times, and it was fun, but he wanted more than I did. Same old, same old.” I picked up a glass tumbler. “I’m going to get some water and start working. Just let me know when you’re finished.”
Once I was set up with brushes, palette and water, I put on my ear buds and plugged them into my phone. A few seconds later, Bastille flooded through my head, and for the next three hours, nothing existed except music and paint.
LAURA LEFT THE STUDIO before I did, and by the time I got outside, it was dark. Tourists and residents were still wandering the streets of Savannah, and as always, I felt safe as I made my way back to our apartment. I stopped on a corner to give a couple of older ladies directions to The Pirates House restaurant, and I smiled at a group of teenage girls sitting at a sidewalk table.
We ordered in salads from the deli around the corner for dinner and watched our favorite black and white movies, this time making our theme for the evening Claudette Colbert. I went to bed early, slept hard and woke up in time for my eight-thirty Narrative Painting course.
All of my morning classes were within walking distance, but in the afternoon, I had to drive to the other side of town for Conceptual Art Practices. I made a face at the ugly Chevette as I opened it and slid in, but I had to admit that it got me where I needed to go. I just hoped no one saw me behind the wheel.
My phone buzzed after class as I walked toward the parking lot. It was a text message from Laura.
Your car is ready. Sending you address to go get it.
I sighed. I wanted my Honda back, but the idea of driving all the way to that backwater town was not appealing.
Want to ride out with me? I can pick you up.
I opened up the Chevette and climbed into the driver’s seat, waiting for Laura’s reply.
Nice try, Megs. You’re on your own.
I typed in one last message before I started up the car.
Can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll call on my way back. If I don’t get kidnapped by the rednecks.
I plugged the address Laura had texted into my phone’s map program and aimed the car out of town. It was a pretty afternoon; only a hint of intense heat that would hit in a month or so floated on the breeze. The old Chevy didn’t have air conditioning, so I rolled down all four windows, blasted the rock station and made the most of the ride.
The majority of the landscape on the way to Burton consisted of grassy swampland, dotted by small copses of trees now and then. It looked a little different in the daylight than it had on Saturday when Laura and I had driven to the bar, which I passed a few miles before I turned onto the main street of the town. In the late afternoon sunshine, empty, it looked less exciting than it had under neon and moonlight with a parking lot full of cowboys.
I found Boomer’s without any trouble, even though the sign that hung near the curb was faded and rusting. An old tow truck sat in front of the garage, and a rag-tag assortment of vehicles surrounded the building. I pulled in and found an empty spot to leave the Chevette. I didn’t see the Honda anywhere, but surely there could only be one Boomer’s in a town this small.
Slamming the car door, I walked toward the building. There was an entrance with the word OFFICE stenciled on the window. I didn’t see anyone inside, but I could hear music and the sound of machines coming from the garage. I gave the door an experimental push, and it opened with a loud squeak and a ringing bell.
A chest-high counter took up most of the room. There were a few worn paper signs advertising products and services that were foreign to me. I stepped closer and saw a desk below the counter, covered with piles of papers, some of them edged with grease stains. An old rotary telephone was parked off to the side next to an equally ancient adding machine. Pushed under the desk was a rolling office chair that had been patched in spots with duct tape.
Another door led into the garage
Once I was set up with brushes, palette and water, I put on my ear buds and plugged them into my phone. A few seconds later, Bastille flooded through my head, and for the next three hours, nothing existed except music and paint.
LAURA LEFT THE STUDIO before I did, and by the time I got outside, it was dark. Tourists and residents were still wandering the streets of Savannah, and as always, I felt safe as I made my way back to our apartment. I stopped on a corner to give a couple of older ladies directions to The Pirates House restaurant, and I smiled at a group of teenage girls sitting at a sidewalk table.
We ordered in salads from the deli around the corner for dinner and watched our favorite black and white movies, this time making our theme for the evening Claudette Colbert. I went to bed early, slept hard and woke up in time for my eight-thirty Narrative Painting course.
All of my morning classes were within walking distance, but in the afternoon, I had to drive to the other side of town for Conceptual Art Practices. I made a face at the ugly Chevette as I opened it and slid in, but I had to admit that it got me where I needed to go. I just hoped no one saw me behind the wheel.
My phone buzzed after class as I walked toward the parking lot. It was a text message from Laura.
Your car is ready. Sending you address to go get it.
I sighed. I wanted my Honda back, but the idea of driving all the way to that backwater town was not appealing.
Want to ride out with me? I can pick you up.
I opened up the Chevette and climbed into the driver’s seat, waiting for Laura’s reply.
Nice try, Megs. You’re on your own.
I typed in one last message before I started up the car.
Can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll call on my way back. If I don’t get kidnapped by the rednecks.
I plugged the address Laura had texted into my phone’s map program and aimed the car out of town. It was a pretty afternoon; only a hint of intense heat that would hit in a month or so floated on the breeze. The old Chevy didn’t have air conditioning, so I rolled down all four windows, blasted the rock station and made the most of the ride.
The majority of the landscape on the way to Burton consisted of grassy swampland, dotted by small copses of trees now and then. It looked a little different in the daylight than it had on Saturday when Laura and I had driven to the bar, which I passed a few miles before I turned onto the main street of the town. In the late afternoon sunshine, empty, it looked less exciting than it had under neon and moonlight with a parking lot full of cowboys.
I found Boomer’s without any trouble, even though the sign that hung near the curb was faded and rusting. An old tow truck sat in front of the garage, and a rag-tag assortment of vehicles surrounded the building. I pulled in and found an empty spot to leave the Chevette. I didn’t see the Honda anywhere, but surely there could only be one Boomer’s in a town this small.
Slamming the car door, I walked toward the building. There was an entrance with the word OFFICE stenciled on the window. I didn’t see anyone inside, but I could hear music and the sound of machines coming from the garage. I gave the door an experimental push, and it opened with a loud squeak and a ringing bell.
A chest-high counter took up most of the room. There were a few worn paper signs advertising products and services that were foreign to me. I stepped closer and saw a desk below the counter, covered with piles of papers, some of them edged with grease stains. An old rotary telephone was parked off to the side next to an equally ancient adding machine. Pushed under the desk was a rolling office chair that had been patched in spots with duct tape.
Another door led into the garage
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