by Gafford, Sam
Indeed, the screams themselves were more of annoyance than the day-glo obscenity of the store as a whole. Any moment of contemplation or reverie would be shattered almost as soon as it had begun, broken by the wails of children or the shouts of their irate parents. The din of the food court on the floor below and nearly fifty yards away, the sounds of shoppers walking past, the conversations of the kiosk clerks, and the general ambiance of the mall were largely beyond my notice. But there is a piercing quality to a child’s scream that violates without exception. Each child’s tone, timbre, and trill are unique and obnoxious; each shriek was my own fresh hell.
You can imagine the delight I felt when I learned that Candy World’s owners had filed for bankruptcy and shuttered their store, but know that it was neither schadenfreude nor pettiness that moved me to celebrate. I bore no ill will toward the proprietors, or any others I had encountered up to that point. My delight was born of insecurity if anything. My own store, Vanitas, was an irregularity even in an upscale facility like the Shoppes at Sapphire Valley. The fine arts are, by and large, at odds with the atmosphere of the great American mall. That a store specializing in museum-quality reproductions, estate sales, and infrequent gallery showings should be situated between a mattress and candle shop (the latter called Chandler’s, to the amusement of no one) was lamentable, but the intrusions and gaudiness of the candy shop brought a deeper shame. Pay no heed, though, to the whispers of my rivals in the city center. My storefront was practical and profitable; the foot traffic and frequency of store walk-ins were unrivaled anywhere else in the valley. My ‘exile’ was nothing of the sort. My choices remained my own.
In the absence of a tenant, my mind filled the abandoned space across the way. Behind the advertisements for American Riot Girl and the food court, I designed floor plans for, merchandised, and peopled ideal stores. The stationer stocked with the implements of the craft of writing: pens engineered to the level of appliances or simple quills, seals and wax, hand-bound journals, and paper fit for a scriptorium. Print and artifice are dead, they say, or dying. The importer is inspired to share the spoils of his travels: bone-and-feather fetish dolls, bronze hand mirrors, elaborately printed pagnes, and galaxies of jewelry that glittered against the blackest velvet. Culture is a cartoon, they say, and can be had cheaply next to the department store. The collective crafts of the world can be trimmed to a selection of bamboo chimes and self-balancing bird carvings. A bookstore? Out-gunned by the anchor. A tailor? Underclassed in a sea of ready-to-wear. I had little else left to consider, and hope turned to anxiety when craftsmen took up their tools and beat out a foreboding rhythm.
After five weeks of vacancy, BacoNation was unveiled in all its ignoble glory. A cartoon pig beamed and stared downward from behind that ludicrous portmanteau like a cannibalistic carnival barker. Step right up, folks. Get your fill, get your fill. We’ve bacon smoked, grilled, fried, steamed, broiled, battered, buttered, blackened, glazed, dried, and rosy-red raw. The foam-suited mascot who stood by the entrance, where he continually shifted the weight of his twin skewer-laden sample trays, never spoke, but the rubes found their way to the store regardless. An ungodly mass of people clogged that small space, some fifty of them pressed together in five hundred square feet of tables and shelves full of bacon related bric-à-brac. I thought them very hog-like, each shopper a squealing thing jostling for a prime position at the trough.
I did not actually enter BacoNation until much later, but I discreetly examined the merchandise from the window. The walls were lined with three to four levels of shelves, broken up in places by racks of hooks, rods, or bins. Two tables were aligned along the center of the floor opposite a triangular display rack; a refrigerated case was attached to the western wall just to the left of the till and clerk’s counter. I could hardly grasp the logistical impracticality of the store: an entire shop dedicated to stocking hundreds of products that were little more than novelties. How many distributors must they have had to deal with in order to acquire so much and in such quantity? I wondered at their business plan. What fool would even dream of lending money to such an enterprise? I imagined their ledger contained hundreds of rows of tiny replenishment orders sourced from dozens of companies; they would run themselves out of business in a matter of months surely. Would the store even last that long? In what world would anyone have need for this . . . stuff?
