Picasso

All the Best Poets Sit in the Smoking Section:08

 

 

INT –PANCAKE HUT TABLE SIXTEEN – DAWN

 

TITLE: PANCAKE HUT, TABLE SIXTEEN.  Sunday, August 6, 2000.  5:11am.

 

A pile of empty Equal packs are strewn all over table sixteen as JEFF scribbles three poems simultaneously on a small Radio Cab scratchpad.

 

EVETTE approaches JEFF’S table.

 

EVETTE

I am going to have to cash you out; I was supposed to be off at five.

 

JEFF takes out his Visa card.

 

JEFF 

Put it on here. 

 

EVETTE

I guess your friend left you with the bill. 


JEFF

John gave me a few bucks. Besides, he offered to give me a ride home. 

 

EVETTE

But you're still here?

 

JEFF

Yeah, he had a pen in his car and I borrowed some paper from Irene, so I decided to stay and write. 

 

EVETTE

More poetry?

 

JEFF

Yeah, I’m always writing.

 

EVETTE

After I’m done with my side work, maybe I’ll come over and you can read some of it to me.

 

JEFF

I don’t know if that would be a good idea, they’re kind of depressing.

JEFF (V.O.) (CONT’D)

Normally I would be overjoyed to share my poetic passions with such an ideal specimen of loveliness, but tonight none of these damn poems are coming together.   

 

EVETTE walks away with a look of disappointment unknown to JEFF and to process his credit card. 

 

JEFF resumes his writing.  

 

EVETTE processes the Visa card then returns to the table where JEFF is still writing.

 

EVETTE

You never signed your card you know. At least write ‘see ID.’ 

 

JEFF

You know how Asian people sign their credit cards in funky Vietnamese letters? 


EVETTE

Uh huh.

 

JEFF

Well how do you know that those letters don't just say see ID in Vietnamese? 

 

EVETTE

Well, I guess we don't, do we?

 

JEFF

Besides, my picture is on the front of the card, as is a facsimile of my autograph. 

 

EVETTE

Oh, I didn't see that.

 

JEFF

Because my picture looks so bad?

 

EVETTE

No, because I was looking for your signature on the space that says ‘not valid unless signed.’

 

JEFF

Ah, but it doesn't say where it has to be signed!

 

EVETTE

I guess you're right…

 

EVETTE turns his card over and mocks reading it.

 

EVETTE (CONT’D)

Pablo Picasso.

 

JEFF points to her name tag with his pen.

 

JEFF

Evette.  Isn't Evette supposed to be spelled with a ‘Y’? 

 

EVETTE

Why? 

 

JEFF

Yeah, ‘Y’.

 
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Paulo, Picasso's son

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Just a thought!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

My version.."Paulo"...Pablo Picasso's son.

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The Invisible-Picasso-Painting Spider

The sad-eyed bearded man sat sipping his last drop of Old Crow whiskey, thinking about nothing and forever. He noticed a spider crawling across the old time-beaten table, feeling its way to the wall. He watched in pure astonishment as the spider stopped and began to make broad brush strokes with its right front feeler. Hour upon maddening hour, the invisible-Picasso-painting spider worked her majesty. Painting the masterpiece. The sad-eyed bearded man had lived alone in the old farmhouse since his wife Vivina had gone to the greater side of good 15 years earlier. He could not take his eyes off her. He saw it, the masterpiece, coming to life before his blurry eyes. Quickly, the sad-eyed bearded man ran for the kitchen sink and grabbed all the dead flys he could find for the invisible-Picasso-painting spider. Eagerly putting them in small piles beside her. Day after day, the sad-eyed bearded man sat sipping his last drops of Old Crow and smoking his sloppily-rolled cigarettes. Grabbing dead flys from every corner of the old farmhouse until he could find no more. She grew and grew. It was Tuesday morning, the 5th of July, and she was big enough to throw the noisy refrigerator down the basement stairs with one flick of a feeler. There was a knock. The sad-eyed bearded man scrambling and stumbling towards the door, " Yes! Yes! May I help you?". "Hello there, I hope i'm not bothering you. I'm Gabriel, a representative from the Center for Arachnaphobia, would you be interested in donat---, what the----". The sad-eyed bearded man spun around and slammed the door shut. "God-dammned sales men!". The man's beard grew longer and his eyes sadder. Night after night, day in and day out, he sipped his last drops of Old Crow and smoked his sloppily-rolled cigarettes, watching and feeding the spider, which by now, had grow to colossos proportions. He loved her. He could see her masterpiece in every brush stroke. On a Tuesday morning at the end of September, the sad-eyed bearded man awoke to a tickle on his right cheek. The Invisible-Picasso-Painting Spider sank her poison fangs deep inside his chest as he faded into bliss. She had finally finished her masterpiece.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Super Short Story

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