“Who knew art class was a repressive experience?” Sixteen years old Nacho Cohen thought to himself. His hands were covered in rainbow-colored charcoal. It made his skin look like a rainbow sherbet ice cream. Ms. Watson, a grey-haired lady with big glasses, a stern expression, and a black outfit, strolled over to Nacho as he drew dinosaurs on sketch paper.
“Nacho, that does not look like a T-Rex.”
“Why does it have to look exactly like a T-Rex?”
“We’re trying to keep it realistic,” Ms. Watson responded, very upset.
“Do you like Picasso? The Guernica? I’m sure you do.”
“This isn’t a class on Cubism. Make it realistic, Mr. Cohen.”
“Who even really knows what a T-Rex looks like?” Nacho said.
“Keep drawing.”
Alfie Perez, the class know-it-all, turned around and made eye contact with Nacho. Nacho attempted to turn away.
“Cohen can’t draw for shit,” Alfie yelled as the class laughed.
“Perez, go fuck yourself, son.”
The whole class broke into laughter. Ms. Watson stared at Nacho with great disdain. Nacho knew his existence would take him to the “Twilight Zone,” aka detention. Hours later, he sat in a classroom with three other students. Clad in a tweed blazer and bow ties, an older teacher sat working on a crossword puzzle. The other students pretended to read through their textbooks. They did their best to conceal their earbuds.
The boredom crept in. Nacho glanced out the window and focused on the tenements with their fire escapes. The bit of neon reflected from a few street signs was very red. He dozed off.
“Where to go with my limited allowance money? Bagel? Pizza? Coffee? Nothing says disposable income like a 7-dollar ice latte, served with oat milk,” Nacho thought to himself as he was transported outside the classroom, in a dreamlike state .
The teen walked on Delancey Street, one of his favorite strolls. The traffic going in and out of the Williamsburg Bridge inspired him as a native of the Lower East Side. Red drops fell from the sky. A few fell onto Nacho’s beloved navy-blue pea coat. He hid from the red rain under a bodega marquis and sniffed the red substance.
“What the fuck? This smells like ketchup. Oh, my poor pea coat.”
New Yorkers bolted from the ketchup rain. Other people tried to crowd around the bodega marquis, but Nacho wouldn’t bolt. Cars crashed. Buses were halted. People screamed. Delancey Street trembled. A crack went through the Lower East Side pavement. The sounds of a roaring T-Rex shook the old tenement buildings.
“Earthquake?” Nacho said as he peaked from the comfort of the bodega marquis. Nacho’s eyes trembled with culture shock. His big espresso-colored eyes met with big latte-colored eyes. Nacho trembled. A T-Rex stood in front of him. He loomed over the Lower East Side’s architectural mismatch. His skin was bright green, and his teeth porcelain white. Mr. T-Rex nibbled on a cheeseburger. The ketchup dripped onto the two-way traffic.
“I hope this is reality because I can’t make this shit up,” Nacho said to himself. “Mr. Cohen, wake up, sir,” a stern voice said.
Nacho woke up in his own personal Twilight Zone detention. He missed the T-Rex of his dream. In fact, he’d rather return to the dream than look at a whiteboard. Nacho smiled a nervous smile. The very academic teacher didn’t smile back.In fact, he’d rather return to the dream than look at a whiteboard. Nacho smiled a nervous smile.
The very academic teacher didn’t smile back.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Cohen. I know I’ll be seeing you soon. No more falling asleep in detention.”
Nacho placed his signature navy blue pea coat and fisherman’s cap on. Then he bolted toward Delancey Street. Jaywalking through the traffic that led into Brooklyn, Nacho hoped to catch a glimpse of the cheeseburger-eating T-Rex. However, he only saw tiny snowflakes fall from the sky. Everything seemed normal. The sidewalks were salted for an incoming blizzard. People dashed in and out of the F train subway station. Honking shook the eardrums. Loud Bachata music played. Nacho had a mental check out. He could only think of ketchup and dinosaurs.
Nacho shook with the jitters upon arriving at the Veselka Diner. He saw his father sitting at a back table. Larry gave him the death stare. Nacho pretended to get distracted by the East Village personalities dining on Ukrainian favorites, pierogis, potato latkes, and matzo ball soup. Nacho sat down. Larry had a cardigan, oversized glasses, and a tie. Nacho took off his pea coat and fisherman’s cap. The waiter handed Nacho a menu. Larry took an envelope from his “Shakespeare and Company” tote and tossed it to Nacho.
“Oh, my report card. All C’s, I mean, I’m passing.”
“Nacho, what happened? The “C” in your forehead is not for clumsy.”
