They become habitués at the diner, the multiplex, the mall, the various churches, the outdoor bazaars, the folk museums, the roadside zoos, the bookstores, the auditorium of the local college, even at the laundromats, where they sit, sometimes for hours, observing the tide of Native users washing in and out, although Javier’s rez boy is not among them.
They are always stopping him when he makes forays into town on foot. Even so, it takes a while for everything to be consumed.He watches the ceremony with a dispassionate air, as does she.The other canvases meet the same fate—the process played out over a series of days and nights.

They pulled up just as he was parking the truck outside the grocery in town. Sign in to like videos, comment, and subscribe. The woman and the painter watch him approach and, when he finally stops, the painter introduces him: Javi’s my helper. I’m good. This goes beyond the little sayings chirped out while she paints. They tell me to move along. Then she goes to the kitchen but won’t talk to Javier. For if you get pulled over. Make sure it’s home every night. He could hear her giving them an earful after this last question but the policeman on the receiving end was smiling.Now a dusty Toyota pulls onto the gravel path. I have given her more than enough, the painter says.After a month of no work, the painter announces that she’s ready to move on. Is she cranky, Javi? He gets paid his usual fee, and she surrenders him to his mother every weekend, as per their understanding.

I live here, and Javi’s in his space. The painter had said that, if you looked at that statement straight on, there was nothing wrong with it, it was true as far as that went: she had, in fact, been struggling for a long time while most of her peers were being celebrated; it had taken her decades to catch up. She met his mother when they were cleaners at a motel, a job that lasted only a few months before the private contractor hired Thai replacements who would work longer hours for much less pay.A little while later, he stops by the side of the road to piss. More often, it’s just the two of them. She is talking to Javier now.

Can you imagine the shitstorm if they find him behind the wheel of a vehicle known to be the property of the famous lady painter—sorry, woman painter. Usually tough and badass on the outside, with a sweet, soft spot on the inside, especially when it comes to the women they care about.

I worked in a kitchen once, a diner.

They drag one of the canvases, picked because it’s closest to the barn door that forms a barrier between the studio and the outside world, into what she calls the back yard—scrubland, tiny pebbles, and dust as far as the eye can see, where the dog used to run, sometimes for miles, in search of rodents to bring back and drop at her feet. Here's How Many Miles You'd Need to Walk to Lose Weight, and Warning: It Seems Like a Lot. I make no apologies. My father was the cook—they made me the second cook. What’s your business with me?The painter doesn’t say anything, just looks at the boy and breathes. She has done this because he’s told her that he’s afraid of the police. It’s the kind of breathing that you can hear; the belly and the chest rising and falling—it’s an event.I can cut firewood.
April 29, 2020 by Caitlyn Fitzpatrick. He joins her when he’s done, asks her if she wants something sweet, as she usually does, to cap off the evening meal. Look at these paintings. I tell them I’m just sitting.