Negative space, p.5
Negative Space, page 5
“Wow,” James said. “This is certainly nice. Thank you.”
“Of course! It’s a bit of a celebration. You were able to come home at a decent hour.”
We’re celebrating that now. Jesus. Everything’s a celebration. Why not make every day a holiday, stop kidding ourselves with our fucking excuses and fill up and ride the days away detached and intoxicated? World can’t touch us then. No. Can’t touch us.
“I know,” he said. “It’s been a little bonkers.”
Changes were afoot at the firm. They were seeing higher profile cases, throwing him into redeye hours. Of course, it had its upsides: namely, a built-in excuse when he wanted to grab beers with Joe or Larry, or snag a bag of Mickey D’s or...or....
The Schoolhouse. Yes the fucking Schoolhouse.
She knows, doesn’t she? Everybody knows. Somehow, word will get back.
He gave his hands a quick rinse under the faucet, then sat at the table.
“This looks great, babes,” James said, colorlessly. “Thanks again, wow.”
“The macaroni dish over there is actually a recipe I got from Barbara. Her mother made it for Susie’s shower and it was excellent. I hope I got it at least half-right.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
They sat across from one another and began serving themselves, scooping and piling the food onto the china. They sat and ate, James shoveling items into his mouth and happy for the quietness. Teresa fidgeted.
“They keep showing that awful Rodney King beating on the news,” Teresa said. “Man on CNN said it’s become television wallpaper.”
“That’s a good way to put it. It sort of has.”
“I know. I think it’s disgusting. I’m sure those cops will get theirs.” She took a drink of water. “How’d everything go today?”
“He’s not exactly a model scout himself, that King fellow,” said James. “He’s an ex-con. Robbed a convenience store, I think. And I hear he was on PCP when they pulled him over.”
“I don’t know about that. All I saw was a helpless man pummeled by a ton of cops.”
“Bad timing to turn on the video camera, is all I can say.”
“I just wish they’d stop showing it. Everyone talks about how horrible it is, but they keep playing the thing over and over.”
“Do you watch it when they do?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you watch the video when they play it?”
“No, I turn it off, or switch channels.”
The tinkling of glass and porcelain. Kitchen clock chimed. James shifted in his chair.
“So how was everything today?” Teresa asked again.
“All right. Firm got a new client who’s suing PharmAids drugstore for kicking her out for breastfeeding. Larry’s representing.”
“I see. Well, I hope he does all he can. If men can jog almost naked in Speedos I don’t see why women can’t breastfeed.”
“Oh, also, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to Helen’s party tomorrow.”
“What?”
“I’ve got the closing for the Bendoni trial this week, and....” James waved his hands in the air, hoping the gesture would adequately speak too busy. “It’s going to be madness. I’ll be wiped out. I already am. Maybe sometime this weekend we can make up for it.”
Teresa threw her fork onto the plate. She sighed, sat back in her chair.
“What?” James said.
“It’s not just me, James,” Teresa said. “I hope you realize that. I’m not being selfish here and just thinking about me or our relationship and how all your work is affecting me. I’m also thinking about you.”
“What about me? This is my job—”
“Yes, but it seems to be sucking the life out of you. Talking to you lately...it’s almost like talking to a computer.”
“I haven’t noticed anything.”
“Of course you haven’t.” Teresa calmed, tried to smile. “You’ve got your life sucked out of you, remember?”
Her words wore thin dark garments of humor. James grunted.
“Just look at yourself, James, that’s all I’m asking. Self-reflect once in a while. Are you fulfilled? Or just distracting yourself? You haven’t sold a sculpture in ages....”
“I’ve sold two sculptures in my life and you know it. It was something I did as a hobby, that’s all. It was never a lifeline for me. Plus, I don’t think I was ever very good.”
“I thought you sold more than two.”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” Teresa sighed. “It was never a lifeline, but it was something different. It was a playground for you. It gave you such energy and enthusiasm. I just miss that.”
