The Painter stands across the street watching The Waitress work at a diner every day. He is infatuated with her but too shy to speak. One day he works up the courage to go into the diner and order coffee from her. He asks if he can paint her portrait, but she declines, uncomfortable with a stranger. The next day it is raining - The Painter is a no-show at the diner. Curious, The Waitress goes to his apartment to find he has died alone. She discovers he was once a talented young artist but lost his passion. The Waitress is touched by his story and takes a photo of his former self, leaving him with his bottle.

1. The Painter
The Painter stood across the street watching her closely
with his hands in his pockets. The traffic on the sidewalk
passed as he stood there like a statue, frozen in a hypnotized
state. He watched her glide side to side, serving the customers
in the diner. He was like a tree trunk that had grown roots on
the sidewalk, for the strongest shove from a passing pedestrian
could not budge him. Every now and then The Waitress would turn
toward the window as she walked back to give an order, and just
ever so slightly make eye contact with the man. That was always
enough to make The Painter’s heart drop.
He looked down at his watch. It was two hours past noon.
The chunky man looked left and then right, then he proceeded to
cross the sluggish traffic and make his way to the door of the
diner. He felt anxious; a familiar feeling because this is what
he did every day. He put a shaking hand towards the door and
walked into the diner. He looked left and then right, and then
made his way to an empty seat at the counter. The Waitress
walked behind the counter and yelled,
“I need the lunch special.” Then she turned to the man and
said, “I’ll be with you in a bit, sir.”
He nodded and watched as she took the plates and went to
serve a couple that looked like tourists. He could tell, not
because they were difficult to understand, but because one could
see the excitement in their eyes. They marveled at the chance to
experience such an electric city. They got to visit a city that
was full of hopes and dreams and a false reality that only
existed in Hollywood. Anybody and everybody who moves to the

2. city are just like the tourists. The challenge is keeping that
feeling. Something The Painter had failed to do; he no longer
marveled in the city he had grown to love.
The Painter drummed his fingers on the counter top and
fidgeted in his seat, looking left and right, searching for The
Waitress. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped underneath his
nostrils. A black sharpie pen fell out of his pocket and he
immediately jumped down from his seat to retrieve it. When he
lifted back up a familiar face was looking him in the eye. Her
long black hair served as blinds to her almond shaped eyes. It
was a shy, yet piercing stare. The struggle for air overwhelmed
The Painter as he tried desperately to look away, not wanting to
scare her or make her uncomfortable.
“What can I get you today?”
“A coffee will be fine.”
She looked at him with a suspicious look, removed the bangs
in front of her eyes and nodded. Then she turned away and walked
to get his coffee. Once she retrieved his coffee, he would not
speak to her again for the rest of the day, and The Painter knew
this because he had gotten coffee at the diner for almost a year
now.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out his sharpie pen. He
reached for a napkin and began to draw. He drew the face of The
Waitress. He then dabbed little drops of his coffee on the
napkin and it turned a tannish-brownish color, similar to that
of hers. Then he pressed two fingers to his lips, and then
pressed the two fingers to the napkin. Then he laid the money on
the counter, got up, and walked towards the door without taking
a sip from the coffee.

3. He walked three blocks away from the diner and walked into
the liquor store. There he purchased a handle of whiskey, then
walked six blocks in the opposite direction of the liquor store
to his home. After taking a swig or two, he left his home, and
would wonder the city streets for the next few hours. He
fantasized about riding the bus home from a far place, with The
Waitress’s head tilted on his shoulder. He could taste her
scent, sweet as honey, and dreamed of being next to her. He
witnessed acts of kindness and acts of sin. He saw savvy
business men and he saw starving poor. He witnessed the evil and
beauty of the city. The productiveness and destructiveness of
the city’s youth. This happened every day.
Long after sundown, The Painter returned to the spot where
he’d planted his roots. He looked down at his watch it read
“8:30 pm”. He looked up and The Waitress walked out of the diner
on queue. She did not look at him, or make any indication that
The Painter existed, but she knew he was there, and he knew she
knew. What he did not know is that, for as strange as the old
man’s behavior was, the young waitress secretly liked that he
was there. To her it was comforting to know somebody took notice
in her. After she was long gone The Painter left and walked the
three blocks home.
He walked into a dark room and stumbled over some tools and
materials in search of a light. He located it and locked the
door behind him. He put his coat on the coat rack, which was the
only reminisce of furniture in the room, along with an old stool
that sat at the small bar that extended into the kitchen. He
moved his way into the cramped kitchen, unplugged the coffee
maker, and fetched the whiskey out of the pantry. He took a swig
and walked across the boxed living room towards a closed door in
the back of the apartment. He seldom went in that room, other

