Thursday, March 31, 2011
# 74 CAUSE AND EFFECT
Her dress was so sheer she had been raped several times without being made aware.
Monday, March 28, 2011
#73 MADAME MERLE'S RETURN
This is a chapter from my sequel to "The Portrait of a Lady." I think it works as a short story, singular yet part of a whole. In any case, Madame Merle has been suitably recalled to action.
Isabel Osmond and her stepdaughter Pansy were seated in the lobby of the Hotel de Londres waiting for Isabel’s friend Henrietta Stackpole Bantling. Mrs. Bantling had been detained by a telegram from her paper, The Interviewer on her latest submission. The paper wanted a more extensive coverage of a museum theft that had taken place in the last week. It tied in with Mrs. Bantling’s feature on small out-of-the-way art museums of Italy. The theft of an important Titian was big news, a sign that art was no longer of interest to a few well-traveled highbrows and was gaining not only in viewers but in that most respected of entities, the American dollar.
While the two women waited, seated on a lounge in the front of the lobby, not at all impatient, Isabel surveyed the lively atmosphere and was startled to see leaving the dining room the personage of Madame Merle, an entirely unexpected sight though not completely a surprise. Isabel had heard that Madame Merle was back in Europe though she had not heard she was at this particular hotel in Rome and wondered if Henrietta knew and why she hadn’t mentioned it. The two women had never got on in a big way; Henrietta thought Madame Merle affected and Madame Merle did not think of Henrietta in any way at all but if she were forced to make an assessment, she would say the lady journalist could do with a bit more subtlety, a little more seasoning but that if she remained in Europe for any time, these things would come. She would lose some of her American brashness and all to the better would be the lady of high culture’s opinion.
Isabel was thankful Pansy was in the enthrall of a Mr. Harold Ludlow, her nephew who was touring Italy with group of fellow-medical students from Oxford, residing in a small pension nearby. Pansy was oblivious to Madame Merle’s presence. Mr. Ludlow was busy paying the utmost attention to Miss Osmond: a young woman whose likeness he had heretofore never encountered. This was the second meeting with Miss Osmond--they had been introduced the previous day in St. Peter’s Square where the students were sightseeing and happened upon Pansy and Mrs. Osmond, Mr. and Mrs. Bantling and an elderly Italian by the name of Signor Castellini whose business was in art restoration and authentication though his opinion could not be taken to the bank, did not carry that sort of weight a professional curator or scholar would carry.
To say Harold Ludlow was enthralled would not do him justice: He was a man of thoughtful disposition, not subject to whimsical notions or unattainable ideals. What he saw in Pansy Osmond was not a flight of fancy or a romantic interlude pressed upon him that lacked grounding. Without making the young man sound brittle, what he saw in this young lady was his future wife, a helpmate, a partner with whom he could live his life, in his chosen occupation with as little turmoil or dalliance as his nature required though to say that he was impervious to the young lady’s charm was to do him another injustice. He was as susceptible to grace as any other man of two and twenty, to what the Romantics call inspiration. He was likewise not immune to Italy’s golden sway.
On this second meeting, not altogether unplanned by Mr. Ludlow, with his attention solely placed on Miss Osmond, Isabel was quick to note that Madame Merle had been observing the young couple from a distance, in fact was quite enthralled herself by the spectacle of her daughter and the young man though she dared not prolong her viewing: she wished not to be noticed by Isabel Osmond or Pansy herself at this time. But she saw what she saw and there was no mistaking exactly what it was she saw: Her daughter and a young, good-looking, polite American were absorbed completely in each other in a way that precluded any other deduction than that the two young people could only be described as wholly in a state of adoration. Madame Merle recognized that exalted state when it was presented in its naked form and she drew into the shadow of a hallway and out of sight, unable to add anything to this tableau that could in any way beautify it. She would have to find out who the young man’s antecedents were but despite his background, she suspected Pansy would not be talked out of this relationship so easily by her father. She wondered if Isabel, who seemed unruffled by this scene of easy compatibility had her hand in it.
Madame Merle thought she may have to write Osmond but then decided against it. She would wait and see what transpired. She could do nothing else and entered her suite with a renewed sense of purpose though what that purpose was, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that her daughter had grown into a remarkable woman and this realization made her heart sing for the first time since the girl’s unlikely birth twenty years ago and many lifetimes, or so it seemed to the grand signora in the most lavish suite in a hotel catering to the English, and more recently, the Americans. She had never looked or felt better. Her spirit was a marvel of grand inspiration and capability. One could not argue with wealth, she thought, it beats just about everything and she spent her days being grateful to a Schubert sonata that melted the heart of an American businessman and allowed fate to intervene in a life that had grown wearisome indeed.
It turns out that writing Osmond would not necessary. Serena Merle Halpern was entering a palatial drawing room of an old friend with much of the Eternal City’s recently displaced nobility in attendance. Mrs. Halpern as Madame Merle, was well-known in this tight circle and was frequently invited but she had been away, in America, and as she’d only recently arrived back in Rome, unexpectedly early, found a surprising invitation, thinking not a soul knew of her recent reoccupation of the city she calls home although as a world traveler, home is not an apt description except to say that it is the city where she holds the lease on a small apartment filled with her collection of lace and porcelain, much of it quite valuable, samples of her watercolour attempts, including a pleasing one of Gardencourt, two sketches by Gilbert Osmond of herself seated on a chair in the garden in his Florentine villa when she was younger and one of the Roman Campagna.
Her gown was a deep burgundy velvet recently purchased in Paris and over it was an ivory lace mantel with the smallest of filigree beading to enhance its sheen. As a rule, she wore no jewelry but tonight there could be seen on her left hand a band of gold with two small flawless diamonds flanking a deep blue sapphire in a bezel setting, a gift from her husband of ten weeks, also purchased in Paris where the couple spent a month, a honeymoon, if you will.
As Mrs. Halpern adjusted her eyes to the ornate décor of the splendid room it took her only the briefest moment to note that her old lover and co-conspirator, Gilbert Osmond was seated in the far west corner beside the fireplace. He was talking to Prince Viticonti, a nephew of the Marchesa Viticonti who could be seen at the other end of the setee the prince was seated on. Slightly taken aback, Mrs. Halpern registered only the smallest reaction before she regained her composure enough to greet several acquaintances, accepted congratulations on her marriage and was forced to explain why her husband was not with them that evening. "Mr. Halpern left for Milan on business to return in one week. I stayed in Rome to oversee the packing up of my apartment; we are to move into more spacious accommodations in the Palazzo Michelangeli on the via Conditti." Though the newlyweds would be only a year at most in Italy, it was to be a luxurious year and she planned to reciprocate all the many invitations she’d received over the years; her spacious new palazzo to host an open house each Saturday. Madame Merle was not above wanting to show her success to the world that had written her off as not quite up to the standards of entertaining Roman society generally favored. Unlike Osmond, she was not seeking envy, she was not egotistical in that way, but she did want respect and having money, a lot of it, would garner her that.
She swelled inside thinking of it as she had ever since her precipitant and unforeseen marriage to an American manufacturer took place. How could she have known when boarding the ship in Liverpool last spring, in heavy-hearted exile, that she would return shortly thereafter a rich woman with a generous husband. It made her dizzy thinking of it, a still so very unlikely a prospect at her age. She’d given up that ambition; marriage to a man of substance, battered by the forces that had played out in her life. That she had played all the wrong cards did not escape the mind this introspective woman of forty-eight. But it is said that America is the land of opportunity and that is just what happened upon Madame Merle as she played a resonate trio of piano pieces from Schubert, Mendelssohn and Mozart for a party of placid though exceedingly well-to-do citizens of New York.
Mr. Gerald Halpern was of the audience and found himself stimulated by the music in a way he had never been before. It was something quite unexpected and opened a place in his mind or was it his heart, he wasn’t quite sure but it left him feeling strangely uplifted. Before leaving, he made a point of thanking the lady recently arrived from Europe for her playing, intent on telling her how much it moved him though he felt shy admitting to such an unmanly reaction. That she was almost diffident to his compliment stirred something else in him. Were all Europeans so casual about their superior attributes? Was it a commonplace to be able to so skillfully play what Halpern thought surely complicated scores, more complex than anything he’d ever heard played in Chicago or even here in New York? What Madame Merle did for our manufacturer of wheels was to increase his awareness and bring to light a world he had heretofore been too busy to take part in, a world he thought might hold some interest for him. He left the party in a state of a mind quite inexplicable to him--one of expansion. He called on the stunning European lady the next day. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might hold the key to his future.
Mrs. Halpern found herself next to Osmond as they made their way into the dining room and did not hesitate to greet him formally. “Good evening, Mr. Osmond. You are alone tonight?” she began.
“As you can see Madame, I am distinctly not alone this evening,” he said with a gesture to indicate the array of people now waiting to be seated in the elaborate marble and mirrored dining room.
Mrs. Halpern looked directly into his eyes but said no more. She was not ready for Osmond’s glib phraseology, in fact had lost her taste for what passed as conversation in Europe, her husband being a straightforward man with little need for irony or riddles.
The two stared rather gloomily at nothing in particular before he said “I haven’t congratulated you yet on your marriage. I do so now.”
Mrs. Halpern nodded but did not reply.
“I don’t believe I’ve known you to be so reticent, Madame…,what is it now, your name, I believe I haven’t heard of it.”
“Halpern. Mrs. Gerald Halpern.”
“Ah, I think I should prefer Madame Halpern. It suits you better.”
“As you wish. But as the wife of an American gentleman, I believe Mrs. Halpern is correct.”
“I stand corrected, Mrs. Halpern.”
“I see your wife is not with us, she’s not ill I hope?”
“No, my wife is not ill but she is being entertained by her friends from England and as we seemed to have conflicting invitations and I could not convince her to change hers I chose to come alone as the Marchesa Viticonti is a dear friend.”
“Is your wife with the Bantlings? We are at the same hotel. I’ve actually seen Mrs. Osmond in the lobby though she did not see me and I thought it best that way.”
“Yes, she’s forever with the Bantlings. What she finds in their company I’m sure I don’t know but to each his own.”
“This is a new attitude Mr. Osmond. I remember a time when…” She stopped her sentence realizing she was taking the conversation in a direction that could not be brought to a distinct conclusion.
“Yes, well Mrs. Halpern, you see we can change, we are all capable of it sometimes, even me.”
