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Phineas was an old man. He barely remembered his youth. He did not remember the door he was looking at. He opened it, seeing it led to a basement. Phineas lived alone. His home was clean and tidy. It had two floors. He did not remember it having a basement. He flipped the switch but lights did not come on. He considered going down the stairs… but decided to not venture into the dark unknown.
Phineas went into the kitchen. He made himself a breakfast of bacon and eggs. He poured himself a glass of orange juice. He sat at the table and enjoyed his meal. He looked out the window at the house next door. “Another day,” the old man smiled. “Always another day.” He chuckled, realizing the day would come when he did not awaken to see it. “One more day,” he amended his remark. “Just one more day.”
Phineas was an artist. He drew pictures with colored pencils or painted. His house was decorated with his work. He framed his paintings. His thematic specialty was dreams. His portraits were strange versions of people, not all of them clearly human. His self-portrait was him as a little boy robed as a wizard wearing a pointy hat. Instead of a magical wand, he held a paintbrush that shined at the tip with polychromatic magic. “What is going to happen to you when I am gone?” he asked his art. “Museum or dump?” The artist chuckled, amused by the possibilities that he would either become famous after his death or forgotten without ever being known.
Phineas had a typewriter. He used it. He typed the date a painting was painted and what inspired it. He then put the sheet of paper behind the painting when he hung it on the wall. His latest painting was entitled, “Unsettling Tranquility” and showed his neighborhood in silhouette under a sky of various shades of purple. The moon was a yellow crescent and the stars were white. The windows of the houses were pale gray. The only person to be seen was the black silhouette of Phineas at the window of his bedroom upstairs.
Phineas removed his painting “Beautiful Bad Day” from his living room wall and replaced it with “Unsettling Tranquility.” He stepped back and examined the change. He nodded, deciding it was for the best. He wrapped “Beautiful Bad Day” in paper and put it in the spare bedroom that was instead a storage room.
The phone rang. It was a cellular telephone but its ring was that of the twentieth century. The device was plugged into the wall. Phineas pressed the screen and answered, “Hello?”
“Uncle Phineas,” the voice of his niece uttered. “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Your latest post was… morbid.”
Phineas tittered. “I visited a cemetery. I didn’t mean to. I went for a walk and stopped by. Seeing all the old stones of people no one remembers just got me wondering.”
“We won’t forget you.”
The old man smiled. “Rebecca, my dear, none of us are forever.” Phineas offered his paintings to his niece years ago, to be kept by her or given to her children after his death. His relatives were uninterested in his work while he was alive, it seemed. He doubted that would change with his passing.
“Brandon’s birthday party is next week. Will you come?”
“Yes.”
“I sent you a list of things he’d like that we didn’t get for him.”
“I appreciate that.” Phineas tittered, “I was going to paint something for him.”
“That would be good.”
“Yeah, I’ll paint something he likes. I promise. I won’t dump something for me on him.”
Rebecca giggled. “That sounds nice,” she told her uncle. “Are you all right?”
“I’m busy.”
“Oh?”
“I’m always busy. I do what I want to do and I always want to do something.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Rebecca…”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for checking on me. It means more to me than you know.”
“Uncle Phineas, you’re not alone.”
“I know.”
“Visit whenever you want. You’re always welcome.”
“I know.”
“We love you.”
“I love you too.” Phineas disconnected the call. He knew Rebecca was only staying on the line because she assumed he was lonely. He did want her to get back to her life and enjoy it. He was miserable… but such was the mood of an artist.
Phineas remembered the forgotten basement. He opened its door. Though the lights did not work, he could see in the dim light. He descended the steps.
The basement was an art gallery… but the art was not his own. Paintings hung along the walls. Sculptures of various types were in the middle of the floor. “What is this doing under my house?” he wondered aloud. “Did another artist secretly live with me over the years?”
A green stature of a hairy, otherwise manlike creature seemed to be staring at Phineas. It was smiling. “Who are you?” the human asked the sculpted jade.
