The Painter

"L'enfer, c'est les autres."

--Jean Paul Sartre

All of a sudden, I have a new housemate. Let's call him "Mike," since that's his name. He spent all day today in my house. He greets me tonight amidst the ruins of my living room, after I drag myself home from work.

Mike is a painter. No, not that kind of painter. Not still lifes, nudes, expressionism. Mike's a house painter. And for the next month, it appears, he is to be my house painter. (I say "next month," but I shudder as I recall stories of contractors who began projects that were still unfinished a year or so later.)

Mike appears to be very skillful. He is enthusiastic. He offers lots of suggestions, and has an eye for shades and colors. Mike is also disruptive. He has covered all my meager possessions with tarps, leaving me little room to roost -- just my bed, and this chair at my computer. Stripped of bookcases and wall hangings, the rooms look bleak and ugly. Disruption is a necessary part of having your house painted. I know that. I knew that. I was expecting -- although dreading -- it.

But Mike is also a talker. Now, when I get home from work, I don't feel like talking. Or, more accurately, I don't feel like listening. Not at all. But Mike's got a lot to say. After one day's work, my house hides no secrets from Mike. And Mike needs to share his discoveries.

It seems that my house is very overdue for painting. Very overdue. It seems that the oil furnace has, at times past, blown out a fine, greasy layer of soot that still clings to walls and furnishings. It seems that portions of the wall and ceiling plaster are being held in place only by old paint. It seems that -- oh my god, how can I tell you this without blushing -- it seems there are even signs that I have at times shared portions of my house with, as it were, rodents!!

My house has not really been very well cared for, has it?

Mike doesn't come right out and say it, of course. I'm going to be paying his bill someday, after all, he hopes. But, in general, I suspect he feels -- sadly, because he is a professional -- that I haven't really proved very worthy of my house. I'm like a ten-year-old who longs to be out playing baseball, but has been given a fine Stradivarius violin on which he's been forced to practice.

In other words, I feel him thinking, it's really a damn shame.

Psychiatrists call it "projection" -- ascribing your own worst thoughts about yourself to others. Yeah, yeah. Whatever. "April is the cruelist month," according to T. S. Eliot, who actually had very little interest in house painting. This year, April shows every sign of being the longest month, as well.

One day endured, about 29 more to go.