“I was never sure about myself as an artist,” James said. “Never had many original ideas.”
“What about the gallery? You and my father always loved talking about it but it never happened. And now that he’s leaving me the trust—”
“I can still do that. I still want to. Just a matter of finding the right time.”
“That’s not the only real reason you’re keeping me around, is it, James?” Teresa said, clearly joking.
“What?”
“The trust. Dad’s trust.”
“Shut up,” he said, lightly. “You know I also keep you around for the food. Now where’s my cake, woman?”
She smiled a tight-lipped smile and they continued eating in scattered silence.
After dinner, Teresa busied with the dishes. James wandered upstairs to the bedroom, went to the closet, where under his clothes he found the relics of himself. His sculptures. First realistic, which, if he were honest with himself, were lame attempts, then more a flavorful foray into abstraction. Late high school and early college—and the long, daunting summer in between—had been the most creative stretch of his life.
His “art affair”, as he called it, had earned its name for its secrecy. Pops the Judge was never one for the arts, muttering of their uselessness. And so it was for James: a hidden passion, surfacing only in bouts of inspired free time, respite from hours of study or exams. Way back in the day, in grade school and part of junior high, James had been The Campus Artist, the one solicited by peers to draw new dragons, superheroes, or scantily-clad women.
Then he’d done that one of Pam Gardner naked, being devoured by dogs. That one had done it. Oh man. Teacher. Principal. Mom. Pops the Judge. A cold solar system of eyes.
Unbeknownst to his father, James had applied to two art schools, one of them the locally renowned Rheta Art College. He’d been turned down by both, which brought relief and dejection.
Behind him. “Hey you.”
James turned. Teresa. He flashed a sullen half-grin.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m just going through my old stuff in here.”
“I can see that.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting ready for bed, that’s what I’m doing.” Teresa began to disrobe. “Kind of a long day. Are you going to join me?”
“No. I still have work.”
James placed the lid back on one of the boxes of artwork, then flicked off the closet light and stood in the doorway.
“I think I need to wrap up some work for tomorrow’s closing,” he said. “Did you call your dad?”
“Yeah, he’s hanging in there,” Teresa sighed. “He’s still coherent, of course. Asked about you, how you’re coming with the case.”
“That’s good.”
“How is it coming, by the way?”
“Who knows, by this point? I’m defending every Italian-American stereotype rolled into one.” James rubbed his eyes. “If I don’t get him off, family’ll probably come over, pump me full of lead.”
“Don’t say stuff like that,” Teresa said. “Please.”
He headed to the door. “I’ll be downstairs.”
***
After tinkering with his closing argument, he sat on the couch, television flickering across the darkness. Fucking late-night TV. The news programs, jawing about the same story, the story that was constant across every station. The Rodney King Wallpaper. Endless reminder of the African savannah from which we came.
Jesus, listen to yourself.
Again, they played the video. More layers of commentary, diluting the word expert because there were so many said experts adding their two cents. Psychologists. Sociologists. Criminal justice people. Lawyers like him.
King thrashed in the center of a ring of cops raining furious blows upon him, their limbs strikes of lightning upon his crippled trembling body. Officers swarmed around him, scooting into better places to send their attacks.
He moved on.
The Spice Channel was nothing new. Butts and breasts and lathering. Stale. He turned off the television and sat back and fell into a late-night daydream informed heavily from his recent session at The Schoolhouse. Was it open this late? Maybe he could stop by. But Penelope probably wouldn’t still be there. And besides, he couldn’t overdo it. James cashed hefty checks but that shit was expensive. Not only that, the thing itself was best spaced out. He didn’t want his sessions with Penelope to grow stale, though right now such a prospect felt impossible.
And if it does, there’s always other girls.
He fell asleep on the couch.