Bacon this, bacon that: flavored salts, seasonings, and marinades; a grocer’s worth of bacon-flavored foods: chips, popping corn, pickles, candy, jams, even chewing gum; the cold case loaded with bacon of any and every variety: vacuum-sealed bricks of slices fine to fat, simple to smoked, and a selection of artisanal cuts—jowls at twelve dollars per pound. Butcher blocks and posters sat opposite a rack of kitschy aprons; printed bandages and rolls of tape were stacked neatly beneath of a rack of bacon-patterned neckties. Could anyone seriously wear bacon suspenders? Would any woman swoon over a scent of bacon cologne? As a final touch, a portrait of Francis Bacon stared out obliviously from behind the till. The store, as a sum, was as some kind of obscene offering to a god almost too gruesome to imagine—a gluttonous giant clad in its own filth, its every appendage swollen with gout.
The owners—cousins, I had heard—were every bit the sort one might imagine having the audacity, or ignorance, to invest in so ludicrous a venture. Nero and Eliot Martin were alike in their distinct lack of taste and class, but unique in their appearance. Nero might have been barrel-chested at one point, but was now on the large end of fat-buff. His head seemed out of proportion with rest of his body and itself, being an equine face on an otherwise compact, rounded skull. Eliot looked like a weasel, all lanky limbs and rodent-faced. Unlike his strangely hairless cousin, Eliot had a mess of oily hair and curled his moustaches with wax. Both of them were buffoonish, cretins by my account.
I had maintained an impatient optimism throughout the opening week; my expectation was for the flood of customers to dwindle to no more than a trickle as the novelty passed. My assumptions were proven painfully wrong. The store enjoyed steady traffic, be it morning or evening, weekday or weekend. I wanted to write that off as a result of the omnipresent trays of sample bacon set upon the counter. Those damnable trays were prepared at every hour or when needed, so that a greasy, stinking pile of the stuff was ever up for grabs. The Martins preferred an electric griddle, but could be seen on occasion to pile handfuls of the stuff into a microwave kept mostly hidden in their rear office. Though the smell from the microwaved mass was more offensive, it offered some respite from the crackling and popping sounds that would otherwise find their way across the promenade. To be fair, it was the brimming bags that upset me more than the sounds and odors. That they moved product at all confounded me, but that they moved so much of it triggered a fear that I might never be rid of them.
I found myself alone in my distaste for BacoNation. Indeed, my neighbors were quite happy to have them so close by. It was to be expected that the manager of the mattress store would find kinship with those so wholly dedicated to a breakfast food, but I would never have guessed that Chandler’s would foster a wholesale contract for bacon-scented candles. My complaints to the mall management were ignored, swept aside on a tide of praise. I was forced to turn further inward and attempted to bury myself in my affairs lest I look across the way in undisguised disgust.
Vanitas was immaculate and ordered in an exemplary fashion, the very opposite of the cluttered space that sat in squalor across from me. Where I hung paintings every consideration was given to the effect of the light upon them, the comfort of those who might view them, and their contrast to those works beside them. Where I displayed sculpture and artifacts, every surface would be painstakingly polished. The finest woods, pristine crystal, and richest fabrics were on hand and all of it flawless but for the taint of burnt fat that permeated every porous surface. I placed Oriental lamps about the store and filled them with fragrant smokeless oils, bypassing entirely that turncoat candle hawker, but even that had little ef
fect.
Despite having to keep my doors open, I fortified my store as best I could. I erected thin barriers behind the storefront windows with which to block all unnecessary sight of the greater mall. Upon those barriers I hung mostly still-life paintings of fruit and vegetables, small wards against the blight beyond. I also placed a particular work, this an overt insult to those who had forced my hand. It was a lesser-known Beardsley print, one of only four extant copies, entitled The Cull. Within that frame Eumaeus knelt beside a corpulent, arrow-pierced suitor; one hand drew the man’s head back as the other prepared to draw a butcher’s hook across his throat. If they noticed the work, they made no mention of it. What comment I did receive came from an elderly woman who labeled it degenerate and unfitting for a family environment.
