Jonathan goldstein

‘Sadly, all of my clothes are suitable for painting’

Sunday 10:45 a.m. Catherine texts Emily and me. She needs our help painting her bedroom.

“What do we say to get out of this?” I ask in a panic. “Boils? Goiters? Rickets?” “Catherine’s our friend,” Emily says. This is true. But I like the good part of having friends. The parties. The borrowing stuff. The painting of walls, not so much. 10:55 a.m. I search my drawers for clothes suitable for painting. Sadly, all of my clothes are suitable for painting. And so deciding what to wear is difficult.

“Put this on,” Emily says, handing me a dress shirt she’s always thought too big and far too green. 10:57 a.m. We set off to Catherine’s place, the untucked dress shirt covering the shorts I’m wearing. I look as though I’m wearing a nightgown. 11:15 a.m. “It’s white,” I say staring at the paint as Catherine pours it into three separate pans. “What’s the point of painting anything white?” “It’s not white,” Catherine corrects. “It’s eggshell,” Emily adds. 11:40 a.m. Catherine’s boyfriend, Peter, is out of town. Some might say conveniently. Just the same, Peter, with alacrity, “likes” each photo that Catherine posts of us painting away. This rankles me. Where does he get off liking my toil?

I playfully suggest to Catherine that she fill a mayonnaise container with the eggshell paint and serve it to Peter with a ham sandwich upon his return home and Emily tells me to stop being hostile. 12:15 p.m. Catherine offers me a whiskey. There’s a rumour among my friends that I will happily do anything for whiskey. As I don’t want to damage my brand, I accept. 12:30 p.m. I accidentally spill the whiskey into my paint pan. Not knowing what else to do, I stir it in. This turns the white eggshell to brown egg shell. 1:15 p.m. I’m suddenly struck, powerfully, by an utter sense of satisfaction brought on by completion. How often in life is one able to look upon something and judge it as complete as one can when gazing upon a fully painted wall — painted entirely by their own hand.

“I feel good about this,” I say turning to Emily. “Now let’s go home and watch TV.”

But to my dismay, she informs me that we’ll need to do a second coat. 2:05 p.m. While waiting for the paint to dry, we listen to music and stare at the walls.

I don’t know if it’s a combination of the whiskey and the paint fumes, but the white walls seem to speak of potentiality, imminence — all the things yet to be hung. Paintings and photographs. Posters and shelves full of personal knickknacks, all the stuff that forms the background to a life.

“Why does the wall you were working on look weird,” Emily asks, interrupting my musings.

“I was working from a little concoction I cooked up,” I say. “I call it, ‘Whiskey White.’ ”

My wall will look a lot better with pictures. Large and numerous.