Mrs. Halpern said nothing more. She could imagine the changes her former lover might have adopted. “And Pansy? Is she well?”
“Very much so.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. She’s very tied up these days.”
“Very well. I won’t see her if you object.”
“Oh it’s not for me to object. She always with my wife, doing I’m not sure what. And when she isn’t with Isabel, she is entertaining Prince Viticonti in our home. They have struck up a friendship. We see the Prince regularly these days, he seems to find the Palazzo Roccanera quite to his taste.”
Mrs. Halpern looked hard at Osmond and then turned abruptly away, to be seated next to an ancient baron who immediately brightened at having the fascinating Madame Merle at his right, a name not likely to be replaced by another in his settled mind.
She was glad to end the conversation with her former lover. She hadn’t mentioned that she in fact, had seen Pansy in the hotel lobby with his wife. Or that she also saw a young, good-looking American boy in attendance to the two ladies, related somehow to the Archers, she had already ascertained. She also distinguished the glow on Pansy’s face as she gazed at the young man.
Mrs. Halpern indeed knew much more than Mr. Osmond regarding their daughter. Nevertheless, she would have to learn what Osmond was up to with the Viticonti clan. The prince was no suitable match for Pansy and the sooner Osmond learned that the better. He hated disappointment, couldn't abide being proved wrong, but would have to, once again, face just that.
Madame Merle left immediately after dinner, declining to play for the audience of noble breeding. Never had she the wherewithal to refuse in the past. She could thank her husband for that. She could now practice the arts when and for whom she chose. For this she would be eternally grateful to Mr. Halpern. That he could be somewhat dense on occasion, somewhat over-ebullient on others was at times vexing to a lady so fastidiously nuanced but she could recognize and welcome recompense when it had been dropped freely from the heavens.
Isabel Osmond and her stepdaughter Pansy were seated in the lobby of the Hotel de Londres waiting for Isabel’s friend Henrietta Stackpole Bantling. Mrs. Bantling had been detained by a telegram from her paper, The Interviewer on her latest submission. The paper wanted a more extensive coverage of a museum theft that had taken place in the last week. It tied in with Mrs. Bantling’s feature on small out-of-the-way art museums of Italy. The theft of an important Titian was big news, a sign that art was no longer of interest to a few well-traveled highbrows and was gaining not only in viewers but in that most respected of entities, the American dollar.
While the two women waited, seated on a lounge in the front of the lobby, not at all impatient, Isabel surveyed the lively atmosphere and was startled to see leaving the dining room the personage of Madame Merle, an entirely unexpected sight though not completely a surprise. Isabel had heard that Madame Merle was back in Europe though she had not heard she was at this particular hotel in Rome and wondered if Henrietta knew and why she hadn’t mentioned it. The two women had never got on in a big way; Henrietta thought Madame Merle affected and Madame Merle did not think of Henrietta in any way at all but if she were forced to make an assessment, she would say the lady journalist could do with a bit more subtlety, a little more seasoning but that if she remained in Europe for any time, these things would come. She would lose some of her American brashness and all to the better would be the lady of high culture’s opinion.
Isabel was thankful Pansy was in the enthrall of a Mr. Harold Ludlow, her nephew who was touring Italy with group of fellow-medical students from Oxford, residing in a small pension nearby. Pansy was oblivious to Madame Merle’s presence. Mr. Ludlow was busy paying the utmost attention to Miss Osmond: a young woman whose likeness he had heretofore never encountered. This was the second meeting with Miss Osmond--they had been introduced the previous day in St. Peter’s Square where the students were sightseeing and happened upon Pansy and Mrs. Osmond, Mr. and Mrs. Bantling and an elderly Italian by the name of Signor Castellini whose business was in art restoration and authentication though his opinion could not be taken to the bank, did not carry that sort of weight a professional curator or scholar would carry.
To say Harold Ludlow was enthralled would not do him justice: He was a man of thoughtful disposition, not subject to whimsical notions or unattainable ideals. What he saw in Pansy Osmond was not a flight of fancy or a romantic interlude pressed upon him that lacked grounding. Without making the young man sound brittle, what he saw in this young lady was his future wife, a helpmate, a partner with whom he could live his life, in his chosen occupation with as little turmoil or dalliance as his nature required though to say that he was impervious to the young lady’s charm was to do him another injustice. He was as susceptible to grace as any other man of two and twenty, to what the Romantics call inspiration. He was likewise not immune to Italy’s golden sway.
On this second meeting, not altogether unplanned by Mr. Ludlow, with his attention solely placed on Miss Osmond, Isabel was quick to note that Madame Merle had been observing the young couple from a distance, in fact was quite enthralled herself by the spectacle of her daughter and the young man though she dared not prolong her viewing: she wished not to be noticed by Isabel Osmond or Pansy herself at this time. But she saw what she saw and there was no mistaking exactly what it was she saw: Her daughter and a young, good-looking, polite American were absorbed completely in each other in a way that precluded any other deduction than that the two young people could only be described as wholly in a state of adoration. Madame Merle recognized that exalted state when it was presented in its naked form and she drew into the shadow of a hallway and out of sight, unable to add anything to this tableau that could in any way beautify it. She would have to find out who the young man’s antecedents were but despite his background, she suspected Pansy would not be talked out of this relationship so easily by her father. She wondered if Isabel, who seemed unruffled by this scene of easy compatibility had her hand in it.
Madame Merle thought she may have to write Osmond but then decided against it. She would wait and see what transpired. She could do nothing else and entered her suite with a renewed sense of purpose though what that purpose was, she wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was that her daughter had grown into a remarkable woman and this realization made her heart sing for the first time since the girl’s unlikely birth twenty years ago and many lifetimes, or so it seemed to the grand signora in the most lavish suite in a hotel catering to the English, and more recently, the Americans. She had never looked or felt better. Her spirit was a marvel of grand inspiration and capability. One could not argue with wealth, she thought, it beats just about everything and she spent her days being grateful to a Schubert sonata that melted the heart of an American businessman and allowed fate to intervene in a life that had grown wearisome indeed.
It turns out that writing Osmond would not necessary. Serena Merle Halpern was entering a palatial drawing room of an old friend with much of the Eternal City’s recently displaced nobility in attendance. Mrs. Halpern as Madame Merle, was well-known in this tight circle and was frequently invited but she had been away, in America, and as she’d only recently arrived back in Rome, unexpectedly early, found a surprising invitation, thinking not a soul knew of her recent reoccupation of the city she calls home although as a world traveler, home is not an apt description except to say that it is the city where she holds the lease on a small apartment filled with her collection of lace and porcelain, much of it quite valuable, samples of her watercolour attempts, including a pleasing one of Gardencourt, two sketches by Gilbert Osmond of herself seated on a chair in the garden in his Florentine villa when she was younger and one of the Roman Campagna.
Her gown was a deep burgundy velvet recently purchased in Paris and over it was an ivory lace mantel with the smallest of filigree beading to enhance its sheen. As a rule, she wore no jewelry but tonight there could be seen on her left hand a band of gold with two small flawless diamonds flanking a deep blue sapphire in a bezel setting, a gift from her husband of ten weeks, also purchased in Paris where the couple spent a month, a honeymoon, if you will.
As Mrs. Halpern adjusted her eyes to the ornate décor of the splendid room it took her only the briefest moment to note that her old lover and co-conspirator, Gilbert Osmond was seated in the far west corner beside the fireplace. He was talking to Prince Viticonti, a nephew of the Marchesa Viticonti who could be seen at the other end of the setee the prince was seated on. Slightly taken aback, Mrs. Halpern registered only the smallest reaction before she regained her composure enough to greet several acquaintances, accepted congratulations on her marriage and was forced to explain why her husband was not with them that evening. "Mr. Halpern left for Milan on business to return in one week. I stayed in Rome to oversee the packing up of my apartment; we are to move into more spacious accommodations in the Palazzo Michelangeli on the via Conditti." Though the newlyweds would be only a year at most in Italy, it was to be a luxurious year and she planned to reciprocate all the many invitations she’d received over the years; her spacious new palazzo to host an open house each Saturday. Madame Merle was not above wanting to show her success to the world that had written her off as not quite up to the standards of entertaining Roman society generally favored. Unlike Osmond, she was not seeking envy, she was not egotistical in that way, but she did want respect and having money, a lot of it, would garner her that.
She swelled inside thinking of it as she had ever since her precipitant and unforeseen marriage to an American manufacturer took place. How could she have known when boarding the ship in Liverpool last spring, in heavy-hearted exile, that she would return shortly thereafter a rich woman with a generous husband. It made her dizzy thinking of it, a still so very unlikely a prospect at her age. She’d given up that ambition; marriage to a man of substance, battered by the forces that had played out in her life. That she had played all the wrong cards did not escape the mind this introspective woman of forty-eight. But it is said that America is the land of opportunity and that is just what happened upon Madame Merle as she played a resonate trio of piano pieces from Schubert, Mendelssohn and Mozart for a party of placid though exceedingly well-to-do citizens of New York.
Mr. Gerald Halpern was of the audience and found himself stimulated by the music in a way he had never been before. It was something quite unexpected and opened a place in his mind or was it his heart, he wasn’t quite sure but it left him feeling strangely uplifted. Before leaving, he made a point of thanking the lady recently arrived from Europe for her playing, intent on telling her how much it moved him though he felt shy admitting to such an unmanly reaction. That she was almost diffident to his compliment stirred something else in him. Were all Europeans so casual about their superior attributes? Was it a commonplace to be able to so skillfully play what Halpern thought surely complicated scores, more complex than anything he’d ever heard played in Chicago or even here in New York? What Madame Merle did for our manufacturer of wheels was to increase his awareness and bring to light a world he had heretofore been too busy to take part in, a world he thought might hold some interest for him. He left the party in a state of a mind quite inexplicable to him--one of expansion. He called on the stunning European lady the next day. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she might hold the key to his future.
Mrs. Halpern found herself next to Osmond as they made their way into the dining room and did not hesitate to greet him formally. “Good evening, Mr. Osmond. You are alone tonight?” she began.
“As you can see Madame, I am distinctly not alone this evening,” he said with a gesture to indicate the array of people now waiting to be seated in the elaborate marble and mirrored dining room.