With the windows covered, my store became considerably darker, the candles and soft, angled fluorescent lights creating an almost monastic or crypt-like appearance. I would brood at my desk and regard the one light in my existence: Danaë. She, never it, was beautiful: a full-sized reproduction of the Klimt original. I had spared no expense in having it commissioned, spending nearly twenty thousand dollars to arrange for my chosen artist to travel to Vienna so that she might paint in the presence of the original. Every detail of my reproduction was an exact duplicate; every drop of golden rain accounted for and every motif precisely placed. It may seem preposterous, and I should know better, but I would claim her superior to the original in every way. The purple of the veil was more sumptuous; the transparency of it both revealed and concealed more of her flesh. The curve of her thighs and bud of her breasts electrified; the flesh seemed frozen in ecstasy and threatened at any moment to move anew. The tilt of her head was more natural and her expression was now exultant. She was alive in her own way, even if bound to canvas and frame.
In the still hours, I would see myself with Danaë and all but feel her in my arms. She and I were brought together across the ages, realities even, by our mutual isolation. Hidden away within her tower, our bodies entwined together upon piles of purple silk, and I would know my own golden bliss. My dreams were never lewd—no, not ever. She was as in the painting, her knees drawn almost to her chest and her nudity innocent and dear. When I pushed against and into her, she looked away, but I knew she bore no shame. Even in that dream state, I withheld my seed and would let it fall upon her, as if gilded by the candles’ light. There would be no child for us, let alone a demigod.
I had done my best to shield myself and my wares away from the crude realities that threatened from beyond my door, but no effort save for shuttering my own store could prevent elements of that world from darkening my day. If I dared to look across the corridor I would see what might have been, should have been, people but found only swine. That they wore our clothing, our very skin was of little difference, for their natures were apparent, abhorrent. Noses were noticeably upturned and flared; the customers walked with stoops, as if unused to being on two legs. Their speech, what I could make of it, seemed comprised of low grunts and high squeals, and their gestures were largely clumsy. Where they meant to grasp items, they knocked them over; some would root through the clearance bins all but with their noses, and release a porcine scream when they found an item of apparent use or value among the garbage. I looked less and less, and if at all through a thin crack between my privacy barriers. I could ignore them, wanted to, and would have, but the invasions had begun.
At first they slipped in undetected and milled about in perfect mimicry of human beings until something gave them away: a snatch of alien laughter, ears flexing as if upset by flies. I watched them from the desk, anxious for the change and eager to classify the behaviors so that I might detect their kind right away. Initially I made no moves, but my restraint must have emboldened them. Soon they entered my store fully exposed and trotted confidently across the threshold toward my refreshment table, where they sloppily slurped down gullets-full of not-inexpensive Cabernet. Alone or in droves they would wander about the artworks where they sneered at abstractions, slavered over foodstuffs, and sometimes tempted reaction by extending oily fingers to within a hair’s breadth of painterly brush strokes. As their behaviors became more brazen I started to shoo them loudly from the displays and back out toward that hell from which they had come. I withdrew my refreshments and even shortened my operational hours, but still they came to wallow before me. The Martins would watch from their doorway and their tiny black eyes gleamed with unrestrained malice.
Three months to the day from BacoNation’s grand opening, a snicker heralded the arrival of Eliot and Nero themselves to my entranceway. They stood there for a moment, overlong but still insubstantial before they approached my desk with polite smiles and hands stuck out for shaking.
“You must be Mr. Markes,” Eliot said as he leaned fully over my desk so that he seemed to loom over me.
“Jay, please,” I countered. I took his hand while I stood and made to force him back into upright position. He resisted slightly, content to let his submission continue to serve as intimidation.
