Watching Paint Dry.

I wrote a story once called Being Bertie. It’s currently under contract to a magazine, which is why I’ve never put it up at the other blog. But it’s been so for about three years now, and there are signs that the publisher is defunct, so maybe I will one of these days.

Anyway, the main character is called Bertram Brotherton-Jones, and is based very much on me. The MC of the following story – Tommy – is a later incarnation of Bertie, and rather further removed from me. I hope.

The story is very short, taking less than five minutes to read. I wrote it simply to rise to the challenge of writing a story about watching paint dry.

*  *  *

Tommy hummed and sang quietly to himself.

‘Oh, da da-da da da you fine Spanish ladies. Dee dee dee-dee dee dum you ladies of Spain...’

sniff

He was sitting on a camping stool, leaning forward with his arms wrapped tightly across his chest. Every so often he would raise both eyebrows and pucker his lips. Sometimes he opened his eyes extra wide and tilted his head slightly.

‘I wonder how long this is going to take.’

He picked up the can and squinted at the instructions.

‘Mmm. Touch dry in four to eight hours, re-coatable in sixteen to twenty four, depending on conditions. Shit! That’s a long time.’

He put the can down and wrapped his arms firmly about his chest again. A strident sound rent the air and startled him. It was the stirring strains of Rule, Britannia coming from his mobile phone. He picked it up and pressed the green button.

‘Yes?’

‘Hi, Tommy.’

‘Oh, hi Trish.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Watching the door dry.’

‘What?’

‘Well, not the door, obviously. Ha ha. As if... The paint. I just painted it.’

There followed a brief silence. Trish was evidently engaged in processing a statement that wasn’t easy to comprehend in conventional terms.

‘Sorry, did I hear you right? You’re watching the paint dry on the door?’

‘Yeah.’

Another, mercifully briefer, moment of silence followed.

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you watching the paint dry on the door?’

‘Why not? I’ve never done it before.’

‘Tommy, nobody watches paint dry. That’s why you’ve never done it before. People don’t.’

‘So? I just felt like doing it.’

‘Have you been smoking that extra strong stuff again, the stuff I told you to keep away from?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘No.’

‘Taking some medication?’

‘No.’

‘So why the fuck are you watching the fucking paint dry?’

‘Because somebody told me once that listening to me talk was like watching paint dry, so I thought I’d give it a go.’

‘Somebody told you that? To your face?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Weren’t you offended?’

‘No. Why should I be?’

‘Tommy, where’ve you been all your life? Watching paint dry is the epitome of boring!’

‘The what?’

‘Epitome. It means it doesn’t come any better.’

‘So watching paint dry is supposed to be good, then?’

‘NO! It’s the most boring thing you can do. It means people think you’re boring. Get it?’

There was a long pause until Trish said

‘Tommy? You still there? I really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything. You – sort of – asked for it.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Tommy reassuringly. ‘I’ve decided I like watching paint dry. It’s relaxing.’

‘Relaxing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Oh well, you must be the only person in the whole damn world who finds watching paint dry relaxing! I suppose that makes you sort of interesting.’

Another long pause followed.

‘Tommy?’

‘What?’

‘Did you hear what I just said?’

‘What about?’

‘Tommy, you’re not listening to me, are you? You’d prefer to watch the fucking paint dry!’

‘I’ve told you: it’s relaxing. And there’s really no need for all that language. This isn’t America, you know.’

‘I take it back, Tommy. You’re not interesting, you’re a geek. In fact, you’re fucking weird. Bye, Tommy.’

The line went dead, so Tommy pressed the red button and placed the phone carefully on the floor, strictly parallel with his viewing position. He placed his arms back around his chest.

Sniff, sniff.

‘Hmm, the smell’s getting stronger. That’s good.’

He remembered that gloss paint and varnish always smell strongest when they’re nearly dry, and felt duly encouraged. He’d been dying for a pee for hours, but hadn’t wanted to miss any of the fascinating process which he was currently in the act of observing. Then again...

He deliberated deeply and came to a philosophical conclusion. He decided that watching paint dry is a bit like reading one of those clever novels that foreign blokes write. Getting through them can be quite an effort until you come close to the end, then you don’t want them to stop.