It was 3:14 am in the Salazar home. Its owners, Anthony and Monica, slept deeply and breathed heavily in their marital bed.
I stood over them, still and silent, mentally preparing myself to execute the final part of the plan.
“Anthony,” I said softly. “Anthooooonyyyyyy?” I repeated, booping him on the nose. “Anthony, do you have a second?” His eyes fluttered open; when they focused on me, they got big.
“AYO WHAT THE FUCK!?” He shot up. “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”
“That’s the question isn’t it? I think that’s what Goya was trying to ascertain through his life’s work, would you agree?” Most did, but not everyone sought out intellectually stimulating conversation before the break of dawn. I am not everyone.
I’ve been breaking into the homes of the everyman in the middle of the night for six months now, searching for the answers of art’s greatest questions. My reason for doing so? It’s my last viable option for stimulating conversion. I’ve been black listed from every art forum, discord server, and subreddit art was ever discussed on.
Why? Because the other snobs simply couldn’t get on my level. I turned next to talk to friends and family to garner their thoughts on human-kind’s greatest creations. They say I “over did it,” hence the unilateral move to block me on all platforms. This was honestly for the best: my father’s turkey was always over done on Thanksgiving, and I’d prefer to spend the holiday alone anyway.
Which led me down the road I am on today: breaking into the homes of unsuspecting John Q. Publics, hoping to hear their thoughts on what really is at the core of the greatest contributions to the arts. You may be asking yourself: “that’s all fine and good, but why bother them in the middle of the night?”
The simple answer: I would do it during the day, but I work at UniQlo from eight to six-thirty so I have to work with the cards I’ve been dealt.
“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!” I was beginning to like Anthony’s inquisitive spirit.
“It baffles me too, Anthony. I think the search for meaning is quite possibly the greatest engine for creativity. When someone takes the initiative to share their soul with canvas–”
“Anthonyyyy,” Monica groaned. “why are you on the phone, it’s– AHHH JESUS CHRIST, WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”
“I was just saying to your husband, I often ask myself the same thin–” she interrupted me before I could finish philosophizing.
“Are you here to rob us?” She looked to her spouse. “Why didn’t you shoot him if he is here to rob us, Anthony?!”
“Because the gun is in the closet and he’s blocking it!” retorted the aforementioned.
“Well now he knows where the gun is, ANTHONY!!!” Monica screamed, flailing her arms.
“I am not here to rob you, I said, raising my hands. “All I want is–”
“Oh my GOSH, HE’S HERE TO KILL US! Anthony, kill him first!”
“With WHAT? He’s blocking the gun closet!”
“What macabre discourse,” I offered. “Reminds me of Goya’s Black Series of paintings. How fate can be so cruel to us mere mortals. How madness can conquer a brilliant mind and mush it like clay. How do you think the manifestation of mental illness in Goya’s later years affected his already disillusioned view of the world?” I whipped out my notepad and readied myself to take notes.
“Anthony, he’s talking about beans and crazy people now!”
“I know! I wish I could get to our gun!”
Now THAT was something I could work with.
“Fear and Desire! YES! Two of the strongest motivators! Would you say art created in the spirit of those two emotions is what you feel most connected to?”
“Why do you keep asking us about art, bro?” asked Anthony. I got on my soapbox that I take with me to every break in.
“Because! These are the conversations we should be having as a society! What motivates us to go out and create? What forms of expression do we feel connect us the most?”
“I like Monet,” replied Monica, a little calmer now.
“I know, I saw your phone case when I was standing on your side of the bed.”
“I got that for her, actually,” Anthony added, somewhat defensive.
“What about Monet speaks to you, Monica?” She took a second to herself and really thought about it before answering me.
“Probably the colors.”
“That’s it?” asked Anthony, unimpressed.
“Don’t discourage, Anthony,” I said. “That’s a plenty good answer.
“Yeah, Anthony,” snapped Monica. “But, yeah. The colors. They’re pretty. Also, it’s like, simple, ya know? There’s like, beauty in simplicity, or whatever. I don’t know.”
“Wow,” said an astonished Anthony. “That’s really profound, babe.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Yeah. That’s like, wow.”
“Thanks,” she said through a smile. She was blushing so brightly, you could see it in the dark. Their eyes locked. There was passion. It was exceptional to see but I refused to let the emotional momentum die.
“Simplicity! Life is anything but it, sure, but Monica you’ve brought up an excellent point.” They ignored me and began to kiss like it was going out of style. I was losing them. “Art that can help us focus on the present moment—” they began to strip— “on being aware, being where our feet are, that’s what’s most important.”
“I think it’s real important for you to take those two feet and be somewhere else right now. I’m tryna make a woman outta the art critic over here.”
“Tell him, Anthony.”
I left out the window I shattered on the first floor and moans followed me the whole way out. The night and the conversation hadn’t gone as I had planned for them to, but when you think about it, if something does go as planned, can you even call it art?
————
Jay Servedio is a writer-comedian based in the Hudson Valley of New York. He runs the satirical publication Ramblin’ Mind on Substack and hosts the indie late-night show On the Watchlist with Jay Servedio on YouTube. He performs stand up, sketch, and satire all over the east coast, and has had his work featured in Weekly Humorist, Points in Case, and Sports Riot. He is taking On the Watchlist to the Edinburgh Fringe this August.