White statues of little girls uniformed in a sleeveless shirt and skimpy bottoms were about, most of them along the walls. A “W” was engraved on the chest of each. The “girls” were posed and positioned as if standing guard. Each pair of sculpted “hands” held a little “gun” that looked like a ray gun. “Cute,” the man said of the “child soldiers.”
A chess board was one of the things displayed. The pawns of the one side were the little girls but in color. Their shirt was white, the bottoms red and the “W” blue. The “King” was a man in a suit and the “Queen” a beautiful woman.
The pawns of the other side were redheaded tomboys that wore a light blue shirt with long and dark blue sleeves. Phineas assumed these were boys at first but they did not wear pants, making their femininity clear. Their “king” was a monstrous fat man with a monocle fixed over an eye. A woman in a hooded red robe was his “Queen.”
Phineas went along the wall looking at the paintings. The one was the portrait of a brunette little girl with her hair in pigtails. Her name was “Dorothy” according to the metal piece attached to the bottom of the frame. The blonde to the right of her was “Alice” and the redhead to the left of her was “Carrie.” All three portraits had the girls smiling.
Phineas went back upstairs. He poured himself a glass of ice water. He stared out the window, at the street in front of his house. He watched as a little boy and a little girl holding hands walked by.
“Why do I have an art gallery under my house?” Phineas asked aloud. “Why isn’t the art mine?” He did not disapprove of the strange situation. He was simply curious.
Phineas went back into the basement. He noticed one of the paintings was the very thing he saw out his window only a moment ago. “Tom Clemens and Becky Twain” the picture identified its subjects.
There was a chair in the basement. Phineas sat in it. He sipped from his glass of water. “Am I dreaming?” he wondered. “Am I crazy?” he considered.
The man noticed a painting of a tunnel. He was fascinated by it, though the image was simple. The dark and swirling colors held his attention. He stood from the chair and approached the painting. He stepped into the tunnel.
Phineas ventured into the darkness. He looked back, seeing his basement behind him. He turned back around and continued onward.
Phineas stepped out into a fog of bright and swirling colors. He lost his footing, finding himself floating in the strangeness. He lost sight of the tunnel. He was not worried, however. He felt giddy. He chuckled.
Phineas remembered his childhood. He was in the backyard of a house in the woods. The colors became the very thing he remembered. The old man was in the backyard he remembered. He went into the house.
Phineas found himself home. He was not in the house he remembered. He was in the one he actually lived in. The art gallery was in his basement. His own art was displayed throughout the rest of the house.
It was late, later than it should be. Phineas was surprised to see it was already getting dark outside. He went upstairs. He took a hot bath, to think about things.
Phineas awoke in bed. He did not remember getting out of the tub or going to bed. “I am senile,” he concluded, “and crazy too.” The gentle light of morning shined into the room. The ambience was relaxing. It was tranquil. “If only now was forever,” the man uttered. He sighed. “It’s not,” he declared. He got out of bed.
Phineas went into the basement. It was still an art gallery. He searched for any sign of an artist’s name… but found none. The painting with a tunnel was now one of him floating in a sea of swirling colors.
Phineas sat in the chair. “What is art?” he asked himself aloud. “An idea as a product that imitates, supplements or counters reality,” he answered.
“A manifestation of consciousness,” he own voice uttered… only not from him. Phineas stood from the chair and looked about. “Hello?” he called out. “I think I dozed,” he explained away the strangeness. He sat back down.
Phineas basked in the art around him. Though it was not his, it was by virtue of being in his house. “There is always a reason,” he told himself. “For every question, there is an answer.”
The old man went back upstairs. He left his house and went for a walk. He was surprised to not see anyone. There was neither traffic nor pedestrians. “Am I the last man in the world?” he asked jokingly.
“You are the only man in the world,” his own voice told him. “Everyone else is children.”
Phineas looked around. He heard his own voice… and no one else was around. “I am crazy,” he concluded. He hurried home.
The chess board in the basement was for a game in which adults were the kings and queens and children were the pawns. The other pieces were monsters or robots. “This is real,” Phineas realized. “This art is showing me the real world.”
