36. an icky day
There sure are a lot of little things that can really fuck up my day.
Like when people tell me I look tired when I’m not. Or when I got
this piece of spinach stuck on my tooth and no one mentions it and
I’ve talked to a hundred people.
Such were Micky’s thoughts as he waited for the mile long train that
cuts through the grid twice a day to pass. He was bummed out. He had
just had a bad experience that had gotten him thinking. He had been
craving a vanilla That’s That and had gone to his local market to
satisfy his yen. When he got there, he was told that the last one had
just been sold. Disillusioned, he chose a peppermint Dove Bar instead
and went to pay. June refused his five-dollar bill, claiming it
was counterfeit. Disenchantment with his neighborhood grocer
led him to question the ethics of consumerism as he walked
down the street. On his way, he noticed an Art Angles flyer,
tore it off the telephone poll and stuck it in his pocket. A modicum
of faith renewed.
Micky waited and smiled at the others who had collected waiting for
the train to pass. Behind them he noticed the holiday lighting that
had started to appear around town. He wondered why people bought
into the world of commercial festivities, if there was any depth in
holiday merry making or if it was just another excuse for self-made
disillusionment.
“Hey you, psst!”
Micky looked around.
“Hey you. psst. Over here. Psst!”
He continued to search the faces.
“Psst. Over here, man.”
Micky finally noticed the chubby youth sitting on the wooden steps of
a dilapidated victorian.
“Come here, man.” He waved for Micky to approach.
Micky peered at the youth, who seemed vaguely familiar. He looked
trustworthy enough in his red and white sweatshirt and green jogging
pants. He was even sporting a new pair of Jordans running shoes.
Micky turned around and pointed to himself, “You talk’n to me?”
“Yeah. You buddy. Come over here.” He motioned for Micky to approach.
Micky sauntered over to the steps of the dilapidated Victorian.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Micky nodded.
“You like to smoke?” He took a quick puff of an imaginary object.
Micky nodded again and sat down next to the youth.
“I thought so.” He lit the joint he had been hiding in his palm, took
a quick drag to get it burning and handed it to Micky.
Micky smiled, said, “Tastes really good,” and returned the joint to
the youth. Micky somehow managed to remain high throughout
his waking
hours. However, for the past weeks, he had been smoking some nasty
skunk that got him only a teeny bit high and left him with a sore
throat.
“Yeah. It be Californian Sunny Bud, the best, man. You don’t get this
stuff that often.” They watched the train and passed the joint
between them, carefully milking every wisp of smoke from the doobie.
“Too bad this stuff is illegal. If it was legal, it would change the
world. Do you want the rest?”
“No. You finish it.”
Micky took a nose hit and threw the joint into the garden. They both
sat in silence and enjoyed the high. Sometime later, they
simultaneously became aware of their environment and realized the
train had passed.
“Look. I gotta go. I was wondering if you could do me a favor? Do you
need some holiday gifts? I just got fired and I need some money, I’ve
got to unload some records, maybe you’d like to buy some?”
“I thought I recognized you. You work at Power.’”
“I did until recently. There was a massive culling, man and a bunch
of us got fired.”
“You know my friend Denver then. He got fired too.”
“Yeah. I know him. My name is Juan.”
„Micky’s my name.”
They shook hands.
„So, I got fired the next day. My replacement was already there.
Power is a machine and we are slaves. So how’s Denver doing?”
“Like you. Lookin’ for money. Look. I don’t need any records but I
would love to buy some pot.” He reached around for his wallet. “Do
you have any extra?”
“My uncle’s got pot. You’ve got to come with me. We live in the
victorian over there.”
The two walked over the tracks to another dilapidated victorian where
Juan introduced Micky to his uncle and went to the kitchen to make
some hot chocolate. After a moment, Micky suddenly realized with whom
he was speaking. It was the artist whose claim to fame came from
creating a scandal by ripping off his clothes at a televised Church
of Opportunity, First Christian service, and prostrating himself
before the altar whilst foaming at the mouth.
“You know, I wrote about your church action in the local rag. Wow! I
finally get to meet you.”
“You found me. It was meant to happen. At first they didn’t know what
to do with me. I pretended to be in a religious trance and I got to
sleep in the church next to the altar. People would bring me food and
I’d lick their sins. It was really art but it’s hard to get a show
when you do stuff that criticizes society. No one wants shit hanging
on the walls. They want pastoral scenes and all that kitsch.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this long ago. I’ve got stories
to last a lifetime. You want to see some documentation?” He lit a
joint, took a deep hit, and passed it to Micky. Juan came back with a
spicy hot cacao drink and some biscuits.
Micky watched and listened as José recounted his adventures at the
church, and how he had met Preacher Dan and persuaded the reverend
of his saintliness, or at least his ability to bring in the crowds.
“At first Preacher Dan wanted to pry into my devoted intentions, but I
just babbled on about my art and gave it some religious overtones.
