33. art or abetting
“Even in his reduced environment, he felt that they still wanted more.”
Micky had just woken up from a bad dream of burning bread to the pain
of a terrible cold sore pussing on the left side of his lip. He was
lying in the back of the Galaxy 500 thinking about his options. He
did not have the money to go to the clinic.
I didn’t ask to be born. Micky thought to himself. It is no wonder
that people don’t give a crap about their own lives, carry guns and
take pot shots at anything that moves. Society should maintain its
people and not just regard them like another cog in the wheels of
industry. If society doesn’t care doodly-squat for my life, let alone
theirs, why should I respect anybody else? A gust of wind rattled the
Galaxy.
Micky knew his worth as an artist, even though he did not deserve
this viral crustation on the side of his mouth and consequently the
scorn of every female he approached. He had proved himself adept as
an A.C.N.E. artist / to be adept with his anti-constructivist, neo-
errorist actions, and felt that he had paid his dues and society now
owed him one. It was true that his sublime artistic statements left
many with a bad taste in their mouths. Some statements were never
really fully digested by the public. He felt that if the world was
going to get any better, it was the role as an artist to be a
catalyst for change.
He smiled to himself, knowing that their dislike was an appropriate
critique of his works in progress. It took time for parody to sink
in, especially if the piece was so self-explanatory that the viewer
did not understand the irony the first time around. It was
unfortunate, he determined, that his brilliance would only be
recognized after being studied in the academies, coming to light in
the everyday world probably long after his death.
There must be some place somewhere for me in the universe. Micky
thought staring out through the back left hand window of the Galaxy
500, that respects their art treasures when they’re living and not
when they’re dead and safely decomposed. I suppose, I am just too
much of a threat for the living and will have to be silenced or
sacrificed in the present, only later to be resurrected as a hero.
He wadded up a Kleentex extra soft and scented facial tissue and ever
so lightly touched the open wound at the corner of his mouth. What
the hell have I been doing, he questioned, to get such a god-damn
massive cold sore? He studied the yellow pus on the facial tissue. I
haven’t been sucking off stray beer cans, lately. Damn, this pisses
me off! He crumpled up the Kleentex and tossed it over the front seat.
Micky sighed at his lack of prospects of meaningful activity for the
approaching day. He would visit Dallas, smoke a joint, drink a cup of
coffee, eat a sticky bun and talk about art, love, work, people and
in general, life. They would sit on the porch and discuss the
fundamentals of the anti-constructivist, neo-erroristic art movement.
They would debate the role of the art academy in society, research
different methods of communication, grapple to understand the bizarre
nature of social codes, and devise a plan of action to lash out at
the depravity of mankind and the abyss of non-creativeness.
With time to kill, ugly and broke, Micky felt his life had run amok
and not even a cup of java could brighten his spirits. He fumbled
through his back seat closet, rummaging through the empty cans of
Pap’s, crumpled bags of Cheez-do’s, Hostess Ho-Ho’s and tiny wadded
up balls of aluminium candy wrappers, and pulled out his diary.
He made himself comfortable, propping himself up in the back seat.
There was just enough dawn for Micky to write, and with the aid of a
nearby street lamp, he was ready. He sat for a moment, opened to a
blank page, pulled out a pencil and began to jot down a few thoughts
as he sat waiting for the day to arrive.
Time is outside my understanding, he wrote. It just creates problems
because time is its own problem. I have come to the conclusion that I
have to get a job.
Micky pondered the repercussions of such an act. It would certainly
mean death to his famous bohemian lifestyle. Money is a tool of power
and oppression, the root of all man’s evil. Money is also a tool for
survival.
Getting a job meant for Micky the worthless consumption of his
precious time and the betrayal of his politics and his principles. He
placed his pencil between the pages and closed his diary. Change was
in the air as another gust of wind shook the Galaxy. He started by
collecting the discarded articles around him into a plastic bag. One
trash bag led to another and within a few minutes, Micky had managed
to straighten up his mobile home.
“Hey, hey, hey! What’s this?” Micky had stuck his hand between the
seats and located a coin. “I think I’m goin’ to have breakfast.” He
dislodged the seat temporarily to facilitate further salvaging. Amid
the dust and little objects lost from purses and pockets, he found a
quarter, a dime, one nickel and a newly minted penny, forty-one cents
in all. He counted his newfound resources, combined with the few
cents that he still had. The grand total gave him enough to make a
visit to Slaveway worthwhile. He would pick up some specialty
breakfast products before heading off to Dallas.
