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Behind the Painting
I walked down to Red Hook on the first warm day of spring, and it seemed like the whole city had the same idea I did. Friends lingered around the green truck in front of Sunny’s Bar, talking and drinking. I knew that if I waited long enough there would be music inside, musicians gathering for a backroom bluegrass jam.
I could feel the sea air, cool at my back. A steady stream of cars and Citibikes bumped down the cobblestones of Conover Street. I listened to the conversations of people passing by.
“By the water the air just smells better.”
“This is an awesome bar. It’s got an awesome back patio and it’s great and everything’s awesome.”
“It’s just one of those places. People like it, you know.”
“Wait, which guy? Belinda’s lover? No, I was talking about Greg.”
A woman scolded her barking dachshund. “Come on Frank, be nice. You’re acting like a puppy.”
A group of Manhattan bros in matching white tees emerged from a black car, looking like they’d just stepped out onto the surface of the moon. “We just got out of the Uber, where the fuck are we? Where is this place?”
A group of girls passed in the other direction, replaying the night before. “We had a whole rotisserie chicken ordered to our hotel room. I was like, pantsless, throwing up. We made Mac and Cheese.”
A few people stopped to talk as I painted.
“There it is. Get your angle.”
“We’ll check back in an hour. Better reward yourself with a beer after.”
The sun came out just as I was finishing the painting, and I rushed to get the shadow of the old BAR sign on the green awning.
