Color Blind

H
is hands sweat inside thin, white cotton art handler’s gloves. His underarms are damp and itchy, legs achy, feet falling asleep. In the deep pockets of his disposable jumpsuit is a brand-new handkerchief, wide silver duct tape, a white bristle paintbrush, a small bottle of chloral hydrate, three knives, and two pieces of primed artist’s canvas, rolled up.

He peels down the edge of his glove and squints at the cool green numbers on the illuminated, paint-splattered Timex: 4:38.
Where is she?

He thought he had her routine down pat. He’s been watching her for a week. The last three nights she’d stopped turning tricks by 3
A
.
M
., met her pimp—tall, rail-thin with waist-long dreadlocks—on the far west corner of Zerega and 147th Street, a neighborhood he’d like to forget, but can’t.

He closes his eyes, hums along with the tune that has just clicked on in his jukebox brain: “Like a Virgin.” A song she liked to play over and over. He can even remember the picture on the cassette, the “material girl” done up like some whore bride.

He shakes his head against the music, not with it, trying to dislodge the tune along with the pictures that are now playing, bouncing along to the simple four-four beat, and all those sounds: cot squeaking, moans coupled with faux endearments—
Yeah. That’s it. Give it to me. Baby, you’re the greatest. So big. So strong.
And the smell of sweat and beer and sex and sadness.

The click of a key in the lock.

The pictures fade; music shuts off; adrenaline kicks in.

He can barely stand still.

Just a minute. Hang on, sloopy—

The darkness in the closet has added to his affliction. Nothing. Total blackout. No color at all.

But he can wait. Soon there will be more than enough color.

Footsteps.
Heels click-clacking against hard wooden floors.

He shifts his weight, and a dress or blouse slides across his face, thin fabric teasing his cheek, perfume, something flowery, cheap, in his nostrils, a bit like
hers
.

The edge of the hanger grazes another, the slightest ping.

The footsteps stop.

Has she heard?

His gloved hand grabs hold of the offending hanger, the rest of his body gone rigid.

No, there they are again, the heels against floorboards. She must think she imagined it, or she’s too tired to care—one too many blow jobs to care about anything.

He pictures her counting out bills, figuring her take after the skinny pimp has gotten his cut, losing count because she is so stupid.

That’s it. He’s had it with her.

Closet door thrown open, and he sees her, but only for an instant. Her features blur, morph into that more familiar face as he charges toward her.

He doesn’t hear her scream, but knows enough to clamp his gloved hand over her mouth as he wrestles her to the floor, throws himself on top of her, knocks the breath out of her. Just enough time to retrieve the roll of silver tape, tear off enough to seal her mouth shut.

A flash in the back of his mind: mouth taped, hardly able to breathe.

Her struggling brings him back to the moment and he gets a grip on her arms, twists them behind her back, unrolls more tape, wraps it around her wrists, again and again until all that are left free are her legs, kicking, aimless, like she’s doing some futile aerobic exercise.

It doesn’t take much for him to get hold of them too, tape her ankles together.

She continues to struggle, her bound form on the floor doing a pathetic bump and grind. It’s hopeless. Even she knows it. He can see it in her eyes, which stare up at him, beseeching. What color? Blue? Green? Something light.

He glances around the room at the cheap furniture, fake leather couch. Brown? Gray? He squints, blinks, reaches out for the table lamp beside her bed and clicks it off.

Ah, much better.

A comforting dimness in which to work.

He empties his pockets. First, the pieces of canvas, which he carefully unrolls, one a painted street scene, the other blank.

Next, his knives, which he arranges in a row, like a surgeon. One long and thin. Another with a heavily serrated edge. The third small, delicate, and pointy.

When she sees the knives she starts squirming all over again, and beneath the tape she is making low, guttural noises from deep in her throat.

“Shhh…”He strokes her forehead, has a flash of that other face, so clear, and of himself, as a young boy, crying. No. Not what he wants to see.

A tune:
Do you really want to hurt me?

He shakes his head, focuses on the woman’s nipples, visible beneath the thin cotton of her tank top, inserts his knife at the bottom edge of the fabric—just above her exposed belly button, which is pierced with a gold hoop—and with one quick move the material falls away and her chest is completely exposed, naked.

He arranges himself on her pelvis, his weight holding her in place, knees beside her head.

For a moment he is gone, does not, cannot see or hear her, his brain a jumble of noise:
Thomas’s promises—Billie Jean is at my—Four out of five dentists—

Then she squirms, and he’s jolted back, her face coming into focus, a gray monochrome.

He touches her hair, wonders about the color.

He has to know.

He raises the long, thin knife, then brings it down. Fast. It pierces her chest easily.

Her eyes widen. She gasps behind the tape.

He douses the handkerchief with chloral hydrate, holds it over her mouth and nose, watches as her lids grow heavy, hiding those blue? green? gray? eyes. No need for her to suffer unnecessarily.