***
IV
For the immersive and peerless entertainment if nothing else, Max often made the lengthy bus trip to Venice Beach, even without pieces to sell. He’d also made himself a promise that no matter the heights he might achieve as an artist, no matter the fame that might befall him, he would always craft works to be sold specifically here. He had started at the beach and, when he could, he’d always return.
He carried five pieces under his arm, all 9x12 canvases varying greatly in age: one of them, a piece called Geometric Skull, had been in his closet since his senior year at Rheta. Another, far more intricate piece titled Angel Grass, had only three weeks ago seen its last brushstroke.
Sandwiched among them, as it had been for the past ten years, was Moon Watch, the one bearing the likeness of his father. He’d never put it up for display. Maybe that would change. Talking to Karen Eisenlord—or Adams, or McAdams, whatever name she had now—had shaken his feelings toward the piece and he wasn’t sure in what way; like snow in a snowglobe, they would have to settle before offering any clarity.
A homeless man rested on a nearby bench, his torso propping up a cardboard sign. He jingled a cup of loose change.
“Support your local wino!” he shouted. “Help me to a liquor store!”
Max went to his usual spot and set up shop. Several yards over, he noticed another artist who appeared to be watching him. Kind of stocky, bearded, grungy hair jutting below an old ball cap. A giant lawn gnome regrettably granted modern life.
Max noticed a greater variety of media in the man’s offerings than his own: homemade blankets, woven baskets, sculptures and oil canvases. Outdoing me, Max thought. Maybe I should move.
Then the man approached him, casual, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket.
“Interesting stuff there,” said the man. “My kinda shit.”
“Thanks,” Max said. “Some of them are pretty old. But figured I’d flush them from storage.”
“I hear you.” He held out his hand. “Dwayne.”
“Max.” They shook.
After minor hesitation, Dwayne pointed to Moon Watch. “Looks like Germain there.”
“Germain?” Max said, blood running faster in his veins. “Who’s Germain?”
“The legend of Count Saint Germain. You know it?”
“No.” Impatient, impatient.
“He was a fellow from the eighteenth century. Alchemist. Jack of all trades. Still alive, supposedly. Achieved immortality through all his tinkerings. Of course, all kinds of crazies abuse this story, saying they’re the new Count and whatnot. That face in your piece there just reminded me of the latest.”
“What do you mean? How’d you hear about all this?”
“I’m obsessed, that’s how, with all that mysterious unexplained stuff. Got all those books, saved every article I could find. And you let me know if you missed any Twilight Zone episode, cuz I got ‘em all on tape, every goddamn season.”
“This is actually a portrait of my father,” Max said. “Or, at least who I thought was my father.”
Dwayne’s lips tried for a smile but fell short as he recognized Max’s discomfort.
“Your father?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I could easily be mistaken, Maximo, you know that. Don’t mean to insinuate that your dad is a crazy claiming to be a three-hundred-year-old count.”
Max said nothing. He also marveled silently at the man’s nickname for him, ‘Maximo.’ Who knew where that came from, but it had come quick.
Overhead, the sun struggled to crack the marine layer. People swarmed, bustled, the usual endless school of tattooed, skateboarding, dog-walking fish.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Dwayne. “What happened to your pop?”
“Disappeared.”
“Foul play?”
“Don’t know. Never knew if it was purposeful. He just...poof. Haven’t seen him since I was seven. He’s like a dream.”
“Sorry to hear.”
“Looks like something’s biting,” Max said, pointing toward Dwayne’s camp where an attractive couple, hands linked, snooped about the pottery section. The woman picked up a bowl with designs that looked almost hieroglyphic.
Dwayne rushed over to meet them. Max relieved his lungs of a long-held breath.
Germain. Count Germain. What in God’s name is all this?
He took Moon Watch from public display and propped it against a nearby trash can. For now, he would hold on to it.
The man named Dwayne was apparently a good salesman. The couple walked off with the bowl. Max watched as they rejoined the flowing channel of people. The woman held the artifact but the guy had dropped the cash for it. Come the inevitable split, he wondered, which one would it go to?
