Gold

Vibrating light cast through scintillating slats in the football-field-sized skylight decorated the ballroom with somersaulting explosions of color.  At the punch table, a mime broke his vows and laughed at a joke, told by a cowheaded man in a paisley tux.  Two penguins sipped non-alcoholic margaritas through a bendy straw.

It was exactly the type of party that Flat Eddie "Thatch" Burrello would throw - all absurdity and no substance.  This was the type of gala that only the richest of the rich could afford to throw, in order to impress the richer of the richest.

I sat there, in my calloused chair of golden leaf, shrunk to the size of a pea.  To say that Flat Eddie had invited me here would be a misrepresentation.  What had actually happened was that two plaid-suited juggernauts had showed up at my apartment door at half past three with a rented tuxedo, two sizes too small.

"They say you're one of the hottest artists in New York City," the heavier-set of the two bellowed.

"Who is they?"

He didn't respond, but his partner thrust the tuxedo into my hands.  "They do say that."

The first gorilla leered at me.  "Flat Eddie is having a party tonight" (no explanation about who Flat Eddie was).  "A couple of big art investors are coming.  You're to put this on and be there at 8:05 with three of your best works."

I told them the tuxedo was too small, that the pants would barely cover my skinny ankles.

The second man waved his hand dismissively as the muscular duo lumbered back out into the hall.  "Just don't sit down.  No one will be able to tell."

Well, I was sitting, now, in a glass ballroom of madness and debauchery, a famous failure.

A few months prior, I had spilled a can of acrylic paint across a poorly rendered landscape I had conjured up for my community college art class.  Being on a deadline, I had submitted the piece, which, I suppose, had caught my well-connected professor's eye.  The next thing I knew, my splattery neo-masterpiece was showing up in everything from the New York Post to the front page of Gawker.com.  At once, I was the creator of a metaphor for the disrespect technology had for tradition and for the eventual death of Judeo-Christian values.  I was quoted without being interviewed and my artwork analyzed without approaching the artist.

Now, here I was, at a bacchanalian banquet, shrinking into my gold chair, as suited investors admired two landscapes and a still life, all crudely drawn in improper perspective with some secondhand pastels.

They say lightning doesn't strike twice, but, then again, they had also apparently proclaimed me one of New York City's rising art stars.  My hand gripped the can of gooey green acrylic paint that I had brought with me.  The lid sat ajar.  I rose, hoisted the can over my head, and sprinted towards my paintings.  This is a masterpiece.