He closes his eyes too, pushes the knife in deeper and knows it’s over for her.

When he opens them, there is blood everywhere, dark, deep cranberry—no, mulberry—spreading over stark paper-white skin, and her hair—so blond, so yellow, no, more dandelion or goldenrod or sunglow! Yes, that’s it: Sunglow!

His head is swimming; he’s practically swooning.

The walls are green. No, electric lime, or jungle green, or mint? Yes, mint. He imagines himself inside a bucolic landscape—periwinkle sky, pine green grass, shocking-pink flowers.

He studies her flesh. Is the pale peachy tone beneath her brassy makeup draining? Are her freckles losing their apricot hue?

No. It’s too soon. It can’t be.

He grabs hold of the paintbrush, dips it into the blood pooled in the girl’s navel, the gold hoop sticking out, a half-moon, a relic. The blood maroon, or is it strawberry?
Who cares? It’s gorgeous.

His paintbrush comes away crimson, dripping liquid roses.

He expels a breath, mouth open, ecstatic, touches himself. He’s hard. Close.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

It’s almost too much.

His hand is shaking as he draws a thick scarlet stroke onto the blank canvas. Then another, and another.
Beautiful. Beautiful.

Now with the short knife he shears off a lock of that sunglow hair, and presses it into the blood strokes on the canvas.

He switches to the serrated knife, digs deeper, uses it to saw through ribs. Then, with gloved hands, he pushes away flesh and bone to get to those deep-purple organs. That’s what he wants to see. There they are in full chromatic splendor: Orchid! Eggplant! Cerise! Magenta! Purple Mountain’s Majesty!

Oh, God!

His eyelids flicker; his body shudders.

A tune is playing, far away—in his mind, or in reality? He has no idea. A man and woman singing a banal duet: “Deep Purple.” Ironic. A dreamy number from a cassette she picked up in some discount store, a compilation of oldies.

And then the pictures begin again.

No. He doesn’t want to see them, doesn’t want anything to interfere with this precious moment. All this color.

But there they are, on a bed, oblivious to the song or the room or the young boy watching.

No, no. Not now!
They are ruining it, wasting it.

Too late.

When the images finally fade and the room and the girl come back into focus, that gorgeous purple is already turning pale lavender. Within seconds, pewter.

No!

He touches her hair—the dazzling sunglow yellow has gone ash. And the room is going gray. And all that ripe-tomato blood is fading to black.

He shuts his eyes.

When he opens them, everything is dull gray, and beneath the coverall his shorts are wet, and he feels deep, soulful shame.

He closes his eyes again. He might as well. There’s so little purpose now, everything colorless.

Squalid memories crowd his mind like ants on sticky candy—grim corridors, dull furniture, dead air. One colorless indistinguishable tenement after another.

He stands, resigned. Starts to pack up, though it’s not so easy—his gloves are soaking. Gingerly, he lifts each of the items—the knives, brushes, tape, knockout drops—and places them back into his pockets.

Then, very carefully, he props the painting he’s brought with him—the street scene—against the toaster on the kitchen counter, tears off a paper towel and cleans a smudge of the girl’s blood from the canvas’s edge, steps back to admire his work.

Fuck.
He forgot to look at it, to see how he’d done, how close he’d come to getting things right.

Damn. Damn. Damn. What’s Donna going to say?

But it’s always the same, him getting lost in the moment. Donna will understand. She’s a good friend.

There was that one time he remembered, just for a second, before it was lost again.

Odd. He hadn’t particularly liked what he’d seen.

Maybe that’s why he keeps forgetting to look. If he had a therapist, he’d ask about that.

The thought of discussing this—
this
—with one of
them,
makes him laugh.

He searches through a kitchen drawer, finds a roll of Saran Wrap, peels off a long swath, and carefully wraps it over the canvas painted with blood and adorned with a lock of hair. He can’t help feeling disappointed as he studies it now, the blood strokes gray-black, the hair so colorless. Hardly worth the effort. Though the moment, that was something.

A streak of vermilion—or was it purple?—flashes in his mind’s eye. But he can’t hold on to it.

He sighs, enervated from all the work and the inevitable letdown.

He takes in the drab room—dark curtains, pale walls—and the lifeless body on the floor. He leans over, lifts open one of her lids and stares at the dull gray iris.

Way too late.

Another thing he forgot.

Damn. Jessica never forgets anything.
He should be more like her.

He spies the woman’s handbag beside him on the floor, opens it and removes a stack of bills, mostly tens and twenties, and stashes them in his pocket.

He pulls himself up, shoes slogging through blackish blood as he heads toward the door, his body gone heavy with frustration and regret.

He even has to remind himself to remove the bloody gloves, peel the plastic Baggies off his shoes, and not be depressed that he never got to see the color of her eyes.

After all, there’s always the next time.