“Something changed for me too. I haven’t been this happy in forever.”
“You two help each other somehow. Heal each other.”
Suddenly, there’s a mob of people around us.
“I guess we’re open,” she exclaims.
The hours that we spend meeting people and selling products from the farm are wonderful.
“I wish my grandparents were up for this,” she says that afternoon. “Unfortunately, they’re not mobile enough. It breaks my heart.”
“Let’s at least send them pictures.”
So, we do, and while I’m at it, I send my mother a few pics of the house. She’s got to love what I’m doing, and it’ll feel nice for her to finally have a reason to be proud of me. I get back a few thumbs-up emojis and alet’s talk soon, so that’s something.
Hours later, when things quiet down a bit, I wander, determined to find Danny and see what he’s up to and what everyone is hiding from me.
While on the way, I eat thick onion rings and buy a Wakefest tank top. I walk past animal adoptions and stages with singers belting out songs and rallying the audience.
Then, I find Danny with his truck backed up to his workspace.
Before he sees me, I find a spot a bit away so that I can watch.
And I watch in awe.
His sign might tout his skills as simple face painting, but he’s not selling all that he can do. His genius and skill and creativity are mind-blowing. A beautifully detailed painting—almost like true oil painting—of a lion comes to life on a man’s face as Danny painstakingly applies color after color, blends, and continues. The razor-sharp focus he shows is admirable, given all the distractions around him from the large crowd that surrounds his station, so many people wanting to watch him work. It’s not surprising to see a sign-up sheet that has him booked for all three days.
My gaze shifts to the table next to him. The number of tools and colors he has splayed out are really impressive, and he’s even got a roll of parchment paper coming off of his truck and under the table, presumably to catch color that might fall to the grass. There are more makeup brushes than I can count, liquid eyeliner, highly pigmented eye shadows, and so much other makeup that even my sister would be impressed. Shallots is, of course, lying under Danny’s chair, unimpressed and enjoying the shade.
Alex and another person sit nearby and are painting more faces, mostly on children. I can’t see any kid sitting for as long as it must take for Danny to produce on of his masterpieces, but the kids all seem happy with their simple cat ears and whiskers, unicorn colors, and Mickey Mouse faces. Alex is doing a lovely job, and I see that he’s got more than creative culinary talents. Plus, he looks a lot happier here than at Mary Ann’s Table of Sordid Details.
But I shift back to looking at Danny’s work. It’s intoxicating to see this artistic side of him that I knew nothing about. Without reservation, he sweeps more black eyeliner over his client’s cheek, fills in the area he’s blocked out with wet eyeshadow, and then locks it all in by tapping a big brush full of dry powder over his client’s face. He is obviously skilled when it comes to home renovation and design, but this? There’s a level of detail and fine motor brilliance that blows me away. And an intrinsic, intuitive talent.
Maybe talent that he gets from his mother.
Maybe talent he puts to use to create or seek a tie that isn’t really there.
Not wanting to interrupt him, I head back to Mary Ann’s booth, and the smell of so many fresh herbs makes me want to dive into the kitchen. “You’re really hopping, huh?”
She hands a large bag of produce over to a customer and thanks him. “This is crazy! It’s got to be the best year we’ve had.”
We work for hours until the sun starts to set and the lights over the stage turn on for the evening performances—our cue to finally shut down for the night. After we load the little that’s left back into the truck, she lets out a big sigh.
“Shit, I’m tired. But that was great. Did you have fun?”
“I really did! See you back here tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, and…well, I hope you don’t mind, but we lost our guy who was doing the dunk tank for the last shift tomorrow, so I was thinking you could fill in?”
“Sure. What do I do? Take tickets and stuff?”
She busies herself with more produce. “Or wear that bathing suit that holds you in.”
“I’m the dunkee?” I nearly shout.
“Sort of.”
“There’s nosort ofin this,” I say definitively.
