The next morning, my eyes popped open, and I stared at the ceiling for a moment. My usual vodka-induced headache couldn’t dull the blissful memory of the night before with Cora. I walked through our date again, hour by hour, the big triumphant smile on her face as she scootered away from me for the win forever etched into my mind. Beautiful.
When things in your life go wrong for so long, and then finally start going right, you have to take a second to marvel at the miracle.
The cook clutching my hand with absolute gratitude on his face and his tears of joy. For once in my life, another man looked at me with utter respect. I didn’t realize until that moment how starved I was for it. It was a need so palpable yet neglected, that when I basked in the glow of his approval, it changed me. For one bright, shining moment, I felt whole and worthy.
Then the warm glow in Cora’s eyes as I realized the act might have earned me a promotion from the friend zone. A hint of possibility glinted with her now, like a mirror winking in the sun. Hope flooded me. This was the chance I had been waiting for.
Giving the money away to the cook made me feel buoyant and filled with purpose. It was an act I did on a whim. If I’m brutally honest with myself, it was a spontaneous gesture, but it was also motivated by my desire to look better in Cora’s eyes. But after I did it, man, what a high! I can’t accurately describe the peaceful elation that filled me. It was an intense wave of pleasure and pride that I surfed onto a brand new shore. I wanted to feel that rush again. I had to.
There is a whole briefcase of money stuffed into the closet.
I have 37,211 more chances to feel that giddiness and joy.
Imagine how light I’ll feel when it’s empty, when all the loose ends are tied up.
In a life where every day of my first forty years was the same as the last, I finally had a chance to escape the mundane. It gave me something to look forward to. It gave me a purpose.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers started up in my head, a bizarre concert for one of their smash hit Give it Away, sung by the voices in my head.
Money is the root of all evil.
You can’t take it with you.
Mo’ Money Mo’ Problems.
When it’s gone it’s gone.
It was a chorus of whispers and taunts, all building to the crescendo of truth. I had to give it all away. All of it. Every penny. Transferring it from the briefcase into the hands of strangers, people who deserved it more than I did. The idea filled me with effervescent giddiness. I bounced out of bed and swallowed a handful of ibuprofen. It was time to get this party started.
After breakfast with Ma, I strode into The Art Store and More with purpose. It was a second-generation, family-run business with a decent craft department. Short aisles with colorful squares of felt arranged in a tidy rainbow formation, pom poms, and pipe cleaners. Charcoal and oil pastels assembled like army soldiers in neat rows. During my first committal, I was begrudgingly introduced to art therapy. A therapist put a paintbrush in my hand, and since I had nothing to do but wait, I churned out some truly terrible paintings. Hours ticked by as I focused on painting at an easel, and when I was finally released, Ma would bring me here to wander the aisles. Faithfully clipping her in-store coupons to indulge this newfound “healthy” coping mechanism and dragging me to the free days at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.
The anonymous artist Banksy was just hitting the art scene and quickly got my attention. I remember seeing his painting with the rat wearing a peace sign leaning against a picket sign that said, “Because I’m worthless.” A hip-hop-style rat of NIMH, brave enough to say the words I couldn’t. Seeing his painting was a revelation. I didn’t know art could be so raw, so honest. I adored his pithy commentary on the absurd commercial lives we currently live. He’s ballsy as hell and I respect that. Banksy doesn’t ask for permission, he takes it. Paints what he wants, where he wants, and doesn’t give a rip about anyone’s feelings on the matter. Banksy is the man.
I wanted to adopt that mentality and incorporate it into my comedy. Less apologizing, more creative risks. I think Ma was relieved when I poured my creativity into comedy because notebooks were much cheaper to come by than canvases and paints. But the store was still one of my favorite places to waste time and people-watch. From the scene kids with bangs perpetually in their eyes, to the primped and perfect little princess girls with pigtails and bows, to the queer kids who expressed themselves fearlessly with rainbows and vibrant color. Quite the gamut of Kansas City’s creative humanity could be found wandering the aisles.
