Page 7 of Let’s Give ‘Em Pumpkin to Talk About

“Fine. I’ll be ready to go as soon as I finish this pie,” Sadie said. How curious that Josh didn’t take money for social media content. If she knew anything about rich people, they never did anything for free. She was going to have to get to the bottom of this guy’s whole deal.

In her experience, people who were nice to her wanted something from her.

Usually it was sex or professional connections.

The last person she’d dated, a fellow artist, dumped her suspiciously soon after their trip to Art Basel Miami, where a gallery featured her work—and not her partner’s.

No more artists , she told herself, adding to a lengthening list that included comedians, drummers, and podcasters.

What could Josh want from her? She couldn’t possibly be his type. Surely he liked women who were more bubbly and effervescent, like him. He wanted another tall can of seltzer, and Sadie was something else entirely. A sturdy mug of soup that would burn his mouth.

Maybe he was trying to get something out of Stu through her. She’d figure it out, but first she had to see a ball of paint, apparently.

* * *

Sadie forgot how quickly you could wind up in the true middle of nowhere in Indiana.

At least the interstate had fast food and gas stations, not to mention the billboards directing drivers to adult superstores and to church, often at the same exit.

But these back roads? There was something sinister about this much corn.

It might swallow her whole. “There had better not be any Confederate flags at this guy’s house. ”

“I would turn right around if that were the case,” Josh assured her. “Why doesn’t Indiana know it’s not the South, by the way?”

“You are asking the wrong person. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so eager to leave if I understood shit like that.”

“Anyway, it’s pretty obvious why a basic white guy like me can so easily build a platform, so I do my best to put the spotlight on folks who’ve worked ten times harder for one-tenth of the attention.”

They pulled into the driveway of the famous ball of paint. The sign stuck in the yard read PROUD UNION HOME. A vinyl banner over the garage doors read WORLD’S SECOND-LARGEST BALL OF PAINT, tastefully printed in Helvetica. An artist had to know her typefaces.

“This must be the place,” Josh said brightly. Sadie sighed.

As the Civic pulled behind the truck in the driveway, a stout man with ruddy cheeks wearing blue coveralls came bounding out of the side door of the modest house.

He introduced himself as Bob and launched into his spiel.

“Welcome to the World’s Second-Largest Ball of Paint!

We all know there’s power in a union, and many unions have found their unity through song.

Well, I’m not much of a singer myself, so I thought I could bring my fellow painters and tradespeople together through another kind of communal act—painting an object. We started with a small block of wood.”

Bob drew a chunk of wood from his pocket like he was a magician. I’m familiar with the concept of wood but, okay.

“We painted it one layer at a time until the paint overtook the wood, and the ball grew and grew in size, showing how individual contributions and small actions can bring about great change. I brought it to all of our union meetings until it grew too large to transport. Now it’s here in my garage and union members are welcome to add more paint to it whenever they wish.

And select other people sympathetic to our cause, of course.

Are you ready to see it?” He gestured to the garage doors.

“This is going to be awesome,” Josh said.

Bob clicked the button on the garage door opener—the sound of the motor whirring standing in for a drumroll—and revealed the ball of paint.

It wasn’t as big as the largest of pumpkins, but it had the right kind of shape.

An orb striving for perfect roundness but settling for amorphous blob.

It was suspended from a wire cable deeply embedded in the paint, and its outermost layer was painted a cheery daffodil yellow.

“Amazing!” Josh exclaimed. Then he asked the question on Sadie’s mind. “How do you know it’s the second-largest ball of paint?”

“Oh, well, I don’t,” Bob said, chuckling, “but I’d rather be a little humble about it and leave room for possibility.”

Typical Midwesterner , Sadie thought.

Josh clapped his hands together. “I love that. I hope it’s okay that I’ve brought a friend.”

Daring of you to call me a friend. She tried to ignore the way it made her feel so warm inside.

“Of course,” Bob said. “Hopefully you can take better photographs than I can,” he directed at Sadie. “I don’t have much of an eye for that kind of thing.”

Josh looked at Sadie pleadingly, his eyes turning big and liquid like a cartoon character’s. She refrained from rolling her own eyes, as she was supposed to be playing the role of friend. “How about a time-lapse video?” she offered.

