Coasting.

     My boyfriend and I were hanging out today, avoiding anything remotely responsible or productive and smoking weed.  My boyfriend's name is Mark, he doesn't talk much but makes up for it with his body and his "clothing optional" attitude.  As we were lying on my couch together, tangled in yet another chapter of a sappy memoir written by a hopeless and loveless women, I caught a glimpse of the clock and wanted to cry when I realized I had to actually do something in less than an hour.   At 4:00 I was to meet William, the gallery owner where my art has been hanging for two months; my show time was up and I had between the hours of 4 and 5 to haul my unsellable art out of the gallery.  I would have asked for Mark's help but unfortunately he is a manikin I bought two years ago at a going out of business sail at some crappy novelty store.  He was modeling a strap on dildo when I found him, but past being plastic eye candy, Mark is perfectly useless.
    Today was the first art show in a long time I have taken down without Cow by my side, bitching with every canvas he was forced to help me carry up a flight or two of stairs.  It made me miss him.  I mean sure, he was kind of a drunk and sort of an ass hole; but when times were good, they were enraptured and beautiful.  Not to mention when something needed to be moved, like say an art show or my apartment, he was always willing to help, his complaining silenced with a ham sandwich or beer.  I moved my show without him though.  Stuffing my best work into my car, making about a hundred trips inside and out. 
     I remember telling my mom when I was really young, maybe 7 or 8, "I'm gonna be an artist, but not the kind that starves."  Well, I've become an artist, and I ate chips for dinner tonight.  I'm not technically starving but I swear to God if I eat one more can of garbanzo beans for breakfast, I'm going to use the can opener to stab myself in the throat.  I've sold pieces here and there, but the effort of getting, setting up, and taking down shows for such a small prophet is taxing, and today I almost thought I was burnt out on the whole thing.  Pressing on alone is going to be more work than I thought, and if you don't already know this about me, I'm strongly opposed to hard work. 
     I needed to get gas on my way back from the gallery, so I pulled into "the bad Shell station" which is known for it's prostitution, drugs, and frequent murders.  I watched, as a truck slowly coasted into the parking let, crawling to a stop about 10 feet away from the gas pumps.  The woman driving got out and yelled, "I was so fucking close!"  It didn't take long for people to start honking, as she was blocking the entrance. She had run out of gas not even a full car length from a gas pump, and I thought about how I feel that way sometimes. Getting so close to something you can see it, and then running out of fuel right before getting there.  The woman walked into the Shell station and emerged with help; three men who volunteered to help the damsel in distress, they all seemed to find humor in the situation and laughed as they pushed her car out of harms way. 
     I started my car after putting the last ten dollars I own into the tank, and rolled home to take all of my art back into my living room, where it will sit for a month before I get another show.  Jen wasn't home so I would be doing it alone, and as I fought with the door, trying to keep it open with my toes, and wedging my elephantine canvases through the small opening, I became angry.  At first I was angry at the door, but when I fell over my own art, landing on my apartment floor like a piece of wet toilet paper, I realized that I was mad for a multitude of reasons, the first being the fact that I'm alone.  I mean for Christ-sakes, my own parents have not been to the past 4 art shows, and my closest friends have been to busy having sex and working to come.
     I sat on my floor crying like a total tampon for a good half hour.  I needed someone to help me.  I needed someone to scoop me up in their arms and tell me it's okay, pick me up off the floor, and help carry up the rest of my art.  I needed Cow.  "I was so fucking close" I thought to myself at the thought of Cow.  I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, I could see a life with him, we both just ran out of fuel before we got there.  I picked up my phone to call him, to see if he could help me, and maybe hold me like the big bellowing vagina that I have become.  Luckily, my friends voices stopped me from hitting call.  I wipped my snotty nose, picked my own God damn self up, and finished lugging my crap upstairs.  I felt stupid for crying and feeling lonely because even though my friends weren't anywhere to be seen, they still helped me.
They came to push me out of harms way.