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“I'll take my bike,” he said. “When you're done, just drive over to Secret Beach. We
can put the bike in the back of the car when it's time to come home.”
“Great idea,” I said, barely looking up from my labor.
This paint job wasn't going to get the better of me.
By three o'clock I was aching from head to toe, sweaty, and covered in paint. And the
work was far from finished.
At three-fifteen, in what I considered a remarkable demonstration of free will, I tore
myself away from my Mission and jumped into the shower, determined to salvage a tiny
bit of the day for myself.
At three-thirty I pulled out of the driveway and the sky was perfectly clear. By three-
forty I was halfway to the beach. I could hardly wait.
Then, out of nowhere, it began raining. Hard.
That's when I saw Michael headed towards me, pedaling like hell. I stopped. He looked
dejected, but gritty, and he didn't say a word. We loaded his bike into the back of the car
and drove home, damp and frustrated.
At four I began painting again. Two of the three doors were finished and I was ready to
tackle the bedroom closet.
After a brief pause for cocktails (my work admittedly became a little sloppy at that
point), I painted like a fiend until midnight.
First thing the next morning, I walked around inspecting my handiwork.
Beautiful.
Then, like a reformed alcoholic tossing out his empties, I threw away my paint brushes.
All eight of them.
It was wonderfully cathartic.
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