by Jacob Wren
* * *
In the weeks that followed I thought a great deal about the incident. It of course might have been a hallucination, caused by the shock of the gunshot or too many drugs the night before, but I was certain it wasn’t. I knew what hallucinations felt like, perhaps too well. This was clearly something else. What’s more, as I so often do, I was considering making work about it, googling “furry,” “mascot” and “guns,” scrolling down through several pages of sex, sports and artillery before finally slipping across the following Wikipedia entry:
Mascot Front is shadow organization, apparently underground, more or less impossible to track, possibly real, possibly apocryphal, focused on the social liberation of those who wear mascot uniforms (like those worn at sporting events) at all times, and wishing, while still wearing such uniforms, to have equal social and political status as all other citizens. Often violent, always inexplicable, their program is as ephemeral as their irregular, often unverifiable sightings and infractions.
I almost laughed out loud as I read this. But as I started to laugh my head hurt and I instinctively reached up to touch the spot where the bullet had nicked me. At the hospital they had wrapped the bandage too tightly. I continued to read:
There is much speculation as to the origin and actual mandate of the Mascot Front. The predominant theory, sometimes referred to as the ‘infraction conjecture,’ posits a scenario in which, perhaps only as a prank or series of pranks, but perhaps also as an ongoing campaign, a number of Mascots were subject to a variety of infractions and persecutions at the hands of regional police including: 1) the tearing and soiling of mascot outfits, 2) sexual taunts, 3) capture and release in strange environments . . .
I stopped reading, my mind wandering elsewhere, realizing that I had in fact heard about all this once before, that when I had seen them that day on the street below, when the stray bullet had so effectively caught my attention, the scene already matched an image scratched into residual memory. Perhaps that was why I was not overly surprised at everything happening so quickly yet with all the familiarity of déjà vu.
* * *
Paul had a photograph he was endlessly fascinated by. I had no idea where he got it but I did know he kept it folded in his pocket, and by the time I saw it it was already quite faded and crumpled. The photograph showed four figures dressed in mascot costumes posing for the camera, each holding large machine guns at various angles. They were carefully poised, as if for a press photograph, and yet somehow it seemed that it wasn’t simply a work of art (though viewing it as such was the most obvious interpretation) but in fact something quite different.
And then I asked Paul about it, trying to be precise, only to receive a series of vague, noncommittal answers as to its origin or how it came into his possession. What was clear, not in his words but in the enthusiasm he tried hard to suppress, was that this was simply one of his favourite things ever.
“You must know something. Come on, who are they?” I asked for the third or fourth time, knowing that in a moment I would have no choice, but still not quite wanting to let the matter drop. “What . . . it’s from a party . . . friends of yours or . . . ?”
“Someday . . . maybe . . .” he said, in that state of thinking quietly to himself, but at the same time out loud, which was so often his manner, changing course mid-thought. “No, no . . . I have no idea who they are. I like the thought that sometimes rumours . . .” and then hesitating, half-changing course again: “That some rumours . . . feel true.”
“Come on . . . I like it too. It’s a great photo. Give me something here.”
“We both know better than to believe in rumours.” He smiled to himself, perhaps thinking that I in fact lived my entire life in a misguided mash of rumour and confusion. “No . . . just some moments. Moments of resistance. Moments of which no one precisely knows for sure. That’s what we all want, don’t you think, a mirage with the consistency of fact?”
I wanted to understand but I had no fucking idea what he was talking about. I looked down at the photograph again. He had been reluctant to show it to me. I had noticed it in his hand when he pulled it out along with his wallet to pay for the round. And now, when I reached out to touch it, he quickly refolded it, returning it to his pocket. At the time I thought little of the matter, only another of Paul’s brilliant figments, the thoughts for which he should be internationally acclaimed but which, to the contrary, kept him mired in quiet obscurity. It was one of the many moments when I saw him more clearly, realized that he wanted no aspect of his situation to change, that his stubbornness was a map he would follow to the end.
* * *
A live encounter with the Mascot Front, preferably captured on video, would make a fantastic art project – the difficultly and perseverance involved, the possibility for turning rumour into fact, and then later, fact into art (which would have the perverse side effect of throwing its factual status into question). The more I considered such aspects, as well as the basic novelty of the manoeuvre, the more I came to believe in the project’s increasing potential to refine and further themes and strategies I had been developing throughout the entirety of my professional life.
Like most artists, my work had gone through the three basic stages: an early period of promise and energy, a middle period of strength, panache and consolidation, and finally a long period of semi-decline that appeared to have no beginning or end, in which all signifiers and trademarks of my practice remained firmly in place but any reason or authenticity behind the work felt increasingly scarce. For years I had been searching for strategies to fight this decline, strategies that involved no particular inspiration on my part but that instead could be generated through an in-depth analysis of my practice’s current shortcomings. Yet I suspected such analysis was getting me nowhere, and what was needed was some sudden, desperate shift, a moment in which, perhaps only briefly, things might derail in order to stop repeating myself.
