Posted onMay 15, 2022|Comments Off on The Artist at Work
I believe that some of most important literature of the twenty-first century is in utero, incubating this very moment. As one example, there is a twelve-year old orphaned Ukrainian boy who is writing a war diary. There is a photograph of the young artist at work at a desk in the home of his aunt where he is sheltering … handwriting his thoughts. He could be an American boy working on a geometry notebook. But he’s not.
Posted onMay 13, 2022|Comments Off on A New Serious Man?
It’s early morning. There’s not much light in the third-floor studio apartment at the bottom of the canyon of Streeterville high-rises that he can barely afford but at least is where the players are … even if they’re four hundred feet above.
He’s doing pushups on the floor. “Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five” . . . then onto his back for crunches. “Houa. Houa. Houa.”
“Oh my God . . . would you shut . . . the fuck . . . up! I’m tryna sleep!” She rolls over looks the other way.
“It’s six-thirty, hot stuff,” says the vain man putting on his Speed Stick. He sniffs his pits.
She rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Hot stuff? Is there someone else in here you’re talking to?
This makes him chuckle. “Only you baby.”
“Gotta big day big day big big big day,” he says. It is a big day. It’s the kind of day that he hasn’t had so many of by his twenty-fifth birthday. It’s the kind of day that will someday seem ordinary.
“You’ve said that,” says the woman. “’Big, big day,’” she adds mockingly.
“And . . . as such . . . why don’t you get up and fix me . . . an omelet?”
She rolls her eyes.
“I’ll nominate you for ‘girlfriend of the year.”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you go dig a hole?”
“Hahahahaha . . . you know you’re a puzzling person.”
“What?”
He slinks down on to the bed and rides up against her in his boxers and t-shirt.
“Uggh, lemme alone . . . I’m stinky.”
He laughs. “I like the way you ‘stink.’” He traces his finger on the smoothness of her shoulder. “You are a funny bird.”
“What? How am I funny?” she says.
He laughs. “You’re selectively suggestable. Very agreeable . . . in certain facets . . . but then you won’t get up and get me coffee and an egg.” He sits up and pulls on his socks.
“Mehhhh. Be grateful for what you have.”
“Are you awake?” he asks.
“I haven’t been talking to you in my sleep,” she says.
“What time are you going to work today?” he asks, buttoning his shirt.
“Eleven. I told you that last night!”
“Oh, my gosh! Why are you up at 6:30?! You should be sleeping.”
“You such a funny man.”
“Yes . . . yes I am,” he says, pulling on his suit pants.
“Sometimes I feel like you are just talking to yourself.”
“I’m going to tell him you said that,” he says. “Do you want some coffee, mon cheri? Since you’re up?”
“No, I’m going back to sleep after you leave.”
“I’m just sayin’ it’s in the cupboard, if you wanted some,” he says.
“You are soooooo funny! That shtick is going to kill! Just going to rip the doors off.”
“I know. It’s not really even fair.”
“No . . . it’s not . . . your wit and looks. What chance does anyone else even have?” she poked.
“I know,” he says with a concerned look. “Belt or suspenders?”
“For you? Both!”
“Hahaha. I say belt. Little more . . . low-key . . . let ‘em know I’m not trying too hard.”
“Right! Just what I was thinking.”
He buttons his suit pants. “How do I look?” he asks.
“You look nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yes. Very nice.”
“Nice is no good,” says the man.
“What’s no good about it?”
“’Nice’ . . . I don’t know. Whatever. . . .”
“God you are a loser! Fine. You look like James Bond.”
“Mmmmm. That’s more like it . . . ’B oe nd’ . . . James Bond . . . licensed to kill . . .” He sits on the bed beside her and she turns to him. “Licensed to kill for her majesty.” He draws her close looks into her eyes.
“Oh James!” she mocks.
He kisses her and breaks the kiss. “Would that make you Pussy Galore?” he asks laughing.
“Nice.”
“Will you be waiting here for me when I return? I shall have an important debriefing for her majesty!”
“Mmmmm . . . I don’t know.”
“If this goes well, I’m going to debrief the heck out of you!”
“I’m sure you think so.”
“I’m gonna debrief your brains out!”
“Alright then.”
He laughs. “Come on! I thought you were the spy who loved me.”
“Vellll . . . as for beink spy . . . da.” She raises an eyebrow at the thin vain man. “So . . . who are you meetink today, Meester Bond?”
“Arthur Thompson . . . would you look at that?” he asks looking at the mirror.
“Look at what? Who’s that?”
“That chin. No one, just some important dude.”
“What about it?”
“Wouldn’t you say that is a damn strong chin?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
“Your majesty! Please!! I beg your indulgence!!! For without you our empire of love will surely perish! For the love of country . . . tell me if that is not a damn strong jaw line!!!”
“It’s a strong jaw line, mkay.”
“Liar.”
“If you say so.”
“That’s like a quarterback or a cowboy or a boxer or. . . somebody tough.”
Looking bewildered, she laughed. “I have no words.”
“No one should be this good looking! It just isn’t fair!!”