Dwayne returned, hands jammed into his faded Levi’s.
“Congrats,” Max said. “What was that you sold?”
“A bowl.”
“No, I mean—”
Dwayne chuckled. “I know what you mean. It’s a fertility bowl. Based off old South American tribal myths that a man fills it with hot water and soaks his penis for a while if he’s impotent. S’posed to Popeye you right back up.”
Max looked at him blankly.
“I think I’ve seen you and your stuff,” Dwayne said. “You look familiar. Did you have a show or anything ‘round here?”
“Last show I had was at the Art Institute on Ocean Park. That was a little while ago. And I sometimes come here to sell stuff.”
“No, I don’t think I’ve seen you here. Oh! The magazine...” Dwayne snapped his fingers to the beat of his thoughts, trying to recall something. “Direct...Direct....”
“Direct Canvas.”
“That’s it!”
“Yeah, they had a spread about me in the last issue.”
“Right, right. You use, what, ah, missing persons or something in your art? There was some kind of funny little twist about it.”
“Well, you got it.”
“Right—and yeah, your father went missing and everything, too. I gotcha, I gotcha.”
A stale pause. Please leave, Max thought. But no. You don’t want him to leave. You want to talk to someone. You want company. Besides....
“So why are you obsessed?” Max said. “With, you know, weird things?”
“With Forteana?
“What?”
“Forteana. Umbrella for everything weird. Ghosts. Aliens. Bigfoot. You name it. Charles Fort, my dear. The bedrock of my life. If you want, I can show you. It’s all in my van. Call it my little mobile cave of inspiration.”
“Little cave of inspiration?”
“Mobile cave, yeah. My van. I drive it all over the place. I hunt up reports of things like Bigfoot and all his lesser known cousins and siblings and friends and check ‘em out for myself. It’s a living. Well, not really, but it’s my kinda living.”
“Are you going to publish a book or something?” Max asked.
Dwayne shrugged. “I just take it one step at a time, Maximo, one step at a time.”
“Why do you do it then? For kicks?”
Dwayne shrugged. “I suppose so. Someone has to look into all that. Most brush it off, shove it into corners.” He coughed, violently, then continued in a thin voice. “It’s fine, though—just gives people like us more room to explore those corners, right?”
“I guess.”
“I’m not gonna stick around for much longer,” said Dwayne. “How long you clockin’ in here for?”
“I don’t know. However long I feel like. I took the bus here from downtown so I’m probably going to stay awhile.”
Dwayne winced. “Downtown. Yowzers. Well, I can give you a tour of the cave and show you this Feldman guy, if you’re interested. Won’t take very long.”
“Feldman?”
“Yeah, Clifford Feldman. He’s the guy claiming to be Count Germain.” Dwayne pointed broadly toward Max’s collection of canvases. “He’s an artist up north and I got info on him. See if he rings a bell.”
“Um, I don’t—”
“I know you got your stuff out here,” Dwayne said, “But we got it covered. Hey, Johnny!”
Max followed Dwayne’s eyes through the crowds. The face reacting to Johnny was the vocally honest man jiggling a cup for liquor money.
“Yo Dwayne!” Johnny said. “What’s up?”
“You watch our stuff here?”
Johnny staggered over. “Sure thing,” he said.
Dwayne offered him a two-fingered salute and, with the deftness of a Vegas dealer, shuffled off five ones into the man’s palm.
Max hesitated, unsure.
“C’mon, Maximo. We’ll be back in a jiffy.”
As he placed a friendly hand on Max’s shoulder, Max had a faint, tingling notion that Dwayne already knew him, and knew him well.
***
An explosion of newspapers in here. Of magazines. Of computer printouts. A contained burst of media plastered across every available surface in this wide-bodied vehicle. Max took it all in, amazed for reasons both complimentary and insulting to Dwayne. Tucked in the corner was a small TV and VCR, fortified by a wall of VHS tapes.