Not surprisingly, in and around such questions, I would often think of Paul, how he had put such struggles aside and instead succumbed to a pure, undiluted engagement with his own creativity. There could be no semi-decline because there was no work, only the purity of ideas he could apparently, indefinitely, turn round and round in his mind, contemplating them from every possible angle yet never committing to any form or path.
I had no leads yet I believed I could find them, or at the very least believed that the search itself could be contextualized as an artistic work and therefore, even if the trail ended in nothingness, such nothingness could itself become the thematic undertow of the work in question. I was aware of a certain degree of desperation in such a ploy but, upon further reflection, realized that desperation had served me well many times in the past and there was no reason to turn my nose up at it now. In his stubbornness Paul was utterly immune to such desperation, but I knew, had learned time and time again, that comparing myself to Paul would get me nowhere.
* * *
I had pulled the bullet out of the balcony wall and was going to gun shops, showing them the bullet, asking what kind of gun it might have come from and who sold such guns. I had a small camera crew with me, thinking the footage could eventually be of some use. The gun shop owners were, each in their own way, such fantastic characters. Stanley, who owned Sherbrooke Guns & Ammo, had a parrot he had taught to sing classic rock. We got a lot of footage of that bird. Elizabeth (Fine Weapons), with a little bit of persuasion, shot a quarter out of my hand. Moments before she did so I was thinking that if she shot my hand off we would definitely have something we could use. (Perhaps on a monitor directly beside the singing parrot.) In Sympathy for the Devil Small & Large Firearms, as I spoke with Samson – who had a tattoo of a small dog chewing on a very realistic rendering of a bloody human heart (the dog the tattoo was based on of course owned by his ex-wife) – there was a woman standing beside me at the counter. She had a very pleasant smile as she asked if it would be all right if we turne
d off the camera, she didn’t like being filmed. I signalled for the cameraman to shut it off and, as we had previously agreed if such a situation should ever arise, he dropped the camera to his side but covertly kept rolling.
The woman was holding a duffel bag. I continued to ask Samson about his tattoo and ex-wife – his ex-wife who had in fact written an unpublished novel portraying Samson as leader of a satanic cult (the tattoo was his form of retaliation) – then showed him the bullet, watched him finger it carefully, and as he said, “I think maybe I sold this bullet,” I glanced down at the duffel bag one more time (I had practically been staring at it for hours) and caught just the slightest glimpse of purple fur through a small, accidental opening in the zipper.
The woman with the pleasant smile was also looking at the bullet in Samson’s hand, glancing over at me, glancing back at the bullet. I ripped a sheet of paper out of my notebook and quickly scribbled an improvised note, surreptitiously handing it to her. The note read: “I would like to interview you and your friends for an art project. Your anonymity is absolutely guaranteed. Art could be a valuable way to further your cause. I completely believe in what you are doing and find it inspiring.” I then, perhaps a bit naively, included my address, email and phone number, and walked out of the shop high as a kite, absolutely unable to believe my good luck: a momentary coincidence and the project suddenly seemed feasible in a manner I had barely imagined possible.
* * *
Then, of course, nothing happened. I expected a phone call, an email, a letter – anything. At first, it seemed impossible to me that they would not jump at the opportunity to be part of a project by a fascinating and prominent internationally renowned artist. Then later, upon further consideration, long after the original thrill had worn off, it seemed impossible to me that I had been so naive as to think they would risk leaving the relative and anonymous safety of their covert existence for something as irrelevant and meagre as an art project. A strange thought would not leave my mind: most likely their lives were at stake. What reason had I possibly given them to entrust me with such a grave responsibility? And was it even a responsibility I desired? Was my desperation to invigorate my practice so intense that I was willing to potentially endanger the lives of others?
After a lengthy period of soul searching, of attempting to fully explore the ramifications of such questions – both for my own life and for the lives of the Mascot Front – I decided the only possible next move was to stake out Samson’s shop. The term ‘stake out’ makes it sound like I had some idea what I was doing but of course I did not. I was simply imitating bad television shows about police, sitting in a nondescript rental car drinking coffee and pretending to read a newspaper, far enough away that I wouldn’t seem too conspicuous, with the front door of the shop just barely in view if I craned my neck.
I sat there from nine to five for three straight weeks. Often in that spot I would think of Paul, of the folded-up photograph he perpetually kept in his pocket, which had perhaps been in his pocket for the entire time I knew him. I wondered where Paul was today, if attempting to track him down after all these years might be an even more personal and evocative project than this vague attempt to meet costume-wearing terrorists. I craned my neck and glanced over at the front door of Sympathy for the Devil Small & Large Firearms, straining to see if anything was active, for a moment thinking that the shop was not even open, when there was a rap on the window of the passenger side. I looked over to see Samson peering in on me. I rolled down the window, he asked to come in, I unlocked the door and he joined me. We sat in silence for a moment before he spoke:
“Just hanging out?”
“Meeting a friend a few blocks away. You know, had an hour or two to kill. Wasn’t sure what to do with myself so . . . thought I’d just pull over and read the paper.”