Inspired, I loaded one of their red plastic baskets with packages of the largest googly eyes I could find. I cleared the store out, pulling them off the hook by the handful. I was walking down the paint aisle toward the registers when a little blonde waif of no more than twelve caught my eye. I know this sounds silly, but I feel energy from people. Physically feel it. Tommy called me a sap, a pathetic little girly man, but I can go to the funeral of a complete stranger, and the collective despair in the room will make me sob uncontrollably. It is like being tuned into a radio frequency only I can hear, the emotional wavelength of strangers’ emotions broadcast through a loud speaker directly into my ear in high def.
Longing. Need. Sadness. Hopelessness.
She was emitting these emotions. They swirled into the air around her like a tornado, then collided with me. I couldn’t avoid them if I wanted to. I watched her longingly pick up tube after tube of watercolors and oils, read the labels, her eyes crossing slightly, then sigh and discard them back in the display.
She was wearing jeans that were too short, her pink ankles peeking out under the tattered hems. Her gray, oversized hoodie fell mid-thigh, and dirty Converse tennis shoes were on her feet. I glanced around uncomfortably, looking to see if a parent was hovering close by. She wiped her face and started to bite her nails, as I studied her. She picked up a tube of paint and studied it, then looked around skittishly to see if anyone was watching. Her eyes locked on mine, and she jumped like she’d been burned and dropped the tube of paint on the ground. She dipped to the ground to scoop it up and hastily returned it to its proper place on the shelf, turning pink.
“Hey there.” I asked gently, “Are you okay?”
She wiped her face with the back of her hand as she thrust her fingers back up to her mouth, chewing at nail beds that were already red and swollen.
“Are you lost?”
“No,” she answered, spitting one of the fingernails from her mouth into the air. “I come here during the day when my mom is at work.”
“Why are you so sad?”
“I miss my paints,” she said simply as she reached out and dragged a finger across the tubes of pigment in the aisle, one by one, filled with wistful longing. The intensity of which panged my heart. Wistful longing was an emotion I understood intimately.
“What happened to them?”
“I had to leave them behind at my old house. We had to run away in the middle of the night. My mom only had room in the car for the important things, and we drove all night and ended up here. I’m the new kid at school again with no friends. Without painting, I feel lost.”
“That sounds terrifying.”
“This is my third do-over.”
“Do-over?”
“It happens all the time. Mom falls in love, gets married, falls out of love, and we move,” she recounted dully as a chunk of greasy blonde hair fell forward on her face. “I’m on my fourth dad,” she explained, rubbing her eyes that suddenly seemed so old. The emotional exhaustion was wearing down the fire in her eyes until they were barely a smolder. This was a little girl who had seen some things, who had been dragged from one shitty situation into the next during her short life. She picked up a tube of Chinese red. “This was my favorite color,” she offered.
I surveyed the colors until I found the chartreuse and pulled it out for her. “This is mine. Fancy people call it chartreuse, but I like to call it bright ass green.”
My joke was rewarded with a quick upturn of the corners of her mouth. I got the feeling she didn’t laugh or smile very much, and a shot of pain stabbed my heart.
“My second stepdad bought me a full set of paints and horsehair brushes, but I had to do things to get them.”
Instantly, I felt sick. I knew exactly what things she was referring to.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Bailey,” she said shyly then looked down. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“I’m Freddie Angel,” I answered then engulfed her tiny hand in my meaty one. “So, there you have it. We aren’t strangers anymore.” She nodded and looked back down at her shoes. “Well, Bailey, today is your lucky day.”
Her eyes darted to mine, trying to decode what that statement meant.
“I’m somewhat of an art connoisseur.”
“What’s a connoisseur?” she asked, leaning in closer as she twirled a swatch of hair around her finger, around and around, a soothing gesture I recognized.
“Someone who really loves something,” I explained and then continued, “I’ve recently come into some money, and I was thinking I would like to bankroll an aspiring artist. Do you happen to know anyone like that?”
She leaned in but eyed me suspiciously. “What would I need to do?”
“Absolutely nothing. Just pick out your paints and carry them to the cash register.”
“Seriously?” she asked with the kind of stalwart wariness that only abused children display.
