Listening to the man who lives above him laugh at evening sitcoms, Paul crafts miniature figurines from scraps of stripped wire and fabric that lay around his darkened apartment. Concentration suffers slightly as the single dim light bulb shimmies from the uproarious bellows and foot stomping that emanate through original floorboards and joists. He sets his work down calmly so as not to risk an inadvertent twist.
At the same time, he looks to the ceiling rhetorically, shaking his head at the ignorance of resigning oneself to observing art rather than creating it, knowing someday the observed art will be his.
Upon forcing himself to leave the house to briefly reconnect with society, Paul sits slumped in a leather chair fingering the rim of a coffee cup, slovenly lounging while he stares in an accusatory fashion at more professionally-dressed patrons, inspiring feelings of suspicion, angst, and resentment as their passing glances meet near a hanging lamp.
Normally pre-planned and predictable in his scheduled pursuits and free time, Paul has other jealously-driven things on his mind today like collegial dinner parties with holiday themes and associated activities he might enjoy, as others seem to, if not persistently occupied with building models, both prepackaged and free-form.
He’s currently intent on equipping his efficiency with exact replicas of World War II battleships of no less than 10,000 pieces coupled with ethnic soldiers of his own design. Considering this eventual achievement and doting on the time and effort it will require, Paul inspects himself to find dabs of clear glue, model paint, and remnants of decals on his sweat pants, wondering why life can’t be assembled and adorned in a similar fashion.
Still unwilling to seek out an external market for some of the non-essential characters and pieces in his private collection, and in need of both sustenance and an alter from which to begrudgingly preach his insular philosophy, Paul has just purchased a shrill whistle, pair of athletic-looking navy dress pants, and off-brand white tennis shoes, determined to one day soon become a licensed volleyball referee. He’s walking the dogs of rich people from adjacent buildings in the morning to save up enough money for the necessary certification class.
Although he doesn’t conform to standards personally, Paul looks forward to browbeating those he’ll govern into strict adherence of the rules he must enforce from a platform, conveyed through the memorization of innocuous hand signals. Any form of dissent will be smitten through ominous glances shot forth from blood-shot eyes with bruised bags beneath them.
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