Mrs. Halpern looked directly into his eyes but said no more. She was not ready for Osmond’s glib phraseology, in fact had lost her taste for what passed as conversation in Europe, her husband being a straightforward man with little need for irony or riddles.
The two stared rather gloomily at nothing in particular before he said “I haven’t congratulated you yet on your marriage. I do so now.”
Mrs. Halpern nodded but did not reply.
“I don’t believe I’ve known you to be so reticent, Madame…,what is it now, your name, I believe I haven’t heard of it.”
“Halpern. Mrs. Gerald Halpern.”
“Ah, I think I should prefer Madame Halpern. It suits you better.”
“As you wish. But as the wife of an American gentleman, I believe Mrs. Halpern is correct.”
“I stand corrected, Mrs. Halpern.”
“I see your wife is not with us, she’s not ill I hope?”
“No, my wife is not ill but she is being entertained by her friends from England and as we seemed to have conflicting invitations and I could not convince her to change hers I chose to come alone as the Marchesa Viticonti is a dear friend.”
“Is your wife with the Bantlings? We are at the same hotel. I’ve actually seen Mrs. Osmond in the lobby though she did not see me and I thought it best that way.”
“Yes, she’s forever with the Bantlings. What she finds in their company I’m sure I don’t know but to each his own.”
“This is a new attitude Mr. Osmond. I remember a time when…” She stopped her sentence realizing she was taking the conversation in a direction that could not be brought to a distinct conclusion.
“Yes, well Mrs. Halpern, you see we can change, we are all capable of it sometimes, even me.”
Mrs. Halpern said nothing more. She could imagine the changes her former lover might have adopted. “And Pansy? Is she well?”
“Very much so.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. She’s very tied up these days.”
“Very well. I won’t see her if you object.”
“Oh it’s not for me to object. She always with my wife, doing I’m not sure what. And when she isn’t with Isabel, she is entertaining Prince Viticonti in our home. They have struck up a friendship. We see the Prince regularly these days, he seems to find the Palazzo Roccanera quite to his taste.”
Mrs. Halpern looked hard at Osmond and then turned abruptly away, to be seated next to an ancient baron who immediately brightened at having the fascinating Madame Merle at his right, a name not likely to be replaced by another in his settled mind.
She was glad to end the conversation with her former lover. She hadn’t mentioned that she in fact, had seen Pansy in the hotel lobby with his wife. Or that she also saw a young, good-looking American boy in attendance to the two ladies, related somehow to the Archers, she had already ascertained. She also distinguished the glow on Pansy’s face as she gazed at the young man.
Mrs. Halpern indeed knew much more than Mr. Osmond regarding their daughter. Nevertheless, she would have to learn what Osmond was up to with the Viticonti clan. The prince was no suitable match for Pansy and the sooner Osmond learned that the better. He hated disappointment, couldn't abide being proved wrong, but would have to, once again, face just that.
Madame Merle left immediately after dinner, declining to play for the audience of noble breeding. Never had she the wherewithal to refuse in the past. She could thank her husband for that. She could now practice the arts when and for whom she chose. For this she would be eternally grateful to Mr. Halpern. That he could be somewhat dense on occasion, somewhat over-ebullient on others was at times vexing to a lady so fastidiously nuanced but she could recognize and welcome recompense when it had been dropped freely from the heavens.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
#72 SELF-HELPLESS
We are all museums of fear --Charles Bukowski
Delia had made a study of all of the above but was as of yet, unable to put her findings into a reliable method of; a) attracting, b) being, c) coexisting, d) deserving, e) earning or f) financial acumen and was at the time of this writing; a) alone, b) broke, c) confused, d) destitute, e) evicted, and f) forsaken. None of it a joy to write about or admit to.
After thirty years of reading up on the subject of personal fulfillment and/or growth, as well as the divine, Delia was now washed up. There was no reason to deny it any longer or to pretend another book could tell her something she didn’t already know, at least intellectually. She understood the following concepts:
*that you should focus on the positive,
*that you can and should affirm what it is you want,
*that God is within,
*that happiness is all in your mind and as such, a choice,
*that you can heal yourself and help to heal others,
*that we are all one,
*that love is all there is,
*that you can overcome obstacles with the proper perspective,
*that you should be the change you want to experience,
*that you can rein in Prince Charming with the right attitude,
*that you have a magnetic field that attracts or repels,
*that your aura is who and what you are,
*that you can visualize what you would like to have, be, do,
*that your vibrational frequency determines your life,
*that this frequency can be tuned for stronger reception,
*that there is money out there-you are just blocking its path,
*that you should operate with intention,
*that you should flow,
*that you will improve your life if you meditate,
*that to forgive is divine wisdom,
*that there is indeed a divine design for your life,
*that you just have to have faith,
*that there are angels looking out for you,
*that you have a shadowy side and that’s okay,
*that you have to accept what is before you can change it,
*that where you are is exactly where you need to be,
*that now is the only time,
*that fear is the opposite of love and nothing else exists,
*that we can choose something else,
*that there is no death, ergo, nothing to fear.
That is a sampling of Delia’s wisdom and she had no doubt that all of the above statements were true. She had had moments when they crystallized for her, but they were a flash event and did not really change her day-to-day life. She did not feel let down by her reading but instead by her own inability to comprehend and put in the fix. She just wasn’t capable of sending out enough positive vibrations and once she finally grasped that fact, admitted it to herself (there was only herself) she spent a few days completely at a loss as to how she would carry on without this crutch. That is how she now saw her addiction to philosophical exploration.
She would never let any one know just how many titles she’d read, getting most of them from libraries, her own bookshelves filled with literature, art and a few of the more esoteric guides that could be said an aid to intellectual inquiry along with the accepted philosophers-Kant, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. In this shaky sub-category she housed titles by Gurdjieff, Krishnamurti, Alice Bailey and the poems of Rumi, titles she felt she could defend if need be, if her shelves were looked at with a critical eye.
She kept two of her favorites, A Course in Miracles and The Science of Mind hidden under her bed. These she didn’t care to explain to any one but she embraced the philosophy of both and furthermore thought they were written with great style. That is why she was sorry her life had turned out so badly; she had been certain with such powerful prose, she could thrive. Beatifically wrought sentences that were supposed to lead her out of darkness and into a life of abundant joy-happily married, healthy, financially secure-or at the very least, with peace of mind. Instead her composure was destroyed by the fact that in this, as in everything else, she had failed, unable to carry out perfectly detailed instructions that would dignify her life.
Why? Because, she reasoned, her mind was too narrow, her will too weak, too instilled with negativity to change. She was born to a negative mother, who was born to an even more negative mother and before her, Hungarian horrors-women too scary to go near. Delia knew this because she had studied old photos in her grandmother’s albums. These were the kind of women who would hit kids with a stick just for the hell of it-their faces looked like they could tussle with a grizzly bear and win. Delia knew from what she came and it wasn’t pretty. She often wondered how she turned out so docile, so pliable.
Delia was a product of the first generation with a wide-spread belief in redemption-a duty, in fact, to wholeheartedly seek the holy grail of happiness and enlightenment. If all else failed, drugs could do it for you. She tried drugs in her younger days but they wore off and there you were, still grounded in the every-day isness that seemingly was not to be evaded for more than a few hours at a time. To Delia, this was not the change she was looking for. She was looking for a permanent solution even though she had learned that all is impermanence. This philosophy had something going for it; it meant her suffering, too, was impermanent, reminding her of the biblical saying, this too shall pass. Delia was essentially without cynicism. She wanted all the aphorisms and platitudes to be true-she tried whenever possible to give herself up to their transformative qualities.
On the day Delia turned fifty, she took stock: She was flat broke, unemployed, still single, several failed careers, few friends, no pets, uncomfortable and estranged from family, out of shape. Recently she’d had a very bad haircut. It would be hard to find someone whose enlightenment bore so little fruit. Delia thought she would, on her birthday, have a book-burning party. She would burn every self-help, inspirational or esoteric/theological/philosophical title she’d ever read, including the Bible and the Bhagavad Gita. She lived in a city and could no more ignite a bonfire than she could gather all of the offending titles. Instead, she looked up as many of them as she could recall reading, using Amazon and the library for her research and after printing out a long list, set it on fire in her sink.
She cried a little, after all, this was her birthday as well as her last month in her cozy efficiency apartment, and she was sentimental over books that had been encouraging, ever since a boyfriend in college gave her a copy of Ram Dass’s Be Here Now when she was just twenty and living in a commune.
It could be said Delia had done her part seeking enlightenment, empowerment and improvement. Others might look upon her worldly failing and cite various reasons but only she would know how deep it went, how many solutions were offered, only to be unspent, wasted on Delia. Therefore, on her fiftieth birthday, she determined she would heretofore, go it alone.
She would wrest God from her consciousness, bar Jesus from the garden, laugh hysterically at the Buddha, ridicule all Hindus, disparage the Dalai Lama. She would despise the Koran and its followers but wouldn’t dare say so lest they send an assassin her way. She would mock Catholics and Christian Scientists alike. Any alleged miracle worker to appear on TV would instantly be tuned out. All espousers of positive thinking would earn her scorn. She may still be hopeless but at least she wouldn’t be gullible. Delia Mako would not be made a fool of any longer.
For a time immediately after the burning, she read books on atheism, books that attempted to tear asunder the concept of God and others written to expose the myths of the positive-thinking industry, self-awareness and new-age gobbledygook. These negative titles gave her a sense of taking control of her life-she wanted to avoid charlatans and Delia liked this muscular skepticism. But old habits die hard.
One day she read a news story that mentioned Gurdjieff’s name in connection with someone who had been a follower. The journalist referred to the guru as an obvious sham without question and Delia’s old surge of loyalty had her sending the writer a sharply worded e-mail demanding to know how she came to her conclusions. Delia did not care for the article’s tone-its judgmental flavor. Did the woman know for certain Mr. Gurdjieff was a sham? What did she base her hypothesis on? Delia knew she was back-sliding by this defense of a man whose book she’d recently, metaphorically burned. Later she would say to herself, of course, he was a sham-but at least he was an amusing sham who helped many people. His was an intellectual con at least, with music and art. Katherine Mansfield herself was a devotee.
