The Writer Read Online Free PDF Page A

month.”
    “What
happened?”
    “They’ve decided I’ve
wasted enough of their money and my time. They felt that going to
New Zealand last summer, while they continued to pay for the
apartment was excessive. Now that I’m 20, they’ve decided that it’s
time I take financial charge of my life. Live in the Real world.
They think it’ll have a calming effect on me, paying bills and
whatnots.”
    “I’m really sorry to hear
that. What about University, are they still going to pay for your
courses?”
    “No, apparently
not…”
    “What are you going to
do?”
    “I have no
idea.”
    “Happy
Birthday…”
    “Yeah, Happy
Birthday…”

Chapter 11
    “That’s the last box,” I
said.
    “Great!” she exclaimed
from the kitchen.
    I put it down and sat on
my bed. It was small, but it would do. Combining our financial
misery seemed to be the most logical thing to do.
    It was almost a year, to
the day, since I first saw her coming out of the blizzard, and into
the bar. I could not believe how much things had changed in such a
limited amount of time.
    Joy had decided to quit
University altogether, while I struggled to make us both live off
my school loan, which had now finally come through.
    Living in Joy’s studio
forced her to rethink about where to store her numerous buckets and
canvases. At first, I felt quite guilty, as I saw each painting
leave the house, one by one.
    I kept telling her we
should simply hang them on every single room of the house, but she
said Art pieces were like children, they needed a life of their
own, and learn to Survive in the World. She had given birth to
them, and now, she had to let them go.

    The buckets, on the other
hand, ended up in the middle of the backyard, in the Common shed,
that everyone shared. Since Joy felt she did not have the inspiring
space she needed to paint inside the house, she plastic-wrapped the
entire back balcony: it was quite a sight.
    She installed her easel on
the balcony, shoveled the left over snow out of the way, and
painted. Watching her in her boots, coat, tuque and gloves, with
bared fingers to better grip the paintbrush, was remarkable and
amusing all at the same time.
    She spent hour after hour,
day and night, out on that balcony. She said she did not feel the
cold, the Fire of her Art keeping her warm.
    I would not be able to
tell you how many colds she caught that winter, but when spring
finally made its way to Montreal, the plastic wrap came
down.
    Every time I came home
from work or University, the number of people in the house always
shocked me. One day, as I turned the key, a huge dog barked at
me.
    “I live here, dog.” I said
to the mutt. It remained unimpressed, barking some more.
    “Listen,” I told it, “let
me in or else…”
    The dog stared. I stared
back. “Ah well,” I told it, “that’s all I’ve got.”
    The dog got out of the
way.
    “Joy?” I started, “whose
dog is…”
    I did not get to finish
that thought, as too many new ones jumped out of my head all at
once.
    “What on earth is going
on?” I exclaimed.
    Joy was standing in the
middle of the kitchen completely nude.
    That in itself would not
have bothered me, except for the fact that three different
individuals seemed to also be staring at her.
    “Why are you naked?”
seemed to be the first necessary question, and really all I could
come up with at this point.
    “Sorry about the dog,”
said a girl, sitting on the right side of the kitchen, with what
appeared to be Joy’s easel.
    “Why are you naked?” I
asked again, ignoring the dog sniffing at my socks.
    “Well?” I
insisted.
    They all laughed. Heat
rose to my face, and I started to sweat. Honestly, I could not
really make out anything outside Joy – standing on a box, about two
feet from the ground, holding a branch of lilac.
    “Are you posing for them?”
I asked.
    “No,” she said, “I’m just
standing here naked, holding these flowers, in front of these
people, just to irritate you. Is it