Reflections on The New Blue
Soon, on clotheslines across America, will hang bedsheets dyed the new blue. Damp and dangerous sheets, waiting for the wind to whip them dry. —Buddy Russe, author of The Blue Revolution.
One:
The New Blue shipped too late for the Christmas Season. Despite the hype, the great promise became an unforgivable lie. People's anticipation warped into disappointment so intense and widespread there was serious discussion of postponing the holidays.
When the first batches finally arrived, factories could not accommodate. Toy makers couldn't integrate. All the fabric houses, garment shops and apparel manufacturers failed to produce a single New Blue fashion. Everybody was flat out of luck and the holiday turned out to be another unhappy performative exercise. The days came and went. Snow covered everything. The sun found new places to hide and the sky remained the color of stone.
People had ample reason to be angry. Officials had oversold the potential, built expectations, pushed forward the notion that soon we would all be bathed in an opulent, distinctive hue. Like fools, we'd swallowed the bait — hook, line and sinker. In our minds New Blue would become the standard. It would restore hope to the hopeless, reignite the dream of tomorrow, inspire an earnest quest for happiness, prosperity and good cheer. Months before its arrival, we had become earnest believers, eagerly awaiting, as giddy and antsy as children before a puppet show.
The New Blue, we were promised, would be integrated onto all things transparent: glass, windows, windshields. Eyeglasses, contact lenses, sunglasses, goggles. Ultimately, it would be surgically implanted into the pupils of newborn infants. Nothing would escape its touch. Its appeal would revolutionize our sense of color, change opinions, inspire new words, create fresh descriptors. New Blue would invade the language, replacing hackneyed modifiers and worn-out notions, while resurrecting genuine human values.
Meanwhile, a worldwide campaign was enacted to gather up all the old blues along with the words used to define them. All of it would serve as fuel for a series of celebratory bonfires. Before our eyes all the old colors would be licked into oblivion by twisting flames streaked with glimmers of New Blue.
Two:
Recently on TV some expert claimed New Blue to be no more than a mixture of old colors – he insinuated Russian, Peacock, and Midnight blues, along with a splash of Ruddy Rose. A preposterous notion, considering that New Blue has been meticulously tested and certified to contain no prior tints or dyes, blue or otherwise. A central part of New Blue's wonder is it requires no extraneous pigments, no tints or additives of any kind. It's as untainted and uncorrupted as it is wholesome.
Anyone with working hands can experience the miracle: simply dip a brush, dribble and swipe. The smoothness and evenness of New Blue instantly astounds. While it dries, changing from liquid to solid, the dynamic microstructure redirects light, trapping every color of the visible spectrum. All that remains for the naked eye to see is New blue. It alone survives, its rich consistency fully visible when there's nothing else to see.
Neither flat nor glossy, never flashy nor dull, even in soft light New Blue illuminates a radiance as serious and severe as a bullet to the brain. No matter the surface texture, saturation is maximized. Never a need for touchups or multi-coats. New Blue is effectively timeless. Its sharp-edged penetration consistently clean and well-balanced, easy on the eyes, soothing to the mind, and as effortlessly warming as ocean water absorbing sunlight.
And oh, what it does to a roomful of shadows must be seen to be believed.
Three:
I barely made a living peddling color. I got into the business late, after the wild rush, when demand was elevated and anyone with a delivery van could make a fast fortune selling tints and hues. By the time I established a customer base, New Blue dropped and the whole business changed.
I never liked peddling New Blue, mainly because it could be ordered direct, pressing middlemen like me to shave pricing to the bone. To make matters worse, New Blue practically sold itself. Honestly, I was never a fan, preferring a vast assortment of blues in my business and in my personal life.
When I worked the circuit, you had to carry around heavy binders of swatches and stacks of color strips, knock on doors dawn to dusk, give away samples, make personal calls, create face-to-face connections, grind it out. And when you did make a sale, you delivered the stuff yourself with a smile and a personal guaranty.
