Can't Buy Me Love

by Chris Kenry

  “Good to hear,” he said in a backslapping voice. “Good to hear.”

  “Is Mom there?” I asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “Actually, she’s not,” he said. “She just left. She had an early appointment at the vet.”

  “The veterinarian?” I asked, confused, since they didn’t have any pets.

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Your mother’s off on another one. She went and got herself two dogs yesterday.”

  “No way! What kind?”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t know. Little things, huge paws. I guess they’ll get pretty big. They’ve been running ’round the house smashing into everything.” He laughed. “It’s probably my fault. She was a little upset when the batteries died in that thing the gardener gave her so I said, sorta offhand, you know, ‘Why don’t you go out and get some sort of real pet?’ Well, I was thinking a bird maybe, or a gerbil or something, but I come home last night and step right in a pile of crap. You’ll have to come by and see them. They’re real pieces of work.”

  I paused, surprised by the invitation.

  “Yeah, I will. Well, I’d better get going,” I said, feeling suddenly awkward.

  “Holy cow, it’s after eight. I better get moving too or I’ll spend all morning sitting in traffic. Son, listen, it’s been good talking to you. Your mother will be sorry she missed you.”

  “I’ll call her later.”

  “Or stop by.”

  “Uh, yeah, okay.”

  “All right, I love you, Jack.”

  “Uh, thanks, me too. I mean, I do too. ’Bye, Dad.” And I quickly pushed the hang-up button. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall, astonished. His invitation and “love you” comment were completely unexpected and out of character. My dad and I had never been what you could call close. Carey and Jay were much more the sporty/ academic sons he’d wanted, whereas I was the slightly embarrassing anomaly that he didn’t quite know what to do with. Ball sports are a perfect example of this: while Jay and Carey were off hitting home runs and scoring touchdowns, I was the one who struck out at T-ball, the one who scored a goal for the opposing team, the one who was too busy arranging weed bouquets in the outfield to notice the ball as it bounced a foot away from me. From an early age I knew I was somewhat of a disappointment to him, so I naturally gravitated into the more accepting realm of my mother. My father and I kept our proverbial distance. Ironically, now that some real distance had been put between us it felt like we were somehow closer. I couldn’t understand it.

  I’ll have to go back to Sister Melanie’s book, I thought, returning the phone to its cradle, and try to see where all this is coming from.

  I paced around the apartment, feeling claustrophobic, so I put on my gym clothes, a baseball cap, and a windbreaker, threw some clean clothes in my gym bag, and started out. I got to the mailboxes in the hallway, paused, and then returned to my apartment. My eyes went straight to the card I’d left on the dresser. I went over, picked it up, and grabbed the phone again. I dialed my voice-mail number and recorded a message.

  “Spring is lovely, violets everywhere ’round. Actually it’s pretty gray outside, but hey, it’s Thursday morning, early. I didn’t want to wake you up, but I, um, was going to go to the Art Museum today, about eleven-thirty or so, and was going to see if maybe you wanted to meet me. Maybe we could grab lunch there or something and I could give you the item I’ve been keeping for you. If not, then hey, maybe some other time.”

  I pushed the pound key to finish recording and then dialed his number and pushed the pound key again to send the message to him.

  I got to the museum a half hour early and killed the time until eleven-thirty by flipping through books in the gift shop. When it was time, I went into the café and got a sandwich. I didn’t know if he’d come or not, and I didn’t want to seem too eager, but as I went to find a table I was relieved to see him sitting by the window, reading a book and drinking coffee. I went over and sat down.

  “What are you reading?” I asked.

  “Hey!” He smiled, and looked briefly at the cover of the book before handing it to me.

  “Sewing Methods of the Inuit Indians. I’ve been meaning to get around to this one.”

  I flipped casually through the pages and then gave it back to him. His hair was still black and he was wearing an outfit similar to the one he’d had on the other night: heavy black sweater, blue denim jeans, and some heavy-soled black shoes, the tongues of which were a furry black-and-white leopard print. He picked up the book again and put it into a small black leather backpack, much like the duffel bag I had in my trunk.

