Work of Art: An Intention of Flowers

Chapter One

The first time I met Joseph Arillo, I didn’t expect I’d go to jail or even get beat up as a result. And yet, that’s exactly what happened.

Joseph was sitting out in the middle of a parking lot the first time I saw him. He was a small kid, not the kind you’d notice, practically invisible. In a downpour, he’d probably weigh a few pounds but it would all be water caught in that long, brown hair of his that went straight down his back. He had brown skin like everybody else in Southern California, except perhaps for me, and wore threadbare clothes like a badge. I was walking out of the liquor store, Rod’s Liquor on the corner of 14th and Main, carrying my morning Strawberry Quik and…

What’cha got there? I asked him.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me.

What he was working at caught my attention, though. There he was, on his hands and knees, practically lying down on the cracked and weathered asphalt… painting.

I opened the ice cold Quik and took a swig. Nothing went down better after a jog than a Quik. You might say that was why I never took off any weight but the hell with you; I didn’t ask.

I walked around to watch him work and to see what he had done. He didn’t move. He didn’t appear defensive or concerned in any way. There, on the ground between the oil stains, faded parking lot lines and various other markings – tire marks and graffiti – this young man was painting… What is that? A flower?

He had a silver Sharpie in one hand and a butter knife in the other. He was working the silver onto the concrete around circles of bright red paint, creating the sheen on what would undoubtedly be rose petals. Whenever he made a mistake, he’d take an old, brown brush and dab it out or go back with the Sharpie – but he hardly made any mistakes.

I knelt down and took a look at the pen in his hand. What’s that? A one inch fine? Where’d you learn to get that kind of detail with a one inch fine?

I’m good, were his first words to me.

You’re painting flowers in a parking lot, kid. You’re not Michelangelo. I noticed his choice of paint cans was interesting: old Advil bottles. Big ones. The kind your arthritic grandmother might have. Still… What’s with the flower?

Nothing. Not even a glance.

Does Carlos know you’re painting his parking lot? I asked.

The kid kept working on his petals. Carlos owned Rod’s Liquor – please don’t ask me how that figured. But I had a feeling he’d have something to say. Even if he didn’t, I did.

What the kid didn’t realize was that I wasn’t just any art lover. For two weeks, I’d been the art instructor at Santa Ana High School. I hardly made more than the average burger pusher at the local MacDonald’s and had to buy supplies on top of that, but I made my own hours just as long as I kept those the school gave me and I got to paint. And I would. Eventually.

That looks like student-grade tempera paint. You expect that to stand up to traffic? I waited to see if he got the joke and wasn’t at all surprised when he didn’t. Listen. I’m going to check with Carlos and see if he’s okay with this. You want to come with me? Nothing. No? Well, how about you stay out here and paint?

As I stood back up, it was clear the kid wasn’t going to say another word. Listen, I have no problem with street art, even when it’s called graffiti. I’m an art teacher; it kinda keeps me in business. But this kind of art? Painting a flower in the middle of a parking lot? A lot surrounded by dead trees, old pavement, and crowded apartments just this side of slums? That just struck me as kind of goofy. The kid could get hit by a car, after all. Worse, he could get hit by any of the local punks that tried to look Santa Ana tough – not quite gang-bangers but not pansies, either. I’d rather see him painting in a class.

Back into the store, I went.

Back for one more? Carlos asked. Carlos always seemed to be working. I don’t know how long he’d owned Rod’s but it seemed to me the experience was still new enough to keep him fearful. And you want that in his shoes. Complacency will kill you.

Rod’s was the kind of liquor store where the windows are lined with old beer posters and no light comes in or goes out because the beer posters are an inch thick. The magazine rack showed boobs and guns and little else and the cooler always kept plenty of beer. The only milk they sold was the kind I was drinking.

I finished my Quik. No, I’ve had enough bovine growth hormone, high fructose corn syrup, and artificial flavors for one day.

As I handed him the empty bottle, he asked, So? What can I get for you?

Actually, it’s what you can do for me, I said and I knew I had his attention, even as he tended to another customer. Did you see that kid in your parking lot outside?

Kid? he asked.

Little one. Scrawny – maybe fifteen. He’s out there marking up your parking lot.

What? he asked. Another one?

No. No. Not a tagger, I said, waving that thought away. He’s, uh, painting flowers.

Flowers? Carlos asked.

Well, a flower, at least. You okay with that?

Carlos seemed to give this a moment’s thought and then shrugged. I guess. Tell him to put some flowers over the tagging. Then, a young woman walked in and I knew I’d lost him.