“I’m so fucking bored.”
“Nacho, the language.”
“Even in art class, there’s so much conformity.”
“I understand,” Larry said.
The waiter arrived and asked, “What will it be, folks?”
“Give me a bacon cheeseburger deluxe, please.”
“Stuffed cabbage, thanks,” Larry said, returning the menus to the waiter.
Nacho took out his sketch pad. He opened it to the T-Rex page. The drawing drew controversy from his most conformist art teacher. He still loved it. Something needed to be added to the sketch. Artist’s block took over. He decided Mr. T-Rex needed a friend. Artistic Inspiration was interrupted.
“Nachito,” put the sketch pad away.”
“Pops, I’ll put it away if you put away your cell phone,” Nacho said with a sly smile.
Father and son were distracted. Larry fumbled with his phone. He glanced out the windows at the tenement buildings, his favorite. Nacho drew tenements and, behind them, the shape of a Brachiosaurus. He gave the herbivore a fisherman’s cap.
“That’s a lot of shit going on in that sketch, Nachito.”
“Pops don’t look yet, work in progress.”
Dinner arrived. The men sat in silence. The waiter handed Nacho a Heinz ketchup bottle. He struggled with the bottle. A few drips of ketchup landed on the fries. The waiter brought him packets of Heinz ketchup after noticing the struggle. The small ketchup pack opened and squirted onto his sketching.
“No, I have to start all over again.”
“Eat your dinner, please,” Larry said as he devoured his stuffed cabbage.
Nacho mourned his sketch as he wiped off the ketchup. It smeared ketchup across the T-Rex and a bit on the Brachiosaurus. He took the ketchup packs and made them into clouds above the Lower East Side. Splatters of ketchup served as raindrops. Larry stuffed his face.
“Hey, you’re not playing with your food enough, Nacho.”
“Pops, do not disturb me.”
“Oh, excuse me for treating you to a “Cheeseburger Deluxe,” Larry said with an eye roll. “You did me a favor,” Nacho said, sipping his Coca-Cola.
The waiter walked to the table, “Hey, folks, anything else I can get you?”
“More ketchup packs, please.”
“Son, I know what to get you for your birthday. It’ll be easy.”
After dinner, Nacho and Larry walked home. The stimulation of crossing the East Village to the Lower East Side didn’t detour Nacho from daydreaming about ketchup and dinosaurs. Once the father and son returned to their apartment on Grand Street, Nacho returned to his tiny bedroom. He put the finishing touches on “Ketchup Rain” on sketch paper. “Jurassic Park” played in the background. A shoebox was taken from his closet. A T-Rex, Brachiosaurus, and Triceratops figurine were glued to the inside of the box. Afterward, he pasted a cut out of L.E.S. tenements and used ketchup packs as clouds. The red paper was used to represent the sky. Nacho passed out.
The next morning, he carried two Strand totes to his high school. They were full of art. The first class of the day was art class. Nacho’s nerves were frenetic. He knew that Ms. Watson hated his vision for art. While listening to the Talking Heads and Blondie, Nacho avoided hyperventilation. The steps of P.S. 71 High School felt like the “Temple of Doom.” He morphed into the arty Indiana Jones of the Lower East Side, attempting to conquer the unattainable in art class, an “A” grade. He arrived in class and sat in the back with the sleepy heads and slackers.
Each student presented their perspective on the artwork.
“All this art stinks; so much conventional shit going on,” Nacho thought to himself. Ms. Watson looked like the return of the 1950s Beatnik movement, with a black outfit and red beret. She gave Nacho the stink eye. Nacho just shrugged.
“Mr. Cohen, please present your art project.”
His classmates were intimidatingly hip. Nobody smiled. They looked on as Nacho took out his shoebox and sketch art. One student with red hair and glasses started laughing. Then the whole class broke out in laughter. Nacho’s confidence dwindled. His anxiety kicked in. The jitters traveled from his feet to the brain cells. He almost had a panic attack. However, Ms. Watson motioned for him to speak up. Sweat dripped like ketchup in his artwork. Nacho had to reclaim his confidence.
“I’m going to fucking do this for dinosaurs and ketchup,” Nacho said to himself. “I call my two pieces, Ketchup Rain Part 1 + Part 2. The ketchup packets are clouds. The ketchup falls from the ketchup packs, creating a nightmarish world in both a 3D and flat piece of paper. Get it? I had a dream about a T-Rex who ate a cheeseburger and sprayed ketchup over the Lower East Side. Hence, I came up with this very oddball idea.”
“You suck at art, Cohen,” Alfie said.