In the end, Delia was left with Emerson, that stalwart of enlightenment, the rationalist whose strength was housed in pragmatism. Delia bought a book of essays thinking they would ground her in reality while offering sustenance. She thought his name on her shelves nothing to be ashamed of: hadn’t he been lionized for over a century? Self-reliance was his motto. Delia knew she had been anything but. She had relied on the fanciful and look where it had gotten her? Homeless, living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy, eating at soup kitchens, every one she knew or had ever known unaware of her circumstances and she unaware of theirs. Her cell phone was disconnected-she wouldn’t call for help anyway.
She still had some pride though she understood from her reading that it should be shunned along with the ego, two dictators of the psyche, blood brothers whose mission was to keep the mind and body in bondage. Delia was a little put out because she had a puny ego and was not riddled with pride; had nevertheless been willing to form a resistance to each, only to be informed what you resist persists.
Delia Mako, persistent resistance persisting did not know if she should give in to the ego’s pride and go it alone or challenge its authority over her and phone someone. It was just one of many conundrums in Delia’s life brought on by reading too much on a subject that continued to contradict-except when it didn’t.
PART II
“Ms. Mako, you say you have no place to sleep. Where have you been sleeping?”
“In my car.”
“You have a car then?”
“Well yes, had a car. It’s been towed.”
“So your car is here in the city?”
“Yes, locked up somewhere.”
“Have you tried to retrieve it?”
“I have no money.”
The social worker, Ms. Graciela Lopez with extravagant fuchsia fingernails stared hard at Delia and Delia attempted to return her stare but faltered slightly, possibly from hunger.
“Do you have any friends or family in the city?”
“No. I am from the Midwest originally.”
“How long have you been in San Francisco?”
“Twenty years, off and on.”
“And when you are off, where do you live?”
“Redwood City.”
“Do you have family or friends there?”
“No. I once had a friend there?”
“How is it, Ms. Mako, after twenty years in this city you have no friends here?”
“They have all moved away. I used to have a nice circle of friends, artistic types mostly but they had to leave the city because of the high rents.”
“All of them?”
“Well a few are hanging on living in rooms or their rent-controlled apartments.”
“And you can’t stay with them?”
“They are men and I am not in touch with them, not close friends.”
“Where is your family?”
“Florida, Minnesota, Texas.”
“Can you stay with them?”
“I have no way to get to them, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Have you been tested recently for AIDS, Ms. Mako?”
“What has that to do with anything?” The questions in general were beginning to provoke Delia but this one brought out the antagonism in her. The personal probing, combined with hunger had set her teeth on edge.
“Well, we may be able to place you in a facility but we need to know a little about you and your…shall we say…situation. When were you last tested for AIDS?”
Delia took a deep breath and said, “I have never been tested for AIDS, Ms. Lopez, I am what used to be referred to as an old maid. I have no reason to believe I might possibly have AIDS, thank you very much.”
“Please understand, Ms. Mako, I am required to ask certain questions. You will also be required to take a drug test. Will this be a problem for you?”
“I do not use drugs, Ms. Lopez. The last drug I used was in 1979 when I was given a Valium--was told it would relax me. I had been robbed.”
“Do you smoke pot?”
“Not since 1980 at a party. I didn’t inhale.” Delia tried for humor but it fell flat.
“What is your alcohol consumption?”
“I used to like a glass of wine with dinner but it has been some time since I have been invited to dinner anywhere. On my own, I do not consume alcoholic beverages, Ms. Lopez, I do not have the money for it. I am happy to eat these days.”
Ms. Lopez looked skeptically at Delia wondering whether to believe her. “Well, you’ll be tested for everything, Ms. Mako. It’s required. We have to know where would be the best place for you to be treated…”
“Ms. Lopez, I do not need nor wish your treatment. I am simply hungry. Believe it or not, people fall through the cracks without the aid of drugs or alcohol or prostitution. Surely I can’t be the first one in this economy?”
“I just do my job, Ms. Mako. Folks on the street usually have many problems and it is my job to find out what they are and refer them to the proper agencies. If you say you have no problems, I don’t understand what you are doing here. You must have someone you can turn to. Where are your parents?”
“I have no parents, thanks for asking. They both passed away ten and fifteen years ago.”
“Have you never had children?”
“As I said, old maid.”
“What, if any is your religious affiliation, Ms. Mako?”
On this Delia had to pause before answering. She wobbled but in the end said, “I am an atheist, Ms Lopez.”
Ms. Lopez looked at her with a subtle censure. She was instructed not to encourage or proffer any religious values, but inquired only to place the client in the proper setting. Many churches offered beds to women and Ms. Lopez thought if she could say Delia was one of any of the city’s affiliations, it would be a start. As it was, she had no way to ascertain where and with whom Delia would be accepted. Most of the homeless shelters catered to drug addicts, the express purpose to keep them off the streets and out of trouble. Most of the churches accepted women with children before single women. Organizations affiliated with Alcoholics Anonymous had beds for alcoholics. Ms. Lopez was not quite sure what to do with this middle-aged white female without a category or a specific need for the rehabilitation brigades. Normally it would not be a problem, she could be put in any of the shelters that had space but that was the problem: there wasn’t any space since the economic downturn. So many lost their jobs, those who were hanging by a thread before, fell. The system was strained and Ms. Lopez had turned people away; those able to function on their own. Delia was one such woman; in decent health it appeared and yet without a place to sleep or clean up. Ms. Lopez noted that though her clothing was appropriate for a middle-class woman who might have once had an occupation, it was worn out, much too big and in need of a laundromat. Her hair and nails needed attention but she could see that Delia had only recently arrived in her present condition, she did not have the look yet of a street person. Remnants of another lifestyle could still be noted.
While Ms. Lopez was busy taking notes, Delia was thinking about her admission: Atheist. So new was this idea it did not yet sit well with her, she felt undressed with such a label. Delia had been for many years, talking to God regularly. And she could honestly say it was a two-way conversation. This gave her a great deal of comfort but now she thought maybe she was just plain crazy; obviously it had not saved her. But God, like drugs, are hard to break up with. She thought of the old quip, Religion is the opium of the masses, from Karl Marx. Delia was beginning to understand this. God has left her in the same situation as drug addicts, alcoholics and the delusional.
PART III
It was true Delia had been living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy. Not only was she often told to move it, it was nearly out of gas, the insurance about to expire; Delia had to sell it fast. It was worth a couple thousand dollars and she put an ad on craigslist for it but had no phone number for contact and had to keep going into the library to use a computer for e-mail responses. This required she stay parked close to the library as she tried to drive as little as possible hoping the last tank of gas would suffice until the car was sold. Once it was sold, Delia would have money to get a room and food. She was losing weight and needed to get a pair of jeans from a thrift store. The ones she’d been wearing for the past month had to be belted up with six inches of excess fabric. Now the belt could not be made tighter and she used a bathrobe chord to tie them up. She dared not spend any money on anything superfluous but thought she would look less like a vagrant if her pants fit. Her sweater and coat, although now three sizes too big, could be made to look normal if she wrapped them around her. Once she could no longer hide in the car, she would have to make a stab at looking normal-at least she wanted to. Delia did not like attracting attention to herself, preferred anonymity in her low condition. She would have to eventually sleep in a homeless shelter and knew she would have to explain herself and this she was not looking forward to. Her interview with Ms. Lopez was only half as bad as she expected it to be. If humiliation was to be her daily diet, she had to at least communicate with some semblance of pride.
Before Delia herself was destitute, she once volunteered with a group that provided meals for the homeless. She did not imagine then that she would one day be in the same situation but then we never do. There but for the grace of God go I, another volunteer had chirped merrily. Delia was secure in her faithfulness then to think, My God will never forsake me. She ruefully laughed at her naiveté; now she wasn’t even certain her God would help get her car sold even if she sold it for less than it was worth. She wouldn’t even bother to ask. She knew she was entirely forsaken and her growling stomach, dirty cloths and greasy hair said it all.
After her interview with Ms. Lopez, Delia was given a voucher for meals in a church and also a bed in a capacious former warehouse that had been set up for the purpose of keeping people off the street. There were showers, but you could only use them three times a week. You were given a weak cup of coffee or tea in the morning and at six you were put out on the street to make your way through the day before you could return in the evening. The women were on the second floor and the men on the first. There was a TV in one corner but no chairs. The beds consisted of small foam mattresses on the floor, with one blanket and a pillow similar to those given on airplanes. The lights went out at 9:30 and silence was to prevail. This was not a shelter that housed children-women with children were in a building two doors down. All personal items were checked but you could furnish your own pillow and blanket if you had them. If it appeared you were drunk or high, you would be tested and lose your voucher. It was a strict set-up for which Delia was thankful. Ms. Lopez told her the rules were made because some folks had trouble sleeping or controlling themselves in general. The rules were to maintain some order and give people a chance to rest in peace. When she said “rest in peace” Delia immediately thought of death. Did she realize she had just likened the homeless to the dead? Delia didn’t want to think too much about it; it was just part of the horribleness she had been forced to endure once her car was towed while she was in the library checking on the possibility of its sale. She replied to several responses feeling hopeful. But when she returned to her car, it was not in the parking spot and an old Chinese man came from his house and told her it had been towed. He jumped around and laughed at her with an evil toothless chortle. She did not take it personally; Old Chinese people laughed at misfortune, it was just their way. He did not know her life just took a turn for the worse; a life already run down enough to sicken one. Delia promptly threw up on the sidewalk.
On her first night in the shelter, Delia was so demoralized, so tired she fell asleep and had to be prodded awake in the morning. She drank the coffee and wondered how she would spend the day on the street. Ms. Lopez had made an appointment for her with a counselor where she supposed she would have the threatened tests. She was passed from Ms. Lopez’s ministrations and would be taken in hand by a Mrs. Leka Chang. Delia had a business card with her information on it. The appointment wasn’t until three in the afternoon so she had the day to spend somewhere, she supposed the library.
On the second night Delia had recovered somewhat from the trepidation and lay on her piece of foam thinking about the day and Mrs. Chang. She was tested for drugs and alcohol and the hard-nosed woman seemed a little put out at finding both tests negative. Delia was questioned on her former address, her bank accounts, her family. When Mrs. Chang couldn’t get a handle on any of it, she looked Delia straight in the eye and said, “You have to work. You able-bodied, sound mind, you go to work. You will take job I find for you and be happy. You be available immediately, Ms. Mako.”
“Of course. Unless I need certain clothes. They are in my car which the city has locked up.”
“I give you voucher for Goodwill stores; you be assigned someone to help put working wardrobe together.”