“That would be amazing. Bob, you said you had some orange paint?”

“Sure do, sure do.” He pointed to a can sitting next to a tray and some brushes. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to it. It’s getting near dinnertime and I told the husband I’d make us a nice Sunday roast. I’ll come back when you’re finished for some photographs?”

“Sounds great, thanks!” Josh called as Bob jogged back to the house.

Sadie cobbled a makeshift camera stand out of some junk lying around. Meanwhile Josh stirred up the paint and poured some into a tray.

“You didn’t know this was here?” he asked. “Never visited as a kid?”

“Farmers tend to minimize time spent away from their crops. Roadside attractions never made the cut for Stu,” she said, wondering why she should have to tell him such an obvious fact about his own profession.

“Stu’s loss,” Josh said. “Ready to film?”

Sadie moved her hands away from her phone slowly to test if everything was holding steady. “She’s rolling.”

“You’ll paint, too, won’t you?”

If it means we’ll get home faster. But honestly, this wasn’t torture, even if Josh hadn’t warned her the day would have this extra component. Bob was charismatic, and this goofy blob had some nice symbolism. “I’ll paint,” she conceded. Josh clapped his hands together again.

When he offered her a brush, their fingers briefly touched. Sadie unwittingly glanced down.

Josh’s hands weren’t like her father’s, roughened by a lifetime of working the land.

His were still smooth. He had long fingers, like a piano player.

Hands were often the first thing that attracted her to a person.

If someone’s hands exhibited skill, she immediately imagined them on her body.

How it would feel to be touched by someone who knows what they’re doing.

She felt herself blushing, studying him like this. When she looked up, she could see he’d been watching her with an unreadable expression.

“I understand you’re an artist?”

“A textile artist. Never any good at painting,” she said quietly.

“Luckily the task before us is quite simple. Monochromatic, even.”

They took opposite sides of the paint ball, which started rocking slowly as they applied brushstrokes.

“Is textile art like fashion design?” Josh asked.

Most people were too self-conscious to betray their ignorance, which made this question refreshingly honest. “No, I don’t make fashion.

I weave fabric that hangs in galleries or homes.

It’s kind of like painting in that its purpose is decorative, but also like sculpture because the pieces don’t have to be flat against the wall. ”

Josh flashed a mischievous grin. “Are all the fabrics black?”

Sadie cackled. She’d met the guy only a few days ago and he could already deliver such an astute burn. “I’ll stop weaving black when they make a darker color.”

“Sorry about the orange.”

“I’ll get over it.”

They continued painting, and Josh began humming one of the pop songs from the radio.

Meanwhile, Sadie marveled at the solid mass of paint, knocking on a dry section with her knuckles and wondering how many thousands of layers it had taken to form this shape.

She envisioned the little block of wood at its core.

Okay, maybe Bob’s little demo had some merit.

Then she wondered what would happen when Bob died.

Union songs outlived their writers. Who would house this blob?

And what about pumpkins? Who would grow the pumpkins descended from her dad’s seed stock after he was gone? Surely it couldn’t be Josh. And it wouldn’t be her.

After a few minutes of painting, Josh took a break, pacing the driveway and checking his phone. Billionaire stuff. Probably monitoring his investment portfolios or booking a late fall yacht vacation right after harvest.

“I’m following you on Instagram now,” he said. “You do beautiful work. I can’t believe you wove wallpaper for Brynn Bianchini.”

How dare he find that publicly available information. “You know who Brynn Bianchini is?”

“Doesn’t everyone? Famous for being famous. Possibly a savvy businessperson, possibly a fraud. Failed acting career, failed pop music career, though I liked her single fine, successful underwear brand, successful makeup brand.”

It would make sense that a tech billionaire would know the entrepreneur landscape.

What was more remarkable was how he spoke of Brynn without immediately dismissing her as trash or condemning her as the downfall of society, the way so many people did.

He didn’t seem to judge Sadie for working with her, which was more than she could say for plenty of her colleagues.

He picked his paintbrush back up. “I should contact your agent. Maybe commission some of your wallpaper, the color of a prize-winning pumpkin. I don’t have much of a design sense, so my house has unfortunate bachelor pad vibes at the moment.”

“I’ve been told you can definitely afford my work,” Sadie said before she could think better of it.