I liked his shrug, though. Maybe I shouldn’t be so concerned, either.

Outside, the kid was still making his petals. You’d do better to make them uniform, I told him.

They’re not supposed to be uniform.

Oh, so you do talk! And, with this, he gave me a look. Listen, my name’s Mister, um, Andrew Hollis. I just started at Santa Ana High. I’m the new art teacher there.

So? School’s not for three months.

He had me there. On that June morning, with the sun already climbing the sky, the school year was quite some time away. I know that. But they brought me on early so I could help revive your art club. You go to Santa Ana High, don’t you?

Maybe, he said.

I suppose I should mention that I’m not that great with kids. It’s the reason why I teach high school art and not pre-school; I don’t find them cute. In fact, they kind of irritate me. Well, do you or don’t you?

Not until September, I don’t.

Okay, you got me. And, with that, he turned his attention back to his flower. But I kept going. The thing is, we’re putting some pieces together for the summer so we can display them when school starts. It’s not a class but we’re open for business. I’ve got a few students you probably know. Alex Alfaro. Graciela Kim. Hosanna Choi.

Don’t know ’em, he said, his attention turned towards the ground.

Now, I’m not a prima donna or an attention hog but even I was getting sick of the cold shoulder. They’re some of the best art students in your class. I would think you would have at least heard of them.

No.

Why not?

He looked up at me with a mix of boredom and loathing. Because I’m not an art student.

Chapter Two

Student.

There was something about the way he said that word. I’m not an art student. As if a student was the lamest thing there was, possibly right up there with art teacher.

I walked the rest of the way home, trying to put him out of my mind. I knew we’d run into each other again once the school year started. And then, I’d be in my uniform – jeans, dress shirt, and a tie – instead of my running gear. I’m sure there’s something about a forty-seven year old man in running shorts and a t-shirt that’s too small to hide his gut that has to be underwhelming at best. Hell, it probably screamed, Don’t take me seriously.

My apartment was just a few blocks away and two flights up on Washington Avenue. I waited until I was once again inside before dialing back a call I had missed when I was jogging. I have to admit, my home is what some might call sparsely decorated. I call it, I had one moving truck and had to do it all myself. So, while I do not have a sofa, I do have two recliners. I picked up a brand new fridge, even though my building has no elevator. Granted, it may not be much of a fridge but, then, I’m not really much of a cook.

The phone was ringing and someone picked up on the other end. Hello?

Hi, Mom, I said. I just saw you called. I was out jogging.

My mom recognized my voice and returned a pleasant, Oh, hello, Honey-Pie! And then, we were off to the races. My mom is one of those overly… just-too-happy kinds of folks. The kind that still call their forty-seven-year-old son Honey-Pie. Back home, she’s involved in every civic activity there is: Meals on Wheels for the elderly, choir at the church, Pilates, water aerobics. She even joined a fledgling tennis team with women half her age. And she keeps up. In case those weren’t enough, she has actually invented some of her own civic groups. There’s the Wausau Falls Carolers at Christmastime. She formed a gardening club in the town park for beautification. She took a whack at convincing me to teach art classes at the community center – but, fortunately, I found this job.

After filling me in on the goings-on at Meals on Wheels, choir, and water aerobics (Pilates is on hiatus), she asked, So, tell me everything. How are things coming in Santy Ana? How are your kids?

Well, first of all, it’s Santa Ana, Mom. Santa, like Christmas. I fished around in my fridge as I talked. It was still too early for beer and I was too lazy to make a sandwich. And they’re not my kids. They’re my students.

Sorry.

The sound of hurt in my mother’s voice brought an end to my search for something to eat. She was very sensitive. But they’re fine. Everything’s fine. We’re off to a rocky start but, you know.

They’re probably not used to having an art teacher in the ghetto, Andy. You have to give them time.

I plopped myself down into a recliner. Mom, this isn’t the ghetto. It’s Orange County. I don’t think they have a ghetto. They have a beach and they have malls.

All the same, she said. It ain’t Wausau Falls.

No, I told her. I’ll grant you that. Sitting in my favorite recliner, I looked out past my balcony at the city spreading before me. My apartment overlooks the Santa Ana Civic Center, where the government resides along with many of the city’s homeless. I don’t think we ever had homeless in Wausau Falls. The winters were too harsh and the people too kind. I’m not in Wisconsin anymore.

So, tell me, she said. What are you doing with your class?

