10. peach-clobber
Denver was lucky. He knew his living conditions were better than those of
ninety-five percent of the people in the world. He had a roof over his
head even if it was somewhat expensive to maintain. He had hot running
water coming out of the walls, a toilet that washed his waste away,
electricity that made life easier, and trash removal. He was living
in the paradise of sacramento. Lots of sun, and lots of fruits and nuts.
Since he had been out of love, he had not been paying too much
attention to these basic gifts. His health even played second fiddle
to his heart. What went in came out, on a regular basis, and that was
good enough for him. Even the inconvenience of a loose molar, forcing
him to chew on the left side of his mouth, was inconsequential
compared to his broken heart.
He knew that he was lucky enough to be doing something he liked
instead of liking something he had to do. He was an artist, and even
though it meant self-discipline and a meager income, he was more than
willing to pay that price. He did his service to society by working
at a local record store, which meant the rent could be paid even if
it meant sacrificing his ego during his hours of employment.
“I am lucky. I got a job to do.” Denver Griess made his way to the
toilet, turning on the radio in the living room before sitting down
to shit. While doing so, he thought about the last time he had made
money with his art. In it he had juxtaposed his lifestyle with that
of his father.
Whenever business brought Martin up to sacramento, he would stop over
at his son’s house and stay long enough to unload some free samples
and test products, explain what they were about, and drink a cup of
coffee. His father’s visits were always spontaneous. If his son was
not there, he would dump the gimmicks off with Janet, who was always
at home or in the garden. It seemed to Denver that this ritual was
his father’s pathetic attempt at acknowledging his son’s existence,
perhaps in some way, evenhis artistic lifestyle. More than that his
father did not ask, and changed the subject when Denver wanted to tell.
He had plastered every inch of the End Art Gallery with the
advertisements, free samples and test products he had accumulated
>from his father. He called the show, ’Open Space’. The general crowd
did not understand his concept and instead got caught up in a test-
and-free-sample frenzy. He had enlisted a few friends to be sales
assistants and the show sold out. Denver had made sure that there was
something for everyone and had given away as much as he had sold. To
top it off, he auctioned off the items he most valued, and sent the
crowd into a bidding frenzy. It was a great publicity stunt and the
sacramento art crowd had lapped it up.
Based on this success, he had a group show at SoToDo in the fall and
had been promised a solo show at the prestigious Benjamin Levy
Gallery by Benny himself. Though if it actually materialized, it
would be a miracle. The show was scheduled for November but Benny was
known for weaseling out of oral commitments when his wallet required.
Is that what it takes to bring art to the people? Denver asked
himself. Isn’t there another way to get my message across? People
like Benny only really want a Martin to come along and present them
with catalogues of cheap objects for top dollar resale. I’m not a
maker of art. I’m simply a line in the sales pitch. It’s the goods
that matter. Bennys and Martins are the middlemen and I’m the
sweatshop worker, the bottom rung on the ladder of capitalism. Is
that how it has to be?
Denver stood, flushed and entered the bathtub. He cleaned his rosette
with water, long ago having rejected toilette paper as a symbol of
man’s devolution. Purged of fecal material, he plugged the tub and
let it fill with warm water. He laid back, caressed his penis and let
the water slowly envelop his body.
Denver thought about his art marketing strategy. It was mostly a one-
man show with a lot of community service in between. For the past few
years, he had been experimenting with yellow, a color seldom used in
western societies. He primed all art pieces with yellow wash, and
wore only yellow clothing, declaring it an ongoing performance art
piece.
The transition had been organic. He gradually replaced worn clothing
with yellow items. When none such could be found, he simply dyed
white garments. He no longer needed to separate because everything
came out the same in the wash. However, he was not dogmatic about it.
He reasoned that wearing black and white was okay as they were not
colors, but the absence or presence of light.
At first people commented, but now only took notice when he wore a
different color.
Going monochrome had brought unexpected benefits.
There were constant gifts of clothing. Everyone had, at one time or
another it seemed, bought something yellow only to never wear it,
usually claiming it clashed with their skin. He was never lost. He
could wander away from a group of friends at will, knowing that they
would have no trouble spotting him in a crowd. His color decisions
were also simplified, whether it be salt-shaker, toilet brush or dish
soap. In the process, what had started off as a continuous
performance art piece, had evolved into his corporate logo.
The phone rang and his answering machine activated.
