by Jacob Wren
Many nights before going to sleep I would stare at the etching for a few minutes, wondering about my project, what the next step might be, how to proceed. Of course, with the material I already had there were certainly things I could exhibit: the gun, the videos (including the video of a real-life Mascot Front member standing at the counter of a gun shop asking me to turn off the camera), the original bullet that had grazed me. But as a work it still felt unsatisfying. And then I would look at the etching again, such a remarkable and evocative degree of detail squeezed onto such a limited surface. Had anything I’d ever made been so concise or effective?
* * *
It was almost fall, some time around 2 or 3 a.m. I had been sleeping, had likely slept an hour or two, but then couldn’t sleep, got up to take in some air on the balcony. The night was quiet and dead, more or less how I felt at that precise moment. I was thinking of taking a shower, heading out to some club, seeing if there were any young ones I could pull with my charm and résumé. Was I getting too old for this shit? More and more, as I entered, heading directly for the alcohol, feeling the volume and dissonance push into me, I would notice the women glance in my direction, dismissing me instantly, far more easily than they might have in the past.
The club was one possibility but there was also another. I had dug up some old notebooks a few days ago, they were sitting in a box on the kitchen table. Those notebooks had also thrown me into a nostalgic mood. There were about a dozen from the time when Paul and I saw each other most often. I had been going through them, half-systematically, mostly at random, looking for things Paul had said to me. I brought one of the notebooks out onto the balcony and was flipping though it absentmindedly, hoping that some thought or note might catch me unaware and spark something, some unexpected artistic possibility and then – the way it had happened so many times in the past – I would be off and running once again.
I had always found it productive to develop several projects at once and now, along with the Mascot Front, a project that had been in development for almost a year, I was considering a piece based on my recollections of Paul, wondering what form it might take, how I could make a viewer feel, or at least sense, all of the conflicted thoughts and feelings that had encompassed the dynamic between us. I knew, of course, that he would most certainly not approve of such an idea and so, concurrently, I also wondered if I could be confident that, if I were to go through with such an endeavour, he would never hear about it or see it. Or that if he did somehow chance upon it, and recognize himself (since I was most likely planning to use ‘Paul’ instead of his real name and alter key details of his story to preserve his anonymity) there would be no particularly gruelling repercussions. The art world remained marginal, one could generally feel confident that statements made within it would not reach those who were outside. But then again, what did I know of Paul’s life now, perhaps he had changed course: become an art critic or curator, would show up at the opening and glare at me from the corner with that look of withering disgust he had all but perfected at the time during which I still knew him.
Thinking about it, imagining this extremely unlikely fantasy scenario, I realized how his imagined glare would fill me with such a deep sense of shame, such a deep sense of self-loathing, that I am unsure how I would handle it. And then I thought about it all again and suddenly the idea of Paul as an art critic or curator felt so completely ridiculous I almost laughed out loud. Suddenly I felt good again, gazing out at the city, pockets of electric light surrounded by larger pockets of extended darkness, almost laughing out loud at my own preposterous thought.
I looked down at the notebook in front of me. There were a series of statements that Paul had made, written down afterwards in the best half-remembered approximation I could muster, each sentence or series of sentences with a circle or box around it. And staring down at the notebook page, at all the boxes and circles, I felt near bafflement at my former self. I had never been a fan. How did Paul manage to hook me like that? But of course the answer was obvious, because the way he lived and thought was like a battering ram upon my key insecurity: that as an artist I was an impostor, a sham, that my work was only pumped up strategy and cleverness. That if you scratched away at it hard enough, underneath there was nothing, no truth or authenticity, no sincerity or vision.
As I thought this, instinctively – I’m still not quite sure why – I half-turned towards the kitchen and at that same moment heard a sound, a small crash as if someone had knocked over a chair or table, and I stepped inside just as a bear mascot and a blue popsicle mascot were stepping out of my bedroom. How they had managed to get into the apartment so quietly I had absolutely no idea. The box with the gun was under the Popsicle’s arm, and as he turned to look at me he seemed almost startled, as if up until that moment he had assumed he was alone in the apartment, while it felt rather obvious to me that I should have been the one to be startled, surprised at the degree to which I was not, calm and assured, as if a bear and popsicle stealing back their etched pistol was the most natural thing in the world.
And before I had even managed to take a second step into the kitchen the Bear was already on top of me – I couldn’t believe how fast she was able to move in that oversized suit – then a smash across my face as I began to fall, a sheet or bag wrapped over my head as I was going down and my wrists behind my back being held or tied, yet I didn’t feel alarmed, only surprised and impressed at the incredible efficiency and speed at which it was all happening. I could feel my body being picked up like a sack, the bruises on my back, neck and legs as they hauled me into the elevator, moments later throwing me into the trunk of what I assumed was a van or a car. Throughout all of this I didn’t try to resist. I was getting what I wanted: a live encounter with the Mascot Front. In one sense or another they had received my note. I could hear an engine revving, feel the streets passing outside, all the while seeing nothing.