What was I doing? Good question. After taking my position, my job had mostly consisted of cleaning the room and setting up supplies, which meant buying supplies, which meant living off my credit cards for a while. And I wasn’t going to tell my mom about that. She’d ask me where the janitors were and why the school wasn’t buying supplies and, of course, when I would be coming home. Home to my mom was where schools took an interest in the arts. What my mom didn’t realize, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to explain it, was that nobody took much of an interest in the arts anymore. That was just a reality of life.

So, I got up and filled a glass with water, saying, Oh, you know. Assembling the troops. Preparing for the big push before the new school year.

As I drank, my mother said, Well, you should, you know. You could be a real inspiration to those kids.

I let the water wash my sarcasm back down my throat. Thanks, Mom. Listen, I gotta go. I just got back from my run and I need to shower before going to school. We have a meeting at noon.

Okay, then. I’ll let you go.

I leaned against my white, tile countertop and smiled. Thanks, Mom. I love you. Something about the way that woman lives always makes me smile. Things are just so simple with her. She never had a dream she didn’t make real or a goal she didn’t see her way to. We’re very different people in that regard. She lived in the time of gumption and I grew up in the days of sarcasm. And as disappointing as I always found that to be, I also knew I could always look back at my mom, back in the wilds of Wisconsin, for a reminder of just what that was like…

And I thought about that kid in the parking lot again, painting a flower.

I love you, too, Honey-Pie. You’re doing a good thing out there. I’ll talk to you soon.

Give my love to Dad, I told her, and hung up the phone.

I suppose I should mention my dad, though you would probably never know he was there if I didn’t mention him. My father is a world traveler, a mountain climber. He was an extremophile before such folk existed. As a Navy Seal, he fought in two wars, lived on three continents, and never turned down a challenge.

And now, he sits in his room and watches game shows. He likes game shows because he doesn’t have to pay attention. And mom brings him tea and snickerdoodles and does what she does; she loves him. He’s going to be eighty-five this year and he’s not the man he once was. His candle burned bright and it burned fast. I remember when he retired at seventy and mom was so happy to have him back home. He wasn’t there a month before he’d found a comfortable chair and reruns of The Hollywood Squares on the Game Show Network. They were comfortable and they were together for the first time in years, and that was all that mattered to them.

When I left home, I made a point of sitting with my father for a while and watching TV with him, but we didn’t talk. He hardly looked at me. I don’t even know if he knew I was there.

I gotta go, Dad. I’ve got miles to put on the road before night.

Uh, huh, he said.

I didn’t know what to do, so I held him and told mom to take care of him. When I think of him now, I just get a little sad. I miss him even if the feeling may not be mutual.

I looked at the clock on the microwave and realized the hour was approaching eleven so I rushed into the shower, pulling clothes off as I ran. By eleven thirty, I was heading onto the street on my Trek road bike. As close as everything was and as expensive as gas was getting, I couldn’t imagine buying a car. Granted the roads were bursting with insane drivers, but I had the sidewalks and driveways and parking lots – and, let’s face it, Santa Ana is built mostly of sidewalks and driveways and parking lots – to maneuver around and travel through.

Santa Ana High was a short trip through a maze of government buildings and the concrete plazas people called parks around here. School was usually a straight shot down First Street. But first, I decided to take a short detour down 14th to check in on my flower child.

His first flower was finished. Only about six inches or so long, it lay on the asphalt like a little gem, a very little gem. Little, green leaves and prominent, shimmering red petals rose markedly off the pavement. He sat beside it, creating a second flower, and didn’t bother to look up when I approached him on my bike.

How many of those are you gonna do? I asked him.

Of course, he gave no response.

You know, I didn’t get your name earlier. I waited but he still didn’t give it. I thought he must be awful uncomfortable sitting on tar on a hot day in June. When someone gives you their name, you’re supposed to give them yours. It’s only polite.

For some reason, this brought his eyes up to me.

My name’s Andy Hollis.

His head tilted. It’s Andy now?

My friends call me Andy, I told him. What do your friends call you?

Joe, he told me. Joe Arillo.

I had a feeling that was all I was going to get. Standoffishness was typical for a teenager; there was no reason for me to push. Okay, Joe. Good luck with the flowers. Maybe I’ll see you later.

