MY LESSON
My last brushstroke gave the facade of a paint store a new look. The yellow colour was screaming throughout the town but it was the managers choice, not mine. In addition, I had to install a sign above the entrance.
Again I climbed up the step ladder, afraid to look down. First, there was this blinding colour and secondly, I was worried the previous mishap could repeat. Because, although I had taped off the work area with a sign which shouted in red lettering WET PAINT, a little, careless boy sneaked under the warning tape. He rolled and twirled his body along the freshly painted moulding of the display window. It resulted in a ten centimetres wide, yellow strip, back and font of his white, aged sweatshirt.
“Watch out, son!” I shouted, when I saw him, but it was already too late. His mom came ten seconds later around the corner, unhappier than I was.
“Look, man, what have you done to him. My poor baby!” the woman screamed beneath me and shook my ladder. “Listen, there must be something we can do!” she insisted loudly.
I barely caught myself from plunging down and descended a bit annoyed.
“Yes, lady, here is a jug of Varsol and rugs. Go ahead, use them - it’s on the house.”
The store manager appeared and looked as displeased as the rest of us.
So, back to my original intention - I still had to mount this sign, with the wording ‘Enjoy Our Permanent Paint’, among other things. I had already lost a lot of time with my involuntary clean up job.
As I stood on my ladder, trying to fit the half–metre by three metres Plexiglas sign into a metal frame, I remembered that I had left my wallet in the open toolbox, which stood against the building. I could see it from my vantage point. However, anyone else could probably see it even better from the sidewalk. No sooner had I become aware than I noticed a young man in ragged pants and shirt, pacing up and down the sidewalk. Seemingly, he had no place to go. Repeatedly, he passed by my toolbox. He must have glanced at least once at the content. Perhaps I should have stepped down to close it. Did I take a chance? On the other hand, just because he was dressed poorly didn’t give me the right to make a judgement.
The conclusion I had reached put me at ease and I inserted one screw after another to get this job finally done. To amuse myself, I still thought about the boy who earlier rolled upright against the freshly painted yellow moulding, when a metallic sound that did not belong to the traffic made me look down. To my amazement the young ragged man stood, bent over my toolbox. The same individual I had just before apologized to in my mind. Was it again my imagination? Maybe there was a good reason. He might have needed a screwdriver in a hurry. Sure, said my other voice, he needs what you think, just like you need to tumble of this ladder!
“Can I help you?” I asked, suppressing suspicion, but by the looks of it, the young man had apparently helped himself already.
“Hey there, wait a minute!” I yelled upset and descended in a hurry. I was certain he knew I had seen him as he probably removed my wallet. He must have heard my voice as well, because in no time he was around the corner. I jumped down, after him like a goat. It took me only twenty metres to catch up to him. I was really steaming. Wrestling him down was easy. I felt strong as a conqueror. It should have made me really feel good, however when I felt nothing but rags and bones, it gave me the creeps. I was just about to deliver a punch yet realized he was not going to defend himself. He looked at me as if to say, go ahead punish my disadvantage. Kneeling beside him, holding his head down, I remembered a TV program showing third world people who starve and are in constant distress.
“Sure, give it to him - let him have it!” some voice cried behind me.
I lowered my other arm. “ O.K., man, where is my wallet?” That was my only interest.
“No wallet, you don’t understand,” a hesitant voice replied.
“Listen to this guy - we don’t understand,” someone said sarcastically in the expending group, surrounding the action.
“I saw the whole thing. Did you say, a wallet?” another voice asked. “He is a thief!”
“Oh hell, never mind, what is this? I’m full of paint!” screamed someone else, which sounded familiar. It also seemed the cue for the Store manager to appear again on the scene.
“Jesus Christ, not again!” he howled, and then spotted me over my victim.
“And what are you doing down here?! When are you going to finish my bloody storefront? Stop horsing around.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. He’s teaching the bum a lesson.” shouted a voice.
“Yes, Sir, we must punish him like all stealers should be. Has no shame, robbing in broad daylight?”
“A wallet from the painter’s toolbox.”
“Yeah, Yeah,” the manager replied disinterested. Turning to me, “I hope, this is the last I hear before you are finally done or else you might not have any use for your wallet anyhow.”
Again, some shouts, “someone call the police!”
“We have to get rid of these good for nothing!”
“What about the paint on my jacket?”
“Let him have it!” a voice insisted addressing me. I had just about enough. “Shut up everyone and get lost!” I shouted, stood up, held out my hand and help my thief to his feet. He was reluctant to comply.
“Listen,” I said, “give me my wallet and I’ll forget whatever happened.”
“I didn’t take your wallet.”
“What did you take?”
“Nothing.”
“But . . . ”
“Come and see.” While we walked back to my toolbox, the crowd following us still repeated the demands, insisting that he was full of it.
I looked at my toolbox, and in deed, there was my wallet.
“So, what did you do in my toolbox?” Then I saw a piece of leather that had a drawing of a raven on it. I took it in my hand and looked at the young man who was, as I now realised, related to an Indian tribe.
“My grandfather gave me this picture for save keep. I thought, you make signs and would appreciate the raven. I might lose it anyhow.”
***
