It was dark. Daytime, but dark. Clouds blocked the sun. It was a greyish black color. And, trees danced in the wind.

He watched from his living room window. The reception on his television was weak. Pictures kept coming and going. His antennae wasn’t up to the task. The old man fidgeted around with it. The more he moved the metal plate, the worst it got. Until there was no picture at all. Just a blank screen.

God damn it, he said. Nothing ever works. Earler that morning the coffee maker dumped grounds in his pot below as it was brewing. The toilet was running. Kitchen faucet had a constant drip, drip, drip. Bath tub was clogged up. He was right. Nothing ever works.

The old man watched lightning and listened to thunder. The skies made a stirring sound. Like a train running at a slow pace. He drank coffee and spit out grounds on the floor. A green carpet with tiny black bits all over it. Looked like a painting. An obscure painting. Something that might go in New York for two hundred grand. He laughed.

It has a certain appeal to it, the old man said to himself. He played around with the grounds and smeared them on his canvass. Got a razor blade and carefully cut squares in his carpet. Making faces with the black substance. Drawing clouds and trees. A black sun.

I’ll make a fortune, he thought. Sell these down town at one of those galleries. Call the show, Art From The Old Man, he couldn’t stop laughing.

Outside the winds were picking up more and more, shaking his trailer. Moving it off the concrete blocks a little at a time until eventually it tipped over, trapping the old man. Furniture. Tables, chairs, the couch, his new finger paintings, all destroyed.

The old man climbed his way to the door and opened it. Looked around at power lines down on the ground. Poles knocked over. Other trailers turned on their sides. He whispered, Nothing ever works.