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The Hall of Fame - September 1999 |
The Art Fair
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| It is a Saturday. I decide to take my wife to the
Orange County Art Fair. Neither of us is an art buff, but we enjoy
visiting shows now and again. Mandy, I say, let's go. She's still
fiddling in the bathroom ten minutes later.
Mandy and I are nearing our eighth anniversary. We've had our troubles, but we're still together, though sometimes I do wonder how we've managed. I am contemplating this, too, when Mandy walks out of the bathroom. She asks, are you ready yet? Me? I've been waiting an hour. I grab my keys and my smokes and hold the door open while Mandy remembers she forgot something and disappears. As I air condition the Southern California desert, she's doing whatever it is she's doing in the bedroom, or is it bathroom? No matter, she's making us late again. I close the door and sit on the couch. I light a cigarette. Just as I stretch out on the old beige couch, Mandy comes back and ask me what's taking me so long. I wonder about her sanity as I lead her to the car. The car is a sauna. No wonder--if you sat in this desert sun all morning waiting for Mandy, you'd be broiling, too. We roll down the windows and I flip on the air. God, isn't it hot today, she says. I assume it's a rhetorical question and turn on the radio. We reach the freeway and roll up the windows. The car is cooler, but not cool enough. We speak little during the hour plus drive to the Art Fair. I begin to wonder whether it will be worth it after all. At least we're close to the beach now and the temperature should be much lower. I roll down my window. Though it's better, it's still very warm. A big, fat guy in a fluorescent orange vest leaks sweat as he guides me to a parking space in the dirt. I light a cigarette and we walk to the gate. I pay for the tickets and we begin to checkout the paintings on display. Most of the artists here are locals; unknowns with varying degrees of talent. I like most of what I see--until we round the corner. She says, oh, that looks kinda cool. What? There, she says, and points to the one painting I never thought I would see in my life. We are a good twenty feet away and still I know exactly what we'll find on the canvas. As we draw closer, the details become clearer. A little girl, perhaps eight, is sitting outside a plush garden. Tall iron fencing surrounds the garden. The bars are too close together for the girl to slip between. Isn't it pretty, Mandy says, but she's still too far away to suck in all the details. Just wait, I think, but don't say. The little girl is sitting on a bench and dressed in a light blue dress with a yellow flower pattern. Her legs are apart and the dress is just above her knees. She is wearing no underwear, and there is a face of a devil where her vagina should be. Bloody letters spell out The Sins of Another across the top. Oh my God, Mandy says, and what the hell? I knew Mandy wouldn't like it. Still, she draws up near and, in disgusted awe, studies the painting. Let's go, I say. We don't need to see this. Just a sec, Mandy says, and continues to stare. Then, the girl I never thought I'd again see walks out from behind the painting and says hi. Mandy mutters hi but her eyes stay focused on the canvas. I pretend to study the painting, but after a moment, I turn my gaze to the girl. Hi, I say. She's about to say something, then holds back; and analyzes my face. Mandy is too preoccupied with the painting or she'd surely say something. She doesn't like other girls even looking at me, much less scrutinizing me. Then, it happens. Holy shit, the girl says, I don't believe it. My heartbeat quickens and I feel faint. I look at the painting. The girl now has Mandy's attention. Mandy looks at the girl, then me, then the girl. You two know each other?, Mandy asks. Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down. Jack, it is you, isn't it, the girl says, then smiles. Mandy is not smiling. Mandy says, Jack, do you know this girl? I say nothing. Ten years ago, this girl, Gina, and I were lovers--soul mates, of sorts. We lived together, had wild sex and smoked a lot of cocaine, and thought we loved one another more than life itself. But, two days after I got out of the Psych Ward, Gina met me at the beach. She said I love you, but I need someone I can rely on; we party too much together. Let alone I was making fifteen c-notes a week selling coke; she wanted stability. I left the beach that day, expecting never to speak with her again. Gina is in a long, black dress, adorned with intentional holes in the lacy fabric. She has combat boots covering her delicate feet and her raven hair sports splashes of purple. I'm Gina, she says to Mandy, Jack and I used to be lovers. I take a step back. Mandy's not happy about this at all. She'll figure I took her here so I could run into my first true love. Yes, I did make the mistake of telling Mandy that. But a few of the words I've shared with Mandy that I wish I hadn't. Gina hugs me, tight, firm--Mandy fumes. Far be it from me to break up this little reunion, Mandy says, right before she storms off. She stops after a few feet and says she's going for ice cream. Funny, I think, how Mandy turns to ice cream whenever she's angry. She's gained fifty pounds since we got married. I think it's all from post-anger ice cream. Gina kisses my neck and turns to watch Mandy elbow her way through the crowd. Gina asks me if I like her painting. I say yes. She tells me after all these years she finally put a brush to it. When we were together, I never expected her to graduate from her crude pencil drawings. It's wonderful, I say. The artistry is indeed wonderful, but I am aware of the story behind the painting and it is ugly. We spend a few minutes talking about what we've been doing since we last saw one another, then we get around to talking about the partying we used to do. You still basing?, she asks. No, I say, I haven't touched coke since I got out of 5150 lockup. I still do, she says, a lot. I see the years of drug use written on her face as lines a thirty-five year old woman just shouldn't bear. I imagine under the purple streaks, the raven hair is revolving to light gray. She puts a cigarette between her lips. Her hands shake as she puts a lighter to it. She says, I don't party like we used to, though--I've never met someone who could smoke as much base as you. If we stayed together, we'd probably both be pushing up daises by now, she says. I tell her it was great to see her again and best of luck with her painting. She hugs me again and I hug her back. She kisses me on the neck and I thank my lucky stars we didn't stay together. I say good-bye. I find Mandy standing next to a trashcan, wiping vanilla ice cream from her hands and lips. She throws a wad of crumpled napkins in the trash and we walk to the car without saying a word. And we drive home that way, too. We eat dinner in silence and watch the evening news. Then, I switch off the set. It's because her father raped her when she was a kid, I tell Mandy. That's what it means. She can't get to heaven since her father spoiled her. The devil owns her now, I say. But, it's no use. Mandy doesn't care, or is just refusing to listen. I'm sorry, I say. I didn't think in a million years I'd ever see Gina again, let alone at that damn fair. She glares at me for a moment. Honey, I say, I love you and I'm happy we're together. I'm sorry we saw her, I'm sorry she hugged me, I'm just sorry, I say. Mandy sits for a few minutes longer, then walks over, kisses me on the cheek and says, I love you. Then, she goes to bed. I flip on the television and watch Politically Incorrect with Bill Maher. >Copyright ©1999 Dave Sherman. All Rights Reserved |
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