When you’re a struggling stand up comic who refuses to quit, you’re on the road a lot. You stay in some pretty shady places because you’re broke as hell and also because you buy into this idea that it’s part of the lifestyle.
It’ll give you ideas or inspiration for the next bit that might make you go all the way. Even staying in a Motel 6 could anesthetize the Humor Muse.
In all these motels, you’ll always find two things, a curly hair in the sink and at least one painting on the wall.
I think the people that own the sleazy places honestly think that a painting will class it up enough to somehow make you forget that the sheets are crusty or the room smells like bleach or that there are bullet holes in the ceiling above the bed.
The paintings are usually landscapes or seascapes with a horribly ornate floral frame of gold. They’re always hung over the bed, and they always make me laugh.
For the last three years, I have always taken a photo of said shitty paintings and posted it on my social media accounts. My face is always on the left side of the frame while the painting takes up the background. I always try to think of something clever to caption the photo.
It’s not terribly creative, but it’s a great way to interact with my few followers.
I’ve been on the road for almost twelve years looking for my big break, and I’ve seen lots of shitty rooms and sorry paintings and taken lots of photos with a hack caption.
On Monday, I finally saw one that caught my attention in all the wrong ways.
I was outside of Topeka and I got into this roadside rat haven around three in the afternoon. As I walked in, I glanced around the room and saw the usual accommodations, but the painting above the bed was anything but usual.
It was in a dark wood frame. The background was a foggy black swirl and a man wrapped in a dirty looking sheet was standing on a cracked and dry lakebed.
Next to him there was a wreck of a small red row boat filled with cracks and holes along the side. Inside the boat was something covered by a tarp.
Only the slightest sliver of his face could be seen turning to his left; an almost imperceptible line of white. It looked like he was waiting to turn around and look at me.
I dropped my bag on the bed and got close to the painting. I could make out the tiny brush strokes on its surface, and I could even see one little bristle that had fallen out of the artist’s brush and was buried by the raw umber paint that was streaked along the folds of the ghastly man’s sheet.
It gave me the creeps. Naturally, I took a photo.
I had raised an eyebrow and had a quizzical look on my face. I captioned it thusly…
“The man, like the audience, has barely any interest in looking at me. Whilst my career lies in a sad heap under a sheet in a boat going nowhere.”
Before I went on stage that night, I thought about the ghastly man in the painting. I thought about what it would take to get him and the audience to turn around and look at me. What would it take for everyone to notice me?
I did three sets that night, and I killed. I didn’t do any of the material I had, I just went straight from inside. I even worked the painting into a bit about suffering for my art. I murdered. The energy I got was better than any drugs or alcohol that I’ve ever had.
I had a few drinks after the show to celebrate and then I staggered my way back to the motel. The first thing I did when I walked into the room was waddle over to the painting to say thank you.
I said my thanks for the inspiration and then I stared at the painting. Everything was the same, but I swore that the man’s face had moved. There was more of it.
I could just make out the tip of his nose. I chalked it up to being drunk. I must have been imagining things.
I didn’t sleep very well that night. I kept hearing things skittering around in the walls. I was sure they had mice, but for some reason, I just didn’t want to look at the painting hanging on the wall just above my head.
I hit the road the next day and my phone was just blowing up. Every account had new followers. Apparently some people in the club the night before had recorded some of me, and it was getting some attention.
So many people were making comments about the terrible painting I had taken a picture with the night before.
I stopped after five hours straight of driving in the middle of the country to get some gas. I took out my phone and I was going to start answering comments, but I stopped when I saw the photo.
I could see even more of the face of the ghastly man in the sheet. What bothered me even more was that I could now see his left hand reaching towards the tarp in the boat.
I shook my head and looked again. I knew that I had been really drunk the night before, but there was no way that I could have not noticed the man’s hand in the painting.
Was there?
I scrolled through the comments on my accounts. Lots of people were commenting about how creepy the thing was, but no one else seemed to notice anything about the painting changing.
I drove for another two hours before I hit the next stop. Another fleabag motel. I walked into the room and immediately noticed that there was no painting anywhere within it. That was a first.
I took a picture of me against the empty wall.
“Looks like all you get is me tonight.”
I sat down on my bed and opened my phone. I posted the new picture on all of my accounts. When I was finished, I looked at the picture that I had taken the night before. The man’s face had not moved, but his hand was now gripping the tarp in the boat.
I put my phone down and got ready for my gig. I was imagining things.
I did another three sets that night. I did even better than the night before. I had people in tears. It’s like the material was being downloaded into my brain just before I let it out. Even while I was saying some of it, I thought it wasn’t that great, but the crowds just ate it up.
