6.17.2016

"No Time, Toulouse"

I wrote this story inspired by one of my favorite Monty Python skits.

I walked into the advice center, briefcase in hand. A man with mustache, grinning, wishes me “morning." Before I've time to set down my cane and remove my hat, he holds up a white sign with four words in black ink informing me of our business here today. From a mount secured to the ceiling behind him, a big orange screen with black letters repeats our reason for meeting. It clashes with the plaid wallpaper. This man seems sly, but I must remember: I'm the one that is depending on him right now.

He lets go of the screen and picks up the original white sign. He then reveals a box, of which all six sides repeat these same four words. He points to the box; I laugh as I notice he already has these words written on his hand in black marker. He pours a shot of brandy from a bottle which instead of any label of brandy, it is written: “No time to lose.”

“No time to lose no time to lose no time to lose no time to lose no time-” (the man interrupts himself) “When you walked I here with that bowler hat and cane I didn't get the impression that you were a painter,” he says to me. But I will do my best. You said you came to my office today because of an ad in the paper, is that correct?”

“Yes it is,” I reply.

“And what was that ad for?” he asks.

“It was an advert for advice. How can you give advice with so many questions?” I ask, beginning to raise my voice.

“Don't get short with me,” he responds, his smile fading for the first time since I entered his office. “You've been patient your whole life, and I expect you to be patient five minutes more. Now,” he continues, his slimy smile returning, “I could recount to you the past moments in your life, how your parents were cousins, how it led to birth defects, how your weakened legs never reached their full potential, how you perhaps took this as a metaphor, as you ruminated on what could have been while other boys went out to play and you were stuck sketching horses you know you'd never get the chance to ride. But you don't need me to remind you of all this. No, that would be crude of me, impish, villainous. You've overcome so much. You've created spell-binding adverts and captured the energy of nightlife in your age and time. You've eloquently expressed the beauty of love, of women's musicality, and a humanity to your subjects that someone of your history owes to no one.”

I watch him reel off these compliments, skeptical of what is to come next.

“Sadly, the only advice I can give is what you've known all along, leading up to and including the moment you walked in here with briefcase in hand. That's right: there's no time, Toulouse. Today, on your 36th birthday I can tell you you'll be dead by the time you're 37. A disease will be named after the genetic condition you've suffered thanks to your parents. And you will in fact go on to inspire artists and artistic movements you could never have dreamed as possible. You don't need my advice, Toulouse. Everything you needed to know, you knew before you walked in here. Does that not calm your fears? How about this: all that time you were worrying, flipping through newspapers, looking for the answers, you could have been painting. Pain-ting. Say those two syllables aloud. Come on!” he says sternly.

“Pain. Ting,” I comply.

“That's the spirit,” the smile returning to his face. “Painting. Keep: painting. You see, yes, you see Toulouse-Latrec, because if you don't then you will never be a household name in rural America.”

“Why would I want to be a household name in rural America?” I ask. “I don't want to be a household name in rural America.”

The man's smile fades once more. “Well, I'd never considered that,” he says. “Then perhaps you're exactly where you need to be.”


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