Four of Us by Paul Moffett

There were four of us: myself, Bernard, Stewart, and Gordon. It was a summer day of the sort where you want to be accomplished and productive. You feel you can achieve whatever you set out to. Bernard said that he felt like running a marathon. Gordon perked up at the mention of a run, but Stewart pointed out that Bernard had not done any training to run a marathon, and that running a marathon was really not as easy as all that, whereupon Bernard asked how Stewart came to be an expert in marathons. Stewart queried whether Bernard had ever so much as run to the corner store for milk, and Bernard conceded the specific, but not the general, point.

“Anyway,” said Stewart, “what I want is to make something.” Bernard proposed making lunch, and the idea was greeted by general enthusiasm.

After lunch, we resumed our deliberations. Gordon was still enthusiastic about the idea of a run, but everyone else, even Bernard, had moved past the idea, so the spirit of the assembly was not with him.

“What I think we ought to do,” I said, “is something useful. Something that will improve the world, and leave it better than we found it.” There was general approval for this suggestion, and that is how we arrived at the plan to paint the living room in our flat.

“Now look here,” said Stewart, taking charge of the operation. “We’ll need some supplies. Someone will need to go to the hardware store and buy three rollers and a paintbrush.”

Bernard interrupted to recommend at least two paintbrushes.

“Ok, yes, two paintbrushes. Jay, can you make a list?”

I got out my pen and paper and made an itemized list, which follows:

1. Sandpaper
2. Rollers
3. Three paintbrushes, including one angled one for corners (especially insisted upon by Bernard)
4. Plastic drop sheet
5. Painter’s tape
6. Paint trays (at least three)
7. Paint

The conversation then turned to the color we should choose. Stewart was in favor of matching the current color of the living room, but Bernard and I overruled him. Gordon expressed no opinion and may indeed have fallen asleep. What is the value, asked Bernard, of painting at all if you’re only going to paint the same color that you already have? Stewart posited that a fresh coat of paint would make the room look clean and new, even if it was the same color as before, but Bernard countered that we could just wash the walls if all we wanted was for it to look cleaner. At this point, Stewart expressed some doubts about whether we had permission in our lease to paint at all, but there was general disapproval at his lack of spirit.

“You can’t live your life asking everyone for permission all the time!” said Bernard, disgustedly.

If matching the extant eggshell was vetoed, the question remained of what color we should paint the room. I suggested mint green, but Bernard said that would look like a hospital room and that it was the worst possible option, and Stewart chimed in to say that if I wasn’t going to take this seriously, I could leave it to him and Bernard to decide and could just take a nap, like Gordon. I felt that the vehemence of this response was uncalled for, and said so, but the conversation moved forward regardless.

Bernard proposed apricot, and Stewart asked whether peach wouldn’t be more calming. I rejoined the deliberations by suggesting teal, but again, my contributions were underappreciated.

“Leave it to me!” said Bernard. “I’ll go shopping and choose a color. I’ll consult with the specialist in the paint shop, and I’ll bring back something top rate.”

“Better you than Jay,” said Stewart, which again I felt was uncalled for, but I felt it was fruitless to argue my position in the face of such boorish derision.

So Bernard went off shopping, and Stewart and I got to work moving the furniture out of the living room. This caused some trouble at first when Stewart tried to move the bookshelves without removing the books, because he said it would save time. The two of us together were unable to lift a full bookshelf, so Stewart recommended “walking” the bookshelf, tipping it one direction and then the next, and moving it forward bit by bit in that way. He was fairly certain the scratches this was causing on the floor would buff right out. But before we had taken the bookshelf out of the room, we accidentally tipped it too far forward, and the books tumbled out, rendering the whole effort pointless and damaging the cover of my copy of Three Men in a Boat. Thereupon, Stewart conceded that it would be easier to remove the books from the shelf, move the shelf, and then replace the books. Without the books, each shelf was light enough for one of us to carry alone, and the process went along much more smoothly.

We hit another minor snag when it came time to move the couch. We carried it out of the living room with minimal difficulty, but it wouldn’t go around the corner in the hallway, and it was too wide to fit into any of the bedrooms. The only option was to leave it in the hallway, which meant that to get in or out of the living room required scaling the couch. It couldn’t be helped.

Gordon was not pleased by the placement of the couch, as it was much more difficult for him to climb over than it was for the rest of us, but since he had so far not helped to move any of the furniture, Stewart and I were not inclined to give him a vote. We did, however, leave a kitchen chair on either side of the couch in the hallway to function as steps and ease the passage, for which he was suitably appreciative.

