Episode Five 'The False Dichotomy: Chris, the Artiste'

Another minor character is introduced, this being Chris, Tom's brother. This tragic character has fallen prey to the myth of the Great Artist through pure default. Can you think of anyone that YOU know whose personality is composed of default characteristics?

“Boys will be boys,” muttered Tom’s mother under her breath. But when was he going to leave the house? Long ago she’d given up hope that he’d move out; now she just wanted him to leave for an afternoon, even a few hours. At least his brother Chris was going to an actual college, rather than this online mumbo jumbo.
As if on cue, Tom’s brother Chris emerged from the basement doorway and sat down in pointed silence. Chris’ similarities to Tom were limited to his physique- they shared their father’s large limbs, wide hips, and thin, brown hair. Other than that, the two were as different as night and day. Their roles in the family had been firmly established from day one: Tom was the intellectual, the staunch empiricist, leaving Chris, through default more so than any real inclination, with the role of the artist. Not that Chris didn’t take full advantage of his role. It was an unspoken rule in the Ozanski household that each boy was helpless under the force of their ‘nature‘- for this reason, Tom got away with his years of secretive and apparently fruitless research, under the guise of being an unrecognized genius, while Chris, being the family artist, was able to throw any sort of tantrum and pull off any kind of bizarre behavior. Further, where Tom was prone to ’beating around the bush’ and hinting at things rather than stating them, you knew where you stood with Chris. For instance, Chris was clearly upset about something at the moment.

‘And you, Chris? How was your day?’ Asked their mother carefully. Secretly, she was relieved that Chris had not followed in Tom’s reclusive and clumsy footsteps. Being the younger of the two, he’d even run several enthusiastic (while unsuccessful) campaigns for presidency of various art oriented clubs in high school. However, lacking the diplomacy of a politician (the startling behavior attributed to his ’artistic’ temperament by his family was, unfortunately, often viewed as just a plain lack of social grace by the student body), he’d graduated high school with his eyes on another prize. Last year, he’d entered the local community college majoring in nothing less than fashion design. While his mother had tried to be open minded about her son’s chosen career path (it was the 21st century, after all), Chris seemed to be spiraling farther and farther off of the beaten track in his attempts to revitalize the fashion world. As of late, he’d taken ‘retro’ to unprecedented lengths by emanating the fashion of 18th century Europe. Yes, Mrs. Ozanski admired her son’s thinking ‘outside the box’, but sometimes she wished that Chris would step back inside the box. She found it trying to have to explain over and over to friends and family alike why Chris wore a powdered wig.
Chris wrinkled his nose slightly as he eyed the macaroni and cheese. ‘
‘Haven‘t we any goose- or pudding?’, he griped, with a slight British accent.
Chris believed that, like an actor, a fashion designer must throw himself whole heartedly into his art. His lace collar and cuffs, variety of wigs, and skin tight pants were accompanied by an aristocratic air and a taste for the delicacies peculiar to the late 1700’s- snuff, goose, oranges and pudding, for example.
‘No, Chris, we don’t’, Mrs. Ozanski answered patiently, spooning a steaming lump of mac and cheese onto his plate. A loud thump resounded from upstairs, followed by a high pitched scream. She inhaled sharply, and the ball of pasta tumbled to Chris’ starched breeches.
‘Thomas?’ She cried in a strangled voice, ‘Are you OK?’
Chris squealed, jumped to his feet with little grace, and, delighted at his mother’s mistake, began to scold her, shaking his fork with a happy vehemence: “You piglet! You horrid, horrid piglet- my breeches!”
“Oh, Christopher, calm yourself: why, there isn’t even a mark.”
Chris looked down at his pants, and much to his disappointment, saw that the mac n’ cheese had tumbled harmlessly onto the kitchen floor.
“You’re still a piglet.” Chris mumbled as his mother began to collect the mustard colored noodles with a paper towel.
“Excuse me?”
“Nuthin’.”
Chris returned to his seat, but not before giving his mother a withering scowl and crossing his arms in protest.


What has caused this scuffle upstairs? Stay tuned!