After the show, I looked back at my phone. More followers, more videos, more comments, and more changes in the painting.
I could see the full side of the man’s face now. It was deformed. An open mouth and a cauliflower-like nose while his sloped brow encroached downward over his eye. His hand was pulling up on the tarp.
I turned off my phone and drove back to the motel. As I tried to sleep that night, again I heard skittering in the walls and ceiling. More mice, I thought. It took me forever to fall asleep.
Yesterday, my next stop was only three hours away, so I slept in as long as I could, but I kept having dreams of that stupid painting. When I woke up, I felt like I hadn’t even slept at all.
I grabbed my phone and turned it on. There was so much going on with all of my accounts, but I had no interest in checking in on them. I didn’t even want to see the photo.
I called my brother instead.
I asked him if he had seen the photo of the painting, and he told me that he had. I asked him to describe it to me.
“Uh, ok. It’s some creepy sloth looking guy pulling a tarp out of a boat.”
“Has it always looked that way?”
“What?”
“Did you see the picture when I first put it up?”
“Yeah, of course I did.”
“It hasn’t changed since then?”
“Has it changed? Since you posted it on your facebook…how high are you right now?”
I got off of the phone and took a shower. I hadn’t had a break in over ten months. I thought I was tired. I began to think that maybe I needed to go back home and see my family, but then I thought of the crowds the last two nights. I had just started on a hot streak. I would be a fool to derail the train just as it was picking up steam.
After my short drive, I checked into a motel. Again there was no painting on the wall, but this time there was an empty frame. I positioned my face directly in front of it.
“Framed.”
I couldn’t think of anything else. I was too fixated on the thought of that terrible painting.
Just before I went on stage last night, I made the mistake of looking at my phone.
I opened the picture directly from my phone rather than looking at what I posted.
The ghastly man in the sheet was looking directly at me now. His eyes were two little red dots barely looking out from under a cro magnon’s forehead. His nose looked a deformed and rotting vegetable and his mouth was agape with only three crooked teeth peeking up from his gums. The tarp was hanging off the side of the boat, and there was a body lying inside. The ghastly man had his hands palms up at his sides.
I began to sweat.
I felt like puking, but then I heard my name. I took a deep breath and walked on stage.
I flopped; at least I thought I did. The crowd loved it though. It was the weirdest thing. I stuttered, I lost my train of thought, and sometimes I could barely get a coherent word out. They didn’t care.
I only did two sets last night, and they both went the same. Everyone backstage was even sucking me off and telling me how great I was. I had no idea what was going on.
I sat down to collect my thoughts. My phone was blowing up again. I didn’t bother to look at any of that. Instead, I opened the photo. The ghastly man was pointing toward me with a dripping red finger and the body inside of the boat had changed. It was facing me, but there was no face, just a bloody mess.
I called my brother.
“Are you seriously calling me right now? Dude its after midnight!”
“Just look at it Eddie!”
“Dude, whatever you’re smoking, you need to stop. You’re getting paranoid.”
“Are you looking at the picture yet?”
“Yeah…just…hold your water man…um yeah, ok…same painting I was looking at earlier today when I wasn’t trying to sleep.”
“What do you see?”
“The same thing I saw earlier. Tobin, seriously, what is going on?”
“I don’t know. Maybe…maybe I’m just tired of being on the road. Maybe I just need to come home.”
“Listen, why don’t you get some sleep and then hit the road tomorrow. You can make it back here in, what, three days?”
“Yeah probably. Eddie, I’m sorry I called you. I just freaked out is all.”
“I understand. Honestly the painting is creepy as fuck anyway. If it’s bothering you that much, just delete it.”
“Yeah, I think I will. I just…that thing in the painting…just freaked me out.”
“What thing? The boat?”
“No, the dude in the sheet.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? It’s just a boat. It’s always just been a boat.”
“You told me this morning that you saw the man.”
“What the fuck are you talking about Tobin?”
I hung up on him and opened the photo back up.
There it was. A background that was a foggy black swirl and a cracked and dry lakebed. A wreck of a small red row boat filled with cracks and holes along the side sat by itself. Inside the boat there was nothing.
I drove back to the motel just outside of Topeka only stopping once for gas. I made it back just two hours ago and I managed to get the same room I had on Monday night.
When I got inside, I looked at the painting above the bed. It was exactly what it was when I looked last. I opened my phone and I looked at the original post. There was no ghastly man in a sheet and there was nothing in the row boat.
I turned to go back outside, but then something started knocking on the door to my room.
The knocking has been going nonstop for the last two hours. I’ve tried to make phone calls for help, but nothing is getting through. I looked through the tiny peep hole in the door only one time and all I could see was a red eye staring back at me.