William Rockwell

         I was supposed to go over to William Rockwell’s house, an old companion of mine. He called me; a few days prior and asked that I visit him. He was a fairly new friend of mine at the time, and I would have to say that as I now look back on our friendship, I would have to say that he was quite a peculiar character. He lived in a small house in a somewhat heavily populated neighborhood. I parked my car in front of his house, and noticed there was an extra car in his driveway. I walked across his unkempt lawn, and knocked on his door.

         I waited for what seemed to be about a minute, and began to think that maybe he wasn’t home. There was the sound of hushed voices, and then footsteps, and then the door opened. He was standing in the doorway with a navy blue robe on.

         “Come in, come in.” He said, and so I came in.

         A man a white suit and a fedora hat had been leaning against Rockwell’s marble kitchen countertop, glaring at Rockwell, although he was facing me and couldn’t see this.

         “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” I asked Rockwell, alternating looks between the both of them.

         “No-no, not at all; you see, my associate here was just leaving,” he turned around to face the man in the white suit. “It has been quite a pleasant meeting, I assure you; I’ll keep in touch with you.” Rockwell held his hand out to the man. Disgruntled, the man stood up straight and brushed against Rockwell’s shoulder as he walked past him, and walked past me and out of the door, slamming it. A brief moment later there was the sound of an engine starting.

         “What was that all about?” I asked William. He walked into his dining room and reached into a yellow tinted glass bowl filled with candy on a wooden table.

         “Ah, nothing. Irrelevant matters that are of no significance to you; he is just a business associate of mines.” He pulled out a piece of candy and began to unwrap it. In the silence of his home, the sound of the crisp plastic unraveling could be heard as smoothly as a well understood language. “Care for a butterscotch?” He asked me.

         “No thank you.”

         “Are you sure? They are quite splendid in taste. You see; I get them imported from a place in London, and they use a different combination of sugars that just do wonders for the taste buds.”

         “I’m sure they do,” I said, and he stuck the bit of butterscotch into his mouth and began to crunch down on it with his sharp molars. “But I think I’ll pass.”

         “Suit yourself, but I must say; you’re most unfortunate to deny your taste buds of a sensation.” He picked up the bowl, and nudged towards his patio screen door. “Come, I wanted you to see something that I’ve been working on in my spare time.” He told me, and so we both walked out onto his patio, and then walked off of it and into his backyard. Sitting on top of his tall, weed infested lawn was a single easel. “I started it a few days ago,” he explained to me as we walked toward the painting. “You see; the only problem is that I haven’t had much spare time on my hands to actually work on it.”

         The easel was blank. There wasn’t a single solitary blot of paint on the easel. “What do you think?” He asked me.

         “Um-” I said, looking back at him. He was standing behind me with the yellow tinted glass bowl of imported scotch candy. I looked back at the blank easel. “I honestly don’t know what to think; there isn’t anything to think about.”

         “Well for one thing,” he said. “There is always something to think about, especially when looking at a blank piece of work.” He spoke in between bites that he took from his butterscotch bits of candy. “We occasionally have to take a closer look at things to see the true nature of their being and value, if you can comprehend the true meaning of what I’ve just said.” He took a few steps forward, so that he was now standing shoulder to shoulder with me. “When I look at this, I see something made of nothing. Do you understand what I mean?”

         “Not entirely.”

         “In the nature of entirely, I am sure you mean that you assume I see an image embedded in my head of what this blank painting is soon to become once I paint it. In an essence, you’re quite right. However, I shall show you what I truly see and mean once I am finished with it. I shall give you a ring once I am finished with it.”

         As I made my way back through the patio and towards the front door, he yelled for me to wait. He walked up to me, and held out the bowl. “For the road,” he said, and I took one, and walked out of his front door, closing it as I left. I heard it reopen, and as I entered my car, I looked back and saw him standing in front of his door staring at me, with that yellow bowl in his hands and his navy blue robe on. He waved farewell, and I started my car and left. On the way home, I unwrapped the butterscotch he generously persuaded me to take, and ate it. My taste buds were hit with a sensation of joy that lasted the whole ride back home.

         A few days passed before I finally received a phone call from Rockwell. He invited me back to his house, and so I got into my car and drove over. When I got there, he was waiting in front of his door for me, fully dressed in a suit, as though he had just got home from work. I parked and walked yet again across his front lawn and he greeted me in a rather hurried manner, and invited me in.

         “Hey-do you have any more of those butterscotch bits of candy?” I asked him.

         “Oh, so you liked it, did you? No- I’m afraid I have ran out. It’s probably for the best. I indulged myself with those butterscotch treats, and now they are not as much of a delicious treat as they were when I first tasted them. Sometimes it is best not to over indulge yourself with certain things.”

         He led me past his house and onto his patio, where we both stood. I looked out into the yard, and at the easel. I didn’t see painting on the easel; there was nothing.

         “Did you scrap your painting?” I asked.

         “You see; you aren’t looking close enough.” Rockwell said, and nudged for me to go closer to the painting. As I walked down to the easel, I began to notice something; there was in fact a painting there. Sitting on the easel was a painting of everything behind and around the easel itself. From a distance, the painting seemed to blend in with its surroundings. “Now you see what I meant about creating something from nothing, don’t you, my friend?” he said from his patio.

         “It’s amazing,” I said. “You should sell this; you could make quite a profit from this.” I gazed at this work of art. “Wow, this sure is something.”

         “If I were to sell it, then it would lose its true value and meaning, wouldn’t it?”

         “Wow.” I said.

         His phone began to ring.

         “Excuse me for a moment.” He said, and walked into his house as I walked back onto the patio and gazed at the marvelous something he had created.