Pass It On by J. Minter Page A

green, but it got me thinking about who could, which made me think, whynot me? So I shot up there and bought the very-green blazer that I was pretty sure would look great at a fancy dinner in St. Barth’s, but knew I’d never hear the end of from whichever friend I decided would join me on this trip. Except maybe Patch, who was the one guy who didn’t really make fun of me and the one guy I hadn’t already invited, so go figure.
    I got home around four and asked Richard the elevator guy what was up.
    â€œA painter paints.” He shrugged his thick shoulders in his uniform and wouldn’t look at me. “A painter paints and disasters lurk behind every corner.”
    â€œI don’t like that.”
    â€œNot me either.” He let me out at my floor. The door was closed, but unlocked. When I got inside I smelled oil paint and heard laughter. The voice was familiar. A woman. I froze. I knew her.
Oh no
. It was somebody’s mom. I turned, slowly, and figured I’d go. But I wanted my clothes. I needed them. There was a pair of pants I’d been thinking about, these good corduroy Polo purple labels that’d get me through tomorrow at least. That laughter: high, trilling, Latin. Mickey’s mom, Lucy.
    â€œHello?” It was the painter, Billy Shanlon, calling out.
    â€œHi,” I said. “I’m just here for a minute.” I moved quickly down the corridor to my room, desperate not to deal with them,
in my house
.
    â€œEy Jonathan!” Lucy Pardo trilled at me. I’d made it to the spot where the corridor opened into our living room and had to stop.
    â€œLook at the fun this Billy is having, eh?” She was basically blocking my way and pointing at the painter, who stood in the middle of the room. Of all the mothers of friends I had to deal with, she was without question the only one who was remotely good-looking. She was forty,
maybe,
with long black hair and easily five-eleven, with heels that made her even taller than that. She towered over me and Billy. I smiled because she was smiling so widely at me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her smile like that. At home, with Ricardo and Mickey always sparring over some nonsense, she tended to look kind of unhappy.
    Then I looked at the baseboards in my living room. At first I saw only a bunch of abstract patterns.
    â€œKneel down,” Billy said. He clapped me onthe back. I kneeled down, being careful not to get my clothes too near any paint.
    There, around the baseboards, Billy had painted slightly abstracted cubist representations of woodland creatures who were alternately running, or playing, or sleeping, or … fucking each other. Bizarre.
    â€œMy mother asked for this?”
    â€œShe said to have fun with the baseboards.”
    â€œAnd this Billy,” Lucy said. “He’s very good at fun.”
    I stood up. Billy had a boom box plugged into the wall and he was playing Latin music: Joao Gilberto. Lucy had her arms up and she was dancing.
    â€œHave you talked to my mom?” I heard myself ask. But Billy and Lucy Pardo had wandered out of the room, headed toward the kitchen. They kept knocking against each other. And then it looked as if they were holding hands.
    I left the living room, with its pornographic animals, and went into my bedroom to find pants and shirts and jackets and whatever else might remind me of me and set things right. Billy hadn’t even started in here yet, but somehow the room still reeked of paint.
    â€œHey.” Billy had come in behind me. “Listen Jonathan, it is and isn’t what you think. But come by later in the week and we can have a talk.”
    â€œI think I’ll skip that.”
    Billy smiled. He clapped me on the shoulder. He said, “Sure you are, but you might want to stop by and hang out anyway.”
    â€œI just wish you’d stop painting pictures of animals fucking on our