“Yo, fudge you, Alfie.”
“Let’s keep it down. Mr. Cohen. This isn’t realistic enough,” Ms. Watson said. Nacho ran to grab his tote bag. He took a plastic Heinz ketchup bottle and taped sketchpad paper to the whiteboard. He squirted ketchup onto the sketch paper. It was very strategic.
“Mr. Cohen, what are you doing?”
“Ms. Watson, I’m expressing that art is in the eye of the beholder. I can paint with ketchup and call it art.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s art, Mr. Cohen,” Ms. Watson replied.
“You have a Jackson Pollock poster over your desk. He, too, used the drip technique.” “Abstract Expressionism is not the assignment, Mr. Cohen.”
“This is my art. If Pollock can paint with the drip technique, so can I.”
“I agree, but not for this assignment.” Ms. Watson replied.
“Fuck, there goes my G.P.A.,” Nacho thought to himself.
The bell rang. Art class let out. Nacho knew he couldn’t convince Ms. Watson that his eye for art mattered. However, he thought it was more important to follow his artistic inspiration. “Mr. Cohen, I will give you a B- for this winter semester.”
“I’ll take a B, as long as it isn’t a “C.”
“You’re a pain in class. I secretly enjoyed your presentation. Don’t tell your classmates. I don’t want to smell ketchup all day,” Ms. Watson said with a wink.
“Ms. Watson, wow, all that drama and you liked my work?” Nacho said
“I wish you would follow the rules more. However, in this case, yes,” Ms. Watson replied.
“Thank you, I hate to say I feel validated, but I’ll take your compliment,” Nacho said as he exited the classroom.
The day ended. Nacho bolted out of the high school campus. He headed to the local supermarket. The aisles were cramped. New Yorkers strolled around grumpy. Nacho had a cheery disposition. He stood in front of Inspiration, an entire aisle of ketchup bottles. Every kind of ketchup was represented. Purple, pickled, chipotle and plenty of original ketchup gave the grey supermarket a colorful vibe. Nacho stopped in his tracks.
“Oh my God, my eyes are blinded.”
Nacho stood in front of the mustard aisle. Every shade of yellow, from Heinz mustard to honey mustard to Dijon, stood out. Nacho bought loads of ketchup and mustard and returned to the family apartment. He spread out a towel and blank canvas on the balcony. Nacho blasted The Ramones’ “Judy is Punk” and went to work. Red and purple squirts dripped from the ketchup bottles. His fingers divided the red squares. These represented tenement buildings. Purple represents the fire escapes. Afterwards, Nacho squirted a bit of yellow to indicate apartment lights and stars. Nacho scrubbed off some of the ketchup and mustard to decrease dripping. “Yes, yes, I’m going to hyperventilate. This piece speaks to me.”
During the holiday season, Nacho continued to paint with ketchup and mustard. From canvas to 3D art with more dinosaurs, Nacho skipped the holiday cheer and focused on his passion. Larry entered Nacho’s bedroom.
“Nacho, I’m so sick of that stench.”
Nacho shrugged and said, “Pops, you’ll have to live with it. This is my art.”
“I’m suffocating, Nacho. And all this mustard and ketchup is adding up on my AMEX.”
“It smells like art to me. I’m not experiencing any horrible stenches,” Nacho replied.
“Nacho, that smell is getting my anxiety going. But okay, I’m going to let you be an artist.”
“Thank you, one less thing to talk to my shrink about,” Nacho said with a giggle.
Nacho drifted back into his bedroom. He stared at his art. Mustard and ketchup could go rotten after taking photos of all the artwork.
“You’re welcome, Ludlow Street, a free art exhibit.”
Nacho wandered through the Lower East Side, daydreaming. He blasted David Bowie’s “Heroes.” He hoped to see dinosaurs eating burgers. Instead, the scenery remained dinosaur-free.
“I need to come up with new art ideas.”
Then his phone rang. It was a text from Larry.
“Hey, kid, let’s go to the Natural History Museum and a diner. You can play with all the ketchup you want.”
Nacho responded, “Yes, please. I’ll see what kind of food art I can develop.“
Excited, Nacho’s brain went back to creative mode. He looked forward to dinosaurs, ketchup, and mustard. Even when he wanted to move on from his “ketchup era,” Nacho continued to embrace “out of the box thinking.”
Anthony Alas is a published author and English professor. His works have appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Scribble Lit, Quibble Lit, Azahares Magazine, Twisted Vine, Defunkt Magazine, In Parentheses, and elsewhere. After many years in New York City and California’s Inland Empire, Mr. Alas now calls Dallas, TX home. https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/anthony_alas