Part I

It was all dark at first. The haze settling thick, much like awaking from a dream in the early morning and not being sure if what you see is real or just an extension of a floating nighttime vision. All Thomas saw was an impression, a first impression. She looked kind. She was the one little children run to when they scrape their knees and they can't find their mom. Thomas did not then realize that when the haze lifted it would leave behind insurmountable pain. He walked away from her after their brief exchange thumbing the keys in his pocket. It would take about 10 minutes to walk home, another 30 to eat, shower and be out the door to make it to work on time. Life was leaving an unsettled aftertaste lately. Work classes girlfriend sleep. Often sleep was interrupted by said girlfriend. Oh, they loved each other, the way one loves a car that constantly breaks down; great when its running and cursed when it leaves you on the side of the road. Her name was Sara. The relationship wasn’t a junker, yet, perhaps it was just time for a trade-in. But how do you just trade-in someone you love like that. Despite being stranded roadside here and there he could never forget her or the joy they shared. Even behind the wheel of a newer model you never forget the feel of past loves. The memories forever protected by the junkyard dogs.

Thomas got home in 8 minutes flat. As he walked in the door he nearly collided with his roommate who was in a rush to Calculus class. The glasses that were perched beneath a blossoming uni-brow must have been what made the difference. In elementary school Thomas had wanted glasses-- convinced his IQ would consequently soar through the roof. Cursed 20/20 vision he thought as his mother pulled him from the showcase of frames. Already he had the perfect ones picked out. Light and wire-rimmed. A sharp, intelligent look. It seemed to him that he already knew all the answers on an upcoming test. And now, 15 years later, there wasn't a math bone in his body; cursed 20/20 vision. Often he regretted not cheating on the eye test, faking the last line, maybe even the last two for emphasis' sake. Oh the genius that could have been! Now it was up to the Lyle Cormwicks of the world to fight terrorism with equations and derivatives. They smiled and greeted one another in passing. They would rehash the events of the day later in front of the fishbowl on the coffee table, no doubt through mouthfuls of their traditional Tuesday night microwavable burritos.
Thomas mechanically ate, showered, and got dressed for work, all the while there was a cloud settling over his mind. Something was tugging at his unconscious, something was nestling itself into the folds of his future, he was changing.

The paint fumes at work left him feeling dizzy. He mostly just delivered it to local contractors, got their signatures and drove off to the next job site for the next delivery. However, sometimes when there weren't many deliveries to make, Thomas got to hang around the store and mix paint to match colors. That afternoon a plump old woman came into the store, her eccentric makeup enough to pass as a Joker look-a-like. Tucked partly under her arm and partly into a folded stomach roll was a puppy. It chirped all the way to the front desk until a not so gentle squeeze quieted its bark. She set the pup on the counter and then came her request, in full blown smoker's rumble, scratchy voice and all,

I need some paint for my puppy dog's room. Its gotta match her coat.... exactly!

What a time for the real employees to either be on their lunch break or humming softly, waiting to finish their business in the commode. Thomas wanted to tell her that he just delivers the stuff off, that he wasn't a technician. Her tone, however, didn't imply she was ready to be patient with the likes of a twenty-something year old college kid.

So to match a color you have to physically take a sample of it, i.e. a chip of paint, strip of cloth or maybe even a chunk of something unidentifiable. You take the sample and place it beneath a scanner that is connected to a computer. Special computer software analyzes the components of the sample and produces a recipe of sorts, a type of chemical equation that can be followed to make the match. The paint technician then selects the right base paint, be it a semi-gloss or flat paint, gloss or satin, then he adds a specific number of drops of tint according to the recipe. Finally, the tech will put the container of paint in the mixer. The mixer clutches the bucket and shakes it like a seven year old trying to get that last nickel out of the piggy bank. The whole process is quite scientific and yet relatively simple thanks to the software. However, there is a great deal of experience needed to make a perfect match. Often, the recipe will get it close, but the technician has to add a dab of this and a drop of that to get it just right. Not exactly something the delivery boy has actually been successful at before.

And there he sat; just hoping the phone wouldn't ring, holding down the fort until the real technicians returned from their various mid-afternoon distractions and in walks the Joker and her little dog too. Match the paint to the mutt’s fur?!? He screamed so loud in his mind that his ears were ringing. What did she expect me to do? Hold that rat under the scanner? Yank a chunk of its fur out and analyze it with a magnifying glass? Absurd requests always seem to find their way to my plate. He tried to stare her down, in hopes that an extended glare would somehow send the telepathic message that she was insane and persuade her pick up her puppy and leave. It must be all that make-up sinking into her skin, he thought, absorbed through her pores, stream-lined to the blood and sent gushing to her brain that makes her so intolerable. Then a stroke of genius:

What kind of base did you want that in?

A semi-gloss.

I'll be right back; we keep our semi-glosses in the back of the store.

He escaped to the back to wait for Batman to come to the rescue. Luckily a co-worker returned within about five minutes, still humming his tune. He eyed the dog momentarily and whipped up a concoction with some tints and a semi-gloss stored right next to the front desk. He told Thomas to put it the shaker while he scratched the dog behind ears and made small talk with the villainous old woman. I just drive he kept thinking to myself. I just drive.

Thomas clocked out and headed back to campus. He was on his way to the testing center for the psychology mid-term. He began to review in his mind the material he had been studying that morning. His thoughts plodded from one thing to another. Maslow's hierarchy of needs, the pyramid shape they formed, the Egyptian head drawn in the margin of the girl's notes he had borrowed. Her smile and gracious aura when he returned them to her a half hour before he left for work earlier that day. The haze was thinning.