Re: Two-Faced
Sam
Steve awoke that morning with a jump. His dreams had been dark last night. Normally when a character has dark dreams, it means something terrible is about to happen. This time, however, Steve’s dreams foreshadow nothing, and serve only as a way to open this paragraph. Regardless, today was a Red Letter day. He had only twenty-four hours to create his entry for the town Art Festival. Steve was only entering because most of his friends were as well. This being said, he did want to win. Steve didn’t win many things; and Marty won none at all, so they were always looking for a potential victory. He had had two months, and nothing had yet come. The Festival was on the last weekend before school started, and he hadn’t wanted to waste any of his summer.
Upon reflection, there was nothing about his summer that really wasn’t a waste. Quite a sad realization on his part. He’d had a failed relationship, been turned down for two jobs, broken his leg playing football, and Marty had done trivial things on the computer. Looking back, Steve realized this was his last chance to make this summer worth remembering. He had to make something great. When it came to art, Marty was not the one to talk to. Marty specialized in text, and was less then willing to come out of his area of comfort. Steve wanted to paint. He wanted to be able to express things words could not communicate through a vibrant mix of colors. Up until now, he had no real experience. He took out the canvas and colors he had purchased the week after school had ended. It was time for him to show the world what was on his mind.
Two hours later, he was done trying. There was simply nothing he could paint that mirrored what he wanted. When it all came down to it, he supposed, he just wasn’t a painter. The work looked terrible. He had made three attempts, and all three were now in his trash can. There was just nothing to be done about it. Marty had thought the last one was good, but his opinion wasn’t worth much in these matters. He turned around in his mind to talk it over.
“Marty, I’m not sure what to do. I’d really like to make something good here, but I just don’t have the talent, or the ideas, or the determination.” He said, dejectedly. “Well, I don’t know why you’d ask me. I told you the last one of the haggard old man was good, and you threw it away.” Marty responded. “It was a self-portrait, and it was terrible.” Steve said, in a distant voice. Marty thought for awhile, then said “Well, you want to show the world what you see, right? Why not draw this place? The table, the screen, us, it could be good. You know this place better then the back of your hand.” Steve looked up. It was true. He and Marty lived in this room all the time. Maybe through paint he could express what it was like to never be truly alone.
He decided to give it a try. He decided that last thought had been a tad dramatic, but he could probably paint the room more clearly then anything else. He took out his last canvas, and prepared to paint. In a final feat of epic cheesiness, he donned a painter’s hat he had sitting in his room for one reason or another. He began to paint.
An hour later, he was sprawled on his couch, gasping for breath. He had painted like a man possessed, and it looked brilliant. It was a little odd; looking at the table in his mind on canvas gave him a sensation like trying to open a box with a crowbar that was inside the box. While considering the impossibility of this, he realized something. He saw himself, he saw Marty, but there was a third seat. He didn’t remember why he painted it. He turned around in his mind to get Marty’s opinion. He noticed there was a third.
The third was a little taller then Steve. He looked almost exactly the same, but with slightly more pronounced features, as though someone had expertly drawn a caricature of Steve. He wore that stupid hat Steve had put on before painting, and his mouth was drawn in a thin line, as though it was in a permanent state of mild displeasure. He raised an eyebrow as he surveyed Steve, and spoke with a slight air of haughtiness.
