Aeicha scurried down the dark plasphault alleyway. The city was long since asleep, as were most of its respectable citizens. Nevertheless, there was a fair amount of traffic--yet another reason to get home as soon as possible. But being small, and garbed in the dark cloaks typical of his kind, he didn't exactly call attention to himself.
Aeicha had been held late at the spaceport that night. One of the freighters docked had some sort of problem with its hyperdrive motivator, which meant that it had had to limp into the system on its backup drive, and the captain had been complaining all day about how far behind schedule he was. So Aeicha, as the lowest on the seniority list for the maintenance department, got stuck with the job of triple overtime to get the tramp freighter back on its feet before morning.
'Well', he thought to himself, 'at least I get the morning off to work on my piece.' And what a piece it would be too. He couldn't wait to get home, just to start planning the next stage of his work on this project.
As he approached his housing compartment, he noticed a Corellian and a Rodian standing near his door. The Corellian was dressed in red overalls, which didn't entirely go with his pink flesh and the black hair that covered the top of his head like a moss. The Rodian, on the other hand, was dressed in a smart blue jumpsuit, which complimented his green skin nicely. They were engaged in a discussion of some sort; the Rodian's cupped fingers gesticulating wildly; and had not noticed Aeicha's approach. Aeicha couldn't imagine any reason why they would be waiting for him, so he stepped a little extra hard in the next puddle. One of the Rodian's antennae turned in his direction, and the two looked toward him. Since a one-meter tall, brown-cloaked humanoid isn't exactly an imposing sight, their reaction should have been one of unconcern. Instead, the Corellian called to him.
"Hey, you! Jawa!"
Since Aeicha was the only one of his kind in sight, it would have been hard to pretend not to have noticed him. So he turned, faced them, and asked him what he wanted.
"Jae macha?" he said.
The Rodian whispered something into the Corellian's rounded ear, and he grinned, showing a typically mammalian row of white teeth.
"You're the Rat with the artistic bent, ain't 'cha?" It was difficult enough for Aeicha to understand the Corellians' mode of speech when they spoke properly, much less so when they slaughtered their own grammar. But the basic gist of his comment, and the racial slur he used, was clear.
"Ieth," Aeicha acknowledged.
The Rodian giggled, the sound reminding Aeicha of a worn servomotor he serviced that afternoon at the docking bay.
"Haw, haw, haw!" The Corellian's laughter was much more boisterous, and Aeicha prayed that he didn't waken any of the assorted beings that could be called his 'neighbors.'
"Who ever heard of a Rat making art?!?" the ignorant Corellian howled. "What's your latest masterpiece, eh? Hydrospanner still-life? Landscape of a circuit board? Haw, haw, haw!"
Aeicha saw a light come to the left, where a down-and-out Gammorean lived. He decided that if old Gr'thnash was waking up, he didn't want to be out here anymore, so he keyed in the passcode to his door, and slipped through.
Inside, he took off his robe, and removed his tool belt. 'What do they know, anyway', he told himself. They wouldn't know art if it came up and bit them.'
But the sting was still there, and he sat down heavily on a stool in the corner. Outside, he heard a roar from outside where the pig-snouted Gammorean was giving the hecklers a piece of his mind. Aeicha chuckled when he thought that it would have to be a small piece, or the Gammorean wouldn't have much left. Thus slightly cheered, he picked himself up, and went into what he would have called his studio, if it wasn't in actuality a very small closet.
There he sat for a while, admiring his latest project. No, it wasn't a painting of engineering tools, nor did it have anything to do with the functioning of computer technology. Yes, it was composed of old scraps that Aeicha had pilfered from the recycling bin at the spaceport, but the lines and curves that had been welded into and pounded out of the metal were anything but mechanical. In fact, the sculpture almost seemed to flow together.
'If only I could get a real admirer of art to look at this,' he said to himself. 'Then I might get some appreciation around here.'
He slipped out of the closet, and made his way through the dark quarters to the tub of scraps and rags, which most beings would call a trash pile, but he called a bed, and climbed in. He quickly fell asleep, despite the racket his "neighbor" was making with the punks outside.
* * * * *
The next afternoon, Aeicha bounced into the spaceport, his eyes glowing from inside his deep hood even brighter than usual. He scampered to the time clock, pausing just long enough for it to register his retinal scan, and scurried to the assignment terminal.
As he climbed up through an access conduit into the communications relay tower to repair a malfunctioning transceiver, his mind was buzzing with anticipation.
That morning, as he had been programming the autochef for his morning meal, he had turned on the local broadcasting net just in time to catch the only art news program that the Mos Eisley newsnets carried. The program talked about several art shows taking place in various parts of the galaxy, most of which Aeicha would never see in his lifetime. What made his heart skip a beat was the report at the end of a small art show taking place the next day, there in Mos Eisley. From that moment forth, Aeicha's mind was abuzz with ideas and plans to get himself, and his work, into that show.
The first thing he did was scarf down the purple gristle that the autochef spat out at him. Most other races would have found it absolutely disgusting, but they never understood anything to do with Jawa culture. Not that they ever tried.
As soon as he was done with that, he raced out into the street, and toward the main road. There was no sign of the scuffle between the Gammorean and those ruffians who had bothered him the previous evening, but that was more a sign of what was waiting to descend on the losers of such an encounter than of how frequently the street cleaning droid came through.