“Yes. Seriously. Now get started.” I handed her a basket from the end cap on the aisle as she chose five of the smallest tubes of paint and a pad of watercolor paper. She showed me the basket shyly. “Is this okay?”
“Of course not,” I chided with a crooked smile. “You know, Bailey, you’re really bad at this,” I teased, then grabbed the basket from her arm and added one tube of every color, a handful of brushes, and four more packages of paper to the basket. Her eyes widened, their pale blue irises dancing in a sea of white, getting swept into a liquid ocean of tears at her lashes as a hand clamped to her mouth. Filling the basket, I marched up to the cash register as she trailed behind me.
Seeing the googly eyes on the counter, she asked, “What do you need all those eyes for?”
I looked around and then whispered conspiratorially, “A very special, top-secret project.”
One hundred and twenty-seven dollars and a Snickers bar later, I handed her the bag, and she followed me out of the store.
“Did you need help carrying this home?” I asked. “It’s pretty heavy.”
She was unsure and hesitated.
“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” I said, “but I do want to make sure you get home safe with all these supplies.”
She considered it for a minute, biting on her bottom lip.
“You can trust me—I’m a certified Funologist.”
“What’s that?” she asked, intrigued.
“Well, it’s my job to bring happiness and joy to as many people as I can.”
“That’s a real job?” She hugged her bag of paints to her chest like a newborn baby as we walked down the sidewalk.
“That sack is as big as you are,” I said, watching her struggle with it. “Gimme that.” I tucked my wrist into the handles, then ripped open the candy bar and broke it in half, handing her one of the pieces. She devoured it in two bites and then ducked across the street, leading the way. We paused in front of a stop sign, and I pulled out the biggest set of googly eyes from the bag and added them to it as she giggled.
“You see, Bailey, Funologists are tasked with a very important mission.” I handed her a pair of eyes and said, “Do you think you can find a place to put these bad boys?”
Her eyes lit up, and she ran to the dumpster and added them to the brown metal box. I high-fived her when she came back to stand beside me, and we surveyed her work.
“You’re a natural,” I said. “Perfect placement. You are definitely Funologist material.”
I pulled out another set and placed them over my eyes, stood next to the dumpster, and blindly pulled out my cell phone, holding it out for her. “Will you do the honors and take a photo for me? Make sure you get the dumpster in the background. Everyone needs to see your handiwork.” I felt her pull the phone from my hand and replace it a few minutes later. Then I asked, “Do I have beautiful eyes?” She giggled, and then I peeled them off, along with most of my eyelashes, and handed them to Bailey who ran over to a tree and pressed the adhesive eyes onto the trunk.
I hash-tagged the photo #whoworeitbetter #thefunologist #freddieangelisthefunologist and posted it to all my social media profiles. All the way to her home, we left googly eyes in our wake. On the trunk of a car, on a realtor’s face in an advertisement on the dirty back of a bus stop bench. We stopped at a gas station, and I was the lookout man as Bailey placed them on the milk jugs and ancient eggs sitting in cardboard cartons in the cooler. Every pair of eyes Bailey left behind made her laugh even more, and each giggle made her sound more like a child and less like a beaten-down pseudo woman. My heart lightened, and the mumbling in my mind vanished. For once, the voices were blissfully quiet.
She took a left-hand turn toward a set of beaten-up apartments that sunk into the ground. The kind of place where people went to start over in the middle of the night.
“This is it,” she said as I handed her back the bag full of paints.
I held out a hand. “It was nice to meet you, Bailey. Now, you go paint something magnificent.”
“Oh, I will!” she said. “I’m going to be a Funologist someday, just like you.”
She turned toward the door, and at the last moment turned around and waved again at me. “Bye, Freddie Angel,” she called out. “Thank you!” She climbed the two broken steps, then I watched her disappear into the dark apartment building.
Speechless, her appreciation stunned me. I was used to incompetence, of people being forced to take care of me. Gratitude coming from strangers was novel, and a foreign warm feeling pulsed through me, making me smile, then laugh, then almost burst into tears. I think it was joy.