  “That book was hard to find,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly, and I noticed, as he spoke, that his tongue was pierced too, but that it did not seem to interfere with his speaking.

  “Do you sew?” I asked.

  “Yeah, actually I do a lot of sewing.” He smiled and sounded genuine, but something, his arched brow maybe, made me unsure if he was being sarcastic or not. We then talked airily about the weather and the museum and Hole, which reminded me of his comment about Ray’s artwork.

  “So Hole tells me you’re an artist,” I said, looking down at my sandwich and thus avoiding his eyes. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “You know, it’s hard to pinpoint,” he said. “I do what I guess people would consider shock art.”

  Not surprising, I thought, and wondered what other body parts he had punctured.

  “But I don’t like being lumped in that category. I have a better sense of humor.”

  I nodded.

  “So ... what?” I asked, somewhat derisively. “You paint with your own blood? Make sculptures out of feces?” I took a bite of my sandwich.

  “Nah.” He laughed. “Nothing like that, but I do think it’s cool there are people out there doing that—and that you’ve heard of it. I do mostly installation pieces, some painting, some photography. How ’bout you? You spend a lot of time here—do you paint or anything?”

  I stopped chewing and thought a minute. I thought about lying, about making up, right then and there, a fictional talent, something to make myself seem much more interesting and dynamic than I was, but I didn’t. With another person, someone I doubted I’d see again, I surely would have lied, but with him I didn’t.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t really have any skill.” (That cursed word!) “Any talent, I mean. I studied art history,” I said, as if that should explain all my shortcomings, and I felt sure he’d concur.

  He nodded, took a sip of his coffee, and said, “That’s cool.”

  “Cool that I don’t have any talent, or cool that I studied art history?” I asked.

  “Cool that you studied art history. I think most artists need to know more about what came before, especially when it comes to technique, but history can weigh you down, too. I think there’s a lot to be said for just doing your own thing, not worrying about what anyone’s done in the past.”

  I nodded, reflecting on this.

  “So what kind of art do you like?” he asked.

  I thought for a minute. Again I thought about lying, about making up something that he might like to hear, or about reciting Paul’s opinions, which I was far more familiar with than my own, but again I did not, and spouted a mishmash of esoteric things that came to mind.

  “I used to love classical architecture,” I said, “but I’m not so interested in that anymore. I like a lot of the Japanese arts and crafts, anything by the Pre-Raphaelites. I like Neoclassical, too: David, Ingres—”

  “What about twentieth-century stuff?” he asked.

  “Hmm, I guess I like Mondrian the most. In architecture I like the Bauhaus movement.”

  I stopped and took another bite of my sandwich, but he was staring at me intently, which made it difficult to eat, so I pushed the rest of the sandwich aside and looked up at him. His eyes were serious and seemed to be analyzing something.

  “You like order, don’t you?” he said, somewhat smugly, I t
hought.

  “What makes you say that?” I was offended by his tone, but curious nonetheless. He laughed a knowing little laugh.

  “Come on,” he said. “You’re not stupid. All those artists and movements and styles you named are tight and controlled. They’re all prescribed orders, and perspective and balance.”

  “I think you’re simplifying things a bit,” I said defensively, but also feeling a little thrill at the turn the discussion was taking. “But so what if you’re right, isn’t that what art is: taking random materials and giving them some order, some meaning?”

  “It is and it isn’t,” he said, leaning forward. “You can take wood and bricks and order them into a house, but is that art? But that’s not what I was getting at. What I wonder is why you like everything so neat and orderly. ”

  I was getting a little angry—at myself, mostly—and wished I had given Paul’s opinions, since I wasn’t really sure how to defend my own—or even what my own even were.