“Mrs. Chang, I have been putting a working wardrobe together for thirty years. I can manage. I am humbled, not stupid."
“Ms. Mako, forgive me, I be blunt: you not managing so well, are you?”
“No, I clearly am not. But I think I might still be able to dress myself.”
“Very well, Ms. Mako. Let’s move on. I place in job. Tell me you experience, if any. What your last job?”
“I managed a bookstore.”
“Managed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Chang, I am, you see, quite capable. What is missing is that the retail book business is almost washed up. Haven’t you heard?”
“Before bookstore, what job you hold?”
“I was a reporter.”
“Reporter, in newspaper?”
“A legal journal.”
“Here in city?”
“Yes.”
“Why you leave jobs?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Did you get fired from jobs?”
“Certainly not.”
“What skills you have? Computer skills?”
“The basic computer skills that anyone has. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Okay, Ms. Mako, I see you tomorrow morning here at ten. You go on job interview. You show up on time dressed for work. Here clothing voucher, get suit or a skirt and blouse.”
“I could use some jeans that fit.”
“Shop wisely, Ms. Mako and show up here in suit or dress. Do not come late”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t screw up, Ms. Mako, this your chance to get back on feet.”
Screw you, she thought, but said, “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”
Delia was not trying to be difficult, she was happy Mrs. Chang had plans for her but why the need to talk down to people? Things are hard enough. Naturally meek as we learned, she nevertheless turned back to Mrs. Chang and said, “I didn’t do anything to earn anyone’s ire. I am willing to work, I always have been. It is not my fault that I was laid off, that no one wanted to hire me before my unemployment ran out.”
“I see you tomorrow, Ms. Mako. We check for AIDS.”
Delia sighed and let it go. She wouldn’t win this power struggle.
As she was drifting off to sleep, the sound of a woman crying three pieces of foam down from her made Delia forget her own troubles for a moment. The lights had just gone out, the young black woman was a late arrival. The first reaction when hearing someone cry is to ask why. That would be foolish here, Delia thought. We should all be crying. Those not doing so should be asked why. Still, she wanted to know what was making her so sad. Delia had a reporter’s curiosity. She got up and went over to where the woman was lying, face down. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Delia whispered. She put her hand on the woman’s clenched fist but was ignored so she went back to her bed. Stupid question, really, she thought. We are obviously in the same plight.
Sometimes Delia could talk to people, touch them, make them feel a little better, it was a gift. She would have liked to have told Mrs. Chang about her heeling powers but the social worker didn’t strike Delia as someone who could give a rap about anything so nebulous and farfetched. Delia imagined she would sarcastically ask why she couldn’t help herself if her powers were so great. All of these things were on Delia’s mind that second night in the shelter as she listened to the broken human sounds around her. Delia could detect those that came from the body and those that stemmed from the heart. Some came from a troubled mind. As her own mind filed all the questions and impressions from the day, and those firmly entrenched in the now, she hoped her brain activity wasn’t too noisy. She made it through her first two days of homelessness and for that she wished she could thank God but since giving up her drug of choice, she really had no one to talk to.
Delia wasn’t as lonely in the shelter without a higher power as she expected to be. She had never slept in a crowd before; it was incredibly annoying and soothing at the same time. She was tempted to tell the sobbing woman that there was someone watching over her, ready to help with her problems but she held back; she didn’t want anyone to fall under the same spell she had been under for so many years. She vowed to advocate only bootstraps and self-reliance, tough-love and nose-to-the-grindstone if anyone should ask. Would that, could that be enough solace for the woman who had stopped crying and the one who was moaning in her sleep? What will become of all of us? she thought. Then she rolled over and did not wait for an answer.
PART IDelia Mako, shipwrecked, unable to rescue herself nor believe in the possibility of rescue in any form whatsoever, had all but given up any claim to understanding how life worked even though she had read numerous books on the secret to; a) abundance, b) bliss, c) coupling, d) determination, e) enlightenment.
Delia had made a study of all of the above but was as of yet, unable to put her findings into a reliable method of; a) attracting, b) being, c) coexisting, d) deserving, e) earning or f) financial acumen and was at the time of this writing; a) alone, b) broke, c) confused, d) destitute, e) evicted, and f) forsaken. None of it a joy to write about or admit to.
After thirty years of reading up on the subject of personal fulfillment and/or growth, as well as the divine, Delia was now washed up. There was no reason to deny it any longer or to pretend another book could tell her something she didn’t already know, at least intellectually. She understood the following concepts:
*that you should focus on the positive,
*that you can and should affirm what it is you want,
*that God is within,
*that happiness is all in your mind and as such, a choice,
*that you can heal yourself and help to heal others,
*that we are all one,
*that love is all there is,
*that you can overcome obstacles with the proper perspective,
*that you should be the change you want to experience,
*that you can rein in Prince Charming with the right attitude,
*that you have a magnetic field that attracts or repels,
*that your aura is who and what you are,
*that you can visualize what you would like to have, be, do,
*that your vibrational frequency determines your life,
*that this frequency can be tuned for stronger reception,
*that there is money out there-you are just blocking its path,
*that you should operate with intention,
*that you should flow,
*that you will improve your life if you meditate,
*that to forgive is divine wisdom,
*that there is indeed a divine design for your life,
*that you just have to have faith,
*that there are angels looking out for you,
*that you have a shadowy side and that’s okay,
*that you have to accept what is before you can change it,
*that where you are is exactly where you need to be,
*that now is the only time,
*that fear is the opposite of love and nothing else exists,
*that we can choose something else,
*that there is no death, ergo, nothing to fear.
That is a sampling of Delia’s wisdom and she had no doubt that all of the above statements were true. She had had moments when they crystallized for her, but they were a flash event and did not really change her day-to-day life. She did not feel let down by her reading but instead by her own inability to comprehend and put in the fix. She just wasn’t capable of sending out enough positive vibrations and once she finally grasped that fact, admitted it to herself (there was only herself) she spent a few days completely at a loss as to how she would carry on without this crutch. That is how she now saw her addiction to philosophical exploration.
She would never let any one know just how many titles she’d read, getting most of them from libraries, her own bookshelves filled with literature, art and a few of the more esoteric guides that could be said an aid to intellectual inquiry along with the accepted philosophers-Kant, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. In this shaky sub-category she housed titles by Gurdjieff, Krishnamurti, Alice Bailey and the poems of Rumi, titles she felt she could defend if need be, if her shelves were looked at with a critical eye.
She kept two of her favorites, A Course in Miracles and The Science of Mind hidden under her bed. These she didn’t care to explain to any one but she embraced the philosophy of both and furthermore thought they were written with great style. That is why she was sorry her life had turned out so badly; she had been certain with such powerful prose, she could thrive. Beatifically wrought sentences that were supposed to lead her out of darkness and into a life of abundant joy-happily married, healthy, financially secure-or at the very least, with peace of mind. Instead her composure was destroyed by the fact that in this, as in everything else, she had failed, unable to carry out perfectly detailed instructions that would dignify her life.
Why? Because, she reasoned, her mind was too narrow, her will too weak, too instilled with negativity to change. She was born to a negative mother, who was born to an even more negative mother and before her, Hungarian horrors-women too scary to go near. Delia knew this because she had studied old photos in her grandmother’s albums. These were the kind of women who would hit kids with a stick just for the hell of it-their faces looked like they could tussle with a grizzly bear and win. Delia knew from what she came and it wasn’t pretty. She often wondered how she turned out so docile, so pliable.
Delia was a product of the first generation with a wide-spread belief in redemption-a duty, in fact, to wholeheartedly seek the holy grail of happiness and enlightenment. If all else failed, drugs could do it for you. She tried drugs in her younger days but they wore off and there you were, still grounded in the every-day isness that seemingly was not to be evaded for more than a few hours at a time. To Delia, this was not the change she was looking for. She was looking for a permanent solution even though she had learned that all is impermanence. This philosophy had something going for it; it meant her suffering, too, was impermanent, reminding her of the biblical saying, this too shall pass. Delia was essentially without cynicism. She wanted all the aphorisms and platitudes to be true-she tried whenever possible to give herself up to their transformative qualities.
On the day Delia turned fifty, she took stock: She was flat broke, unemployed, still single, several failed careers, few friends, no pets, uncomfortable and estranged from family, out of shape. Recently she’d had a very bad haircut. It would be hard to find someone whose enlightenment bore so little fruit. Delia thought she would, on her birthday, have a book-burning party. She would burn every self-help, inspirational or esoteric/theological/philosophical title she’d ever read, including the Bible and the Bhagavad Gita. She lived in a city and could no more ignite a bonfire than she could gather all of the offending titles. Instead, she looked up as many of them as she could recall reading, using Amazon and the library for her research and after printing out a long list, set it on fire in her sink.
She cried a little, after all, this was her birthday as well as her last month in her cozy efficiency apartment, and she was sentimental over books that had been encouraging, ever since a boyfriend in college gave her a copy of Ram Dass’s Be Here Now when she was just twenty and living in a commune.
It could be said Delia had done her part seeking enlightenment, empowerment and improvement. Others might look upon her worldly failing and cite various reasons but only she would know how deep it went, how many solutions were offered, only to be unspent, wasted on Delia. Therefore, on her fiftieth birthday, she determined she would heretofore, go it alone.
She would wrest God from her consciousness, bar Jesus from the garden, laugh hysterically at the Buddha, ridicule all Hindus, disparage the Dalai Lama. She would despise the Koran and its followers but wouldn’t dare say so lest they send an assassin her way. She would mock Catholics and Christian Scientists alike. Any alleged miracle worker to appear on TV would instantly be tuned out. All espousers of positive thinking would earn her scorn. She may still be hopeless but at least she wouldn’t be gullible. Delia Mako would not be made a fool of any longer.
For a time immediately after the burning, she read books on atheism, books that attempted to tear asunder the concept of God and others written to expose the myths of the positive-thinking industry, self-awareness and new-age gobbledygook. These negative titles gave her a sense of taking control of her life-she wanted to avoid charlatans and Delia liked this muscular skepticism. But old habits die hard.