Now, every streetcorner has some vender hawking imitations, homemade blends produced in garages and basements, crackpot creations mixed in bathtubs and kiddie pools. The more serious sellers push foreign imports, first-rate knockoffs at cut-rate prices with crisp new forged labels. People desperate for color and tight on cash are easily swindled, so money can still be made.
Just yesterday, right outside my apartment, on the corner where I catch the bus, I ran into an old man selling an assortment of antique blues, classic blues, ancient blues. I couldn't believe my eyes. Genuine old time high-class premium blends in original containers.
Like a dummy I stood spellbound with an odd sense of having traveled back through time. I soon realized I'd run into this salesman before, more than once in fact, the same seller always on a different corner. Sharp dresser, suit and tie, well-groomed for a street merchant. To be honest, I recalled the containers more than I remembered him. I bent down to admire the inventory— neat stacks of faintly rusted, slightly dented tins and cans, in remarkable shape considering their age. Some labels were soiled and waterstained, but still readable.
And just like the first time I stopped to admire them, this debonaire Dan leaned into me, thinking I'm ripe. Who could blame him, because of the dumb look on my face.
"What are we looking for today, pal."
Voice like a weatherman, teeth like corn kernels, wrinkly-eyed, and considerably older, I suspect, than he appeared. He caught me looking at a dusty can of Cobalt. "You a Cobalt guy. I've got more than what you see here. How about Celestial Mist? Priced to sell. Buy three, get one free."
His sales pitch is tight, definitely old school, peppering me with facts, pouring on the charm. "What's your preference? You into solids? How about irregular finishes? I've got splotchy, dappled, speckled, drab, dingy. Sticky wet." His vitality disturbs, reminding me of the days when I was so desperate for a sale I sold at a loss.
His grip on my arm tightens.
"Look, pal, I'm not even supposed to say this out loud. Right now I can get my hands on a full oil drum, that's forty-two gallons, of a classic blue they ain't made since the war." He looks both ways. "Subterranean Ocean. Blue so dense, one glimpse you'll think you went blind. Forty-two gallons. Sealed drum. Enough to color your whole world and give what's left to relatives and friends."
He smirks, detecting a spark of interest in my expression.
"What do you say? I can have it delivered to your door, by midnight tonight, a full oil drum of classic subterranean ocean blue?"
"Delivered," I say.
He nods slow and steady. "Of course, I only do business with people who can keep their mouth shut." He winks. "Nobody trusts anybody anymore. Naturally I would require a small deposit. For my supplier. Not a dime goes to me."
As I'm walking away, he shouts after me, "I'm not new to this racket. I've been around. I remember you from the old days. You think you're better than me? You used to hustle hard as anybody. I once heard you preaching how when you can't sell ‘em what they want, you sell ‘em what they need."
Later, at home in front of the mirror I point at myself and shake my finger.
I recite taglines and slogans. I talk fast, like the guy in the commercials.
"Did you know that once upon a time all the colors in the rainbow depended on contrasting and complementary shades to enhance their significance. Not the case with New Blue. New Blue is the color of tranquility. New Blue hums a silent melody."
I live alone, if you can call this living. But that's another story. At present my walls, floor, furniture and all my possessions are shades of gray, every inch waiting for a color that hasn't been invented yet.
Author Bio
Bob Thurber is an old, unschooled writer widely published in literary journals, magazines, and on the Internet. Over the years his work has received a long list of awards and been included in over 70 anthologies. This is the sixteenth time his work has appeared in The Cafe Irreal, most recently with "The Crabapple Incident (Another Misadventure of The Broken Boys)" in Issue #94. His short story “Shuteye,” from Issue #15, appeared in The Irreal Reader, our print anthology. Bob is the author of six books, including Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel and his latest story collection, If You'd Like To Make a Call, Please Hang Up. For more information visit www.bobthurber.net.