Oil On Canvas

By Cameron Gomez

Cameron is this month’s winner of $507.50 for a look at life and regret.

Bio: Cameron Gomez is a writer from Burbank, California. Dwelling in the absurd, he got his start as an oral storyteller in schoolyards and lunchrooms. Inspired in equal measure by film and literature, Cameron strives to entertain above all else.

Without further ado, “Oil On Canvas” by Cameron Gomez.

The old man is on a dock, leaning forward on his wooden stool. He tinkers away at a machine that has no clear purpose. The rust-speckled wrench in his hand looks red in the amber late-daylight, so much so that anyone whose vision is failing like his could mistake it for a crab’s claw. His decades as a mechanic and his years of sitting on the beach with his grandson taught him how to feel the difference, however. Years ago, he would let the boy pile shells and empty crab claws into his palm, a palm that was more accustomed to gripping cold, weighty metal. Behind him where the dock meets dry land, his now adult grandson Andre paints his grandfather and the horizon. His hand makes precise movements across the canvas to capture the scenery surrounding them. He paints the trees with a reverence he would’ve held for his mother had he known her. The ocean stretching into forever is almost as treacherous and wonderful on the canvas as it is right in front of him. Between him and the water, train tracks line the dock like braces on rotting teeth. On the painted dock is the likeness of his grandfather, sitting in his chair with a tool shelf on rollers next to him, working on the machine with no clear purpose.

“Old man,” Andre says, peeking from behind the canvas. “Sure you don’t want any help with that?”

“I told you, goddamnit!” the old man yells. “Keep practicing on those paintbrushes. Let me work on my own.”

Andre shrugs and returns to his painting. “I just thought I could learn some things by helping you with that bomb you’re building.”

“This isn’t a bomb.” The old man thinks for a moment, concluding that he could probably make it one if he wanted to. “Why do you want to learn about this anyway? You’re only working in that shop for another month or so before school starts again.”

“I’ve been thinking a bit.” Andre sets the brush down. “I like painting but…I don’t know. Maybe I should be realistic about this.”

“This?”

“Life. Me going to art school doesn’t guarantee anything. I know I’m good, but being good doesn’t mean I won’t starve.”

“And what does being a mechanic guarantee, huh?” The old man pretends to wait for an answer. “It guarantees that you’re gonna be a mechanic. That’s it. You may think that it guarantees hot meals, a pretty wife, and a house. But it doesn’t. I was a mechanic when your mother was tall as your knee. Fast forward and what’s changed? Everything except for the fact that I have a wrench in my hand.”

“Well what am I gonna do when this doesn’t work out the way I want?”

The old man grows quiet. He sets down the wrench and grabs a screwdriver to replace it. He points it out at the dock, almost ancient and lined with rails that end abruptly over the water.

“You know the story of that track? Before I was born. The New Deal. They were building infrastructure and this train track was supposed to go all the way to Hawaii.”

“That’s dumb. Hawaii’s gotta be thousands of miles away.”

“Some people thought the same as you—no—most of them did. They said building a train track to Hawaii was a stupid idea. Said that it would never work. Other people thought that it was entirely possible. Said all we had to do was take a leap of faith—a leap of faith and a couple billion dollars—and create the greatest marvel of modern engineering.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t build it?”

“Nope…” The old man wears a forlorn face for a moment. “They spent so much time bickering about it that…well I guess they ran out of time.”

“Probably wouldn’t have worked.”

“Who knows.” The old man begins working again. “You know, I wanted to be a pilot when I was your age. Bet I would’ve been able to see Hawaii that way. When my father wore me down and I became a mechanic, I was betting on them finishing that goddamn track.”

Later Andre struggles to finish his meal. As he lifts a fork, he feels like time is passing too quickly. Soon he will have to make choices that he isn’t qualified to make. He wonders how many more summer nights he’ll have. The math could be easily done in his mind, but he decides that he’d rather not know.

The old man eats in relative silence, though he chews louder than most people would consider appropriate. After decades of trial and error, he feels as though he has finally managed to replicate his wife’s chicken pot pie. His mouth is in the grips of pleasure, and he feels both pride and jealousy. The jealousy is of himself and this massive achievement. The old man feels invincible, as though he can escape even the vise of aging. He flexes his arm and hurts his elbow joint. His morale drops slightly when he realizes that uncovering the truth of his beloved’s favorite meal has not made him immortal. He is still confident however, and decides that this mood puts him in the perfect state of mind to discuss the important things.

“So boy. As you know, I’m dying.”

Andre abruptly rises from the table and grabs his plate before walking over to the garbage can.

“Which is why I want you to think carefully about the path you wanna be on. I won’t be around to nudge you much longer, so if you wanna be happy you’ve gotta learn to nudge yourself.”

Andre makes his way to the sink and begins washing his plate. “Every time you nudge me one way, reality pushes me in the opposite direction. Why is that?”

“Because reality is a word people say when they’re trying to justify hopelessness.”

“And what am I supposed to do with hope?” Andre feels anger slowly rising from a pit in his chest. “Do I take hope to a bank and ask them if they can convert my hope to dollars?”

“Andre—” The old man’s voice softens. “I know that what you’re thinking about is scary. As someone who hasn’t seen that many days you’re not sure what the next ones will look like yet. But I need you to understand, you can’t just let not knowing hold you back.”