4. A Dream for the Future and a Dream for Now
Paul and Silvia weren’t really a couple.
“It wasn’t the part with Hitler ass-fucking the dog that pissed me off . . .” she said.
Or Paul and Silvia were a couple but when people asked they (usually) said they weren’t.
“Then what?” They were arguing but it wasn’t so bad. He’d seen worse.
“It was because you went to such great lengths to describe how much the dog enjoyed it.”
Or Paul and Silvia were neither a couple nor not a couple, but lived together and fucked occasionally yet never thought of each other as partners, only as creatures who had hopped onto the same train for a short while and now found themselves temporarily along for the ride.
“But that’s what makes it funny.”
A new book was a new book, stories stitched together and sent out into the world. There would be readings, reviews, reviews that made him happy (good days) and reviews that made him angry (bad days).
“I get that it’s supposed to be funny,” she didn’t even know why she was arguing, his books were his books, he should be free to write whatever the fuck he wanted, his books were not their relationship, which was confusing enough as it was, she should know better than to confuse the two, “and I get that it’s supposed to be funny because it’s not what we’re expecting, we don’t expect the dog to enjoy it quite so much. But what you don’t get is that underneath all your presumed subversion is the same business-as-usual macho control-freak cruelty that we’ve been drowning in practically forever: 'Not only am I going to fuck you over but I want you to enjoy it too.'”
He wanted to respond but he didn’t. He wanted to sulk but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. He hated being called macho.
“Sure, you can call me macho, a control freak . . . whatever . . .” He was stumbling for words, he hated it when the words didn’t come naturally. “You know I hate being called macho, I hate . . .” If he could have slapped her he would have but he had never slapped anyone in his life and i
n fact had never even considered it and didn’t know why the fuck he was considering it now. “I hate . . . fuck . . . We both know this shit.”
“What?”
“In real life . . . fuck . . . In real life . . . I . . . fuck . . .” He just wanted the discussion to be over, he just wanted to spit out what he had to say and then for the conversation to fucking end: “In real life I’m not cruel.” It was ridiculous to hear him say it. Of course they weren’t talking about real life. Of course he wasn’t cruel.
But his book was.
* * *
Silvia was also working on a book. The working title for her book was A Dream for the Future and a Dream for Now. She hated that title. But she had already agreed to it eighteen years ago and she was fucked if she wasn’t going to keep her word.
In her book a secret society who went underground just after World War One has resurfaced in late-forties New York. They are staging large-scale orgies in order to assassinate prominent businessmen by infecting them with a contagious disease efficiently designed so that anyone with a genuinely leftist or humanitarian outlook will remain permanently immune. Some of the members in the sect are involved in order to further the revolution while others are there only because they want to participate in as many orgies as possible.
The book begins when a woman – who most of the time appears to be a stand-in for the author – attends one of the orgies and catches the virus (allegedly designed to attack only the Right). Since she has always been confident in her defiant political radicalism she is faced with a dilemma: Either the virus is defective or she’s not as leftist as she confidently assumed.
At the orgy she meets a man and they fall in love. The man turns out to be a woman masquerading as a man but our protagonist doesn’t care, man or woman it doesn’t matter, because mainly she wants to have as much sex as possible before she succumbs to the disease (which she still feels she shouldn’t have caught in the first place). Our protagonist and her new love fuck in many different places and each time it is like a knife in each of their hearts because they both know she will die and the reason she will die is the same reason they first met.
Secretly Silvia thought her book was much better than Paul’s – more anarchic, more original, more alive, more subversive. Paul knew she thought this, so it wasn’t actually a secret but rather an unspoken tension between them. Paul felt that even if her book was better, his book would be more successful because the publishing structures surrounding literature remained essentially chauvinistic. This fact made him both confident in the potential for his own book and sad the world wasn’t a more reasonable and fair place.
* * *
That night in the car, on their way to dinner, Silvia felt increasingly anxious. She knew she would have to suffer the entire drive in silence. When Paul shut down like this there was little she could do to bring him out into the open. In a few days he would come out on his own, buy her a present, meekly apologize, claiming to be too sensitive, too much of an artist for his own good, things would slowly drift back towards normal, and she would know better than to criticize his work again any time soon. What’s more, what made her feel truly awful, as the twilight grey scenery sped past unwatched, was the realization that, if she were to view the matter with a certain distance, she had in fact only criticized his book in order to procrastinate, to distract herself from having to fully commit to finishing her own. She hated these tepid patterns. Time and time again falling into the exact same traps, avoiding what was really important only to rush headlong into the same tedious snag.
She looked up from her thoughts and realized they were already pulling into the driveway. Now she knew the drill, time to push the real feelings down into the bottom of her stomach, be friendly, sweet, clever and charming, a good partner to Paul (always keeping in mind that their model remained unconventional, that at the end of the day they weren’t actually a couple) and a strong, confident writer in her own right.
