Part Three: The Offer

The Offer

She walked further and further until her legs felt as though they would buckle underneath her. She was curious for the first time in quite a long time and as she traveled along the cobble stoned streets to her favorite spot, she suddenly found it. She had been correct. There was something incredibly different about today. Where there had been a vast forest so dark that it seemed black now appeared an endless sky. She wanted to be enveloped in its mystery, to soak in her own curiosity. It was this sensation that compelled her to move beyond her limitations. Although her mind said it was dangerous and that comfort is comfortable for a reason, she threw logic behind her and for the first time, crept closely aside her feelings. In front of her was a sky as black as licorice inviting her to discover its secrets. More confident now, she quickened her steps as her interest began to overtake her thoughts. She was desperate for something new, something that would take her mind off of the mundane and monotonous life she was living. Here it was in front of her. Excitement overwhelmed her as she broke out into a run. As she approached the abyss, however, she suddenly lost her balance and let out a scream. In a panic, she immediately forced her eyes downward and saw that she was standing on the edge of a large cliff to which she fell prisoner. The cliff cracked and broke away causing her to fall into the oddly lit sky she was initially intrigued by.

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The next morning was just like any other. Walter woke up, slipped out of his bed that (he was sure of it) shrank continuously, and walked into the kitchen (if it could be called one). He loved his apartment, small as it was. He loved the simplicity of it and the paradox of a life that it held. The paintings that Walter woke up to and returned home to see every evening reminded him of his success, of the secret life he hid from the world.
But why? Why hide the brilliance behind a name—behind Leroy Spaklovitch?
Walter’s grandparents discovered his love for painting years after the affair had begun. One might assume that the multi-colored fingers and steady, purposeful hands were enough to suggest his artistry. However, Walter’s grandparents selectively noticed that he had disappeared for hours at a time to a secretive location that they weren’t sure they wanted to find. One day, most likely in the winter for this wasn’t a conversation to be had in the spring, Walter’s grandparents approached him.
“Walter, we need to talk to you,” his grandfather had a deep, smooth voice that could calm and woman’s anxiety.
“Okay, shoot,” teenage Walter fell into the stiff, abandoned armchair that was merely for looking comfortable not for spending an hour or two to lounge in on a Sunday afternoon. Immediately, his sweet grandmother began to weep.
“We’re worried about you. We don’t know why you’re doing this, but we want you to know that we don’t want to be your enemy, we want to help you seek help—“
“Help with what? What are you talking about?” Walter’s confusion grew furiously in time with the awkward silence that seemed to last thirty minutes. In all actuality, it was only thirty seconds, but in the moment of such pressure, time slowed down. Finally (or rather suddenly), Walter’s grandmother burst out a full-frontal howl.
“THE DRUGS! WE KNOW—”she couldn’t finish this tirade for it seemed that an ocean had decided to take up residency in her tear ducts.
“You think I’m on drugs?!” Walter couldn’t help but laugh at such a thought. He didn’t know of anyone that might even think of how to achieve such drugs though he was curious how they might change his painting style. He thought of explaining himself to them by talking for quite some time about the euphoria he found in acrylics and oils as opposed to cocaine and marijuana. Walter, however, was never one to be dramatic or lengthy in his speech and decided to be brief and straight to the point. He stood up, pulled a key out of his pocket and managed through the grin of amusement plastered on his face to say, “Come on, I have something to show you.”
He took them to his painting shack which had become, by now, a beautiful work of art in and of itself. Since it was difficult to find canvas, and money was already an issue, the walls and cement floor became experimental scenes that carefully molded into each other. A forest slowly faded into a beach, the beach into a city, and the city into a snowy mountain top. The cement displayed different sunsets and sunrises, daybreak and nightfall. One only need set foot inside to be whisked away into a variety of places.
Walter’s grandparents had nothing to say. They were shocked and relieved, but mostly captivated by their grandson’s obviously inept artistic abilities.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” grandmother forced out a question amongst the splendor of colors around her that caused the oxygen to escape her.
“Walter,” his grandfather’s soothing voice made the contradictory scenery stand out more than it originally had, “please consider taking a class or two. A talent must be trained. It must be mentored. We’ll pay for you to grow. You’ve got a great talent here, son.”
After the second day of art class, however, Walter knew that if he continued, the passion, excitement, and love he found would falter, sway, and dissipate altogether. It is for this very reason that Leroy Spaklovitch was born. No one could ever know who held the true talent. With knowledge comes expectation, and therefore with expectation comes failure—or so Walter believed.
After eating breakfast and throwing on a similar outfit to the one he had worn the previous day, Walter decided it was time to face the life altering decision he had suddenly placed before him. He lethargically walked out of his apartment and locked the door behind him, but because Walter was a secret superhero, he donned a vibrant violet cape and flew to the office—just kidding. Walter walked, of course, to the office that held his fate.

“Walter Watson,” this time, the secretary’s monotonous tone was anticipated and Walter was able to overcompensate the confidence in his name that still remained uninteresting. “Mr. Kronx will see you now.”
Mr. Kronx, as legendary as he was, sat in his usual spot in his usual way, but, this time he held an unusual smile on his strongly structured face.
“Ah, Harold!” He pronounced, unfaltering.
“It’s Walter...,” his confidence shattered to the spotless white tile.
“What? Oh—right. Walter! Have you made a decision yet?”
“Yes.” Walter began as he noticed the room grow hotter, his palms sweatier, “I have given it careful thought—I thought about it all night, in fact. I had trouble sleeping and I tossed and turned all night…Thank you for the offer, I think it is very kind of you to invite me to join such a team…” Where had this long speech come from? He had practiced it all night, much like the speech he had planned to pronounce on the first day he was in the presence of the muffin company’s president. Why, now, were the words flowing out of his mind as though he was an eloquent public speaker?
“Wonderful! You’ll start immediately!” Mr. Kronx interrupted Walter before he could go any further. “Cynthia,” he shouted through the door, “have James bring in the…”
“Sir…”
“…paperwork I had him…”
“Sir!”
“…write out earlier this morning…”
“SIR!”
“Yes Harold? Did you need something?”
“I’m not taking the job.”
“What?” Mr. Kronx was suddenly interested in all Walter had to say. “I’m sorry. I thought I heard you say that you’re not taking the job…”
“I’m not. I thought about it and I love my simple life…Sir?” Mr. Kronx had already befun shuffling stationary around his desk and scribbling words furiously on a notepad.
“Sir?” Walter was utterly confused.
“Get out. Get out and never come back.” Mr. Kronx’s eerie smile had faded. He was serious and Walter was scared. He left the office quickly, but quietly walked home.