“I’m sorry. All our operators are busy right now. Please hold the
line.” The opening bars of Tammy Wynett’s ’Stand by Your Man’ whined
for a few seconds until the voice of Denver broke in and announced,
“Thank-you. You may now leave a message.”
“That’s an awfully loud message. Can’t you turn down the volume on
your machine? You shouldn’t subject people to that. Don’t you think
you’re a little too old for such silliness? I’m calling because I
wanted to know if you’re alive. Shoot Denver! Rats treat their
mothers better than you do. Did you see your dad when he was up there
last week? Why don’t you ever call? The house could burn down and if
you don’t keep in touch, you would never know. You’re always so busy
doing whatever it is you do, which, if I know you, is probably
nothing. The only two professions you’re good at are smoking and
sleeping. I’ve got to go now. I got to pick up your father’s suits at
the cleaner’s. I have things to do. In case you wondered, Grandma
Griess is still in a coma at the home. I called the other day to
check. Oh, here’s some news for you. I ran into your crazy friend
Troy the other day at the salon. He said he just got back from taking
a Princess Cruise in the caribbean. I told him you haven’t move. He
said he will call. Oh, by the way, the cat’s sick again. She needs
another diabetes injection, she hasn’t moved in days. Do me a favor
and leave a message at least, so I know you’re alive.”
The phone went dead and the answering machine clicked to rewind.
The water had finally covered his skinny body with its blanket of
moist warmth. Denver started to sing in strong low tones, “Night time
is the right time for reminiscing …” Denver turned off the faucet
with his foot, and his singing crescendoed, “When I get that feeling
of indigo, I just want to lie down and die.”
The telephone rang again.
“Hello. It’s me, Vella, calling you from the abyss.”
Denver’s ears perked up and he stopped singing.
“I’m surprised I remembered your number. I don’t have it written
down. I kept calling the wrong number. I kept calling 442. Ah, forget
it! That’s a great message, Denver. I’m doing the same thing as soon
as I get off. Thank you for calling me and caring about me. I know
what loneliness is. I have been alone most of my life. I’m not okay
but I’m not doing anything bad and I’m taking my meds and seeing a
doctor every two weeks. But I’ve disappeared. No one calls me and I
don’t call anyone else. I’ve disappeared. I wish you’d come and visit
me.”
There was a moment’s pause followed by a sob. He was glad to be stuck
in the tub at this moment for he was not in the mood to deal with her
mania or depression. Although he truly felt her pain at the moment,
communal weeping via satellite just did not make sense.
“I’ll try to call you again. I guess your receptionist is out on a
break. I was going to write you an email but I can’t even face the
computer. I’m real depressed but I’m not doing anything else bad. I’m
trying to quit drinking so at least my drinking is cut down. I’m
still drinking once a week or so and still craving it, you know.
Having a hard time with it, but it is really bad for me. It makes me
cry even more if that’s possible. Thanks so much for calling me and
caring about me. Alright, I love you.”
Denver heard a sob and pictured her wiping her nose on the sleeve of
her black kimono as she hung up.
How sad, he concluded, how love could make or break a soul. Vella
knows the language of sadness. In the emotional state I’m in, she’s
truly one of the only people I can relate to.
As he floated in the hot water, he could not help but bring back
thoughts of happier times, times when he and Peach had been
spiritually bonded. They had promised each other the world, shared
social obligations and loved each other with wild abandon. Such times
would never be theirs again, at least not today.
He stewed further, inadvertently slipping back in his thoughts to the
separation, how it had occurred, how he could have prevented it, what
he could have done differently, and what he would never do in a
relationship again. He ached to love and to be loved. Holding back
the cramping in his heart, he took a deep breath, and tried to sing
the last line of the song that was still stuck in his mind, but tears
welled up in his eyes. Sometimes the sadness was unbearable. He
covered his eyes with his right hand and jerked off with each sob
that overcame him.
He did not care if the bath water sloshed onto the floor. He felt he
had a right to sob. Crying helped him release the tightness in his
heart, helped him unload the emotional weight that was buried in his
gut. From now until whenever, a big black cloud would be hanging over
his head and there was nothing he could do about it. Sink or swim.
The phone rang again. It was Vella continuing her message.
