“Don’t be a fool, Arlin!” He stood there with his arms crossed, his extra lengthy tie hanging out from underneath them, dangling far enough to surpass the waistline of his baggy navy slacks. I could read his mind. The way he crinkled his mouth and nose up towards his eyes.
He exhaled and reached over the stanchion barrier to touch the piece. An alarm immediately sounded. Three men clad in security uniforms rushed over to reprimand him for his actions.
He held only one hand up and mocked them. “Don’t shoot! I am the Ar-teast!” He always caused at least one scene during every show offered to the public.
He tightened his grip on the brass handled cane he now required, his fingers turned blood red. “Please, not this time, dear.” I begged him to cease his attempt for inspiration, something he lost after the plane crash ten years ago.
This painting was concocted after he struck a homeless man who mistakenly entered his last exhibit. The man fell to the ground, taking a lady with him. A nurse in the crowd quickly went to their aid. A fourth person, in order to subdue Arlin, bear hugged him with so much strength, he couldn’t break free until the authorities had him in cuffs.
He lifted the walking stick high into the air. I’d had enough! I snatched it from him, he began to wobble and this time he was the first on the floor. I imagined there would be no more art, and a strong probability that our marriage would be shortened.
A month later, he racked in 2.1 million dollars for the piece he titled – Angry wife, free mind, and a little time. He proved his love for me once again by staying and painting our own self-inflicted show misfortune.
Leesa Writes 