That seemed to satisfy him. Juan, here, filmed the encounters with
the pilgrims, and pretty soon it was like a carnival. They started
building an altar around me. I had a bed of flowers, candles, there
was food galore, plus wine and rum, and I just lay there. When I
needed exercise, I would just shake and howl a lot. But I could see
after a while that Preacher Dan was not happy. My altar had started
to challenge the beauty of his. Here’s the scene when I got up and
walked out.”
“You just left?”
“Yeah. I felt that my popularity was beginning to wane. You know when
you’ve overstayed your welcome. I wanted it to remain a mystery with
no hard feelings. So one foggy night in Sacramento, I blew out the
candles and just walked out. Performance art doesn’t have a beginning
or an end.”
“Sounds like an A.C.N.E tactic to me, anti-constructivist, neo-
errorist.”
“I call it The Opportunists. Clever and money.”
“Yeah. Clever and money. The Opportunists. If that means randomly
breakin’ down the concepts of tired males who burn for post-
modernism, then I’m with ya’.”
They slapped their hands together.
“Wow! What a coincidence. I am so glad to have met you. When I
started researchin’ about you for the Sutters Weekly article, about
the man who’d been livin’ in the church, I put two and two together.
I knew it had to be some art thang. I know about what you did in
Hanford. You got thrown out of town for that.”
“Smart, dude. I shouldn’t of mixed gasoline with religious hatreds.
People were bound to react. But that was the point of the action. I
haven’t been back since. That’s also why I decided to just up and
leave the church of christ.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So what are
you up to?”
“Right now, I’m doin’ this time-space work. I’ve been livin’ in a
Ford Galaxy, documentin’ my life on the streets of Sacramento. I
don’t drive it that much. I lock my bike to the car bumper. Can I
take your picture?” He popped a last morsel of biscuit into his mouth.
“Sure. Sounds like a good idea. This will be my first documentation
since the church event. I’ve been hangin’ low planning my next
action. You know that Reallife is coming up here to build a chemical
factory. Say, what’s your name?”
“Micky Hill,” he mumbled and sucked the last drop from his cup of cacao.
“Icky Ill?”
“Okay.” Micky swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Why not?” He
coughed harder. “Yeah. I guess that works. Thanks.” He took the glass
of water that Juan offered. “You know, people have been callin’ me
all sorts of things. Just recently, I used to have an ’m’ and an ’h’
attached to my name, but I guess I’ve just been baptized Icky Ill.”
He nodded to José. “A while back, people called me Micky Hill, and
before that it was Micky Bill, and before that, Billy Hill and Micky
Bill Hill, and way before all of that, it all started off with
Michael William Hill, The Third. You get the point. I guess sooner or
later, I’ll be reduced to Ill or K.Y., or maybe even just Y.”
“Wow. How deconstructivist, reducing one’s name! That’s something to
think about. So, Micky Hill, or Icky Ill. The former name rings a
bell. This is a long shot. You wouldn’t happen to know an artist by
the name of Vella Schwartzman?”
Icky whistled loud and clear in affirmation.
“I thought maybe you did. I know her, too. We went to school together
in sacto before she moved to stockton. We did a piece in berkeley a
while back where she ironed and told stories of abusive childhood and
genocide, and I lay naked in a bathtub full of cow eyes for twelve
hours.”
“I remember Vella telling me about it. I’ve seen pictures of the
performance. To date, the only one she has officially done. A really
strong piece. I wish I would’ve seen it.” Icky yawned and stretched
his arms above his head. “Sorry, oxygen deficiency.”
“Oh, it was. We had people throwing up. Vella was on so much speed,
she was going, going, going, gone. I don’t think she shut up for a
second except for the times when she broke down and started crying.
It was an emotional soup kitchen. We had people coming in and telling
their stories of debauchery. We had people coming in and bleeding
their souls out on the floor. It was beyond the grasp of any ordinary
consumer. So it never played again, that constellation.”
“So you’re the one in the bathtub.”
“Yap. That’s me. I had hair back then, long hair.” He ran a hand over
his bald head. “You know, Vella showed me some stuff from you and
a friend of yours, I think his name is Danny Griess.”
Icky laughed. “Denver Griess.”
“Yeah. That’s him. She says you two are a clever and creative duo.”
“That’s good to know.”
“She also says that she has a lot of respect for the both of you and
is glad that others are here to take up the sword.”
“She said that? That’s nice of her. I respect Vella but she put me
through hell. It was only after I calmed down, that she calmed down.
She really knew how to work my nerves.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve got a few stories myself. She’s always
trying to bring out the best in others.” He nodded sympathetically.
“We’ve got to meet again. You know where I live. I’d like to read
that article you wrote. Plus, I’m planning an action that you might
be interested in participating in. So how much pot do you want to buy?”
“A small bag. I don’t have that much money.” Icky reached around to
retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. “Oh shit.” He tapped his
other pockets and surveyed the area around him. “Where’s my wallet?
I had it this morning. Wait minute. I know.”
Without explanation, Icky ran out the front door and across the
street to the victorian where he had met Juan. He frantically
searched the surroundings but found no wallet.
“D’ooh!” he cursed and slapped his forehead with the palm of his
hand. “This is a bad day.”
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