“Hello cheri, it’s me again. I forgot to ask you something. Could you
call or tell Micky, I know he doesn’t have a phone, that I’m not
dead. I am just not into communitcating, right now. Could you tell
Micky that I really appreciate his postcards? Chad has never
understood the relationship between Micky and I. We never did
anything. Could you tell Micky? I can’t tell him. I can’t trust him
after the bad things he said, even though he apologized and said that
he would never do it again. I don’t want him to stop sending me his
postcards. I really appreciate them. I‘ve been trying to answer the
door but I can’t get out of bed. Could you tell him, please? You
know, I got robbed and beat up in the same week. I mean I just don’t
get it. I don’t get it. Some kid from the Kwiky Market beat me up
when I was …”
Her time was up and the machine broke off her monologue. After the
beeps, Denver allowed himself to be distracted from thoughts of his
sadness for a few moments by thoughts of concern for Vella
Schwartzman, whose life was made difficult by her bipolar disorder.
For months, she peaked. Everything she did felt great. She could
consume excessive amounts of alcohol and pot, do a line of speed and
go for days without sleeping. She would push herself to the edge. In
her mania state, she believed everything she did had a spark of
genius, once even crashing her car to smithereens for the thrill of
art. During this phase, she felt she could do no wrong.
Below was the valley of depression. She would be lying flat on her back
for weeks, unable to make it out of bed, unable to make a decision on
even the most banal of matters such as breakfast. Waking up was a
mistake. Communication with the outside world was unbearable. Only
friends whose trust she cherished were given access. Her only
comforts during such spells were those of waiting and spinning out on
handicrafts.
Denver remembered his first encounter with Vella at B.B’s in the wee
hours of the morning. She had been sitting alone at a booth, looking
like a high priestess from an ancient religion, dressed in black with
matching lipstick and nail polish. Her ears were pierced and hung
with silver earrings. Massive amounts of heavy metal jewelry adorned
her neck and her wrists, and fell in chains from her garments. They
tinkled against each other as if to ward off spirits, with even the
slightest gesture. She was chain-smoking and drinking black coffee.
She had brought her own saltines, on which she was nibbling while
alternating between writing in her diary with a glass ink pen, or
staring out the window.
At first Denver assumed drug dependency, but because of the honesty
with which she carried herself, he became fascinated. He smiled. She
nodded. She signaled for him to sit with her and that was all it took
to strike up a friendship that would last through years of her peaks
and valleys of mental illness.
He cherished her uniqueness but was always careful not to get too
involved. Unfortunately, his best friend Micky had had to learn the
hard way, for Vella had a way of sucking friends into her problems
until they were forced to taking drastic and unkind actions to break
away from the relationship. When visiting Vella, one had to know when
to say stop and to always stress a definite time of departure,
otherwise there was no way of escaping gracefully.
Denver decided he would return Vella’s call when he was in a better
mood and sure that he could pay the phone bill. It was never possible
to just call up Vella for a quick chat. They would have to speak for
a good hour before he could even start saying good-bye.
Denver realized his fingers and toes were not only wrinkled but were
beginning to hurt. It was time to get out of the tub and get on with
his morning ritual. It was time to stop dwelling on the past. He
would just have to learn from his sadness. Then, he could celebrate
it and become more of the creative artist he truly was.
After buff drying, he moved in close to the mirror above the sink to
make a little effort at beautification. He found nothing unusual. He
pulled a few visible nose hairs and combed his fingers through his
damp hair. Content that his body was holding up even in such tragic
conditions, he exited the bathroom.
Still naked, fluffing his muff, he followed his two cats who were
waiting to be fed into the kitchen. He filled a saucer half full from
a carton of chocolate milk which he had left out on the counter
overnight, and gave it to the cats. They sniffed apprehensively then
cautiously lapped up the lukewarm chocolate-flavored dairy product.
Since it had passed the kitty test, he poured the remains of the
carton into a faded electric-blue aluminum cup and went searching for
something to eat.
He started at the fridge and cautiously opened the door but found
nothing except a carton of milk, an egg and a Bob’s Big Boy plastic
doll kept there to remind him of the irony of life. He rummaged
around in the cupboards until he found a small can of DeMonty
peaches, some Sunkiss raisins stuck in the bottom of the box, and a
few hard slices of chemically-enriched Wonder Bread. At the gas
stove, he poured the peaches into a saucepan and added the
egg, the milk, the pieces of bread, and crumbled the raisins on top.
As his breakfast mixture coagulated, he glanced at the bounty
surrounding him and forced himself to remember he was indeed – a
lucky guy.
“Peach-clobber. Let’s make it happen.”
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