He added an extra layer of clothing and prepared his materials for
the day. He stuffed his telephone book and his pocket instamatic into
his backpack. He removed the bags of trash that he had collected and
left them next to the locked industrial dumpsters in the parking lot.
The usual morning onslaught of commuter traffic had not yet begun.
The dawn light was slowly breaking over rice fields, birds were
singing in the trees. It was the beginning of yet another beautiful day.
He locked the Galaxy and patted the hood a couple times for
sentimental reasons, thanking his home on wheels. He knew if ever the
Galaxy were to be towed away, he would indeed be homeless. To be
without a home would be straw that would break him, sending him
spiraling down through social disorder and delinquency.
Last night he had stationed his home in the parking lot of the almond
factory at 13th and B, not the best area in the Grid to leave his
home, but he saw no alternative. He was running on empty and would
probably have to search tonight for another place to park and sleep.
He strapped on his backpack and started walking the twenty or so
blocks to the supermarket. It was gray and moist, intermittent gusts
of cold and warm air with morning drizzle, a day to cherish for it
was not too often that it was overcast. Actually, he thought, this is
perfect weather for spending a day at the Bum ’n Burn, reading,
writing, babbling endlessly with caffeine freaks on their tenth cup
and maybe even finding some kind of job.
He changed directions and walked east through the alleys, checking
out the back of people’s houses, passing elm trees slated to be
chopped down. Always on the take, Micky decided to make a quick
detour and stop off at the tram station and bum extra change from
commuters. He had not planned on doing a performance action so early
in the morning but he knew as an artist he was always creating. Life
for Micky was one big neo-erroristic action.
He knew his cold sore would work to his advantage in coaxing coins
away from the brainless yet politically correct state workers as he
sat on the platform passively begging. He donned his knitted cap and
a note he had written stating his need for a snack and began singing
à cappella the words of a song which spanned generations.
It takes five seconds to decide
if you’re going to be like a butterfly,
five seconds of your time,
if you’re goin’ to be hers or goin’ to be mine.
Never goin’ to be happy again.
How am I going to get through?
Lying naked in a cage,
can’t take it, full of rage.
Like an animal in the zoo,
what am I goin’, goin’ to do?
How can I still love you
after what you put me through?
Lying naked in a cage,
looking up in the sky,
I am full, full of rage,
constantly asking why.
Want to be a butterfly
flying free at the zoo.
I want to fly, fly away
and get away, ’way from you.
I want to be a butterfly
flying free at the zoo.
I want to fly in the sky
and get away, ’way from you,
’cause:
Butterflies are free at the zoo.
Butterflies are free at the zoo.
Butterflies are free at the zoo.
Butterflies are free at the zoo.
Micky sang the song until he was escorted off the platform by Lite
Rail guards. He did manage to double his bounty, though. Deciding it
was still too early for Sunbeams not wanting to confront the mass of
state yuppies grabbing their first double espresso on their way to a
power breakfast, he returned to his original plan.
He passed through Mrs. Gabor’s garden shaking rose petals to the
ground. Mrs. Gabor was a local downtown celebrity. Old and forgotten
by her husbands, she improvised by holding church at her house with
the neighborhood turks, smoking pot and offering bakery treats. She
had cured herself of cancer through a macrobiotic diet, and had
convinced local authorities that her property was outside their
domain of eminence. It had been a long and arduous battle. The Grid
community had rallied together and prevented developers from
demolishing yet another historical landmark and constructing a
disposable glass cube office complex in its place. Occasionally in
summer, Micky would do some light garden work or paint a chalk mural
on the sidewalk in front of her house. For which, Mrs. Gabor would
bring him out a beer and a sandwich and they would chat a bit till
the sun got too thick and she had to retire.
He walked past 1617 18th street. He had a particular interest in
the address, a freak accident when it came to the postal service
parceling out addresses. The same was true with the telephone
company’s distribution of phone numbers. Denver’s in particular,
444-5678, was dead easy to remember. Micky searched for a
metaphysical coincidence and finally shrugged the idea off after
associating it with the chaos theory. He continued east, crossing
over to the Alkaline Flats section of the Grid. He spied a woman
putting money into a newspaper machine and quickly ran over to her.
“Hey. Could you do me a favor, could I have one of those newspapers?”