“You’re right.”
“I ought to be in magazines or something.”
“Okay.”
“Look at that chest.”
“Oh god.”
“Look at it!”
“I’m looking at it!! I’m looking at it!!”
“I mean it’s a little blown up onaccounta the push-ups I just did. . . but even still . . . that’s a powerful chest . . . even discounting the pushup inflation.”
She rolls her eyes.
“And those arms . . . those shoulders . . .”
“Oh dear God . . . go to work . . . please!!!”
“It’s not really even fair to call them arms. They’re more like guns.”
“Uh huh . . . weapons,” she says.
“Precisely.”
She studies his reflection in the mirror. “Hey wait?” she says with a tone of concern.
“What?”
“What’s that under your eye?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come here . . . let me see.” He comes closer and she looks into his face. “Oh . . .it’s nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like nothing. . . . just a little discoloration under your eyes. A little ashiness.”
“Ashiness?! What the fuck are you talking about?”
“It’s nothing to get upset about! You just look a little tired is all.”
“A little tired?! Nothing to get upset about?!!” He turns to the mirror.
“It happens when you get older. You get a little gray in your skin under your eyes. You can barely see it. . . . There’s nothing you can do about it anyway,” she says looking over his shoulder as he peers into the silver glass searching.
“Where do you see?”
“Here… it’s right … it’s nothing baby.”
“You messing with me?”
“Nooooo. Well . . . yes . . . I am messing with you.”
“Today of all days!!”
“I’m sorry!” She kisses his lips. “I’m sorry baby.” She’s smiling.
And he’s smiling. “Ok. You’re my girlfriend. I’m going to let it slide . . . for you . . . cuz I like you.”
“Oh good!”
“But anyone else who messes with me today . . . who is not sleeping with me . . . they’re going to have problems!” He karate punches at the mirror.
“Who else is sleeping with you?”
“No one. But that’s beside the point. … My point is that I am going out in the world today – it’s a big day — and I am going to make us . . . some goddamn money.”
“Us? You are going to make us . . . some goddamn money?”
“You heard me.” He pauses to let the moment sink in. “That’s what I said. I’m going to make us some goddamn money!”
She looks at him. He hasn’t been a serious man . . . up until this point. She’s not sure he is now. But she also no longer sure he’s not. A new possibility has opened up. Us. He’s going to make us some goddamn money.
Posted onMay 13, 2022|Comments Off on The Hotel Lobby
“Hotel Lobby” — Edward Hopper — 1943
“Does it matter that she was a consummate bitch her whole life to me? That she drank herself to death?”
“Stop it Madeleine!”
“And all I did was work and be good.”
“Stop it.”
“And Mommy always noticed that the dress that fit Madeleine was too small for me!”
“Marilyn!” said the old man in a stage whisper.
“I will not stop it Father. I will NOT stop it. How much money did you spend on her? On her posh dry-out resorts? On her shrinks? On her meds? On three different colleges?! All fails!”
“That’s not your concern Marilyn.”
“That’s not your concern Marilyn!” She said mocking.
“We’re here for your mother.”
“You’re here for Mother! You’re here for Mother?!! Oh that’s rich. First time for everything!”
“Stop it, Marilyn!”
“And, what’s Mother here for? For me? Is she here for me?! Because that’d be the first time in never!”
The stranger sitting in the lobby reading The Great Gatsby who couldn’t help but overhear looked up reflexively and then back to her novel. The gentleman noticed her taking notice.
“Lower your god-damned voice Marilyn! We’re going to the funeral now and you’ll keep your mouth shut… unless you really want to see inheritance dissipated!!”
My ravine out back is full of weeds and fallen branches. Once when the children were young and the snow fell in the winter we would ride our toboggan sleds down the hill to the valley of the ravine howling with laughter. The laughter in their bellies and their smiling pink faces.
There are foxes and raccoons and squirrels in the ravine. And possums and butterflies and blue jays and robins… and cardinals. The deer meander through the ravine. The old Sycamore sheds its bark.
On the other side there are neighbors but the ravine… the whole valley … is mine. I caught one with an arm load of cut branches he’d thought he leave there. It would’ve been harmless, but I chased him away.
The ravine is a deep empty hole. But I’m full of sadness. Beaten and full and bloated like a washed ashore dead fish. When I was young, I played in the woods behind my house. How many times did I come away with a wicked case of poison ivy? Sometimes I’d find a quiet place under a tree behind the brambles and there I’d sit until my mother called for dinner.
Such a different experience. Her voice warbling over the twilight calling me home. I can still remember the tone of her call. She didn’t know where I was but she knew I was close by. I knew she’d call. As I huddled in my woods fortress of solitude I knew she’d sooner or later call. We do not call for our children today. We do not call them home from their explores. We keep them close and text them when it’s time they come downstairs.
That voice. That voice is so real and comforting. When that voice … that familiar voice … is silent, I get scared. And I look into my ravine out back into the glowing eyes of a leering raccoon … eyes like a laser beam staring back at me … scanning my data … burning my heart.
Steven S. Wallace 