At the door they were greeted with hugs and kisses and a display of basic human warmth she was afraid they simply could not match. But despite her nervousness, they were now among friends and definitely not on trial for being a bad couple or bad people, and any flaws that may or may not be on display were to be blithely overlooked in favour of an almost complete sense of acceptance.
* * *
Jeremy and Theresa lived in a crisp modernist house overlooking the ravine. They had moved there just a few months ago, after life had decimated in L.A. and they suddenly found themselves needing refuge from the harsher aspects of their professions. In the course of just two short years attempting to cut through the blockade of the industry, they had lost energy, become fragile, even paranoid. Having set out for acclaim with potential to burn they had now returned with little hope they would ever catch fire again. But what was strange, and perhaps even unnerving, was how relaxed they seemed in their shattered, potential paranoia. Years of working the system had lent them a friendly, cordial air that made everything they touched feel welcome and loved.
Paul and Silvia felt especially loved. Neither of them had ever gone for easy money, or been seduced by the blatant rush of media glamour, and evidence of their newfound friends’ initial promise, but eventual failure, to achieve such things made them feel a strange confidence in their own chosen paths, and in opportunities for their advice to be both useful and cherished:
Paul: I’d be satisfied if the new book only appeals to a few –
Silvia: You don’t know that yet. You have no idea how many people may or may not like it.
Jeremy: I couldn’t see the point of doing something if I didn’t feel as many people as possible would be –
Theresa: You say that but, come on, you’re too stubborn. You don’t exactly make concessions.
Paul: He’s just confident that what he likes will also be liked by a lot of other –
Silvia: I’m surprised if even Paul likes what I write much less –
Jeremy: Of course Paul likes what you –
Theresa: No, I’m insecure too. If a friend tells me they thought my last thing was strong I’m virtually in shock for a –
Paul: I can’t believe how consistent it is. All my male friends, no matter how mediocre their work, always think they’re God’s gift to art. And all the women, no matter how brilliant, are completely insecure.
Silvia: Is that really true?
Jeremy: Of course.
Theresa: It just seems that way to you because women are more open with how they –
Paul: It doesn’t just seem that way. It’s really like that. I don’t want to speculate on reasons but –
Silvia: Boys and girls are just raised differently. Boys are praised for being clever and asserting themselves. Girls are praised for being pretty and quiet and –
Jeremy: Yes, but –
Theresa: You don’t know what you’re talking about. No matter what else has happened you’ve always managed to catch a break.
Paul: ‘Always’ seems like a bit of an –
Silvia shot Paul a look. The look suggested he might be crossing a line he shouldn’t. Everyone knew that in L.A. ‘catching a break’ was furthest from what happened.
Jeremy: It’s all right. You win a few, you –
Theresa: Sometimes I worry we’re only pretending . . . I mean no, not pretending . . . I mean, of course, well, pretending . . . pretending is too strong, I mean of course things are all right: great house, great friends . . . But, no, I mean, no, no . . . I don’t know . . .
* * *
After dinner, in the living room over coffee and cognac, Jeremy and Theresa drew quiet for a time, shooting each other awkward, conspiratorial glances. Paul and Silvia waited patiently. From the tone of the room it seemed evident that something was about to happen, or perhaps they had only offended their hosts and this awkwardness was the sign they should now leave.
“We have something to show you,” Jeremy
finally said, then walked across the room, pressed a panel in the wall and, like in some bad movie, a small secret compartment opened at about face level, just the right size to house a single, hardcover book. It was unclear exactly what kind of book it was and yet at the same time everyone could clearly read the title: A Dream for the Future and a Dream for Now.
Paul looked over at Silvia, for a moment questioning the accuracy of his own memory: “Isn’t that the title of the book you’re working on?”
* * *
And Silvia is seventeen and out with three of her closest friends. In fact they are her only close friends. They go out practically every night together. They are drunk and stoned, like many other nights, like most nights, wandering the streets, saying anything and everything they can to stave off the boredom or generate a bit of spark. Almost dawn and wandering down the grey streets near the mall, kicking around a stolen shopping cart and laughing, stupidly, for no reason, every time it topples or lurches forward.
“No, I’m going to write a book and it’s going to be really long, longer than the Bible, and it’s going to be sharp, sharp enough to cut yourself . . .”
“What’s it going to be about?”
“My book’s going to be twice as good as your book.”
“Fuck off.”
“When did you get so competitive?”
“I’m never competitive. I just like to state the facts.”
“It’s going to be about my life. But not my life the way it is now or the way it will be then. About my life all the different ways it could have been if I could have made every single decision that was possible to make. Because most times, you have to decide, like, do I go to law school or do I go to art school. But my book will be like if you could split in two, but still be just one person, and go to law school and art school at the same time and see them both through to the very end. And like that with everything, what if you could do all the things, never having to choose, and all the options you’ve done and are doing would all exist at the same time. That’s why it’s going to be so long.”