  “I don’t know; that’s what I like,” I said, and regretted almost immediately how stupid it sounded. “Why do you care?” I asked. “Are you suddenly my analyst? Okay, Mr. Shock Art, let’s hear your definition—what do you like? Oh, but wait, wait, wait, I think I can guess. You like Mapplethorpe!” I said, emphatically. “Which pretty much says it all. He is your dark angel. The trendy bad boy of the art world, attacking the establishment. Stick a whip up your ass while you’re sucking some gigantic dick and call it art. Take a picture of a crucifix in a bucket of pee and call it art.”

  “That’s not Mapplethorpe,” he said calmly.

  “Whatever,” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “Same difference. The point is, anything that’s naughty or taboo is right up your alley, isn’t wit?”

  The funny thing about arguments that start this way, with a perceived insult, is how logic seems to take a backseat to competition. I was on the defensive, but instead of defending my own ideas, I criticized his. I went on and on, arguing points I didn’t agree with, trying to assert a superior knowledge, discounting his opinion, until suddenly I realized that this was precisely the condescending way Paul had always argued with me, and I stopped. This was not hard to do, since my vitriolic flow was obviously not having the desired effect on him. He continued regarding me calmly, the same bemused smile on his face.

  “What?” I asked, feeling even more embarrassed.

  “I think there’s a senator in North Carolina who’d be glad to hire you as an intern.”

  I had to laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “For sounding like such a jerk.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, sipped his coffee, and for several moments we sat, saying nothing. The silence made me uneasy, and I felt like I wanted a drink or a cigarette or something to do with my hands. My eyes darted around, landing on the sandwich, which I wanted, but I still did not want to eat in front of him.

  “You wanna get out of here?” he said, breaking the silence, and I was unsure if he was asking a question or making a statement. “Maybe walk around outside?”

  I nodded, although the idea was ridiculous because it was raining steadily and I didn’t have an umbrella. I had thought we’d spend the afternoon walking around the museum, but now the prospect of looking at art seemed stifling and faintly pretentious.

  With no destination in mind we walked through the Civic Center and down the Sixteenth Street mall. The mall is really a walking street, usually clogged at the noon hour with office workers on their lunch breaks, but that day, because of the rain, it was nearly deserted.

  Our conversation started slowly, but soon we were both talking freely, about buildings mostly, as we pointed out and commented on the different styles along our route. I felt much more at ease talking to him while we walked. Walking was the cigarette or the drink I’d wanted earlier—the something to occupy my body. It gave my eyes something to look at other than his eyes, and that made me much less self-conscious and much more talkative.

  “I’m glad you got my message,” I said, feeling genuinely happy, and somewhat decadent, like I was ditching school with a friend.

  “I’m glad you sent it,” he said. “I thought maybe you were kind of mad about the other morning at Burl’s.”

  “Oh, I was.” And I thought back, with embarrassment, to my indignant fit. It all seemed so silly and sophomoric in retrospect. “I guess I wasn’t really ready to see what I was doing then, you know? And I certainly wasn’t ready to hear it from someone else.”

  He laughed knowingly. “Yeah, I remember how strange I felt the first time someone tagged me with it. I was probably, like, fifteen or sixteen or something. It pissed me off.”

  “You’ve been doing it since you were fifteen?” I asked, surprised.

  “Well, off and on, yeah.”

  “What made you get into it?” I asked, trying not to sound too curious.

  “Drugs,” he said, and laughed. “I was pretty hooked then, and that kind of gets in the way of having a steady job.”

  A steady job. The words echoed in my head.

  “But you’re off of it now... ?” I inquired carefully. “Heroin, I mean.” He looked at me quizzically and I remembered that he’d not said it was heroin. He must have realized that Hole and I had been discussing him.

  “I’ve been clean for almost two years now.”

  “So why do you still do it?”

  “Do what?” he asked. I stopped and looked at the ground, trying to think of a delicate way of putting it. Then he realized what I meant.

  “Oh, why do I still turn tricks?”

  “Yes,” I said, and resumed walking.

  “The money. Plain and simple. That and the time. It gives me time to work on my art,” he said.

