No talent. It wasn’t easy to stomach. The public had no use for his abstract expressionist paintings. They were too big for most walls. He’d be a has-been, except he never
was.
Uncle
Dudley’s letter was still in his pocket. It said, “Come home to run the
restaurant, or it’s going on the block February 1st. It’s time you
should make a living, already. Either way, Rebus, I’m retiring." Could Rebus leave Key West? Face real winters?
The
temporary life of the aspiring artist/bartender/cab driver is better
suited to the young Turk, still waiting for his ship to come in.
Meanwhile, this old Turk hadn’t had a new idea in years. His opinion was
stale. Out of schemes, Rebus sighed, polished off his beer and reached
for another.
Dudley’s ultimatum. This was his ship coming in? After all the years of sweat and turpentine it looked more like a dinghy.
Like
so many before him, Rebus had believed that once he finally got old
enough to dwell on anything other than getting laid, his serious work
would inevitably emerge.
On
the road in South Carolina, he could see the plain truth. The artist
scheme might have gotten more traction if he’d been half as talented as
he’d been horny ... and maybe if he'd made smaller paintings.
-- Art and copy by F.T. Rea
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