One day she read a news story that mentioned Gurdjieff’s name in connection with someone who had been a follower. The journalist referred to the guru as an obvious sham without question and Delia’s old surge of loyalty had her sending the writer a sharply worded e-mail demanding to know how she came to her conclusions. Delia did not care for the article’s tone-its judgmental flavor. Did the woman know for certain Mr. Gurdjieff was a sham? What did she base her hypothesis on? Delia knew she was back-sliding by this defense of a man whose book she’d recently, metaphorically burned. Later she would say to herself, of course, he was a sham-but at least he was an amusing sham who helped many people. His was an intellectual con at least, with music and art. Katherine Mansfield herself was a devotee.
In the end, Delia was left with Emerson, that stalwart of enlightenment, the rationalist whose strength was housed in pragmatism. Delia bought a book of essays thinking they would ground her in reality while offering sustenance. She thought his name on her shelves nothing to be ashamed of: hadn’t he been lionized for over a century? Self-reliance was his motto. Delia knew she had been anything but. She had relied on the fanciful and look where it had gotten her? Homeless, living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy, eating at soup kitchens, every one she knew or had ever known unaware of her circumstances and she unaware of theirs. Her cell phone was disconnected-she wouldn’t call for help anyway.
She still had some pride though she understood from her reading that it should be shunned along with the ego, two dictators of the psyche, blood brothers whose mission was to keep the mind and body in bondage. Delia was a little put out because she had a puny ego and was not riddled with pride; had nevertheless been willing to form a resistance to each, only to be informed what you resist persists.
Delia Mako, persistent resistance persisting did not know if she should give in to the ego’s pride and go it alone or challenge its authority over her and phone someone. It was just one of many conundrums in Delia’s life brought on by reading too much on a subject that continued to contradict-except when it didn’t.
PART II
“Ms. Mako, you say you have no place to sleep. Where have you been sleeping?”
“In my car.”
“You have a car then?”
“Well yes, had a car. It’s been towed.”
“So your car is here in the city?”
“Yes, locked up somewhere.”
“Have you tried to retrieve it?”
“I have no money.”
The social worker, Ms. Graciela Lopez with extravagant fuchsia fingernails stared hard at Delia and Delia attempted to return her stare but faltered slightly, possibly from hunger.
“Do you have any friends or family in the city?”
“No. I am from the Midwest originally.”
“How long have you been in San Francisco?”
“Twenty years, off and on.”
“And when you are off, where do you live?”
“Redwood City.”
“Do you have family or friends there?”
“No. I once had a friend there?”
“How is it, Ms. Mako, after twenty years in this city you have no friends here?”
“They have all moved away. I used to have a nice circle of friends, artistic types mostly but they had to leave the city because of the high rents.”
“All of them?”
“Well a few are hanging on living in rooms or their rent-controlled apartments.”
“And you can’t stay with them?”
“They are men and I am not in touch with them, not close friends.”
“Where is your family?”
“Florida, Minnesota, Texas.”
“Can you stay with them?”
“I have no way to get to them, but no, I don’t think so.”
“Have you been tested recently for AIDS, Ms. Mako?”
“What has that to do with anything?” The questions in general were beginning to provoke Delia but this one brought out the antagonism in her. The personal probing, combined with hunger had set her teeth on edge.
“Well, we may be able to place you in a facility but we need to know a little about you and your…shall we say…situation. When were you last tested for AIDS?”
Delia took a deep breath and said, “I have never been tested for AIDS, Ms. Lopez, I am what used to be referred to as an old maid. I have no reason to believe I might possibly have AIDS, thank you very much.”
“Please understand, Ms. Mako, I am required to ask certain questions. You will also be required to take a drug test. Will this be a problem for you?”
“I do not use drugs, Ms. Lopez. The last drug I used was in 1979 when I was given a Valium--was told it would relax me. I had been robbed.”
“Do you smoke pot?”
“Not since 1980 at a party. I didn’t inhale.” Delia tried for humor but it fell flat.
“What is your alcohol consumption?”
“I used to like a glass of wine with dinner but it has been some time since I have been invited to dinner anywhere. On my own, I do not consume alcoholic beverages, Ms. Lopez, I do not have the money for it. I am happy to eat these days.”
Ms. Lopez looked skeptically at Delia wondering whether to believe her. “Well, you’ll be tested for everything, Ms. Mako. It’s required. We have to know where would be the best place for you to be treated…”
“Ms. Lopez, I do not need nor wish your treatment. I am simply hungry. Believe it or not, people fall through the cracks without the aid of drugs or alcohol or prostitution. Surely I can’t be the first one in this economy?”
“I just do my job, Ms. Mako. Folks on the street usually have many problems and it is my job to find out what they are and refer them to the proper agencies. If you say you have no problems, I don’t understand what you are doing here. You must have someone you can turn to. Where are your parents?”
“I have no parents, thanks for asking. They both passed away ten and fifteen years ago.”
“Have you never had children?”
“As I said, old maid.”
“What, if any is your religious affiliation, Ms. Mako?”
On this Delia had to pause before answering. She wobbled but in the end said, “I am an atheist, Ms Lopez.”
Ms. Lopez looked at her with a subtle censure. She was instructed not to encourage or proffer any religious values, but inquired only to place the client in the proper setting. Many churches offered beds to women and Ms. Lopez thought if she could say Delia was one of any of the city’s affiliations, it would be a start. As it was, she had no way to ascertain where and with whom Delia would be accepted. Most of the homeless shelters catered to drug addicts, the express purpose to keep them off the streets and out of trouble. Most of the churches accepted women with children before single women. Organizations affiliated with Alcoholics Anonymous had beds for alcoholics. Ms. Lopez was not quite sure what to do with this middle-aged white female without a category or a specific need for the rehabilitation brigades. Normally it would not be a problem, she could be put in any of the shelters that had space but that was the problem: there wasn’t any space since the economic downturn. So many lost their jobs, those who were hanging by a thread before, fell. The system was strained and Ms. Lopez had turned people away; those able to function on their own. Delia was one such woman; in decent health it appeared and yet without a place to sleep or clean up. Ms. Lopez noted that though her clothing was appropriate for a middle-class woman who might have once had an occupation, it was worn out, much too big and in need of a laundromat. Her hair and nails needed attention but she could see that Delia had only recently arrived in her present condition, she did not have the look yet of a street person. Remnants of another lifestyle could still be noted.
While Ms. Lopez was busy taking notes, Delia was thinking about her admission: Atheist. So new was this idea it did not yet sit well with her, she felt undressed with such a label. Delia had been for many years, talking to God regularly. And she could honestly say it was a two-way conversation. This gave her a great deal of comfort but now she thought maybe she was just plain crazy; obviously it had not saved her. But God, like drugs, are hard to break up with. She thought of the old quip, Religion is the opium of the masses, from Karl Marx. Delia was beginning to understand this. God has left her in the same situation as drug addicts, alcoholics and the delusional.
PART III
It was true Delia had been living in her car, nearly arrested for vagrancy. Not only was she often told to move it, it was nearly out of gas, the insurance about to expire; Delia had to sell it fast. It was worth a couple thousand dollars and she put an ad on craigslist for it but had no phone number for contact and had to keep going into the library to use a computer for e-mail responses. This required she stay parked close to the library as she tried to drive as little as possible hoping the last tank of gas would suffice until the car was sold. Once it was sold, Delia would have money to get a room and food. She was losing weight and needed to get a pair of jeans from a thrift store. The ones she’d been wearing for the past month had to be belted up with six inches of excess fabric. Now the belt could not be made tighter and she used a bathrobe chord to tie them up. She dared not spend any money on anything superfluous but thought she would look less like a vagrant if her pants fit. Her sweater and coat, although now three sizes too big, could be made to look normal if she wrapped them around her. Once she could no longer hide in the car, she would have to make a stab at looking normal-at least she wanted to. Delia did not like attracting attention to herself, preferred anonymity in her low condition. She would have to eventually sleep in a homeless shelter and knew she would have to explain herself and this she was not looking forward to. Her interview with Ms. Lopez was only half as bad as she expected it to be. If humiliation was to be her daily diet, she had to at least communicate with some semblance of pride.
Before Delia herself was destitute, she once volunteered with a group that provided meals for the homeless. She did not imagine then that she would one day be in the same situation but then we never do. There but for the grace of God go I, another volunteer had chirped merrily. Delia was secure in her faithfulness then to think, My God will never forsake me. She ruefully laughed at her naiveté; now she wasn’t even certain her God would help get her car sold even if she sold it for less than it was worth. She wouldn’t even bother to ask. She knew she was entirely forsaken and her growling stomach, dirty cloths and greasy hair said it all.
After her interview with Ms. Lopez, Delia was given a voucher for meals in a church and also a bed in a capacious former warehouse that had been set up for the purpose of keeping people off the street. There were showers, but you could only use them three times a week. You were given a weak cup of coffee or tea in the morning and at six you were put out on the street to make your way through the day before you could return in the evening. The women were on the second floor and the men on the first. There was a TV in one corner but no chairs. The beds consisted of small foam mattresses on the floor, with one blanket and a pillow similar to those given on airplanes. The lights went out at 9:30 and silence was to prevail. This was not a shelter that housed children-women with children were in a building two doors down. All personal items were checked but you could furnish your own pillow and blanket if you had them. If it appeared you were drunk or high, you would be tested and lose your voucher. It was a strict set-up for which Delia was thankful. Ms. Lopez told her the rules were made because some folks had trouble sleeping or controlling themselves in general. The rules were to maintain some order and give people a chance to rest in peace. When she said “rest in peace” Delia immediately thought of death. Did she realize she had just likened the homeless to the dead? Delia didn’t want to think too much about it; it was just part of the horribleness she had been forced to endure once her car was towed while she was in the library checking on the possibility of its sale. She replied to several responses feeling hopeful. But when she returned to her car, it was not in the parking spot and an old Chinese man came from his house and told her it had been towed. He jumped around and laughed at her with an evil toothless chortle. She did not take it personally; Old Chinese people laughed at misfortune, it was just their way. He did not know her life just took a turn for the worse; a life already run down enough to sicken one. Delia promptly threw up on the sidewalk.
On her first night in the shelter, Delia was so demoralized, so tired she fell asleep and had to be prodded awake in the morning. She drank the coffee and wondered how she would spend the day on the street. Ms. Lopez had made an appointment for her with a counselor where she supposed she would have the threatened tests. She was passed from Ms. Lopez’s ministrations and would be taken in hand by a Mrs. Leka Chang. Delia had a business card with her information on it. The appointment wasn’t until three in the afternoon so she had the day to spend somewhere, she supposed the library.
