Paint it Back

Winston Montag sat in a corner of the small cafe, staring down at his weathered hands in mute shock. His left hand gripped the grey paper cup, welcoming the familiar burning pain of the hot black coffee within. An old black and white television - there were no new ones in this grave new world - was broadcasting the morning news. A plain looking woman in a military style jacket spoke to the cameras. Winston could not make out what she was saying, but he assumed she was praising one vicotry or another in the war, and assuring him that his sacrifices at home were necesary for the brave men and women over there. The woman's voice was both assuring and vaugely threatening.

There were only a few small tables in the shop. People didn't sit in cafes much these days. Those who could afford it generally purchased at the couter and went on with their commute. Without smartphones or tablets, just sitting and drinking coffee had gone out of fashion, and Winston had grown used to being viewed with mild disbelief, if not outright suspicion by the transiant customers. He kept staring at his hand, part of him amazed how lucky he was there was no one here to notice. The man behind the counter kept glancing at him, but he wasn't close enough to be a concern. He wouldn't be able to see anything unusual from there.

Unless he saw when I came in. When he handed me the coffee. Or when he took my coin.

Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. He had been careless. Today was the 3rd of the month, the day when his government pension was deposited into his account. Flush with cash and buoyed by a false feeling of financial security, Winston would treat himself to a real coffee - black with real sugar. He'd sit in the cafe and allow himself to forget, if only for a few minutes, the otherwise ever present weight of Obligation. But this morning he had overslept. And oversleeping led to rushing, which led to inattention. He had been too casual in his routine, more or less on autopilot; and now...

Winston stared at his left hand. Red flecks of dried paint stained his thumb and ring finger. The color bright as an interrogation lamp or a scarlet A.

Color Crime.

The words thundered in his mind with the dark, slow rhythm of a giant's dying heart. Loud and insistant, like something out of a Poe story. Winston had to fight the urge to look up and see if the barista had heard.

An unread newspaper lay folded beside his coffee. If the predictive market apps were still a thing, someone could have made a fortune betting on the resurgence of black and white newspapers. He placed the paper on his lap, covering his hand. Winston sat there, pretending to drink his coffee. When he was certain he could remain steady on his feet, he got up, tucked the newspaper under his arm, his hand buried in the pocket of his grey, threadbare coat, and made his way out onto the street. He felt the barista's eye boring into the back of his head as he passed him, and for a moment, the roaring thunder returned.

Color Crime. (boom boom)

Self Expression (boom boom)

Enemy of the State (BOOM BOOM)

Then he was out the door and blissfully lost among the crowd, everyone walking with heads down, faces hidden in the shadows of black hats or grey scarves. By the time he reached his apartment, Winston began to feel more like himself and less like a fugitive.

That night Winston woke from a dream he could not remember. He had a vague impression of grass and sunlight, and this left him with a feeling of both longing and unease. There had been no grass or trees in the City for years now. Everything was concrete and broken stone. He remembered seeing a newsfeed a month, or maybe a year ago, showing a government raid on an illegal encampment somewhere outside the City. There had been patches of grass there, among the bodies, but the clip was in black and white, of course.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall when he had last seen the sun. It seemed to be always hidden behind a veil of clouds or smog. For a while, Winston lay in the dark, trying to imagine a bright sun and a blue sky. The idea, the concept of a bright blue sky was there, but he couldn't visualize it. He tried to imagine a sunset. Sometimes it was easier for him to imagine reds and oranges. But nothing appeared in his mind, other than a dirty whitewashed sky. He lay there, unable to fall back asleep, waiting for predawn.

Winston's attention kept drifting to his closet. It was the only other room in the apartment, other than the kitchen and half bath. He could make out the white door in the dark. There was a hole where the doorknob should be, but he couldn't make that out. It bothered him, though. It felt like a breach of security. His eyes remained fixated on the closet door. After a time, his the door seemed to fade in and out of his vision, as if it were a living thing; coming into focus as it inhaled, and receding with each exhale.