Phineas noticed two books. The one on top was entitled “THE HOPELESS FUTURE” by “Notorious Jack” and the one underneath it entitled “THE GLORIOUS FUTURE” by “Anonymous Rex.”
The old man brought both books to his chair. He browsed them. “I’ve heard it all before,” he said of the contents. He knew from his long life that the world was not as bad as the one book claimed nor was it going to be better as claimed by the other.
Phineas sighed. He went upstairs. He went into his storage room and brought down his painting “A Beautiful Bad Day.” He unwrapped it. “Art represents,” he uttered. “You are going to represent me.” The man hung his painting on the wall. The lights suddenly came on. The gallery was now entirely his own work.
The room seemed bigger. Phineas noticed his hands were now small. “What just happened?” he asked, his voice childlike.
Phineas went upstairs. He looked in a mirror and saw himself as a little boy instead of a man. “Why am I little again?” he wondered aloud. He chuckled. “My second childhood,” he concluded amused.
There was a knock on the door. Phineas answered it. No one was on the other side of the door. The boy went outside. He looked to the left then to the right, not seeing anyone. He glimpsed movement and saw it disappear into his house. The shape seemed to be that of a child.
Phineas hurried back inside. He saw the door to the basement closing. Whoever came into his house was now in the basement.
Phineas reached into the closet and pulled out a baseball bat. He opened the door to the basement. The lights did not come on. He went downstairs anyway, his bat at the ready. Though the basement was dim, he could still see. The art of the gallery was still his own. “I know you’re down here!” Phineas shouted.
“I do too,” a voice whispered. It laughed. “Welcome back, old boy.”
“This is my house. You’re in my basement.”
“I was here before you,” the whisper claimed. “I never left.”
“Who are you?”
A boy stepped out of the shadows. He looked like Phineas… but his eyes were soulless black. He pointed at Phineas. “You’re me?” The doppelganger nodded. “How are you me if you were here first?”
The doppelganger grinned. “I am your first childhood,” he claimed, his voice normal.
“Was all that art yours?” The doppelganger shook his head. “Who’s was it?”
“The mainstream. It was here because it inspired your work. You replaced it with your own.”
Phineas lowered the bat. “Our work,” he told the doppelganger.
The other Phineas went over to the painting “Beautiful Bad Day” and claimed, “This one is mine. The one upstairs is yours. The ones wrapped in paper are mine. The ones on the walls are yours.”
“You’re the old me?”
The doppelganger shook his head, explaining, “I am the first you. The old us was between us.”
“Not anymore.” Phineas mentioned, “The paintings wrapped in paper aren’t wrapped in paper anymore. They’re hanging on the walls down here.”
“They are,” the doppelganger acknowledged. “This is my room now.”
“Our room,” Phineas smiled. “Upstairs is yours too. We did it all together.” The lights came on. The soulless black of the doppelganger became the human eyes of the boy. He smiled… and vanished.
Phineas was no longer a little boy. He was not an old man either. He was a man in his prime. He went upstairs. He toured his house, appreciating his own work more than ever. The building was a museum celebrating his own creativity. It was his home accordingly.
That night: Phineas made himself supper. He ate in the living room while watching television. His telephone rang… and it was actually a telephone, not a cell phone. Phineas muted the television set. “Hello?” he answered the call.
“Phineas,” a gruff and masculine voice he did not recognize uttered his name.
“I know who I am.”
“Do you?”
“I do now.”
“Phineas, your name was unknown to me until today. I heard it whispered in the dark.”
“Who are you?” The voice sounded like that of an old man.
“I am the unknown ruler of the world. Heed my call and you shall become a vassal of the arts. Your fame and fortune shall glorify your otherwise unnoticed work.”
“I’m listening.”
“Paint what you saw, not what you imagined. Render what you learned, not what you think. Show what I tell, not what you say.”
“Are you trying to commission something? Sir, I only paint what I want to paint.”
“Yes, and your work languishes accordingly. Submit it to me and I shall give you the world for it.”
“I’m tempted.”
“I know.”