On the second night Delia had recovered somewhat from the trepidation and lay on her piece of foam thinking about the day and Mrs. Chang. She was tested for drugs and alcohol and the hard-nosed woman seemed a little put out at finding both tests negative. Delia was questioned on her former address, her bank accounts, her family. When Mrs. Chang couldn’t get a handle on any of it, she looked Delia straight in the eye and said, “You have to work. You able-bodied, sound mind, you go to work. You will take job I find for you and be happy. You be available immediately, Ms. Mako.”
“Of course. Unless I need certain clothes. They are in my car which the city has locked up.”
“I give you voucher for Goodwill stores; you be assigned someone to help put working wardrobe together.”
“Mrs. Chang, I have been putting a working wardrobe together for thirty years. I can manage. I am humbled, not stupid."
“Ms. Mako, forgive me, I be blunt: you not managing so well, are you?”
“No, I clearly am not. But I think I might still be able to dress myself.”
“Very well, Ms. Mako. Let’s move on. I place in job. Tell me you experience, if any. What your last job?”
“I managed a bookstore.”
“Managed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Chang, I am, you see, quite capable. What is missing is that the retail book business is almost washed up. Haven’t you heard?”
“Before bookstore, what job you hold?”
“I was a reporter.”
“Reporter, in newspaper?”
“A legal journal.”
“Here in city?”
“Yes.”
“Why you leave jobs?”
“Personal reasons.”
“Did you get fired from jobs?”
“Certainly not.”
“What skills you have? Computer skills?”
“The basic computer skills that anyone has. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Okay, Ms. Mako, I see you tomorrow morning here at ten. You go on job interview. You show up on time dressed for work. Here clothing voucher, get suit or a skirt and blouse.”
“I could use some jeans that fit.”
“Shop wisely, Ms. Mako and show up here in suit or dress. Do not come late”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t screw up, Ms. Mako, this your chance to get back on feet.”
Screw you, she thought, but said, “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”
Delia was not trying to be difficult, she was happy Mrs. Chang had plans for her but why the need to talk down to people? Things are hard enough. Naturally meek as we learned, she nevertheless turned back to Mrs. Chang and said, “I didn’t do anything to earn anyone’s ire. I am willing to work, I always have been. It is not my fault that I was laid off, that no one wanted to hire me before my unemployment ran out.”
“I see you tomorrow, Ms. Mako. We check for AIDS.”
Delia sighed and let it go. She wouldn’t win this power struggle.
As she was drifting off to sleep, the sound of a woman crying three pieces of foam down from her made Delia forget her own troubles for a moment. The lights had just gone out, the young black woman was a late arrival. The first reaction when hearing someone cry is to ask why. That would be foolish here, Delia thought. We should all be crying. Those not doing so should be asked why. Still, she wanted to know what was making her so sad. Delia had a reporter’s curiosity. She got up and went over to where the woman was lying, face down. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Delia whispered. She put her hand on the woman’s clenched fist but was ignored so she went back to her bed. Stupid question, really, she thought. We are obviously in the same plight.
Sometimes Delia could talk to people, touch them, make them feel a little better, it was a gift. She would have liked to have told Mrs. Chang about her heeling powers but the social worker didn’t strike Delia as someone who could give a rap about anything so nebulous and farfetched. Delia imagined she would sarcastically ask why she couldn’t help herself if her powers were so great. All of these things were on Delia’s mind that second night in the shelter as she listened to the broken human sounds around her. Delia could detect those that came from the body and those that stemmed from the heart. Some came from a troubled mind. As her own mind filed all the questions and impressions from the day, and those firmly entrenched in the now, she hoped her brain activity wasn’t too noisy. She made it through her first two days of homelessness and for that she wished she could thank God but since giving up her drug of choice, she really had no one to talk to.
Delia wasn’t as lonely in the shelter without a higher power as she expected to be. She had never slept in a crowd before; it was incredibly annoying and soothing at the same time. She was tempted to tell the sobbing woman that there was someone watching over her, ready to help with her problems but she held back; she didn’t want anyone to fall under the same spell she had been under for so many years. She vowed to advocate only bootstraps and self-reliance, tough-love and nose-to-the-grindstone if anyone should ask. Would that, could that be enough solace for the woman who had stopped crying and the one who was moaning in her sleep? What will become of all of us? she thought. Then she rolled over and did not wait for an answer.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
#71 THE PAINTER WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD
PrologueI had been living in San Francisco for five years, happily in two rooms with my two friends, Michael and Louis, nearby. I had windows on two sides, bay windows to the west, another large north-facing window where my easel sat. I had two chairs, a bed built for two and two forms of entertainment; a television and a boom box. I had two kitchen appliances; a small refrigerator, about waist-high and a portable grill for making grilled cheese sandwiches which sat on top of the refrigerator. I had a small bathroom with a window that looked out over a café and I could watch people inside having coffee and reading newspapers. I was familiar with all of the regulars, they unaware that I made a study of them each day and matched them to their cars on the street.
That was my setting, a place to tell my stories, paint my canvases or entertain my two friends. This was a happy time in my life. San Francisco weather is to my liking; neither hot nor cold, never humid or muggy, never snowy or icy, and only occasionally, wet. The sun shines most days but not all. The morning fog is radiant as the California sun burns through it. The air shimmers and pulsates with fractured light. Whenever I see San Francisco in a movie or a TV show this light is the first thing I notice. But then as a painter, I would be remiss if I didn’t.
I lived in the exact center of the city on a busy corner; a lot of traffic but that did not bother me. I enjoyed the pedestrians and often they would wave to me as I sat daydreaming in my window. The tourists would look up at me standing before my easel, hear the classical music playing on my radio and think, I would love to live here, the bohemian life. Then they would go home to their respective towns and cities, back to the kind of lives that most people lead, people who do not live in rooms with large windows overlooking a café, watching the flow of traffic travel through the city. They go back whatever life they normally live and forget about the dream of a strangely intoxicating city and the interesting woman in the window.
PART I
I was working on a series of paintings for an exhibit I was a part of and had to get twelve canvases ready for show. I had three months left to do this. My series was dedicated to James McNeill Whistler, an artist whose ephemeral paintings, pastels and etchings were my source of inspiration. I had been painting for many years and although there are scores of artists I greatly admire, Whistler remains my infatuation, and when I paint, I often talk to him. This may sound eccentric but I can assure you I have been redeemed by Mr. Whistler more than I can tell you. I just ask for his help when I am in trouble and it comes to me. I should ask for it before I am in trouble but don’t like to bother him if I don’t have to. He can be prickly. If I sound cracked, we all have our peculiarities, don’t we? I have not even begun my tribute to the artist; it is a lifelong pursuit. But for now, the twelve I need to have ready are my concern. Three are finished, nine to go. I think I am up for it but we shall see. I have recently been made rich; complicating matters.
I suppose I should have stated such an important facet of my life before the other, less interesting things like my location, setting and ruminations on art - this was one of my evasions. My wealth was a new phenomenon, something I was adjusting mentally to which is why I was still living in my two cramped rooms. Previous to my windfall, I was very poor. I was not starving, I cannot in truth call myself a starving artist, but definitely poor. My two friends were also poor in that their respective jobs did not begin to cover their desired way of life but as one of the newly unemployed statistics, I was the least well-off. We shared many meals. Michael had the use of a kitchen so he would make a pot of spaghetti or a casserole and bring it over. Louis was a wine expert and would supply a bottle or two or three of something affordable. He always knew where a highly drinkable bargain could be found. I supplied the atmosphere and lighter fare such as the cheese plate, fruit, bread, coffee and sweets. Between the three of us, we ate well several times a week. Now all that has changed. I was happy with our Spartan attempts at the good life. I’ve never been excessive in my habits though my two friends are and would willingly upgrade.
Since I’ve been made rich, I have not quite risen to the art of luxurious living someone with my bank account might. I was not sure how to be something so unlike what I had been for forty-two years. I had the knack of living well with austerity down pat. I wasn’t quite prepared to live with affluence though I was certainly willing to learn - I did not want to be destitute. A money manager I must now employ advised me to take it slow, don’t make any dramatic changes - work into things. This is how he put it: “Folks go off the deep end without taking time to decide what matters and what doesn’t. My advice to you, Melanie, is to keep it under wraps for awhile; people will crawl out of the woodwork once they know you have money. It can be a little overwhelming at first. Take your time.”
It was several weeks or more before I informed my two friends on this change of status. It was not that I wanted to deprive them, it was that I did not want our daily life to alter, our little dinners, our outings to free events, riding the buses all over the city. I very much loved my life with my two friends but I suspected once they learned I was rich, they would expect me to do things differently. I began projecting--usually a mistake, but not always incorrect.
Michael I knew would not want to take buses quite so often; he did not find them nearly as amusing as I did having lived in the city most of his life. He would opt for taxis and I could envision he might get testy if I wished otherwise. He would think I was being cheap. Louis would expect a higher grade of wine which I wouldn’t know how to provide. They would both like for us to frequent restaurants which I would grow tired of if it was more than a couple times a month. I do not love restaurants or all the rigmarole that goes into public dining. I get impatient, have no gift of gab with waiters, sommeliers or maitre’ds. They make me nervous and tongue-tied because I am hard of hearing and unable to pronounce the many foreign words seen on menus these days.
All of this would resolve itself in time, I thought. I would buy some decent clothes, appropriate for nightlife sans paint splatters, definitely get an apartment with a studio space. I would learn to drink fine wine and know the names of all the most tantalizing cheeses.
But for the moment, I was busy with my twelve paintings and that was all I was able to think about. Subconsciously I suspected that having wealth would detract from painting and I was determined it would not. In this I was not wrong. Once I no longer had to depend on the income from the twelve paintings, I might begin to take a more casual attitude to my craft. Do I really need to do this? But of course, I do, I would immediately tell myself. Painting had always been my solace even when I made no money which is for most of my history. Now I began to question that because I could find consolation in a great many other things; traveling to interesting places, meeting peoples of a different class or race or religion. I could work for a cause (though I didn’t have one yet), I could live anywhere. What did I want? That was the question that has stumped me each day since I was no longer floundered by sparse options, little opportunity. And where does that leave Mr. Whistler? Until I figure things out, we will be in close communion.