Startled, the woman was about to close the machine door but Micky
stuck his hand in the way. “Look. I don’t have any money and I’m
tryin’ to find a job.” Micky grabbed the Bee. “Thanks.”
The woman stepped back and studied Micky “Why, that’s funny. What a
coincidence. What kind of job are you looking for?”
“I dunno. Something part time where I just do manual labor and don’t
have to think.”
“There is a fast food place opening up on Z street. I saw a sign in
the window the other day. They’re taking applications.”
“What kind of fast food?
“I can’t tell you. All those places look the same.”
“Where?” Micky asked.
“Near the old Target building. Next to the cemetery.”
“Do you mean on the other side of the YMCA?”
“No. Not that far. Further down from Tower Theater.”
“Is it next to the Sumitomo Bank?”
“Between the bank and La Loca Dia.”
“Oh. I know what you are talking about. It’s going to be an ethnic
fast food restaurant. I think they’ll hire their family first. You
know, I have to tell ya’, I’m tired of slingin’ burgers, ma’am. I did
that already, and I am also over washin’ dishes.”
“Suit yourself.” She folded the newspaper and tucked it under her
armpit. She took a step back and noticed Micky’s attire. “I hope you
don’t mind me asking, but do you need a pair of shoes, it’s getting
cold.” She was referring to Micky’s torn and dirty jeans, faded sweat
shirt and bare feet.
“Yeah. Well maybe it’s time.”
“Well, if you want, I got some old shoes from a former tenant of
mine. He was about your size. Say, if you want, I got a little job
for you. I’ll give you something to eat.” she offered. “What size
shoes do you wear?”
Micky held his breath, not knowing which question to answer first. “
Yes. Yeah, I can do some work for you. Size forty-two.” He answered
affirmatively, not wanting to miss an opportunity that could turn out
positively. Micky was thrilled that this woman had taken interest in
his life. He forgot about the cold sore for a moment. He reached into
his pocket and pulled out a crumpled package of generic cigarettes.
“Would you like a smoke?”
“Don’t mind if I do. It’s been a long time since I had anyone offered
me a cigarette. Sure, thanks.”
“What kind of job is it?” Micky inquired, lighting the cigarettes
with his Zippi lighter.
“Like I said, a tenant of mine moved out and left all his stuff in
his room. I need for someone to clean out his room. You can have
whatever is in there. Plus, there are some old newspapers and bottles
in the cellar I need to bring to the recycling center. I have a
shopping cart in the garage. You can make a couple of trips. Can you
do garden work?”
“Depends. What kind of garden work?”
“I need someone to dig a ditch for a compost pile. It’s a day’s
work.” She nervously held the cigarette in her hand. “We can talk
about it later.”
“Sounds good.” He took a puff.
“Okay. I’ll pay wages by the hour and you can keep the money from
returning the bottles. I’ll be happy to get rid of the junk. I think
that would be enough money to do something about that cold sore.”
“Oh yeah!” Holding up The Bee to cover his facial blemish. “It’s been
botherin’ me something fierce and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“You come with me now and I’ll doctor it up. I used to be a nurse’s
assistant, you know, during the war. Come. I’m walking back to my
house now. Do you want to come now?
“Yeah. I’ll follow. I have some time. Where do you live?”
“I live just a few houses down at 1418 F Street.”
“You live pretty close to the house where Richard Trenton Chase used
to live.”
“Who’s he?” She stepped over a pile of dried elm leaves and dead puce
gutted bugs. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“No,” smiling, “he’s the guy who went on a blood drinkin’ spree. The
self-proclaimed vampire of northern california. You never heard of
him?” He pointed to another house on the same street, “And that’s
where Squeeky Fromm used to live. I had some friends who lived there
afterwards and they found a gun in a secret compartment underneath
the stairs.”
“Who’s Squeaky Fromm?” The old woman shuffled up the pavement with
Micky along side.
“Ever hear of the Manson family?”
“No.” They stopped at the chain link fence surrounding her property.
“I’ve lived here for the past 40 years. This house has always
belonged to the Puente family. My father bought it when he came to
work for the state. I don’t remember the Mason family living in this
street.”
“Never mind.” He followed her into the front yard with a tinge of
apprehension. “You wouldn’t understand anyway. It’s a long story.”
“Don’t forget to close the gate behind you.” She said going up the
wooden stairs.
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