Theme Five Action, Narrative, Story

I stand dressed in my favorite blue jeans, a black short-sleeved top and three-inch boots. I look through my glasses, and into my eyes coaching my self for the long day.
“You will be fine, every problem has a solution, your creative, just wing it.”
I take a deep breath, and exhale.
“The cars are packed, are you ready to go?” I yell to my boyfriend, who’s in the living room. We walk down the wooden stairs from the apartment.
“I’ll meet you there”, I say to Wes as I get into my Lumina. Putting on my seat belt, I take a deep breath…and exhale. We drive around the block, and up to the Village Green. I park in the bus zone, Wes parks in front of me. We walk through the Green searching for my spot, we discover nametags duct taped to the paved sidewalks. Shortly after, we discover mine.
We return to our vehicles to unload and we start with a heavy, eight foot table. Then Wes lugs the canopy tent, and I carry my portfolios.
Wes slides the sleeve off the tent, and begins to open it. It works like an umbrella effect, one person on each side and pull. “Walla,” He says as it opens.
We adjusted the height by stepping on a triangular piece at the bottom of the leg, while pushing in the knob. However, one of the legs was missing the triangular piece (which keeps the leg from going all the way back into itself), and the leg was shoved all the way in! So there it stood with one whole corner on the canopy practically on the ground.
“What the fuck do we do Wes?” I ask in distress.
“Did you bring any pliers?” He asks.
“No.” I look back at the lopsided tent, and my brain fails to work.
“Well, why don’t we unpack everything, and then go back to the house and get the pliers.” Wes suggests.
I look at my watch, eight fifteen. “Well I guess so,” I say, like I am put out with the idea.
I walk back through the park to my car and return carrying my backpack, two easels and a wooden chair that had been painted yellow. Wes informs me that the lady next to us had a tool to pull the leg out. Her husband has gone to the car to retrieve it.
We get the leg fixed, and the table set up underneath the canopy. I turn to Wes, “Where are the sides to the tent?”
He walks over to the sleeve, and picks it up. “It’s empty.”
“Oh, great they rented me a tent, with out any sides!” I say with a ‘to top it off’ attitude.
We string twenty gauge wire on the poles of three sides of the tent. With butterfly clips, I hook the top of each shrink wrapped piece of artwork. I set up the easels, and unwrap all of the framed artwork. Then we move things around to create a space to welcome viewers into the tent.
.
People had been walking through all morning, but I had not paid them any attention until now. I sit behind my table, my comfort zone. My comment book lay open in front of me, and gel prints all along the table. The morning was beautiful, the sky was blue, the sun, shining down on our art show. The breeze is nice it cools me off. I look at my watch, ten forty seven.
People browse through my artwork, and comment, and leave comments. The pieces of artwork sway in the breeze. We sit in the sun, drink our juice, and watch the people, as most of them just walk by.
“Do you feel like lunch?” Wes asks.
I look at my watch, eleven thirty. “No, not really.”
“Well, I am not hanging around much longer. I need to sleep some more before I go to work.”
“I guess so.”
“I was thinking subway.” He suggests.
“Yeah, me too.”
“What would you like?” He asks.
“Umm, let me write it down for you.” (I am very particular.)
Wes kisses my lips, and heads off.
I try to discretely smoke a cigarette. The breeze picks up a bit, and my business cards and gel prints go flying to my left. I place my cigarette in the ashtray I brought, and chase after them. A lady in the gazebo offers me some duct tape. I gladly take it and tape my table-cloth down so the wind won’t blow under it.
I decide to walk to the tent on my right (the lady with the tool.)
“Hello.” I say,
“Hello.” She repeats.
“Lily.” And I put my hand out.
“Sheila.” She replies while returning my gesture.
“I wanted to thank you for your help earlier, I was very grumpy and stressed out this morning.”
“Yes, this morning was stressful.” She agrees. “Is this your first show?”
“No, this is my sixth show, however, my first show outdoors.” I reply.
A browser walked into her tent. “I will catch up with you later.”
I return to my tent, just as Wes walks onto the green. We sit on the grass and eat our lunch. Wes goes home to nap. The breeze picks up once again takes my gel prints with it, I chase them again. I bound the business cards with a hair elastic, and add a second strand of wire at the bottom of the back of the tent and clip the bottom of the work to it.
