EPISODE 12
the rehash
07:12am
First thing I do is slap the alarm and shout “ki-yah.” I’ve been studying Tae Kwon Do for a while, but lately I remix it into what I call Kwon-Don’t-Kill-My-Vibe. Same spinning back-kicks, just louder playlists and a lot more paint.
I tape a fresh 6’ x 8’ canvas to the easel, then stack half-empty spray cans on a cinder block. Each can holds a different neon shade. I launch into a roundhouse kick. Cans fly, paint geysers burst in mid-air, and the canvas drinks in colors like a thirsty rainbow. I land, wipe mist off my Air Force Ones, and grin.
9:00am
While the paint puddles, I stretch hamstrings and think about how kick distance controls line weight. I feel like they should have taught this in physics class. Maybe I’d have stayed awake.
My phone buzzes. Local kid Mason asks about after-school training. I text him back, “Bring elbow pads and three colors you aren’t afraid to wear.”
11:47am
A neon draft floats by and triggers a memory.
When I was ten my dad and I fished for Yellowstone Cutthroat Trout every June. He brought cheap rods, powdered donuts, and a thermos full of Folgers. We had this secret lake we’d always hit up, where we’d pull up fish every ten minutes.
Some of the best memories of my childhood are of me and him, sitting there in that canoe, talking, fishing, soaking in nature.
Then cancer hit him. Factory job, poor ventilation, coolant vapor that smelled like profit.
We planned one final trip.
But this time, when we reached our hidden spot, an oil rig towered over the lake, its burners staining the sky orange.
The government had re-designated the water for drilling.
Dad stared, shoulders shaking, eyes wet. I’d never seen him cry before. Even when he’d told me about his diagnosis. But here he was, reduced to tears, right there in the rental car.
He never explained why, but I think maybe that’s the moment he finally felt defeated. I wish I’d asked him. In that moment, couldn’t do anything but stare.
That was the last time he saw the place he loved. Two months later, he was gone.
After the funeral, I couldn’t stop thinking about that last trip to Yellowstone. All that rage and grief built up inside me, looking for an outlet.
I went home and painted my first piece, a crystal lake violated by a black rig, black smoke clawing across the mountain sky. I titled it “They Set the Sky on Fire and Called It Growth,” although most people shorten it to “Sky on Fire.”
That single canvas started the Paradise Sold collection. Harlan Drex just dropped almost two million dollars on it, which still feels like hush money disguised as appreciation.
2:14pm
I tape another sheet to the collage. In the center I stencil a cutthroat trout.
One jump-spin kick later a magenta stream explodes over the fish. Oil-rig pink stains the canvas.
I line the edges with lake-blue drips and whisper, “This one is for you, dad.”
04:18pm
Mason shows up wearing elbow pads on his knees (close enough, buddy). And he brought a few of his friends. The more the merrier, I say.
We drill spinning back-kicks. Mason asks why I paint instead of punching walls.
I tell him, “Walls forget pain, but a canvas remembers, and might help pay rent.” He laughs, then mis-times a hook kick and his little friend learns a bit about happy accidents.
They almost end up really fighting, but I manage to calm things down. Teach them about controlled breathing and meditation. Teach them to take their anger out on the canvas.
9:41pm
I log into Instagram to post progress footage. The screen flickers and a glitchy pop-up overrides the login page.
Stark white text blinks, “Harlan D is not your friend,” then the window dissolves.
I manage a quick screenshot before it vanishes. No sender, no return address, nothing.
Kinda wish whoever’s sending these weird messages would show himself. Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.
9:56pm
Streetlights ignite the paint drips until they glow like fireflies. I smile. Dad loved anything that looked alive at night.
I look over some old photos of him I still have saved on my phone. Dad holding up a cutthroat, grinning wide. I breathe deep, and I can almost smell trout in the night air.
I find one of the photos from todays “martial art” session and upload it with a caption:
“Some folks drill holes in memories for profit. We patch them with color and call it living.”
-ROB BO$$