Aeicha followed a course through the city that was as close to a straight line from his quarters to the Mos Eisley Art Museum as was geographically possible. The building was small, reflecting the amount of interest in art this city fostered. When he entered the building, he was confronted by a greeter droid.
"How can I help you?" the droid asked.
Aeicha explained that he wanted to sign up for the art show, and the automaton directed him to the special events terminal. Aeicha scurried over to the terminal, and repeated to the droid there his desire.
"Ah. Another applicant for the art show. How many tables?"
the droid asked. Aeicha figured he didn't need much space, so he asked
for one table.
"Show or show-and-auction reservations?" the droid asked.
Aeicha wasn't sure he had enough to take part in an auction, so he asked
if he was allowed to sell without taking part in the auction.
"Artists are free to make whatever contracts with visitors as are
legal under Mos Eisley general statutes." That sounded good
enough to him, so he indicated show only.
Then the droid looked down at him. "What is the name of the artist
these reservations are for?"
Aeicha looked up at the droid, for a moment feeling that even the automata didn't respect his talent, but then remembered that they aren't programmed for such prejudices.
"Aeicha," he told the droid.
"Species?"
"Ja'aha."
"Please enter credit chip and ID code."
Aeicha slid his credit chip into the interface slot and punched in his authorization code for funds to be transferred from his account. He figured that there should be just enough to cover the registration costs, but he should be able to recoup the costs once he got an opportunity to sell some of his works.
The terminal displayed his old balance, then subtracted the registration fees and output his new balance. It was about what he expected, but it looked so small. Then his credit chip was released, and the droid gave him a registration token.
"Here is your registration chip. The show begins tomorrow at
10:00. Artists may begin setting up at 08:00. Thank you for
registering."
* * * * *
That evening, Aeicha borrowed a small cargo lifter from the spaceport, and drove it home with him. The lifter barely fit into the garage space he was allocated. He spent most of the night packaging up his works for transport, but managed to force himself to get a few hours rest before morning came.
At 07:00, he loaded his smaller sculptures and paintings into the rear cargo compartment of the lifter, and then dragged his latest sculpture slowly to the garage. He got into the operator's seat and activated the cargo lifter's systems. He picked up the sculpture, in the box that he had hastily crafted to protect it, with the lifter's forward claws, and eased the machine out onto the street.
Careening not-too-crazily through the traffic, he made his way to the Mos Eisley Art Museum and pulled up to the loading bay. A pair of bare chested humans were waiting there, and helped him unload the cargo lifter and carry his pieces into the museum. When they asked him when his employer was going to arrive, he told them that he was the artist and that they were his. They looked at him in disbelief, thinking that a Jawa's hand couldn't possibly create something of this beauty. After that, Aeicha continued on in silence, only pointing to direct them where to put the pieces.
When the humans left and Aeicha had parked the lifter, he returned to his table and began arranging his art works.
* * * * *
One hour before the show was to start, all present artists were called to meet the curator of the museum. He scurried over to the aggregating group of beings, mostly humans. There was one Ithorian, with his hammer-shaped head adorned by several pieces of ivory jewelry. A wide-eyed, jowled Sullustan female stood next to Aeicha, and shifted herself to the side as he pushed in.
"Ugh! What's that Jawa doing in here?" one of the thin, human females exclaimed. Aeicha replied to her that he was doing just the same as she was here, but she looked blankly back at him.
The curator looked from Aeicha to the female, then said, "This is one of your fellow artists. Dala, meet Aeicha." The curator looked back at Aeicha with a grin on his face. "He paid the registration fee, just like the rest of you, and therefore has the right to display his art." Aeicha wasn't that proficient at interpreting human speech patterns, or he would have noted the patronizing inflection in the curator's voice.
After a brief discussion, the artists were released back to their stalls. Aeicha hovered over his works, almost quivering with anticipation. 'This is it!' he thought.
* * * * *
When 10:00 arrived, the doors were opened. Beings of all descriptions began trickling in in ones and twos. Over the course of the day, Aeicha figured that he'd seen about half of the races in the Empire. Or, at least, half of the races in the sector.
The curator spent nearly the entire day by the front door, welcoming all of the visitors, and giving them background on the artists. Whenever a group of visitors would come to Aeicha's table, they'd either grin and shake their heads, or make an exclamation about the quaintness of his work. Now and then, a visitor would actually offer to buy a piece, and if Aeicha had been quick enough, he might have caught words and phrases such as "charity" or "humor the creature" or "it's a novelty."
By the end of the show, Aeicha had made enough from sales to cover the registration fees plus a little. He loaded up what was left into the cargo lifter, and departed for home. As he unloaded everything, he was daydreaming about being invited to the Alderaan Institute of Art as a guest lecturer.
* * * * *
"I'm glad we got rid of that filthy little creature," she commented after the Jawa had left.
Her companion looked from her to the exit and nodded his head. "Poor deluded little wretch. Actually thinks it's an artist."
"Well, next time, raise the registration fee or something so that things like that can't get in!" she exclaimed. "At least you warned the visitors about it as they arrived."
"Yes, I made sure everyone knew as they arrived that one of the artists was a poor native trying to hock some of its trinkets. And charity dictates that we allow it to do so."
"Well, I don't want to have to compete with one of those creatures again. You may not have noticed up there at the door, but some of the people actually seemed to think the animal's junk had some artistic merit! It took some fast talking to get them to stay at my table!"
"Yes, but if anyone can handle such a situation, it is you, my dear Dala."
At that, her scowl lightened, and she took the curator's arm, and walked to the exit.
* * * * *