a sketch –

Finally home, Rob shuffled up the stairs and pried open the apartment door.  His long and unreasonable shift over, and he wanted nothing more than nothing.

Shutting the door behind him, he was thankful the apartment was quiet.  Decrepit, but quiet.  Quiet…with a smell.

Sweet and a little greasy, Rob was about to guess what it was, when his roommate appeared.  Wearing new second-hand sunglasses and a ridiculous scarf, Jim struck a pose of upmost seriousness.

“I,” he said, “am an artist.”

Jim was not an artist.  He had been many things over the years, all of them for minimum wage, and definitely not an artist. Grabbing Rob’s arm, Jim lead him to the common room.

“I’ve created a masterpiece – look!” Jim proclaimed, “Andy Warhol eat your heart out!”

There, tacked to the wall in straggle-tooth rows, were packets.  Glimmering in all their mass produced glory, they oozed red where they had been impaled.

Damnit Jim – ya nailed a bunch of ketchup to the wall!”

“Yes,” Jim replied, striking an artistic air, “it is art.  It perfectly reflects our consumerist society and postmodern—“

“You don’t even know what those words mean!” Rob fumed, “We rent the place Jim, you can’t do stuff like that.”


Based on a Craigslist ad, in which a large collection of ketchup packets were for sale.  And so, I imagined what a buyer might do with it.