“I’m Sam. Don’t look so surprised to see me. You needed me, and so here I am.” Steve looked back at him quizzically and spoke, “I don’t need you. Look at that painting. It’s gorgeous.” Sam laughed at this. He had an odd way of laughing. It was either extremely well controlled or it was sarcastic. It was like hearing someone whisper “Hat Hat Hat.” When he had collected himself, Sam responded in a voice that was obviously holding back laughter. “Wait, you think you painted that? Well, let me try to explain this without sounding totally ridiculous. Putting this lovely hat on was the final ingredient. Every moment after that was, in essence, my birth. I emerged from the unpainted canvas into your mind, enabling your body to paint that masterpiece.” Steve was fairly sure Sam meant that figuratively. Steve wasn’t sure if he liked this guy as much as he did Marty. He figured Sam was many times more strong willed. You could tell simply from how he talked that this was one who was accustomed to getting his way. Steve figured it would be best not to argue with him right now. “Ok then Sam, I guess I owe you my thanks on this one. I guess you’ve already met Marty. Welcome to my mind.” “Our mind, buddy. I don’t know what Marty has going for him, but things are going to need to change a bit around here to accommodate for me. I hate to sound so demanding, but I do sort of live here now, and I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.” Sam was definitely going to be a little bit harder to deal with then Marty, Steve decided. There was an edge to Sam Steve just wasn’t sure if he liked. “We’ll have to talk about that more extensively later. I think now would be the time to go out and get this framed for the art thing tomorrow.” Sam put a single finger on his chin, then spoke “Oh, about that. I’m definitely in control for that event. It is my work and all. I just know a little more about the whole process. It’s better for everyone that way.” Steve didn’t know what to do here, or how Sam could know more, since he was basically just a sub-division of Steve himself, but he just nodded.
The rest of the day went by in a blur. The first step was to get the picture framed. This took about half an hour of arguing within Steve’s mind. He had limited funds and wanted to spring only for a cheaper frame. This of course was contradicted with Sam’s views of how they needed a high-end frame to make the work look its best. Eventually, they decided it was time for a vote. Marty couldn’t make up his mind. Steve got angry at Marty for the first time ever. He went on about how Marty wouldn’t exist if it were not for him, and how he should be thankful Steve was even asking his opinion, and he closed with how this shouldn’t even be a debate since he was the original anyway.” Well, Marty didn’t want to fight. More then that, he just wanted Steve to calm down. He went for Steve’s frame. Sam shook his head and sat down. He was thoroughly displeased with the result of the vote.
Framed Canvas in hand, Steve walked home. Arriving home, he had an uneventful dinner with his parents. Once this was over, he opted to go to bed early with the show being the next morning. The other two agreed easily. His parents asked to see his painting before he went to bed. Steve pulled it out, and they were shocked. His parents were not half as shocked as he was, however, because where he had thought there was a third empty seat before, there was now Sam. He wore a slightly devious smile. Steve put it out of his mind as a momentary fit of insanity and went to bed.
He woke up the next morning around Nine. Sam claimed rights over the time from rise to the end of the show, and Steve was in no real mood to argue, so he handed over control. Sam picked out a black turtleneck Steve hadn’t worn in years. Steve wore contacts, but Sam pulled out Steve’s old black rimmed glasses. He said they looked “artistic.” Steve disagreed, but he went along with it. This was Sam’s day, let him do what he wanted. Sam combed Steve’s hair straight down, as opposed to Steve’s normal part, and declared he was ready to leave. Marty pointed out they had a good two hours before the show. Sam retorted they had to get coffee first, and they had to be there early to find a good spot anyway. He walked out of the house and went to Starbucks. He carried the framed and veiled canvas with him.
Sam ordered a large hot chai and sat down, propping the canvas up beside him. As expected, it took about four seconds for a girl dressed very similar to him sat down across the table. Sam laughed at how easy that was. “Hey, are you going to the Art Show after this?” She asked. “Yeah, I’m going to win the Art Show after this, if that’s what you mean.” She laughed, and offered her hand. “I’m Liz. I’m helping judge. What’s your name?” “Steve Plexy. Keep an eye open for my painting. I won’t ruin it by showing you now, but it will blow your mind.” They sat discussing the latest hot topics for pseudo-intellectuals for the next thirty minutes, then walked to the show together, where Liz had to go off to find the other judges. If nothing else, Sam thought, I’ve got her vote without even showing the painting.
A few artists had already set up. Sam scoped out the competition. He wanted to find the perfect piece to be next to. The paintings were supposed to be judged individually, sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t accentuate his talents by having them displayed right next to some utter crap. He found what he was looking for two stalls in. It was a grotesque farce of art. Truly repulsive to the senses. Someone had taken concept of “modern art” a bit too far. It looked like a pile of tin cans with an American flag on top. Sam thought maybe it was just too deep for him. He threw out this thought after a minute. No artsy concept was too deep for him. He set up his canvas nearby, pulled off the cover, and left it be. It was time to see what he was up against. People were arriving now, and it was time for him to enjoy himself.
