Mr. Petalucha, P.E.
“I
want a nice shade of sunny yellow,” said Miss Whitby.
“The paint can’t be too bright—I wouldn’t
want my porch to look like a school bus.”
Mr. Petalucha straightened his painter’s cap, then patiently answered, “I know exactly what color sunny yellow is, Miss Whitby. Remember, I’ve been a painter for thirty-two years.”
“But I want a middle-of-the-day sunny yellow,” Miss Whitby persisted, “not a sunset yellow that’s turning golden or an autumn-leaf yellow that’s turning orange. Those wouldn’t do at all.”
Since
she’s so worried about
the correct color, thought Mr. Petalucha, perhaps I had
better reassure her. “They don’t call me Mr.
Petalucha, P.E., for nothing,” he said.
“What does P.E. stand for?” asked Miss Whitby.
“Painter Extraordinaire. Didn’t you know?” Well, I am an extra-ordinarily good painter, Mr. Petalucha thought, even if I don’t really have a fancy title.
“Oh my,” said Miss Whitby. “I had no idea! Then certainly you would know a sunny yellow when you see it.”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Petalucha confidently, “as well as Cranberry Red, Sea-Foam Green, and Dusty Rose Pink.”
Miss Whitby smiled for a moment, then frowned. “Oh no!” she cried. “Then I can’t possibly have sunny yellow.”
Now it was Mr. Petalucha’s turn to feel nervous. Claiming to be a Painter Extraordinaire wasn’t calming Miss Whitby’s fears at all. It was only causing more confusion. “But you love sunny yellow, Miss Whitby. Why would you change your mind?”
“Because a Painter Extraordinaire is painting my porch. The color should be something unusual, something with style and sophistication. A P.E. uses color to express himself. His work is like an artist’s creation—a product of genius. My porch could be the talk of the neighborhood, the envy of all my friends.”
Miss Whitby sat down on the porch swing and patted the seat beside her. “We must think, Mr. Petalucha. We must sit and dream up the perfect color to display the skills of a Painter Extraordinaire. We will not get up until we decide on an appropriate color.”
Mr. Petalucha sat down. “I really think,” he began, “that you would be happiest with a nice sunny—”
“Not yellow,” Miss Whitby insisted, interrupting him. “Let’s see,” she said, tapping her chin in deep thought. “A Painter Extraordinaire color.”
“But, Miss Whitby, I really am not—”
“You really are not thinking,” Miss Whitby scolded. “Hmm . . . Deep Violet? Raspberry? Auburn? Help me, Mr. Petalucha. I can’t do this alone.”
So Mr. Petalucha contributed Blueberry, Cardinal, Tropic Tan, and Mocha. He tried thinking like a true Painter Extraordinaire and added Chili-Pepper Red, Purple Paradise, King’s Gold, Jackrabbit Brown, Rainy-Day Gray, Flamingo Fire, and Sublime Lime. He listed dozens of other colors, each one more inventive than the one before. But none sounded exactly right to Miss Whitby.
After
a long time, there was no sound but the creaking of the
swing. They had named every color they could think of, from
Angel Feather to Zesty Paprika.
Finally Mr. Petalucha said, “I should explain about
being a P.E.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Petalucha, but I’m tired and thirsty, and I’m sure you are, too,” said Miss Whitby. “Let’s forget all this for a bit.”
So Mr. Petalucha waited while Miss Whitby prepared some refreshment. She brought out two filled glasses, and she and Mr. Petalucha sat on the swing, sipping and thinking.
All
of a sudden, Mr. Petalucha stopped the swing, nearly causing
Miss Whitby to topple out. “This is delicious!”
he said. “The best milkshake I’ve ever had!”
“Why, thank you,” stammered Miss Whitby, startled by Mr. Petalucha’s outburst. She often drank banana-peach milkshakes. They were extremely nutritious. But she didn’t think they were anything to get excited about.
“Don’t you see?” said Mr. Petalucha, rising to his feet and striding across the porch. “It’s perfect. It’s close to the color you originally wanted—and it is always wise to go with a color you truly love—but this is softer, easier on the eyes. A gentle blend of yellow and white that you’ll never grow tired of . . . it’s understated . . . elegant.”
Miss Whitby’s eyes grew wide as she realized what he meant. “The perfect color,” she said, her voice filled with the delight of discovery. “Banana-Peach Milk-shake. Now who but you could have thought of that? Mr. Petalucha, you aren’t simply a Painter Extraordinaire. You are a Professionally Exact, Pleasantly Enthusiastic, Perfectly Enchanting, Positively Exciting Painter Extraordinaire.”
Just then Mr. Petalucha might have explained, but Miss Whitby hurried inside for two more banana-peach milkshakes, so there simply wasn’t time.