My father calls,
“I should be leaving tow in about fifteen minutes.” I look at my watch, two thirty three. He should be here in about an hour.
“See you in a bit Dad.”
I am relieved that he will be here, I hate doing art shows all by myself, the company helps. Maybe he will have some ideas to fix my side-less tent problem.
I had run out of wire earlier when I strung the back of the tent, so the pieces on the left and right sides were blowing off, and away. At this point in the afternoon, I was no the only artist fighting with the wind.
The lady diagonal from me (known as Gloria) comes over to assist me. Wit her she brings clamps and a basket. She suggests that we clamp the shrink wrapped work to the wire with them, and lends me a basket for the gel prints.
Everything seems secure now so I unfold an easel and set up oil painting I have been working on and begin to mix paint. The breeze shifts and come through the back of the tent and flips the portrait of Albert Einstein onto his face. I jump from my chair and slowing flip it back over, hoping to find it scratch free and in one piece. To my relief it was. I angle the frame pieces so the wind won’t blow them over. I return to my seat, and the wind swoops under the canopy and lifts one of the legs from the ground. I now hold onto the tent while the wind pulls at the sail.
A man walks up to me, “I have watched you struggle long enough, and I will hold it for you.” I thank him with great appreciation.
I point down to the tent of my left, “That guy’s got the right idea.” I say. He has gallon jugs tied to each leg.
“You could go right up to the hardware store and buy some rope.” The man suggested while holding the pole and leaning on it and the same time.
“Well I live right down School Street. I have rope at home and have plenty of empty jugs at my house.
“Well if you trust me, I will stand here and hold down the fort.”
I think about, it’s not like he is going to steal my artwork. I am running out of options. “Well if you don’t mind, I will run right over.”
“Not at all.”
I grab my cigarettes and keys and run through the park to my car. I race home and fill four gallon jugs with water, and grab some rope and a pair of scissors. I place everything into a laundry basket, and load it in my car.
I return to the Green and park in the movie theater parking lot and lug the basket back to my tent.
I greet him, out of breath and with a smile. “Thank you so much!” I drop the basket, and plop a gallon at every corner.
“Well I have to get going now.” The man informs me.
“Thank you again.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it.
I tie all the jugs to my tent, and pack up my oil painting.
My father calls again, I look at my watch three fifty four.
“Where are you?” I ask while looking around the park for his van.
“I am still in Bangor I don’t think that I am going to make it. The day just slipped away…” He continued through what he had done today. “I just don’t feel well, and wel’p I’m sorry.”
I sit and slouch further in my chair, my eyes fill with tears. I try to keep my throat clear so I sound okay. Meanwhile a guy that I work with) walks up to my tent.
“Well I hope you feel better, I will talk to you later Dad.”
“Alright, sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Talk to you later.” I say and hang up the phone. I try to make the tears in my eyes go away. He looks at me, I try to smile, but the tears fall anyway.
“Why you cry?” He asks with his broke English
“My Dad’s not coming.” I wipe the tears quickly from my face. “It is very good to see you ! You are the only person that told me that they would come to the show that actually did. Thank you!”
“I like your paintings.”
“Thank you Krasimir.”
“I play tonight on the sail boat, I must go now.” (He plays the tambura and sings Bulgarian music, on the Margaret Todd.)
He leaves, and again I am alone. The sky is darkening, and the wind seems against me especially. A gust of wind comes out of no where and blows over my display easel. Framed art work meets with the ground, some on its face, and some of the faces of others. The ladies next to me come to my rescue. I pick up the artwork and begin to sob. Gloria puts her arm around my shoulder, pulls me closer to her, and squeezes.
“I just feel so unprofessional, immature, amateur. I don’t know what else to do I am running out of ideas.” I cry.
“Well it is after four, I don’t think that the chamber (chamber of commerce art show) would mind if you left a little early. Sheila and I will explain to them what happened. Go home, get a goods night sleep and try again in the morning.” I take a big breath, and wipe the tears from my face. Gloria helps me pack up my work, while I continue to cry. We lower the tent and take the sail off to prevent it from blowing away during the night. I pack my things into my car, and return home, I lug the artwork the up the stairs and I slip into bed still crying.