June 6: Casey

The long scratch is followed by a soft thump before the scratch returns. The needle has reached the center of the spinning and lopsided vinyl and sends a repetitive reminder to turn the record and continue the album. The turntable sits on a beat up, hand-me-down oak table under a blanket of yellow light from an antique lamp in the corner of a dark and cluttered efficiency apartment. The unpolished brass lamp reaches up and into the crooked, floral-printed shade which protects the room from the harsh light of a 60-watt bulb.

An old army cot with one flat pillow and a neatly folded, tattered and frayed blanket sits in another corner of the room. At the foot of the makeshift bed, on top of the oak dresser, sits a small black and white television set with two manual nobs and two long antennae reaching out and up from the back of the unit to the ceiling. Next to the head of the bed, and on the other side of the black milk crate (used as a table) a plush and plaid armchair of oranges, blues, dirty yellows, and dark greens rests.

A quiet, oscillating fan sweeps over a gray and worn out shag carpet. The ground, however, is virtually out of sight. Small manual pumps and deflated rubber balloons of every shape and color are strewn from wall to wall like empty cans of beer in the home of an alcoholic. Round blues and long, oval-shaped greens. Red balloons twisted and shaped into poodles missing the puff at the end of their tails. Yellow hoops connected to orange balls with pieces of white string. Deflated pirate swords and remnants of popped party hats.

The scratch and thump of the turntable continues as an old man with unkempt gray hair and thick glasses stands in front of the bathroom mirror with a paper plate of various samples of paint. He wears a faded, short-sleeve blue and white plaid shirt. High, tan shorts rest on his hips and over his pale, thin legs. His old, off-white socks loosely grab hold of his shins and dip into his brown, leather sandals as he leans over the sink and stares deep into the mirror's reflection of himself. With his left hand, he softly dabs a thin brush into the brown paint, then the yellow and finally the white before bringing the tip to the skin of his own face.

He uses quick, yet careful little strokes as he applies the gold to his cheek. He watches his reflection and takes mental note of the elasticity of his skin. He considers the reaction of the epidermis as he strokes down, then up and then from side to side. His breathing is silent and held at times of deep concentration. The horn of a unicorn slowly takes shape as the brush works with a mind of its own.

Satisfied with his work, he washes his face, pulls a khaki vest over his button-up shirt and checks the contents of his pinewood art box. Paint and clean brushes? Check. Balloons and hand pumps? Check. String and a foldaway cardboard sample display? Check.

Silent and lost in his thoughts of what paint works with different types of skin and how to keep a giraffe from unwinding into one long yellow balloon, he grabs his supplies and exits the apartment. The door shuts behind him and the deadbolt is secured through the sounds of jingling keys. The fan continues its wave and the forgotten turntable lets out a long, tired scratch before dropping a soft thump.