4. than to get to the bathroom. He preferred to sleep in the living
area, which he had converted into a studio. A stool and coat
rack, a four-legged fold-up table which was set up in the center
of the room, and the coffee maker in the kitchen was the only
furniture in his home.
The walls were covered in paint. One could not tell the
difference from the walls inside his home and the walls on the
streets. What looked like scribbles were intricate lines and
words and shapes and images all sprawled among the squared room.
He looked around, bottle still in hand, and walked over to the
table in the center of the room. On the floor surrounding the
table were pastels, spray paint, stencils, oil paint, paper,
scissors, blues, greens, and greys. He moved the table out of
the way and walked back towards the closed door. He came back
with a canvas, set it on the floor, set the bottle of whisky
next to it, and began to paint The Waitress. He painted and
drank all night, until the empty handle lay horizontal on the
floor, with him face first surrounded by everything he’d grown
to love.
The next day he returned to the diner and found his seat at
the counter.
“I’ll be with you in one moment, sir,” The Waitress said.
He nodded, and watched her as she walked away. When she
returned, she pulled out a pen and paper and said,
“What can I get you today?”
“I’ll take a coffee.”
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
He paused and then said,

5. “I would like to paint you.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked. “Me?”
“Yes. I was just wondering if you would let me paint you?”
She studied him, as he turned his attention to his shoes
slightly.
“Well I don’t know. I don’t, I don’t know you.”
“Don’t be alarmed Miss, I would never harm you. I am a
painter, and I just have wanted to paint you for a very long
time now.”
She hesitated and then her eyes focused on the counter as
she shook her head slowly,
“I am sorry, but I can’t.”
He paused and then nodded.
“I understand. It is a strange request. But, however, here
is my card with my address.” He slid it between her hand and the
countertop. Then he put the money on the counter for the coffee,
and said to her “I’ll be waiting”.
The next day there was rain. It poured all morning. Inside
the diner the Waitress glanced out the window hoping to see him.
However he was not there. She felt very uncomfortable, but
excited at the same time. She had decided she would accept his
offer and let him paint her. She had trouble focusing all day
and could not help but feel like teenage girl, who had been
discovered for the first time.
The Waitress finished her shift later that night. Before
she walked out the door, she sat in a booth next to the window

6. to look out onto the street. The Painter was nowhere to be
found. She raised her head and looked left and then right hoping
that she had overlooked him and he would appear. However she
soon realized he was not there. She had an uneasy feeling deep
in her stomach, but she walked out the door and headed three
blocks opposite the direction of the liquor store. She stood
outside the building, which she had a difficult time finding
because there was no sign and the numbers on the wall had faded.
A street light sat high in front of the building, which was
squeezed between a deli and a liquor store different than the
one six blocks opposite of The Painter’s home.
She walked up the stairs slowly and curiously. On the third
floor, she stopped and made her way down the narrow hallway. She
stopped at the third door on the right side of the hall. She
reached to knock and then froze. The door was already slightly
opened.
“He has been waiting for me,” she said to herself.
She gripped the knob and opened the door slowly. The lights
were bright in the living room. She put one hand on her hip and
wiped and other hand across the top of her forehead. Then she
let out a large sigh. She shut the door behind her and walked
towards the center of the room. There The Painter laid, face
first on the canvas. Next to him was a handle of empty whisky,
standing straight up next to him. She knelt next to him. The
stench of vomit was strong. She was certain he had drowned.
She stood up and put her hands hopelessly on her head and
looked at the wall, for she had never seen a dead person before
and could not bear to look at it. On the wall in front of her
was a painting of a woman. She studied the painting and decided
it was a painting of her. But then she took a second look; a

7. much closer look. The Painter had messed up the painting,
because she was having a difficult time recognizing herself.
“Still very lovely nonetheless,” she thought to herself.
She turned towards the door that was always closed. Then
she walked over and gripped the knob tight. Her hand was
shaking. She opened it and stood in the door way. The room was
neat, but covered in dirt. It looked as though no one had been
in it for years. She sneezed. Then she shut the door behind her.
The room was bare. The bed was made. The bathroom door was wide-
open. The hardwood floor was masked in dirt. She walked over to
the dresser and opened a drawer. In it was a gown, a bra, and a
handkerchief. All the other drawers were empty. The closet was
empty. The Painter could no longer live there, and into his
studio where he could focus on his art. She did however find one
treasure sitting on the night stand. It was framed photograph
with the stand facing upwards. It was a picture of a young man
with the biggest smile on his face. He was youthful, toned, and
full of life, inspiration and hope. In the photo he embraced a
young beauty with tannish skin similar to The Waitress. A tear
fell from The Waitress’s face, as she studied the young man and
woman in the photo, and felt that she knew them both well,
although the only dialogue she ever had was with the man, and it
was never intimate.
She picked up the picture and walked out into the living
area. She approached the body of The Painter and knelt down
beside it. She put her hand on his back gently. Then she stood
up and walked out of the door. She left with him the bottle and
a torn picture of the woman in the photo. She thought about him
all the way home.

