Philip Gets Even (9781597050807) (2 page)

Philip’s father laughed. “I can explain the
words, but I don’t have the slightest idea what it’s talking about.
Sounds like pickles and feet and bananas are being asked to do an
awful lot. And you say she was asking three thousand five hundred
dollars for each painting?”

“Yep. Says so right here,” said Philip,
stretching the paper toward his father.

“I’ll look at it later.” He smiled and gave a
short cough. “Well, I wouldn’t let on, if I were you, that you saw
her work and didn’t think too highly of it.”

In a very serious voice Emery said, “I didn’t
like her feet or her eyes so much, but I thought quite highly of
her pickles and bananas.” And off the boys went into spasms of
laughter.

“What’s the red paper you two goofballs
picked up?” said Philip’s father.

Philip looked around the back seat. “Where is
it, Emery? Oh, I see it. On the floor, there. Give me.”

Philip took the paper from Emery and read it.
“It’s about a contest. An art contest the gallery is running in
neighborhood schools. Hey, Ms. Trinetti is one of the judges.”

“You guys going to enter? You made fun of
pickles and feet. Do better and show Ms. Trinetti what art should
be.”

Philip and Emery turned to each other.

“You two did well in the poster contest that
Walk-Mor Shoes held.”

Walk-Mor Shoes was a store in the same mall.
Philip had won the contest and Emery had placed second.

“Yeah,” said Philip. “Why not? Want to,
Emery?”

“What’s it say to do?”

“It says to contribute one work of art—a
painting, a collage, an installation. What’s an installation,
Dad?”

Philip’s father’s shoulders went up and down.
“I guess it’s something that isn’t either a painting or a collage.
Art can be practically anything. You should go talk to Mr. Conway,
that old fellow the next street over.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Philip. “He does paintings.
He’s nice. Remember, we bumped into him in the arts and crafts
store when we had to buy that stuff for Ms. Trinetti’s class? Did
you ever see any of his paintings, Dad?”

Philip’s father shook his head. “Nope, never
did. I doubt it’s pickles and bananas, though. Why don’t you go
visit him?”

“What do you think, Emery?”

“Is there a prize?”

Philip looked back at the paper. “Yeah. ‘An
opportunity to display the work in the gallery with an eye to a
sale,’ it says.”

“A sale!” Emery cried. “For three thousand
five hundred dollars?”

“Don’t be greedy,” said Philip’s father. “Ask
for two thousand first.”

“
Ten
dollars is okay with me,” said
Philip. “Let’s enter, Emery. Dad, will you drop us off at Mr.
Conway’s street?”

“Can do.”

Five minutes later, Philip and Emery were
knocking on Mr. Conway’s front door.

The boys didn’t know just how old Mr. Conway
was, but to them he looked about a hundred. He was short, not
really much taller than Philip or Emery. He still had hair—a little
bit of it—white hair cut very short in the places it still
grew—plus some sticking out of his ears. Even though he was short,
he wasn’t little. He had thick, muscular arms that looked like they
could be very strong.

Philip pushed the doorbell button, and the
boys could hear the bell sound inside the house.

“It’s awful loud,” said Emery.

When Mr. Conway opened the front door he was
adjusting his glasses behind his ears.

“Well,” he said, smiling. “Mr. Philip and Mr.
Emery, I believe. What can I do for the two of you? Come in. Come
in.”

Mr. Conway had had a family once, a wife and
three children. But his wife had died, and the children had grown
up and moved away. The house looked neat, although in the living
room there was a pile of what looked like new things Mr. Conway had
bought.

“Have a seat,” said Mr. Conway, pointing at
the sofa. “I was just looking at the birthday presents my children
sent me. One of those DVD movie players that I’ll never figure out
how to use. A new camera with a thousand gadgets and a million-page
book of instructions that I’ll never understand. Half the
instructions are in Japanese and that half makes more sense than
the other half. And a gift certificate my daughter sent. Guess
which is my favorite.”

“Gift certificate?” said Philip.

“Right you are.” Mr. Conway plopped into a
soft chair.

Emery poked Philip, so Philip said, “We’re
going to enter an art contest, Mr. Conway, and we thought maybe you
could give us some idea what to do.”

