Toby and I stood on Jerico's stoop, waiting for him to come open the door. We were here to check out his artwork in hopes of buying some to improve the vibe in my somewhat pallid apartment. Toby had agreed to help me, since this was not my area of expertise.
Jerico came to let us in, welcoming us and ushering us into the living area. He had an interesting place, a definitely artsy feel to it, with sculpture and paintings scattered throughout.
"You fellows make yourself at home. Grab some seats while I finish grilling out on the patio. Won't be but a minute. Got that grill jumpin' like gangbusters. Gotta go check those weenies before they crisp up too much."
Toby and I looked at each other, snickering as he disappeared through the kitchen. "Gonna go check his weenie, poet? It might be crisping up too much."
"Can't get too crisp for me. Peel that crust off with my teeth and chow down."
I pictured Toby in the process of doing that and started getting a stiffy. Jerico was an attractive dude, with bright red hair and a freckled face. He was hot as fire, and looked it with his fiery mane. His dick probably looked like a match that had caught ablaze with a wild thatch of red pubic hair adding to the illusion. A nice pre-meal fantasy.
Jerico came back in with a platter of weenies, adding them to his nicely set tablescape. Then he disappeared again to fetch the burgers and small roasted cobs of corn. He already had buns and condiments at the ready.
"Sorry, guys. Didn't mean to be a ghost host. But it's ready now if you're ready. Come on and eat. Drinks are in that tub of ice there," he indicated. "Just grab what you want. And there's chips and dip, too."
"We almost didn't recognize you without your pizza delivery uniform on," I teased him a bit. "That's the only way we've seen you before."
"Don't feel bad," he snorted. "I almost didn't recognize you, Toby, with your duds on."
Toby turned red, but he laughed along with us. "Clothes make the man, they tell me. Or not."
"These burgers are really tasty, Jerico," I said, to rescue Toby and change the subject. "What's your secret ingredient?"
"Just love. I try to put that into everything I cook. Some spices help me out a little, too," he chuckled.
"This corn is to die for," Toby added. "Can't wait to try one of those weenies. Pretty and plump, they are. And not too crispy. You must have rescued them in time," he winked at me.
Jerico blushed beneath his freckles, cute as could be. "Tell us about this artwork of yours, will you?" I urged. "How did you get into it? And what on earth is the conceptual art you mentioned? You're gonna have to educate me a bit."
Jerico chewed a bite of burger thoughtfully before answering. "Well, I guess I got into it out of boredom more than anything else at first. The delivery job is usually crazy busy on weekends and in the evenings. Lots of people off work or coming home too tired to cook. Stuff like that. Holidays are usually hopping, too. Some folks don't have big family meals anymore on Thanksgiving or Christmas, so it's up to us to furnish the grub. Pepperoni is the new prime rib, you know," he laughed.
"But on slower days, or in the mornings, I was just kind of drifting, playing video games or channel surfing or something. And that's okay sometimes, but it was getting to be my whole existence. So I went to the art store downtown and bought some supplies just to try my hand at something new and different. And it happened."
"You got hooked?" Toby asked, smiling. "Found your passion or conjured your muse, or whatever?"
"Pretty much. The first projects I did just plain sucked. I mean reeked. But I kept at it and saw some of my mistakes in those first pieces, so it was a beneficial learning experience. Not that I'm creating masterpieces by any means. But I like some of them, and I think that's what counts. Art is mostly for the artist, anyway."
"I thought art was for the viewer, to absorb and appreciate and interpret." I countered.
"Oh, it is, to an extent. But it's hard to explain. You'd have to understand the time that goes into it, trying to capture a certain moment, movement, or nuance that will be so vital to the finished work. It's like letting your innermost secret emotions flow through your brush onto the canvas. Putting them there for the whole world to see or disregard or enjoy. And you never know which it will be. It's exhilarating, cathartic, cleansing, yet very frightening, usually all at the same time."
"Wow," Toby exclaimed, impressed. "And here I thought you just dipped a brush in some paint and smeared it on. Guess there's more to it than that, huh?"