Two hours later, he was standing in the crowd waiting for the judging announcement. It had been a good time. He had received four phone numbers, one from someone good looking, and three invitations to various parties. He probably wouldn’t call any of the girls, that wasn’t the artsy thing to do. He probably wouldn’t go to any of the parties either. Actually, he mentally noted, he’d go to one, but be fashionably an hour late, and leave early. It was high time for Steve Plexy to break into the art world.
His deep thoughts of the future were interrupted by someone coming on the loudspeaker. It was the girl from earlier. He knew he had at least one of the five judges in his pocket. She had found him earlier and handed him home and cell numbers, and had said his painting was amongst the greatest works she had ever seen. He smiled. Maybe he’d actually call her. Every master needed a biggest fan. He listened to what she was saying.
“After much deliberation amongst the five judges, we have reached a unanimous decision. The third place prize goes to Micheal Von Heidalberg with his painting “Stalin”. There was polite clapping all around. Nobody really cared about third place. The man walked to the front to receive the thirty dollar third prize. He shook the judges hands, and left the stage. “Next on the list, in second place, my personal favorite, is “Threefaced” by Steve Plexy.” Sam was enraged. Second? There was nothing here that could beat his, unless it was in the last row he had never got around to seeing. He kept his cool, walked to the front, received his sixty dollar prize, shook the judges hands, then left the stage. He wanted to see what had won. Liz spoke for the final time “And finally, our winner tonight is Susan Door with her sculpture “Mom and Dad.” Everyone give her a hand!” The winning sculpture was brought up. It was two figures made of junk sitting at a table. It was certainly not in the league of his painting. What a farce this whole thing was. He turned around and left. As he got home, he gave Steve control, and decided to stew for awhile before making his next move on the art world.
Sam
Steve awoke that morning with a jump. His dreams had been dark last night. Normally when a character has dark dreams, it means something terrible is about to happen. This time, however, Steve’s dreams foreshadow nothing, and serve only as a way to open this paragraph. Regardless, today was a Red Letter day. He had only twenty-four hours to create his entry for the town Art Festival. Steve was only entering because most of his friends were as well. This being said, he did want to win. Steve didn’t win many things; and Marty won none at all, so they were always looking for a potential victory. He had had two months, and nothing had yet come. The Festival was on the last weekend before school started, and he hadn’t wanted to waste any of his summer.
Upon reflection, there was nothing about his summer that really wasn’t a waste. Quite a sad realization on his part. He’d had a failed relationship, been turned down for two jobs, broken his leg playing football, and Marty had done trivial things on the computer. Looking back, Steve realized this was his last chance to make this summer worth remembering. He had to make something great. When it came to art, Marty was not the one to talk to. Marty specialized in text, and was less then willing to come out of his area of comfort. Steve wanted to paint. He wanted to be able to express things words could not communicate through a vibrant mix of colors. Up until now, he had no real experience. He took out the canvas and colors he had purchased the week after school had ended. It was time for him to show the world what was on his mind.
Two hours later, he was done trying. There was simply nothing he could paint that mirrored what he wanted. When it all came down to it, he supposed, he just wasn’t a painter. The work looked terrible. He had made three attempts, and all three were now in his trash can. There was just nothing to be done about it. Marty had thought the last one was good, but his opinion wasn’t worth much in these matters. He turned around in his mind to talk it over.
“Marty, I’m not sure what to do. I’d really like to make something good here, but I just don’t have the talent, or the ideas, or the determination.” He said, dejectedly. “Well, I don’t know why you’d ask me. I told you the last one of the haggard old man was good, and you threw it away.” Marty responded. “It was a self-portrait, and it was terrible.” Steve said, in a distant voice. Marty thought for awhile, then said “Well, you want to show the world what you see, right? Why not draw this place? The table, the screen, us, it could be good. You know this place better then the back of your hand.” Steve looked up. It was true. He and Marty lived in this room all the time. Maybe through paint he could express what it was like to never be truly alone.