“Wait. Wait. There it goes again,” said Mr.
Conway, reaching for his right ear. “Let me get my hearing aid
fixed up right, dang thing. Sounds like a teakettle half the time.”
He did something to the back of the hearing aid. “There, I think.”
He put the hearing aid back into his ear. “Hello. Hello. Okay.” He
settled back in his chair. “Now, what were you saying?”

Philip repeated himself.

“Oh, really? Where’s the contest?”

Philip handed Mr. Conway the red
announcement. Mr. Conway pushed his glasses higher on his nose and
read silently.

“You’ll be in the elementary school division,
eh?”

“Yep,” said Emery.

Then Philip handed Mr. Conway the paper that
described Ms. Trinetti’s paintings. “This is what’s hanging there
now. Can you tell us what this means?”

Mr. Conway took the paper from Philip and
read. The boys saw his mouth twitch to the side and his eyes roll
up once or twice.

“This is so... I hate this!” Mr. Conway
cried, banging his right hand down on the arm of his chair.
“Mumbo-jumbo. Gibberish. That’s what this is. That’s why I paint
for my own amusement. Heaven knows what jingo-jango they’d come up
with to describe what I do. I’ll bet you could hang these paintings
upside-down, and they would still make the same sense.” He shook
the paper he was holding. “Probably no sense at all. Am I right?
Eh?”

“Maybe,” said Philip. “They were paintings of
bananas, eyes, feet and pickles.”

“What! Bananas, eyes, feet and pickles? All
in one painting? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No, no,” laughed Emery. “Four separate
ones.”

“And you’re telling me that bananas, pickles,
and eyes and whatever elevate and explicate the crash and fall of
the ying-yang and the bing-bang?” Mr. Conway stared at them
fiercely. “Gibberish. Total gibberish. Go on. Tell me that’s what
they do. I dare you.”

Emery swallowed hard.

Philip shook his head quickly and said,
“Don’t blame us. We didn’t write that, Mr. Conway. The lady just
gave it to us.”

“Brrr,” Mr. Conway shivered. “I know that,
boys. Come on upstairs with me. Let me show you what I do, and if
you still think I’m good for an idea, I’ll be glad to help
out.”

Mr. Conway went up the stairs slowly, putting
each foot on the same step before climbing to the next one. The
boys followed him into the largest upstairs room, which he’d turned
into his art studio.

“What do you think?” Mr. Conway said,
stretching out his arm.

The boys were struck with wonder. There were
no dancing pickles, no eyes, no bananas, and no feet in sight.
Instead, what Mr. Conway painted were superheroes. Right away the
boys recognized Superman and Batman and Spiderman. There were a
number of paintings of each performing heroic acts—Superman flying
from a burning building, holding a baby in his arms; Batman socking
a strange villain dressed as a cat; Spiderman dangling from the
side of a tall building.

“I know him,” said Emery, pointing at a
black-clad rider, whose cape was sailing out behind him as he rode
his black horse. “I saw him on the
Disney
channel.”

Mr. Conway chuckled. “I’m glad you know him.
That’s Zorro. He was one of the first masked avengers with a secret
identity. Way before Superman or Batman or any of these others.
I’ll bet you don’t know all of them.”

Philip and Emery walked through the room and
inspected the rest of the paintings.

“Who’s that?” Philip asked.

“The Shadow,” said Mr. Conway. “Very famous
when I was a kid. Listened to him on the radio. Do you know the
cowboy next to him?”

“I’ve seen him,” said Emery.

“Yeah, me, too,” said Philip.

“That’s the Lone Ranger. He was on the radio
and
television. He was a masked avenger with a secret
identity, but he used his six-guns while Zorro used his sword.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Philip. “I saw him on TV.
Not the whole show. My father was watching it.”

“So that’s what I do, boys. No
ying-yang-bing-bang for me. Real scenes. Real life. Well, real
fantasy life,” he chuckled. “So you think I can help you?”

“Wow, yeah, sure,” said Emery.

“Let’s go downstairs and think up a plan,”
said Mr. Conway.

Back in the living room, Mr. Conway took his
seat in the big, soft chair again and stared at the red gallery
announcement in his right hand. Philip and Emery waited on the
sofa.

“You know what they want, boys?” Mr. Conway
burst out, slamming his hand on the chair arm again. “They want
nonsense. Nonsense! And that’s what we’re going to give ’em.” He
stared at the two boys. “Are you with me?”

“Nonsense?” said Philip. “We’re going to give
them nonsense?”