By the time the living room was empty of furniture and wall-hangings, Bernard had returned with the supplies. We laid the drop sheet on the floor and set to work at once. Bernard, Stewart, and I each took a roller to a wall, while Gordon stood in the center of the room and surveyed the whole operation.

Bernard had chosen apricot paint and had bought a small can of melon green to paint the trimmings, which I thought would look lovely, but which Stewart was against. We decided to leave the trimming for last and get to work on the main walls now, at any rate.

“What you need to do, fellows,” said Bernard, “is paint the middle of each wall. Then we’ll go around and do all the edges with a brush.”

Stewart asked whether Bernard had ever actually painted anything before, and Bernard reminded Stewart of the watercolor painting of a humpback whale that he had given Stewart for his last birthday.

“That was a whale?” said Stewart, incredulously. “I thought it was a walrus.”

I said I had assumed it was abstract. Bernard sulkily replied that, in any case, he had painted. Stewart pointed out that this hardly gave him expertise in interior painting technique, but Bernard said to trust him; he knew what he was talking about.

“If you knew what you were talking about,” I said, “you’d know not to use the roller like that. Use consistent horizontal strokes.”

“Don’t listen to Jay, he’s more ignorant than you are,” said Stewart. “Even parallel, vertical strokes are what you need. Vertical.”

“I’m telling you, it doesn’t matter,” said Bernard. “This is just the primer. Once this is on and dry, we’ll put on another coat, and then we’ll decide on a stroke pattern.”

This seemed like more sense than we were used to hearing from Bernard, so we all cheerfully got back to painting.

There is an honor in manual labor that you don’t find in other kinds of work. Painting a wall, making something with your hands, it helps to put life into perspective, so that one realizes that the esoteric pursuits and anxieties that so often distract us are no more than diversions. The true meaning of this life is here in front of us, in the work that our bodies do, right in front of us. We are creatures of flesh and blood and bone, after all, and our impact upon the world is embodied. Improving the state of the physical world, be it in ever-so-small a way, is a powerful and moving expression of purpose.

“Jay! Are you going to finish that wall today, or are you going to leave it all to us?”

I looked around and found that Stewart and Bernard had each finished painting one wall, and together had finished a third, while I had painted one spot on my wall in several coats of apricot.

“Get out of the way,” said Stewart. “We’ll finish this wall, you go around the room and put painter’s tape around the ceiling and the windows and the outlets and so on.”

I handed over my roller and began my new task, which, to my satisfaction, I finished just as Bernard and Stewart had completed the primer on the final wall.

At this point, we all felt that we had earned a break. Bernard promised that the color of the walls would look less oppressive once it had dried, and Stewart expressed skepticism, but Gordon suggested leaving the apartment for a turn around the block, since only Bernard had gotten any fresh air today. The rest of us greeted this suggestion with approval, and we went for a stroll while the paint dried.

We got back from our walk refreshed and ready to return to our work, all except Gordon, who lay down on the couch for another nap.

Bernard, Stewart, and I began painting the edges of the room, which took much longer than we had expected but went largely without incident.

Then it was time for the second coat of paint. I proposed that while Stewart and Bernard worked on that second coat, I could paint the trimmings and the baseboards in the green, and they agreed.

“Just don’t forget to use the painter’s tape,” said Stewart, which I took some offense to, as if I wasn’t able to paint in a straight line.

I painted the trim to the window, and though the green and the apricot did not complement each other quite as well as I’d hoped, I still thought the effect was quite pleasing. There was an evenness in the application that I thought spoke to an artistic sensibility. It is remarkable how even a mundane task is elevated by the appreciation of beauty and the skill to highlight it.

“Jay, you ass!” said Bernard, when I had pointed out my handiwork. “We told you to use painter’s tape! You’ve smudged your green onto our wall!”

This, unfortunately, was not an unfair assessment, so I brought out the painter’s tape and painted over the green on the wall with apricot. It barely showed through.

The light was quickly fading, but the room looked good, and we were all beyond satisfied. Even Gordon seemed happy when he sauntered into the room, wagging his tail. He promptly stepped in a tray of apricot paint that neither Stewart nor Bernard would admit to having left on the floor, but his pawprints stayed mostly on the drop sheet, and Stewart was certain that the paint would wash right out of the floor. All four of us felt the quiet satisfaction of a difficult job done well.

It was at this point that the landlord poked his head in the door. “Paint?! You’ve lost your security deposit. You know that, right?”

That, all four of us agreed, was a problem for another day.