I didn’t wait for his goodbye because I knew it wasn’t coming. Kids like that don’t have manners to spare. What’s a kid like that like? I had him pegged as the artist type, some kind of strange rebel. Instead of tagging with his name, Joe used flowers. In that neighborhood, I was surprised he hadn’t been beat up. Santa Ana’s no ghetto but it has its rough side and the corner of 14th and Main was about as rough as they got. It was a long way from Wisconsin. Sometimes, it was a long way from just plain livable. This kid didn’t seem to realize he’d have to contend with gangs and cops alike, other kids who would just as soon beat you for painting flowers as for breathing, and then there were the homeless and the drive-bys and other things I didn’t want to think about. Oh well, I’d let him contend with such problems himself for now.

It was about time I was on my way to school.

I rode the mile or so to school with ease, cutting through the parking lots and walkways around Civic Center, avoiding any streets, and walking my bike into class just after noon. Already, four kids sat in the room, waiting. None of them had access to the art supplies; that was between me and my keychain. Anyway, we weren’t here to work. We were here to plan strategy.

Hey guys. Nice to see you made it, I told them as I parked my bike behind my desk.

Nice to see you made it, Alex Alfaro kidded. Alex was a bright kid, a senior jaded by the previous art instructor, too many hormones, and too much talent for his own good. He was the kind of kid who wouldn’t listen to anyone tell him how to draw and would then end up working as a graphics artist for some Irvine electronics firm, and he’d hate every minute of it.

Volunteer work, Alex. There are no time clocks in volunteer work. I gave him a smile as I pulled the rubber band off the cuff of my pants that kept it from getting caught in my chain and sat at my desk. Alex wasn’t a bad kid; he was just better than everyone else and he knew it, which made for a bad combo. He was sitting in his too-small desk – all the desks seemed to be too small for most kids these days in that wrap-around design that nobody ever liked – with his feet up on another. His too-long jeans and oversized hoodie made him look like he was hiding in his clothes and I wasn’t about to be outdone by him, so I put my feet up as well, right up on my desk.

Joining us were Graciela Kim, Donathon Waters, and Roberto Martinez. Graciela Kim was everything you’d expect from a girl with a Korean mother: dedicated, hard-working, and fairly neurotic. Her talent didn’t lay so much in art as in promotion and organization, which could both be considered arts in themselves. Donathon Waters – there’s a first name I couldn’t get used to – was about as personable as they came. He couldn’t draw but he didn’t mind. He liked to get paint all over his black hands and then physically work it onto a canvas, and that wasn’t just drawing. That was art. Roberto was new; he and I had spoken over the phone. His acne scars betrayed an insecurity typical for those his age who were less than attractive. So what if he couldn’t get a date; he was doing much better by being here.

Glad you could join us, Roberto, I called to his back-row seat.

He smiled and nodded.

So, what are we doing here today?

I thought you were supposed to tell us, Donathon told me with a smile.

No sir, I answered. This is not about me. I’m not getting paid. I don’t have hours. I don’t have a class to teach. This is your time. Bring it.

Bring what? Graciela asked.

Alex joined her. And, what do you mean you don’t get paid?

I gave them a shrug. Okay. I do get paid. Standing up, I went to the board. We had two boards, one of which was dry erase and the other was a traditional chalk board. I preferred that one. I’d purchased several different colors of chalk and several dry erase pens, but I kept the dry erase locked in my desk. Picking up a yellow and a blue piece of chalk, I began drawing a bird with the blue chalk, highlighting it with yellow. So… we are here to talk about plans for the new school year. Yes?

Yes, Graciela answered.

Thank you, Grace. I didn’t look back at them. I kept drawing. What happened to Hosanna? Have any of you seen Hosanna Choi?

Having completed the wings and body, I moved on to the bird’s face as the kids behind me remained silent. No, huh? Okay. I turned around. I’m going to make a few guesses here and you let me know if I’m close. Okay? My guess is you enjoy drawing. Yes?

I expected the silence my students gave. After all, they were teenagers. Nobody wanted to go first… Not for anything.

So, I waited.

And so did they. They had practice.

Donathon, I pronounced carefully.

What?

You love drawing, don’t you?

Uh, no, he said as if I was an idiot. Of course, I knew he’d say that. That was my point. How else was I going to get them to do as I wished?

Drafting? I asked.

What?

Schematics?

He did a good job at hiding his irritation. How many times had he made it clear to me what he was about? And here I was, too stupid to remember. What are you doing, Mister Hollis?

Sorry, Jonathon.

It’s Donathon. That was better. Now, he was getting downright irate.

Right. Sorry. What did you come here for?

Contrary to popular belief, being a high school teacher has nothing to do with imparting knowledge. Whatever a teenager has been fortunate enough to get inside their heads up until this point is about all anyone can impart. Along with hormones and pimples and a sex drive that could light Chicago comes a