“Don’t you think that pickles and pig’s feet
is nonsense? But there they are. Hanging for sale in a gallery. For
thousands of dollars!
Art
! Hummph!”

“Pig’s feet?” Philip repeated.

“There were no pig’s feet,” said Emery.

“Just an expression, boy. Dang, we can
out-nonsense their nonsense,” said Mr. Conway in an excited voice,
slamming his hand on the arm of the chair a third time.

“But what’ll we paint?” said Philip.

“Anything. Everything. Right side up and
upside down. Inside out and outside in. Every color we can manage,”
said Mr. Conway. He shook the red contest announcement he was
holding. Philip and Emery looked uncertainly at one another.

“I have it,” the old man shouted.

Philip and Emery jumped.

“We’ll call it
Everyday Things.
If
that gallery likes pickles and pig’s feet, they’ll love
Everyday
Things.
Think of the possibilities!”

“There
were
no pig’s feet,” said
Emery. “Just people feet.”

“Dang, boy. Just an expression. An
expression. Go home tonight and make a list of everything you see,
everything you touch, everything you use, eat, or even think of
today. We’ll fill the canvas with everyday things and call it
Everyday Things.
Ha! How’s that for nonsense? It’s a winner,
boys. It’s a winner. We’ll have room for feet and bananas, pickles
and pumpernickel.”

“And pig’s feet!” said Emery.

“Dang, boy. Now you’ve got the spirit. So, do
you know what you have to do?”

Both boys nodded.

“Repeat it to me,” Mr. Conway insisted.

“We go home,” said Emery in a loud voice,
“and list everything there is to list. From pickles and
pumpernickel to popcorn and pig’s feet.”

“That’s the way to think!” said Mr. Conway,
punching the air, then rising slowly from his chair. He led them to
the front door, talking all the way, and bid them farewell.

Going down Mr. Conway’s front path, Philip
turned to Emery. “From pickles and pumpernickel to popcorn and
pig’s feet?”

“Dang, boy. Just an expression,” Emery said
in an old man’s voice. That started the two boys laughing. “Well
give ’em nonsense. We’ll lay ’em low; have ’em begging for mercy,”
he said in the same voice, repeating Mr. Conway’s farewell words to
them.

When the boys calmed down, Philip said,
“Well, shall we do what he says?”

“Why not? We don’t know anything about
art.”

“Don’t let Ms. Trinetti hear you say that,”
Philip laughed.

“Start the list,” called Emery. “Leaves,
trees, cars...”

“...sidewalks, houses, and heavy coats,”
Philip cried. Then at the top of his voice he called, “And pickles
and pumpernickel.”

“And popcorn and pig’s feet,” Emery added in
a shout.

The boys started laughing and didn’t stop
until they reached home.

Ms. Trinetti ended art class ten minutes
early that Monday. It was Philip and Emery’s final class of the
day. When Ms. Trinetti dismissed them, they planned to go to Mr.
Conway’s house to show him the list of “everyday things” they’d
come up with. Philip had listed thirty-nine items. Emery had come
up with thirty-seven. During lunch time they’d eliminated any
duplication, and during math class that afternoon, when he was
supposed to be doing page seventy-four in the text book, Philip
recopied the two lists into one.

Ms. Trinetti, wearing a loose-fitting pink
dress covered with flowers, stood in front of the room holding a
small stack of red papers. When everyone was quiet and ready, she
passed them out.

“It’s the art gallery contest,” Philip
whispered to Emery, getting a peek at the paper as it came down the
aisle toward him.

“We’ve spent a great deal of time together
this year,” Ms. Trinetti was saying. “And now you can put what
you’ve learned into practice. Take a moment to read over the paper.
You can all read. I don’t have to read it to you.”

After an appropriate time, Ms. Trinetti went
on. “By a week from this Friday, everyone who wishes to enter the
contest will give me a piece of art. Your own work. Anything you
like. There are no limits; reach for the sky.”

Albert, a thin boy with messy hair, raised
his hand.

“Are you reaching for the sky, Albert?” Ms.
Trinetti knew what was coming and sighed.

“Can we work with partners?”

Albert always asked whether he could work
with a partner. By himself he never knew what to do or even how to
get started on anything. And working alone and uncertain made
Albert so nervous that he would either cry or spend an hour in the
bathroom.