“Sounds good.”
A short awkward pause.
“Need a drive somewhere?”
“No. Got my motorcycle.”
A long pause in which both of us looked straight ahead at the empty street.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“This friend you’re meeting. Were you also meeting them yesterday? The day before?”
An even longer pause, quite a bit longer, during which I considered lying. What kind of lie might be suitable in such a situation? It was extremely difficult to come up with something and I realized the longer I waited, the more insincere whatever I said next would appear. I decided to throw the dilemma back at him:
“What’s your theory?”
“Don’t know.”
“Give it your best shot.”
“You’re an artist, right?”
“Yes.”
“Contemporary sort of thing?”
“That’s it.”
“I think maybe sitting here in this car, drinking your coffee and reading the paper, might be part of some sort of art project. Is that right?”
“That’s pretty good.”
“Either that or you want to hook up with that girl?”
“Which girl?”
“The one in the shop. You handed her a note right?”
“Yeah . . .”
“She had a nice smile.”
“It’s true, she did. Do you know her?”
He chose his next words carefully.
“You don’t want to . . . She’s mixed up in some –”
As I interrupted a bit too suddenly:
“That.”
“What?”
“What she’s mixed up in . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I want that to be my art project.”
“Fucking hell.”
“What do you think?”
He thought about it, was clearly thinking about it, but not for long before he pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. It was a small gun. I thought maybe he was going to shoot me but instead he held it by the barrel and handed it over. I took it cautiously.
“It’s not loaded.”
“All right.”
“Look at the handle.”
I began to examine the handle, turning the gun over and around in my hands. Right at the bottom, etched into the part you might hit someone with if you were in a movie from the twenties, was a rather small drawing. I examined it more closely but remained unclear as to what it was of.
“It’s a mascot.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure what kind. I think maybe a bear or dog . . .”
I examined it again. With his suggestion at the forefront of my mind, it did now appear to be a bear or a dog. It was a small etching, about half the size of a dime.
“Would you like to buy it?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I sell guns, right?”
“Right.”
“So I’m wondering if you’d like to buy it.”
As I thought over everything that had happened the past month, pondering the purchase of both the gun and the small etching, another thought quietly occurred to me: I had never held a gun before. I wasn’t particularly pacifistic but I was an artist and somehow the opportunity had never occurred. I placed the weapon’s handle in my palm more firmly, trying to make the most of the opportunity, feeling its weight, sliding my finger naturally around the trigger.
“Careful.”
“Why?”
“It’s . . . loaded. A little bit loaded.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t.”
“I just said that because, you know, I didn’t want you to get any ideas.”
“I’m not sure . . . What kind of ideas?”
“Didn’t want you to think of shooting me or maybe . . .”
“Why the hell would I shoot you?”
“I don’t know, you give a gun to a crazy artist and who knows what he might do.”
I laughed at the idea of myself as a crazy artis
t.
“I’m not going to shoot you.”
Samson seemed particularly pleased with this last statement. I handed him back the gun. We haggled over the price for a few minutes, finally agreeing on three hundred. I gave him the money and he handed me back the gun. It felt like we were passing a joint back and forth. As he was getting out of the car I wanted to ask more, search out another lead, but before I had a chance he was gone. I put the gun in the glove compartment, then worried I might forget it, might leave it there when I returned the car to the rental place, so instead moved it to my jacket pocket. It felt good against my rib cage as I drove home along the exact same route I had driven every evening for the past three weeks.
* * *
I bought a frame for the gun and hung it over my bed. Looking at it, over the course of many weeks, I realized I was unhappy with this form of exhibition. I therefore had a small box built. Five sides of the box were solid pine but on one side a circular hole had been cut. In this circle I placed a lens from the most powerful magnifying glass I could find. I positioned the gun so that the etching was directly centred within the lens. Now I could see the etching more clearly, was amazed by the startling degree of detail, which I’ll attempt to describe as follows:
The bear – for it is a bear, not a dog – is neither on all fours nor standing. It is like an animal in the process of becoming upright, facing the viewer, its curved back at a diagonal to the ground, as if it were raising itself up to attack or very rapidly evolving into a biped. In its paw is a gun, held tentatively yet firmly, identical to the one into which the engraving has been etched. The paw-held gun is about the size of a tick and yet rendered with such clarity as to leave no doubt that it is the exact same gun you are currently standing in front of. Looking more closely, in amazing detail considering the minute scale, it is possible to see a zipper running up the entire side of the creature, zipped all the way and ending just underneath the right ear. However, what is most amazing about this illustration is definitely the expression on the bear’s face: a careful mixture of defiance and cunning. In a sense, it would be accurate to say the bear is simply grinning, but what a grin: subtle, sly, ready for a fight. Of course if the scale of the etching were more reasonable it is likely I would have been less impressed. But for me, drawn so minutely, that grin said it all: Anything is possible, do not underestimate us, we will surprise you, again and again, always when you are least expecting it.