Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
When there’s no response, I increase my knock to a closed-fist pound and calmly call out, “Hello? I’m here for the interview…?”
Nothing.
Carefully, I tug on one of the big brass handles. The right barn door squeaks and groans as it cracks a smidge, and I have to use a decent amount of muscle to get it to open wide enough for me to step inside.
“Hello?” I call out as the big barn door slams shut behind me.
The barn is completely empty. Four massive white walls and a dirt floor with scraps of hay belie the existence of an artist at all. How long has it been since they painted anything in here?
Hesitantly creeping into the room a little farther, I check for secret doors or passages or any signs of psycho activity—you know, saws, chains, machetes, hidden jail cells, that kind of thing.
“Hello?” I call again as I reach the center of the room and spin in a circle of confusion. It’s only then that I spot something else in the shadows, in the very corner of the room where one white wall meets the other. Cans of paint and a clear plastic bin with paintbrushes inside pique every fiber of my curiosity.
Quickly, I shuffle to the corner and look it over, finding a handwritten note sitting on top of one of the paint cans.
Paint the wall.
Besides leaving a little spot to write my name and phone number down, that’s all it says—paint the wall.
I scrunch up my nose.
This is the interview? No person to impress, no questions to be answered, no judgment on my etiquette. Just some cans of paint and a blank wall.
It’s either the most brilliant, freedom-giving interview I’ve ever seen, or the beginning of an episode of Dateline.
I choose to believe the first because, to be honest, I’m running out of other options.
Shedding Lillian’s Chanel jacket and setting it aside carefully, I roll up the hem of my pants as much as I can and kick off Lil’s Versace heels too. They’re not the kind of clothes you paint in, especially if you’re only wearing them on loan.
Now physically ready, I stand in front of the empty wall and try to wrap my mind around how to get mentally ready.
So…paint the wall?
Right.
Come on, Norah. Just paint the shit out of this thing.
Each can’s lid has a small swatch of the color that’s inside, and I have no shortage of colors to choose from. White, black, blue, hues of yellow and gold, pastel pink, army green, prison-jumpsuit orange, and shades of purple and brown. There must be at least thirty colors here, obviously more if I mix them.
I choose one color, a soft pinkish and orangish peach that reminds me of the kind of Red Bridge sunsets I used to witness when I was a kid.
And I paint the wall, blending in yellow and even red closer to the top and bottom.
At first, I start with a little paintbrush, but when I realize it will take me hours upon hours to paint this entire wall, I locate a paint roller that only requires a little setup and allows me to reach the top without getting on a ladder.
After that, my pace speeds up tenfold.
After a few hours of mind-quieting activity, I put the last coat on the bottom corner and step back to admire my work. It’s pretty—and makes me feel good—but I have no clue if it’s what the artist is looking for.
All I can do is give myself the permission to be okay if it’s not. This doesn’t have the stain of my failure to recognize the evil in people or the unyielding need to please someone who doesn’t care anything about me.
This is me starting over at twenty-six, and surprisingly enough, I think I’m okay with it.
Glancing down at the mess of brushes and paint cans, it occurs to me that cleaning up after myself might be part of the interview—like, that’s what I’d be looking for if I were an artist needing an assistant.
Without delay, I seal back up the paint cans I used and gather my brushes and roller to take outside. I’m not sure where, but I imagine there has to be a water spigot somewhere that I can use to clean and rinse them.
Walking cautiously on bare feet, I circle the barn all the way to the back before finding what I’m looking for—a standing spigot with a blue handle about halfway up toward the house on the property, in the middle of a pasture. The sun warms my shoulders thanks to the tank top I chose to wear under Lil’s jacket, and butterflies flutter on floral grass. It’s like a scene out of a movie or a storybook, and I find myself tipping my face up into the warm sunlight as I walk.