Nero shouldered Eliot aside and set his bulk squarely in front of my desk. His paunch nearly settled on and overturned my nameplate. I noticed a splatter of bacon fat on his hand, on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed unable to solidify or remain liquid and so remained there and dared one or both of us to make a move. I clasped his hand quickly, shook and dropped it, and wiped my hand against my trousers.
“We’ve heard a great about you, Jay,” he said. “You might say that we, the two of us, keep our ears to the ground.” The tacit acknowledgment of their otherness caused them both to laugh.
“You’ve been scaring people, Jay. They see you hiding in here, or staring at them from back here, screaming at them even. If you want to run yourself into the ground, we wouldn’t dream of stopping you, but you are giving us some concern. We have a job to do, you see?” Eliot said, and looked at Nero for approval.
“That’s right—we have to eat,” Nero said, nodding. “People need to eat.”
“People will fend for themselves,” I said as I stepped out from behind my desk.
“If they know what’s good for them, if you know what’s good for you, they won’t have to,” Nero countered.
I balled my fists, but could not keep my hands from trembling. I was not frightened, exactly, but I felt that matters had come to a head. “I’m just an art dealer,” I said through clenched teeth.
Eliot and Nero looked at each other, and shrugged their shoulders in tandem.
“Now, now,” Eliot scolded, “we’re just businessmen sharing our concerns. An art dealer, huh?”
I nodded.
“You reckon this stuff is what separates humans from the animals?” he asked.
“It is what separates us,” I said.
The Martins laughed again, shrugged again.
“Well, I guess we’d better take it all in then. Think that will bring us together?” Nero said.
“Go on then,” I said and smiled in earnest. “We can all stand to learn something about ourselves and others.”
At that, the two of them began their circuit of Vanitas. I watched them, analyzed their every reaction. I waited for the signs to manifest themselves, but they remained in character. I answered a few questions from where I stood, leaning against my desk. The charade seemed as if it would hold and I wondered about my suspicions—that is, until they came to Danaë.
Nero elbowed Eliot with enough force that he staggered him.
“I like this one,” he said.
His lips quivered and his jowls trembled.
“She’s got nice titties,” Eliot offered.
Nero looked back at me; a grin smeared itself across his face.
“Nah, there’s something else about her,” he explained. He inclined his head toward her legs—legs still hugged nearly to her chest. “She’s got thunder thighs, big ol’ hamhocks.”
Eliot leered and craned his head in closer.
“Yea
h, you’re right,” he agreed. “Kinda a shame though, she’d be pretty sexy otherwise.”
“You’re out of your mind, man,” Nero said. “That’s the best part. The things I’d do to her, man! I’d get her on her hands and knees, smack her one. I’d give her a squeeze.”
Eliot snickered and shook his head. Both looked back toward me where I stood and fumed before they looked each other in the eye again.
Nero’s grin split wider, his lips curled back, back too far; his nose turned up slightly and his ears flickered, once, twice. “Oh, man!” he squealed. “She’d be . . . SOOOOOOOOOOOOWEEEEEEEEEEEET!”
He slapped his hands against the painting, against her. I saw her head; it moved. She turned further away and her expression soured; it became a look of shame and violation.
I reached behind my desk and pulled something from a display on the wall: an ornate talwaar I’d acquired from an estate some five years past. I grasped the scrimshawed hilt and cast the gilded sheath aside. The light caught the ornate ripples and ridges of the wootz steel, but the Martin-things did not notice. I ran toward them, the two of snuffling, grunting, and given over to the change toward whatever they truly were.
“Don’t touch her!” I shouted.
They turned. I cut.
The talwaar sliced through the tip of Nero’s nose, thudded sickeningly from his chin, and sliced his chest open from the sternum to his crotch. His organs unspooled in a great ruined clump, some dangling in place, but most slapping onto the hardwood floor in a vaguely pyramidal pile of viscera. Eliot stood frozen, his mouth hanging open, and he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. I looked then to Danaë: she turned slightly, and relief was evident in her expression. Eliot staggered backwards, tripped slightly in the wreckage of his now sprawled cousin, and extended a hand behind him for balance—a hand that touched her.