The Pavement Artist

It was a giant splash of color in a world of gray...just like she was.

It was a giant splash of color in a world of gray. Swirls and dots and stripes all together, forming a sort of mosaic, a piece of modern art plastered on the dull pavement in front of my office building in the center of the city.

            The artist was hunched over a section of blue, a piece of chalk clutched in his rough hands. He was on his knees, dressed in a corduroy jacket and a pair of jeans sprinkled with a rainbow of paints and smudges of colored dust. He was like a beacon in the middle of a stormy sea, parting the waves of business suits and briefcases.

            I don’t know what compelled me to stop. Maybe it was just my curiosity, or the fact that the color seemed unnatural in the dreary world I now called my own. Whatever the reason, I stopped just besides him, my cell phone in hand, still warm from my recently ended phone call.

            “Hello,” I said after a few moments. He was scribbling furiously, his branch of chalk nearly reduced to a stub.

            At my voice, he looked up, his eyes a brilliant shade of green. I found myself thinking of a house I had used to call my own, surrounded by a rich forest similar to the color of the eyes that were now locked on my own.

            “Ange,” he said, sticking out his hand. I took it without hesitation, feeling the soft chalk that had coated his hand. As the handshake ended, I glanced at my palm, a mixture of colors seemingly in my fingertips. I closed my hand in a fist, childishly trying to preserve my own personal rainbow in this concrete world of black and gray.

            “Summer,” I replied. It was probably the first introduction I had made in the past two years that didn’t include my last name.

            “That’s a lovely name,” Ange said, giving a small smile before diving back into his work.

            “I don’t mean to intrude,” I said, not liking the way I sounded so stuffed up, “But what are you drawing?” 

            Luca laughed, not looking up, but continuing on his masterpiece.

            “It’s the meaning of life,” he said softly. “At least, what I think it is.”

            I looked at the drawing, still unsure of how the pretty scribbles meant anything. I found myself desperately wanting to know the answer. As I examined it, I found I could not decipher it, causing me more pain than expected.

            “Only those who look can see it, I guess,” Luca sighed, sitting up on his knees. I swallowed, feeling very upset that I seemed unworthy to fully view his drawing.

            “I-I have to go,” I stuttered, glancing at the time. Ange looked up at me, smiling once more.

            “You’ll see it Summer, eventually.”

            At this, I bid him farewell and headed into my office building and into the elevator, heart racing at an alarming speed from such a simple conversation.

            I was late for work, but not anything too drastic that couldn’t be overlooked. As I threw my stuff onto my desk, rubbing my temples to ward myself of an emerging headache, I felt myself looking down, seeing the colorful chalk drawing by Ange.

            I felt my breath catch in my throat. The scribbles down below seemed to merge into a wonderful setting of a white and green house settled neatly among a forest of trees. It was my house! The house I had left to come here. It was there that I started my writings; stories of adventure, love and fantasy. There I had felt inspiration coursing through my veins and passion beating in my heart. It was also where I felt like I was going nowhere; my writing trapped, contained in a life that was enjoyable, but slow and simple.

            And as I stood in my gray office, where I was an unknown and easily replaceable reporter, for a moment, I was stunned. Nothing but the movement of a certain corduroy clad artist, piling his chalks into his bag, startled me out of my daze.

            For reasons unknown, even to myself, I rushed down to the first floor, bursting into the street. Ange was just standing up when I approached him, speechless and out of breath.

            “Ange, I-I-”

            So many questions were bustling through my head that I couldn’t grab just one out of the masses. As I opened and closed my mouth like a bumbling idiot, I blurted out the first one I could think of.

            “How is your picture the meaning of life?”

            Luca merely looked at me, grinning in a way as if I was asking the simplest question in the world

            “Home, Summer. Home.”

I felt the words sink in, settled themselves deep in the alcoves of my heart.

“You will inspire me to do many pieces Summer,” he said, taking my hand and gently kissing it. “And I hope that I, in turn, inspire you as well.”

Then, slinging his bag over his shoulder, he faded into the crowd, just another face, just another spirit, the words still left upon my lips, words that I wish had been said, words that were still left in my heart. I can’t stop imaging the possibilities if I had just spoken the truths to the strange man, the pavement artist.