He decided to give it a try. He decided that last thought had been a tad dramatic, but he could probably paint the room more clearly then anything else. He took out his last canvas, and prepared to paint. In a final feat of epic cheesiness, he donned a painter’s hat he had sitting in his room for one reason or another. He began to paint.
An hour later, he was sprawled on his couch, gasping for breath. He had painted like a man possessed, and it looked brilliant. It was a little odd; looking at the table in his mind on canvas gave him a sensation like trying to open a box with a crowbar that was inside the box. While considering the impossibility of this, he realized something. He saw himself, he saw Marty, but there was a third seat. He didn’t remember why he painted it. He turned around in his mind to get Marty’s opinion. He noticed there was a third.
The third was a little taller then Steve. He looked almost exactly the same, but with slightly more pronounced features, as though someone had expertly drawn a caricature of Steve. He wore that stupid hat Steve had put on before painting, and his mouth was drawn in a thin line, as though it was in a permanent state of mild displeasure. He raised an eyebrow as he surveyed Steve, and spoke with a slight air of haughtiness.
“I’m Sam. Don’t look so surprised to see me. You needed me, and so here I am.” Steve looked back at him quizzically and spoke, “I don’t need you. Look at that painting. It’s gorgeous.” Sam laughed at this. He had an odd way of laughing. It was either extremely well controlled or it was sarcastic. It was like hearing someone whisper “Hat Hat Hat.” When he had collected himself, Sam responded in a voice that was obviously holding back laughter. “Wait, you think you painted that? Well, let me try to explain this without sounding totally ridiculous. Putting this lovely hat on was the final ingredient. Every moment after that was, in essence, my birth. I emerged from the unpainted canvas into your mind, enabling your body to paint that masterpiece.” Steve was fairly sure Sam meant that figuratively. Steve wasn’t sure if he liked this guy as much as he did Marty. He figured Sam was many times more strong willed. You could tell simply from how he talked that this was one who was accustomed to getting his way. Steve figured it would be best not to argue with him right now. “Ok then Sam, I guess I owe you my thanks on this one. I guess you’ve already met Marty. Welcome to my mind.” “Our mind, buddy. I don’t know what Marty has going for him, but things are going to need to change a bit around here to accommodate for me. I hate to sound so demanding, but I do sort of live here now, and I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.” Sam was definitely going to be a little bit harder to deal with then Marty, Steve decided. There was an edge to Sam Steve just wasn’t sure if he liked. “We’ll have to talk about that more extensively later. I think now would be the time to go out and get this framed for the art thing tomorrow.” Sam put a single finger on his chin, then spoke “Oh, about that. I’m definitely in control for that event. It is my work and all. I just know a little more about the whole process. It’s better for everyone that way.” Steve didn’t know what to do here, or how Sam could know more, since he was basically just a sub-division of Steve himself, but he just nodded.
The rest of the day went by in a blur. The first step was to get the picture framed. This took about half an hour of arguing within Steve’s mind. He had limited funds and wanted to spring only for a cheaper frame. This of course was contradicted with Sam’s views of how they needed a high-end frame to make the work look its best. Eventually, they decided it was time for a vote. Marty couldn’t make up his mind. Steve got angry at Marty for the first time ever. He went on about how Marty wouldn’t exist if it were not for him, and how he should be thankful Steve was even asking his opinion, and he closed with how this shouldn’t even be a debate since he was the original anyway.” Well, Marty didn’t want to fight. More then that, he just wanted Steve to calm down. He went for Steve’s frame. Sam shook his head and sat down. He was thoroughly displeased with the result of the vote.
Framed Canvas in hand, Steve walked home. Arriving home, he had an uneventful dinner with his parents. Once this was over, he opted to go to bed early with the show being the next morning. The other two agreed easily. His parents asked to see his painting before he went to bed. Steve pulled it out, and they were shocked. His parents were not half as shocked as he was, however, because where he had thought there was a third empty seat before, there was now Sam. He wore a slightly devious smile. Steve put it out of his mind as a momentary fit of insanity and went to bed.
