patchwork coat, yellow trousers with stripes, and green spats.
When did the circus get into town? Lenny wondered. And didn't clowns usually take off their costumes when they weren't on stage?
"Yours, I believe?" continued the stranger, handing Lenny his knapsack. Beaming, he pulled an oddly shaped key from a chain around his neck and fit it into the nearly invisible lock on the box's door. Before he stepped inside, he paused and reached into a pocket. "Here you go," he said, extending a small white business card to Lenny. "Just tell him The Doctor sent you."
The door slammed shut practically in Lenny's face. A split second later the shadows were pierced by a bluish-white light as the lantern on the roof began to glow. Lenny stumbled back a few steps as a strange, undulating mechanical groaning sound began to emanate from the box. The outlines began to blur then to fade, as if the box were being absorbed into the atmosphere the way it had soaked up his spray paint unti lthere was nothing left.
"I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming! That . . . that's not possible!"
Lenny glanced down at the card the stranger hand handed him. It was certainly real enough. The name embossed in raised black lettering didn't mean a thing to him, but the title did. "Director, Scholarship Program. Hirshhorn Museum of Art."
"Now I know I'm dreaming."