Splendid, Part 4

I saw long lines of men falling over from disease and sickness, hordes of starving people who somehow failed at collective preservation falling by the second. I saw Laotian mothers and fathers caught in between conflicts, felled, as children watched in knowing predisposed silence in the water logged rice fields, shirtless, short and knotted from labor. I saw weeping troglodytes from the American suburbs as their devices failed and images could no longer sustain illusion as mud swallowed their gear and bodies and whimpering. I watched on as the waves on the shore lapped over fields of jellyfish flopping from the heat of the sea while sullen Tsunami survivors scraped the poison of the things from their fleshy ankles and elbows and genitals with long strips of palm which also cut like paper, thin and veiled and precise. I watched as angry Grackles tore at each other in swarms over the heat of diesel engines along the embankments of major freeways, smoking under a hot noon sun while drivers swayed and swatted at them from cabs and stacks of spilled cargo behind dessert masks, some exhausted and weak, coughing in the dust, some half cooked, slumped and smeared against the soft asphalt and gooey radials. Then I awoke. I got up and mindlessly set about a series of memorized gestures and tasks like cleaning teeth and wiping ass, and went to meet the boys who were out at the grounds making final preps for the opening which by the looks of the weather would not be well attended.

When I arrived the dawn had not yet come. I popped a beer and sat a distance away looking at the piece, straining to make out even a vague video image. Eric and I sat in silence as the night approached. Sterz remained standing, circling the grounds, slowly dragging his paralyzed right foot sideways over the uneven sod. As dusk arrived, the piece began to take shape. Pulses of movement faded into view until the whole thing was dancing sails, alive with movement behind a turbid veil of mist and drizzle, the fountain below adding the sound. I walked to the edge of the hill looking down across the landscape and settled back on the piece. Sterz approached, tossed his cane and gave a tight embrace with his head buried in my chest. He was pleased, this was success, it worked. Maybe twenty or so visitors came that night, most of them passing by on their way to and from university buildings or simply on a stroll across the grounds. We settled in to the nook near the back entrance of the building and sipped on beers and wine in shelter from the drizzle. Some moments pass and I break the silence, “This place has ghosts, there’s something here, there’s energy here.” I recalled my dream. Sterz says in his slow and ordered way, “I saw my son here before he was born. I was riding my bike, I remember it clearly, when I looked up and had a vision of him standing in Khaki shorts near a forest. Heather, of course, blew it off but I remember it clearly.” I smiled and let a knowing grunt of air escape my nostrils. “Yea?” “Yes,” he replied as he dug in the pocket of his jean jacket to get his wallet, popped it open and there was Calder against a tree in Kahki shorts, a picture he had taken within the month. Not but an hour ago he had showed it to old friends who came to visit when he recalled the vision. I grunt again and nod in solidarity and sip my beer. Eric looks over, nodding as well, “this is my favorite piece I think. This is a really beautiful.” Eric has installed a bunch of them from New York to Miami and back. “Thank you,” he responds. I round the bend to take a piss but get distracted by the toad hopping delightful along the cool damp concrete. Places where amphibians thrive feel right. It felt balanced.

I wished Sara was there and before her Alicia, I ached for it. I allowed this transgress and felt the absence hug my ribs as I stood pissing against the dark wall of the museum. My heart became heavy and I blamed the spirits. I smiled to fight it. On the way home we stopped at the Irish pub and I made paper roses for the girls and a couple of guys who seemed like they deserved it more. I order a plate of sweet potato fries which despite being on the menu actually offends the barkeep. The Irish are strange folks I thought and laugh to myself. Mack calls the Italian and the Irish “the niggers of Europe.” I laugh ‘cause it’s true, that’s the thing about stereotypes and because I’m Italian and because Mack feels comfortable enough to say such things. A few drinks and some well made roses in I get to talking to the girls at the end of the bar. I think they came with a couple of dudes but fuck it, I had a broken heart due to the over indulgent spirits and needed to talk to a woman to dispel the madness. Plus the dudes were dumb enough to leave them sitting there. “So what are you guys doing here?”, the more attractive girl sitting closest to me asks. I point to Sterz, “this man is an artist and we just installed his work at the Tang. This was opening night.” “Really!” she responds with mock enthusiasm. They were clearly unimpressed, not art lovers. “What are you doing here?" I ask. I’m a representative from Xerox and doing my usual rounds, my sister brought me here. She points to the girl next to her. “I gotta look out for her, that’s my job,” her sister adds. “How do you make those roses?” They like the roses. I laugh and think of Ellen. I think of her laugh and the viscosity of her cunt nectar, I was addicted to it, then look up still wearing a smirk and address the question, “I learned it from an Irish bartender in Jersey.” The thought of it made me think of sugary green shots with Everclear or some nasty shit delivered by girls in belly shirts and tight cutoff jean shorts. "Wanna learn?" They look eager. "Here, grab a bev nap." We begin the rose lesson which is going well until the sister’s guy returns and kind of ruins the vibe. “So what are you guys doing here?” She asks the question again, being drunk and short of memory and a little bit taken with the attention. I ask Sterz for a card and hand it to her. “What’s this?” she says intending to be feisty and flirty but it comes out as crass. She continues, “I’m supposed to go to this website and find stuff out?” I imagine her in Xerox marketing meetings barking at the new trainees, sorority girls recruited through ties to business, connections made generations prior. Sterz reaches back and snaps the card away which produces a rolling laugh among the boys. She gives it another go in attempts to save the conversation, “I just mean what am I supposed to do with that?” Sterz’ card is simple, just the website. It comes off as more crass even though the poor girl clearly wanted to restore the peace. “And what am I supposed to do with this?” She looks at her poorly constructed rose, the result of the lesson which I never got to finish. “I dunno, maybe you could Xerox it,” I quip with a smile and leave to have a smoke.

When I return, the girls are gone and the boys are sipping down the bottom third of a mug. We settle up and return to camp Community Court, spirits continuing to swoop and dive at my memory like owls hunting rodents. Sara sends a text in the early morning hours, it reads – Goodnight baby, I love you. It feels good, like a cloak as I fall into a restless sleep.