He woke up the next morning around Nine. Sam claimed rights over the time from rise to the end of the show, and Steve was in no real mood to argue, so he handed over control. Sam picked out a black turtleneck Steve hadn’t worn in years. Steve wore contacts, but Sam pulled out Steve’s old black rimmed glasses. He said they looked “artistic.” Steve disagreed, but he went along with it. This was Sam’s day, let him do what he wanted. Sam combed Steve’s hair straight down, as opposed to Steve’s normal part, and declared he was ready to leave. Marty pointed out they had a good two hours before the show. Sam retorted they had to get coffee first, and they had to be there early to find a good spot anyway. He walked out of the house and went to Starbucks. He carried the framed and veiled canvas with him.
Sam ordered a large hot chai and sat down, propping the canvas up beside him. As expected, it took about four seconds for a girl dressed very similar to him sat down across the table. Sam laughed at how easy that was. “Hey, are you going to the Art Show after this?” She asked. “Yeah, I’m going to win the Art Show after this, if that’s what you mean.” She laughed, and offered her hand. “I’m Liz. I’m helping judge. What’s your name?” “Steve Plexy. Keep an eye open for my painting. I won’t ruin it by showing you now, but it will blow your mind.” They sat discussing the latest hot topics for pseudo-intellectuals for the next thirty minutes, then walked to the show together, where Liz had to go off to find the other judges. If nothing else, Sam thought, I’ve got her vote without even showing the painting.
A few artists had already set up. Sam scoped out the competition. He wanted to find the perfect piece to be next to. The paintings were supposed to be judged individually, sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t accentuate his talents by having them displayed right next to some utter crap. He found what he was looking for two stalls in. It was a grotesque farce of art. Truly repulsive to the senses. Someone had taken concept of “modern art” a bit too far. It looked like a pile of tin cans with an American flag on top. Sam thought maybe it was just too deep for him. He threw out this thought after a minute. No artsy concept was too deep for him. He set up his canvas nearby, pulled off the cover, and left it be. It was time to see what he was up against. People were arriving now, and it was time for him to enjoy himself.
Two hours later, he was standing in the crowd waiting for the judging announcement. It had been a good time. He had received four phone numbers, one from someone good looking, and three invitations to various parties. He probably wouldn’t call any of the girls, that wasn’t the artsy thing to do. He probably wouldn’t go to any of the parties either. Actually, he mentally noted, he’d go to one, but be fashionably an hour late, and leave early. It was high time for Steve Plexy to break into the art world.
His deep thoughts of the future were interrupted by someone coming on the loudspeaker. It was the girl from earlier. He knew he had at least one of the five judges in his pocket. She had found him earlier and handed him home and cell numbers, and had said his painting was amongst the greatest works she had ever seen. He smiled. Maybe he’d actually call her. Every master needed a biggest fan. He listened to what she was saying.
“After much deliberation amongst the five judges, we have reached a unanimous decision. The third place prize goes to Micheal Von Heidalberg with his painting “Stalin”. There was polite clapping all around. Nobody really cared about third place. The man walked to the front to receive the thirty dollar third prize. He shook the judges hands, and left the stage. “Next on the list, in second place, my personal favorite, is “Threefaced” by Steve Plexy.” Sam was enraged. Second? There was nothing here that could beat his, unless it was in the last row he had never got around to seeing. He kept his cool, walked to the front, received his sixty dollar prize, shook the judges hands, then left the stage. He wanted to see what had won. Liz spoke for the final time “And finally, our winner tonight is Susan Door with her sculpture “Mom and Dad.” Everyone give her a hand!” The winning sculpture was brought up. It was two figures made of junk sitting at a table. It was certainly not in the league of his painting. What a farce this whole thing was. He turned around and left. As he got home, he gave Steve control, and decided to stew for awhile before making his next move on the art world.
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