Phineas thought of himself. He thought of his family and friends. His life and their lives were endless struggle. Fame and fortune would turn their hell into a heaven. “What’s the catch?” he dared ask.
“It shall be you or someone else… but it shall be done… with or without you.”
“I’m a dime a dozen.”
“You shall be minted by us and made valuable accordingly.” The call disconnected.
“Hello?” Phineas was surprised. He returned the handset to the hooks. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He envisioned himself painting what he was told to paint… and saw himself an old man doing so. He then envisioned himself as a little boy drawing pictures with colored markers. The old man was frowning. The little boy was smiling.
Phineas again toured his house as an art museum. He admired his work. It would not be the same as someone else’s, even if he rendered it. Still, he had reality to cope with and fame and fortune would make that much easier.
There was a knock on the door. Phineas opened it, surprised to find himself staring into the smiling face he saw before, when it was a work of art. The visitor was covered in hair and green. “You’re real!” the man was shocked.
“I am Green,” the creature introduced. “I noticed you through the eyes of my image. I was linked to it via my crystal ball.”
“What do you want?”
“May I come in?” Phineas opened the door and stepped aside. Green stepped into the house. “This is not the room,” he noticed.
“I was in the basement. This is the living room.”
“Oh.”
“Have a seat,” Phineas gestured at a chair. Green obliged. “Are you thirsty?”
“Yes,” the creature grinned. “Anything you serve shall undoubtedly delight me.”
“Ice tea?”
“Yes.”
Phineas prepared two glasses of ice tea. “What are you?” he asked his guest.
“I am Green, the only one of my kind. As the only one, I am the perfect stereotype.”
Phineas chuckled. He gave his guest a glass before sitting down. “Mr. Green,” the human smiled.
“Yes.”
The human asked, “Do you know who I am?”
“I know what you are but not who. My image was fashioned as a means to control me. I realized it was not you who made or used it.”
“What do you mean?”
Green told Phineas, “You are a boy they hope to turn into an evil man. You shall imagine evil and what you render shall make it real.”
Phineas spat tea. “Mr. Green, what are you talking about?”
“I spoke plainly.”
“I’m an artist.”
“I know.”
Phineas heard his own, disembodied voice utter, “Art is an idea as a product that imitates, supplements or counters reality.”
“Yes,” Green acknowledged. “Phineas,” he now knew the name. “You are Phineas.” The green creature chuckled. “I see your name in your art. I heard it in your silent voice.”
“You do?”
Mr. Green nodded. He told the human, “Like you, alone I am what I am. Like you, I am either useful to others or not. Though I am the only one of my kind, we have something in common.”
“Yeah.”
“Be my friend. When they come to you to use against me, tell me. I shall assist you.”
“You’ll help me act against you?”
Green chuckled. He nodded. “You have come full circle. Do the same for me. All shall be well.”
“Full circle?”
“I play a game. I win by spinning left to right or right to left. I draw backward to snap forward. I jump up to fall down. I always win.”
“Weird game.”
Mr. Green chuckled. “Children love games,” he grinned. “Play with me… when they call upon you. As their pawn you shall be sacrificed. As my friend my victory shall be yours. The other players shall not notice, assuming you are merely a piece to be played.”
“Mr. Green, I don’t want any trouble.”
“The world is trouble.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Green stood up. “You were called by Anonymous Rex, the Nameless King. He is not my enemy. His vassal Max Wayward is my enemy. Those girls you thought were cute, by their images in your basement: They are the soldiers of the enemy.”
“The pawns to be sacrificed.”
“Phineas, I am asking you to play with me, as a player on my team. You cannot be sacrificed as a player, though you can lose. Resign yourself to being played, however, and your fate shall be by the hand of your master.”
“Why do you want me on your team?”
“You imagine your own thoughts. You are not a piece to be played. I noticed.” Green stood. “The hour is not yet. Be ready.” Phineas watched the strange creature leave.
The artist was confused, especially since everything made strange sense. He had a very simple choice: Either imagine and create or fabricate and destroy. He could play or be played and lose either way. As a player he could win, however. As a piece he could survive… but in vain.