My Only Friend La Croix - Chapter 17

“You’re coming with me!” I yelled at My Only Friend La Croix as I plucked him from the fridge. The last can! In my frenzied state I stomped down the stairs, cracking his tab with one hand as I pressed on toward 3rd Street. I was on the hunt for the lone Creosote bush in my neighborhood.

How hard it is to find a fucking creosote around here, I cursed. I directed myself to the only one I could remember in the neighborhood and took a slug of La Croix’s still-cool water mid-stride. The chill of his can contrasted against the warming afternoon sun of the desert. We walked quickly to maintain our cool.

I passed by the men digging and loitering at the construction site on 3rd Street until I approached the plant. I squinted at the bush, soaking up all of the colors and values. Drab, olive green leaves with Hansa Yellow flowers. Silvery gray stems, but only in the sunlight. I did not know what I would do about the shadows, but I figured they could be purple or violet.

I took stock of the plant, standing in the street until I had my fill. I accelerated back home toward the 4Runner and plucked the Zyns from the center console and stuffed two in my upper lip. I punched in the code to Future Apartment and ascended the elevator.

Back in my apartment, I mixed the olive first then the silvery gray-green. Fold over fold, bending the knife to drag the viscous paint over the glass into a neatly-curled, contained mass of paint, ready to accept a brush.

I swear, drinking La Croix makes me smell better. Surely it could just be the increased water intake, but something about that liminal essence gets its way into my system—lo and behold, my body odor transfuses to coconut and tangerine. I rip off my shirt and begin to paint.

I don’t know where it’s going. I only can make one move and it hits me with a riposte. Look over here, you ape, it yells back. More Naples Yellow—perhaps some sparing India Yellow to match the top section of the canvas. I don’t notice the light fading from the window until it’s already dark.

My eyes progress to the section of the canvas which I loosely consider the edge of the bush. The piece is abstract enough, with dark blues which were meant as purples, and a wide mix of olive greens dancing in front of yellow dunes. I make a note to embolden the dunes with something richer, something warmer.

I make a different mental note: to make more OnlyFans content. I stare at my painting in the dark glow, performing standing oblique curls while I lose myself in the textures. I guess I’m not really sure what I’ve been making, I think to myself. The forays of the past year have taught me a diverse set of skills I hadn’t anticipated learning—some amount of public speaking, a touch of cinematography here and there, and how to craft media to capture attention.

It feels wrong to deprive the world of such aesthetics—if only they could see what I see. To watch My Only Friend La Croix until his sweat perspires and begins to roll down his aluminum skin; to lose yourself in a staring match with a painting until you notice it breathing. It would be no easy task to capture the tension held in my legs as I loom over the painting, awaiting to pounce on the canvas with a brushstroke when it finally shows itself so that I may realize it.

It’s rookie shit, I think to myself. Really, none of it aligns with my vision. I can do better.

I’ve disavowed making cinematic edits of my painting process for some time. Continually I am asked and probed in different ways: “do you sell explicit content?” “What’s your Twitter?” I’ve been turned off from the lot of it all because it doesn’t serve me; it’s not what I do, nor is it where I want to go with my life. I’d rather paint.

But honestly, fuck it—it just seems so easy now. And I might as well put out my process. I turn on the camera and waste ten minutes of film while immobile with a brush in one hand and My Only Friend La Croix in the other. I set down the La Croix and add more India Yellow to the green mix. La Croix watches from the same vantage point as the camera.

Suddenly, the canvas is covered in Naples Yellow— gaps between the branches and leaves of the bush which had to be filled. My trance is broken and I wonder where My Only Friend La Croix has gone. I do not know if such a reflection could be captured cinematically. The moment is perfect for a short film; why should I shirk my responsibilities to share? Or is this best kept between us, La Croix?

I fetch the last of of the fridge. Finally chosen, he must think— his brothers started disappearing three days ago.

He sits and waits patiently after I take the first refreshing sip. Cold as ever, My Only Friend La Croix does his best to sit still— I know that he is frozen in motion and temperature, playing his part in the process.

That’s enough painting for now. I have let the solvents into the air and soiled my hands with oil. My body is heavy from the long day and I collapse onto the cajón and assess what changes I’ve made. No judgments can yet be made— my body is still active to gravitate my eyes to the areas which might be improved. My mind remains empty until the morning. I listen to the bubbles pop from the desk behind me.

I stack the six cans of La Croix along my sink. The box for the lot of them rests on the floor next to the discarded carton of oat milk and other recyclables. I consider performing the ritual for the fallen few; I go down the line and shake their dregs to assess how wasteful—how disrespectful to My Only Friend— I am. I consider fetching the La Croix which must be sitting in the cupholder of my 4Runner to make them eight and bury them together. To pour them out, crush them, and place each discarded frame back in the box in which they came would be sensible. No, I’ll leave them for now—tomorrow. The seven watch me from the edge as I head to bed. My Only Friend La Croix is still fizzing from the desk— the final Coconut sip can await the morning.