Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 27-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
Awful day at the photo lab. Totally out of the blue, Gina, the very quiet Filipina woman who does the same job I do, said, “This job is so boring and I can’t find the solution.” Then she covered her face with her hands and started to cry.
I sit across from Gina on a stool at a big table. She works really hard and doesn’t usually talk unless I do. I jumped off my stool to look around for something, something to distract her. I found a piece of pink construction paper in a box from Staples. Light pink with blue flecks in it.
“What color would you call this?” I ask Gina.
“Old rose,” Gina says, sniffling. “It was very popular in the early ’90s in interior design. My sister’s house in the Philippines has walls and drapery that color with silk roses to match. That’s definitely old rose.”
“Oh,” I say and tape the 11 x 17 paper to the table in the empty space between us. “This can be our pink island,” I say, not having any idea of what Gina might think of such a thing. Sometimes I feel like I represent Caucasian Canadians—such a strange specimen for this group of immigrants to be exposed to.
“Our island of inspiration,” Gina says, wistfully.
“Yes,” I say, excitedly. “Let’s see if anyone notices.”
Gina laughs, and as the morning passes, we look at each other and make faces of fear and horror when people reach over Inspiration Island to hand us photos to sort into alphabetized piles. No one makes any comment about the pink paper. I draw lines on a lime green post-it, slide it under the island’s western shore and say, “It’s our new wharf.”
The work runs out and the boss is around, making the schedule for the next month. To look busy, I put photos in boxes that don’t need to be in boxes. Later, I’ll slice them open and stack them back where they were. The boss and her son Michael are spreading forms out across our worktable, arguing. My tape gun screeches, cutting through their voices. Michael pulls at the northeastern shore of Inspiration Island and asks, “Is this scrap paper?” I’m right there, holding the tape gun, but I don’t say anything. He’s pulling the paper. It’s taped down. The boss grabs the northwestern shore and pulls, finding it taped down too.
“What is this?” Michael asks irritably.
I can’t think of anything to say. I can’t say, “It’s Inspiration Island, it keeps us going.” Or, “It’s the color of Gina’s sister’s walls back in the Philippines.” Or, “It’s a performance art project and now you’re participating.”
“Paper?” I say and get my tape gun screeching down the lengths of boxes that don’t need to be taped closed. The boss and Michael rip two chunks off for scrap paper.
After lunch, Gina extends a yellow post-it note from her fingertip to mine. “We’ve been told that the surveillance cameras are already here.”
I crouch down behind the table to eat my Peanut Butter Cups.
On my last break, Dina, one of the six Filipinas, comes up behind me in the lunchroom and gives me a head massage without warning. It turns into a shoulder and back massage.
“Very strong hands,” I say.
“Relax,” she says. “My god, you’re intense. Just relax.”
The afternoon passes uneventfully, but my eyes keep dropping to the chunks missing from Inspiration Island. I think of them as shark attacks, teeth marks in Peanut Butter Cups left in the window panes of Gina’s sister’s rooms allowing her Old Rose drapery to billow inward knocking several slender vases of silk flowers into the glass shards on the floor.
On the bus ride home, I feel sort of dozy. I don’t like losing control. No. No I don’t. No no oh no. Oh-oh. No no.