Winston thought about his childhood bedroom. He was only three or four years old, and it was before the regime. His bedroom had these curtains with prints of a circus on them. There were bears balancing on big green balls, clowns with red buttons and face paint, honking golden horns, and doing cartwheels. He would stare at those curtains when he couldn't sleep, and when he looked hard enough, he could see the bears and clowns moving. The clown almost but never quite completing the cartwheel. the bear moving an inch or so on the rolling ball. Sometimes he imagined he could see a big gorilla starting to peek out from behind the curtains, and he would get scared and call for his dad. His father would then sit on his bed and watch the curtains with him until Winston fell back asleep. He never told Winston he was being silly, or that nothing ever moved. He loved his father for that.

He got out of bed and made his way to the closet. He hooked his finger in the open hole and pulled the door open. The closet was what one might call an "almost" walk-in. it was long and narrow - about four feet deep. Large enough for Winston to be able to close the door behind him, which he did. He flipped a switch, and bright light filled the room. Winston had replaced the 20-watt bulb that had come with the apartment a 75-watt he had purchased on the grey market at no small expense. Technically a crime, the Regime turned a blind eye toward purchases of certain necessities, as long as one was careful.

A long, dirty plastic pole went from one end of the closet to the other. a dozen white, black and grey shirts hung from gunmetal hangers. Barely an inch above the pole ran a dusty plastic shelf. A few black sweaters and a dirty white overcoat were sloppily folded, their sleeves half hanging over the shelf's edge. Winston pushed the hanging shirts to either end of the pole, more or less evenly, revealing a white plaster wall with a large black rectangle painted in the middle. The black looked almost acrylic in the dark, its surface flat black and shiny at the same time.

Winston knelt and picked up two shoes from the floor. He turned one over and shook out the small closet door knob. It was made of opaque faux glass. Owning any crystal was a crime unless it was opaque. In the early days, people had been caught using crystal and sunlight to make small rainbows.

Winston took the small doorknob and slid it over the floor in the back of the closet against the wall. Sliding it back and forth like a planchette on a oujia board until he felt the hole. With practiced ease, he fitted the knob in the hole and pulled up the small trap door, reflexively looking over his shoulder to make sure no one had magically appeared in his bedroom and was peeking through the hole in the door.

Then he turned his attention back to his hidey hole and retrieved his treasures: three small jars of red, blue and yellow paint. carefully inspected each one and reverently put them to the side. He retrieved a single paintbrush and a larger jar filled with black paint.

Winston slowly got to his feet and set the paints and brush on the shelf. He glanced at the closet door with suspicion one last time, and got to work.

He started with the red. He always started with the red. The brush blazed across the black triangle like a comet in the dead of night. All of his senses locked in on the fiery streak. He heard music in his bones; heard what he imagined a cello must sound like. A low, long mournful and defiant pull across the heavens, and the smell of oil and dust and danger filled his nostrils. He pushed his brush into the yellow paint and blotted it across one end of the red streak. Some of the paints mixed and gave forth an orange glow. Winston thought of sunsets and fire and carnivals and fresh grass. He added great swaths of blue. letting the paint drip and slide down the wall like rain on a window. The taste of iron was on his tongue now, as if he had bitten his lip and drawn blood.

His cheeks were wet when he finished. He stood there, hands and shoulders aching, staring at his beautiful mess. For too short a time, Winston Montag felt alive. He felt himself.

Then his gaze shifted to his paints. The red and blue jars were nearly empty. The yellow was completely gone.

I could leave it here. This last time, I'll leave it here. No one is going to come looking in my closet. The very idea is ridiculous I can leave it here. I won't change anything else. I'll live like I always have. Do everything they expect of me. And when they are all sleeping, only then will I come in here. I'll bring a small stool, and I'll sit and disappear into my paints. Into my asylum sunset. I can do that.

Then an image of the cafe rose up in his mind, and the barista picking up a phone and pointing at Winston, at his dirty fingers. In his mind, he saw all the people in the street, but their faces weren't hidden. They were all the barista. They were all looking at Winston, pointing.

He picked up the large jar of black paint.

No one is looking for me. It's safe. I'll keep it. At least for a little while.

Winston opened the jar.

It's the last one. The last one ever. Maybe the last one in the world for all I know. I should keep it. Just for a day or two. No harm.

It only took a few minutes. One coat. It was a very good paint.

Winston put his empty jars and brush back in the hidey hole, and made his way to his bed.

I'm safe.

He closed his eyes and tried to dream his sunset. But if the dream came, Winston did not remember.