A Brush with Disaster
The time I painted myself into a corner at the end of my lease.
Don’t ask me how in the Millennial we did it, but my partner and I recently bought a house. Pretty rad, I know; I use grown-up words like “equity” in real sentences now.
Of course, before we owned, I rented. That means I’m responsible for leaving the place exactly how I found it. I really wanted my deposit back (and I’m not a scumbag), so we went the extra mile to make it happen. We deep-cleaned the kitchen, patched nail holes, even reinstalled the original light fixtures. All that was left was to touch up a few nicks in the paint. Five minutes tops, then I’m home free.
Minute 3: We realize we don’t have any original paint. Not surprising, since these walls were probably painted before I was born. But hey, who needs original paint when we have technology? I’ll just drive down the street to Ace and ask the Paint Man to mix me more paint in his magic mixing machine. Thirty minutes tops, then I’m home free.
Minute 15: Mr. Paint hands me a sample of my custom paint. It’s basically identical; at certain angles it maybe looks a bit dark, but paint is supposed to lighten as it dries, I think. I take it to the checkout along with a pint of plain white paint that caught my eye. You know, in case we find a nick in the trim.
Minute 20: We test our paint on the first gap. It vanishes instantly. We decide to give it a few minutes to dry, because we’re not stupid.
Minute 30: We’re slapping paint all over the house, happy as a couple dumbass clams. This paint is so much better than we could’ve imagined, and we had a full quart of it; why not touch up all imperfections we find? I bet they’ll repay my deposit twice!
Minute 60: We’re standing in the living room, staring at the wall. We are no longer happy. Our miracle paint does not dry lighter. It dries darker. And darker, and darker, until every haphazard brush stroke was caked into the wall like mud in a carpet.
This wasn’t your ordinary “splotchy” paint job. It was straight-up leprosy.
I open my phone and get straight to panic-Googling. Someone out there must know how to fix this.
Minute 150: No one knows how to fix this. In fact, most websites agree that there is no way to “touch up” really old paint. Either repaint the whole room, or kiss that deposit goodbye. I’m weighing my options, hating both of them, when my eye is drawn once again to that pint of white paint. Inspiration strikes.
Minute 152: I pop the lid and add a dollop of white to the paint tray. If a machine can mix a custom color, why can’t I? It might take a little experimenting, a little trial and error. But once I find that perfect mix, I’m home free.
Minute 4320: If I could go back in time and confront the Rheya who thought she could stumble her way to machine-level precision, I don’t know whether I’d shake her or shake her hand, because holy shit, she did it. It took a week of mixing, waiting, mixing and waiting. I almost ran out of time. But on the third-to-last day of my lease, when I finally brushed on that perfect coat and watched it vanish into the wall, I swear I saw the face of God.
Needless to say, I got my deposit back, and it went straight into the mortgage. Was it worth it? Not really. But hey, at least it built us some more equity.