8. One on One
I saw hands too small to grasp the ball.
I saw feet too slow to keep up with me.
I saw sneakers that looked newer than mine.
I saw an outstretched arm.
I saw the defense coming.
I saw eyes that refused to lose.
I saw lips that moved up and down.
I saw nostrils flare in disgust.
I saw frustration.
And what I saw, I relished.
I saw all of the greats.
I saw Rodman, Isaiah, Reggie.
I saw Barkley, and Shaq, and Kobe.
I saw Magic and Bird.
I saw LeBron.
I saw Jordan.
I saw their eyes looking back at me, waiting for
Me to make my move.
I saw dreams.
And what I saw, I wanted.
I saw myself take the ball right.
Stop.
I saw him go right.
I saw myself cross the ball left.
Stop.
I saw the panic.
I saw that he knew.

9. I saw myself lift high into the sky,
Bringing the ball to the front of my face.
I saw the perfect angle made by my elbow.
I saw the knuckles of my fingers wrinkle,
Bend back, and then flick.
I saw it before it happened.
I saw the ball drop through the net.
And what I saw couldn’t be stopped.
What I saw, I loved.
Growing Up
We were just wasting time,
Youth without guidance or direction.
Floating into our prime,
Unconcerned with health or protection.
So wild. So bohemian.
During the day we read the tales of Keurac and Ginsburg.
We studied the verse of Whitmen,
And admired the brash of Hemmingway and Bukoski.
At night we navigated the blue lit streets,
Bar to bar, dancing on top of cars,
Kicking up water from puddles,

10. And painting on street signs.
We lived to watch fireworks explode in the night sky.
We lived to drink the best and most affordable whisky.
We lived to meet people. To talk.
We lived to ramble about the most senseless shit possible.
We lived to yell and howl at the moon like the pack of wolves we were.
We lived to tell the stories of the old to our peers.
The most misunderstood group of people imaginable.
Where do you meet such people?
People who are more like characters made up in the minds of the
greatest Beats.
Too old to be kids. Too young to be grown.
Too old to be reckless. Too young to be feckless.
Those people whom we gravitate to.
Those people who live without regret.
Those people who live with nothing more,
Than the passion to live.
Those people who live to never grow up.
We used to be all these things.
We used to be so wild.
So bohemian.
We used to laugh in the face of death,
With no hesitation.

11. We used to be those people.
We used to be youth.
We used to be growing up.
Painting Love
I would love to go paint with you.
I would love to paint shades of blue.
I would love to go out at night.
I would love to share the feeling of fright.
I would love to paint on plywood doors.
I would love to paint on billboards.
I would love to pick out cans.
I would love to take your tan hand.
I would love to paint on walls.
I would love to paint red the halls.
I would love the sounds of The Who.
I would love to paint my love for you.
Class Evaluation
Mr. Shewmaker, I really enjoyed myself in your class this
semester. I sort of anticipated enjoying this course strictly based on
the subject matter, but the way you ran your classroom made it more
comfortable and as a result, I feel like I was able to learn more. I
wish I was more comfortable with the rest of my classmates, that way I

12. would have been able to contribute a little more to the class
discussions. Of course, that is no fault of yours, because I do think
you did all you could to get our class to engaged more. I liked the
majority of the readings you chose for us to cover in both poetry and
short stories. I think it was great that you included many modern
authors and poets to study and each one seemed to introduce different
styles and ideas that were helpful when writing my own assignments. I
thought the assigned work was appropriate for the course as well. We
always had an assignment, but it was never a hassle with other course
to complete the assignments, so I think that was a definite plus to
the course. I don’t think there was much you could do about the lack
of input from our class during discussions at time. It was just an
unfortunate mix of students I guess that didn’t always feel that
comfortable sharing their opinions. However, I really liked doing the
book dates. That surprised me, because initially I was not too crazy
about the idea, but I was really shocked at how much me and my book
dates would actually take the time to discuss the readings assigned.
It was great to get in depth prospective from a peer about readings or
even my own work at times, and for me, I noticed that we seemed to
always be a little more comfortable doing those. I always enjoy
classes that produce conversation, so I think that was probably one of
the things that I looked forward to the most, although generally
speaking I am more of an observer in those situations. I personally
prefer short stories over poetry, but that is not to say I don’t find
both interesting and I was not expecting to cover poetry going in to
this class, but I am glad that we did. I enjoyed studying it, and even

13. writing it, which I was surprised by. I liked that you did a good job
with making sure we knew what the plan was for each week, and what you
expected of us in our work. That was never an issue or concern because
you were consistent throughout the entire semester, which I thank you
for because a number of my professors have made this semester a hell
of a lot more hectic than required. Lastly, I want to thank you
because this is one of the few class I have really enjoyed being a
part throughout my three years here at Tech. I never loathed having to
come to this class and actually looked forward to going to class, no
bullshit. Your class is an exceptional class and I hope you continue
to teach at such a high level, because classes like this have impact
on students’ lives. Well, at least that is how I feel about the class.
So again, thanks, and I wish you nothing but the best!
Keith Green…