  We walked in silence again. I had so much I wanted to ask, and so far he wasn’t reticent about answering, but while one side of me was pulling toward the topic, the other was pushing me away.

  “Does it ever bother you?” I asked timidly.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Some days. But like I said, it can be good money and gives me a lot of time.”

  Again I paused, trying to choose my words carefully. Then I gave up. Screw it, I thought, and decided to just jump in and stop all the tiptoeing.

  “I guess that’s why I’m considering it more,” I said, boldly. “And that’s part of the reason I called you.”

  “I know,” he said. I looked up, surprised.

  “My motivation is not nearly as noble as yours,” I said. “I mean, I’m no artist, but I have managed to sort of paint myself into a corner.” I laughed at my little joke. “I’m in a little financial trouble and, well, I won’t bother you with the details. Suffice to say, I need money.”

  “I know,” he said again.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “From Burl, mostly. He told me about your boyfriend dying and all. The rest I just put together.”

  I nodded, but didn’t look at him.

  “I was hoping,” I said, warming to the topic, “that maybe you could give me some pointers on how to ... go about this, I guess.”

  “I could,” he said, “but I don’t know that I will.”

  “Why not?” I asked, thinking maybe he didn’t want the competition.

  “Because I think you’ve got stars in your eyes. You’ve turned a few tricks and gotten some quick cash and now you’ve got the idea in your head that it’s easy money. Sometimes it is,” he said, “but a lot of times it’s not. A lot of times it’s gross and degrading and you come away feeling about this high.” And he lowered his hand to a point just below his knee.

  “Believe me,” I said, thinking back to the authorizations job, “I’ve done degrading work, but I think I know what you mean and I do appreciate the concern.”

  “Isn’t there anything else you can do?” he asked. I didn’t answer, but for the next several blocks I considered it. Is there anything else I could do? I wondered and I thought ab
out all the temp work and the coffee shop, the fiasco of waiting tables, my blank page of a resume. Then I thought of my sister starting medical school next year, and my brother in his little law office, and wished I could crawl under a rock. I’d been so absorbed in my thoughts that I hadn’t even noticed when we crossed the light-rail tracks where Paul had been struck.

  We reached lower downtown and I paused in front of a gallery window displaying some old posters of Soviet propaganda: large, colorful cartoons of Lenin and tractors and factories. The one directly in front of us depicted a group of smiling peasant women clustered behind a broad-shouldered, square-jawed man in overalls. In one hand he held a large hammer, while with the other he pointed the way to a bright future.

  “You’re an artist,” I said, resurrecting our previous, comparatively light conversation. “What does your art say? Why do you do it?”

  I focused on his reflection on the rain-speckled window. He was thinking, his brow furrowed, and when he spoke, it was with a confidence I found enviable.

  “The way I see it,” he said, turning and starting to walk, “society has spent thousands of years building up some pretty senseless taboos and sacraments—men having sex with men, interracial relationships, questioning religious doctrine, shame of bodily functions. Stupid ideas which, over the years, people start believing as fact. With my art, I like to subvert some of those ideas, or at least make people reconsider them.”

  “And how do you do that?” I asked, and pictured him running through a temple smashing idols. His brow became even more furrowed and his tone became serious.

  “What I’m working on now,” he said, gesturing with his hands, “is taking two things, things not usually associated with each other, at least one of which people have very strong feelings about, and combining them. In that way people are forced to look at them differently than they’ve been programmed by society to look at them.” He gave a satisfied nod, evidently proud of his concise explanation.

  “I don’t get it.” He laughed and then pulled me over to a soggy bench and sat me down.

  “Take something as simple as colors, for example, and all the preconceived ideas people have about them. We’ll use apples and oranges. Imagine if you had an orange apple, or a red orange. You’d definitely take a second look. You’d reconsider your ideas about both the forms and the colors. I like that. That’s why I admire a lot of shock art; it causes you to look at something—God, society, ideals, etc.—in a different perspective.”