Whistler had to make money and lots of it. He liked an extravagant life; in fact could live no other. Would he have painted if he didn’t need the money? Painting gave him a lot of trouble. Yes, he was an excellent draughtsman, but he did have difficulty with oil on canvas and had to struggle painting faces. He also had a great deal of distress from his rich clientele. He kept them waiting forever for the finished product and some pieces he never got around to delivering and was threatened with lawsuits. In the meantime, the advance was spent and he had worked the thing to death. There is nothing a painter dreads more than an overworked, overwrought painting, a silent humiliation. Whistler had all sorts of problems with both money and painting. It is conceivable that he would not have painted except for the money. That gives me pause though he would most certainly have kept up his drawing; that was a natural talent and he was able to amuse himself with caricature and lampoon.
A painter friend of mine once told me the only way to paint really well was to be desperate for the acclaim and money. “There is nothing like needing the money to make you get up every day ready to work your ass off. This is what makes you a better painter, so having to earn money is key. Otherwise you’re a dilettante,” a word that caused his lips to pucker and his eyes to roll. The only word he could think of that was worse, was “hobbyist,” but that could not even be borne by anyone who went to art school and took this training seriously, as we both did.
I was working on numbers four and five in the series and quite content with my days and my accomplishments. They were turning out better than I’d hoped for and I was able to quite forget about the money and keep my mind on color, light, form and content. I had relaxed myself into thinking that I was capable of being a hard-working artist despite a whopping bank balance.
What did worry me after my work for the day was done was not telling my two friends who continued to check in with me every day and provide food and wine in the same spirit they always had. As I sat eating the tuna casserole or pasta primavera, talking about the relative value of the wine for the price or whether we had money to go out for a drink later or not, remorse crawled amongst my thoughts. I had to tell them but the longer I held off, the harder it was to do. I expected they might be upset at not hearing such colossal news for going on a month now and wonder why I would keep it from them, eating low-cost fare and drinking cheap wine, basically just pretending all was the same when it most certainly was not. I’ve stated my reasons, but suddenly they seemed not quite so reasonable.
Exactly one month after becoming rich, I invited them both out for drinks. I said, “Let’s go to North Beach and have Irish coffees, my treat.” Both looked at me skeptically but brightened at the thought of getting out. It’s always so pleasant to walk around San Francisco in the evening especially with a destination in mind. Once in Vesuvius, instead of talking about the usual North Beach topics, literature and food, I tentatively embarked upon my confession: “I haven’t said anything to you guys but I have something to tell you. It’s really weird and that is why I haven’t said anything.” Both of their faces dropped. “No, it’s nothing terrible, in fact just the opposite. I’m rich.” I almost whispered those words.
Their faces relaxed, but I don’t think what I said penetrated either of their brains so I repeated it. “Yeah, I’m rich. I inherited some money, my godmother, I barely knew her…she recently died. I didn’t even go to the funeral in Pasadena. But six weeks ago I got a call from a lawyer and...well, she left me most of her estate. Apparently she had more money than anyone guessed, from her third husband, I think. Her only son died of a drug overdose in 1995. Her lawyer told me she supported the arts and when she learned about my painting - she had someone check me out - I guess she considered me worth supporting. I just wish she would have contacted me. I would so much have liked to talk to her before she died. Her lawyer said she planned to but her health went downhill fast and she never got around to it.”
“You mean you didn’t actually know this woman?” asked Louis.
“I knew her when my father was alive. They were related somehow. And good friends. She used to bring presents whenever she visited that is how I remember her. What kid doesn’t take note of a guest bearing gifts?”
We were all very quiet as our waiter brought a tray of drinks, much more opulently arrayed than our usual style. I ordered shots of their favorite single-malt scotch, double shots, in fact - a largesse I have never been known for.
“So when do you get the money?” Michael reticently asked.
“I have it...about a month ago.”
“So, my dear, how rich exactly are you?” said Louis.
“Well, very rich, millions rich.”
Louis choked on his scotch but Michael just stared at me with an unwavering intensity. I should explain that Michael was sometimes my good friend but at others, he was what passes for a boyfriend. In other words, I was closer to Michael, he had a more proprietary relationship to me than Louis.
“Are you telling us you have had millions of dollars for the past month but are still living in that crappy room, running around in your paint clothes, eating my half-assed spaghetti and riding the 49? You're joking about all this, right? I mean you have to be,” said Michael whose vibrational frequency just rose precipitately.
“Well, yeah, no, I mean, yes I’m rich, no I’m not joking. Hey, my room is not crappy - you’ve always been happy to stay there! Your spaghetti is delicious…I have to wear paint clothes, I’ve got seven paintings to finish.” I was wobbling. Warbling. Something. A strange mood descended upon our table as the waiter reappeared and without hesitation, I ordered another round of drinks.
They questioned me for another half hour before I said I was getting too drunk and needed some air. I am not a big drinker but my friends are masters of the art. Already I could see problems: I knew they wanted another round and I knew I had to get out and walk off the whiskey. I offered to buy another round, “stay if you want,” I said, but they were polite and left with me, to make sure I got home okay. I was heading into Chinatown, always colorful especially at night.
“Don’t you want to get a taxi?” said Michael. “I think you’d better let me get you one.” Here we go, I thought. He wants to take a taxi and will never want to walk through Chinatown at night again. I did, but it would seem miserly if I vetoed the taxi. I let him hail a cab on Broadway and we were back on Polk Street in a flash.
“I guess I’ll go in,” I said. “I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow. I’m going to start the next two paintings. I’ve been working in pairs but I’m a little off schedule.”
They both looked at me as if I was evading some truth. My upcoming exhibition was my truth but I could see it had been diminished by the news. None of us were quite sure of how to proceed and I left them and walked the block to my building. “Come over tomorrow night,” I called back. “I’ll be finished around five. We can have a critique.” They were both staring at me as if I were a stranger or someone who had just rejected them on some level. The fact that I never drink too much, always walk some after Irish coffees and usually retire early seemed all of a sudden eccentric. Or contrary. I couldn’t tell which. I only knew both were looking at me with a odd expression and I felt uncomfortable. I hoped they would digest the information and return to me normal tomorrow.
Back in my room, looking over my day’s work, I was certain Whistler would never have had this problem. He would have been lavishly throwing cash about as if to surround himself in an aura of rich illumination, as in his Thames seascapes, he would revel in his abundance, laughing, mocking, he would not have been standing on a street corner, at a complete loss for words and wondering if he could have done things better.
PART III woke the next morning and dashed out to the art supply store, conveniently located in my block. One thing about being rich is that I no longer had to quibble and quake over money for supplies. I could cruise the aisles and load up my basket with anything I desired. If you are an artist or an art student you probably know how liberating this is, if you’ve spent years trying to economize and do without certain colors, a quality of brushes, as many canvases as you cared to purchase, you can understand my elation. In addition, I could buy art magazines, references books, better lighting and any number of items I did not actually need but could have all the same. Art supplies are not cheap and it was the first pleasure my new-found funds gave me: not having to mentally haggle over their cost. My first taste of freedom.
I spent the rest of the day mixing glorious colors, planning my composition in graphite and applying the first layer of tint. Both canvases were flowing, in that they were painting themselves while pointing the way forward, to the next level. All artists know that feeling, when inspiration and material considerations mingle, harmonize, your own thoughts hardly enter into the mix. Yes, I did choose the colors, yes I planned the composition but much happened that was not about me at all. As I stood back and viewed my two new children, I had to say, I was able to bring Whistler’s art for art’s sake maxim into play. I was not working to produce a narrative, nor do the work of a camera, but was intentionally forsaking those aspects in order to produce something more ephemeral, more mysterious. I had done what I set out to do with my cityscapes and I couldn’t have been happier.
As I cleaned my brushes, I was looking forward to Louis and/or Michael’s visit. At least one of them had to show. I was too excited to spend the evening alone. I would take them to dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant, I wished I had mentioned it last night. I had not been able to get in touch with either of them all day. As I was tidying up I wondered why they hadn’t returned my calls. Maybe they would just show up after five.
Five came and went and at seven I finally got Louis on his cell phone. He was in a bar and was a little drunk. “Hey Lou, I thought you would be coming over?”
“Oh, was I supposed to? I wasn’t sure. Is Michael there? What’s happening, Ms. Moneybags?”
“Well, no I haven’t been able to reach him, where is he?”
“I don’t know. I figured he’d be with you.”
“No I haven’t heard from him. I thought he would come over. I mentioned it last night.”
“Yeah, you mentioned it, but you didn’t say anything specific…”
“I said, 'come over, we’ll have a critique'.”
“Well, should I come over now?”
“I thought maybe we could go have Indian food.”
“I’ll see if I can reach Michael and call you back.”
So this was new. We were always in contact during the day whether or not we had plans. It may have just been a coincidence but it left me feeling estranged somehow. I wanted their input on the canvases. I broke new ground and wanted to show off, to see if what I painted was progress or if I were delirious. They had always been my support, especially Michael who had an excellent eye and a subtle sense of aesthetics. Louis was a cutting-edge kind of guy. Between the three of us, we’ve had some pretty terrific discussions. Tonight I especially needed them. Why had they ignored me? I prayed this would not be the start of…I didn’t know what… and didn’t want to think about it.
Louis called back but couldn’t find Michael. I met him in front of the restaurant, no longer interested in the critique without Michael and the afternoon light. “Hey Lou, are you in the mood for Indian? We can go somewhere else if you’d rather.”
“Yeah, now that money is not a problems, ha, ha.”
“Yeah, I guess…you know I haven’t gotten used to having money yet. I haven’t quite figured it out. I’ve been a poor painter, underemployed for many years. ”
“Yeah, we should all be so miserable.”
“Come on, Lou. Of course I’m not miserable. Earlier today I was so happy I thought I’d burst. I finished two really beautiful paintings; they seemed to paint themselves. I was ecstatic for a few hours.”
“Yeah well, I’d be ecstatic too if I just inherited millions. Just how many millions are we talking?”
He had missed the point entirely and my spirit wavered. I wanted to talk about painting and he wanted to talk about the money. I guess that’s understandable. “Two million, give or take plus a house in Pasadena that will go on the market for around a million,” I said rather abruptly because I wanted to get it over with so I could talk of something else. He sat staring at the menu, not really seeing it. Our waiter approached and I asked Louis to order a bottle of wine. “Choose something nice for us to drink, old friend, something we haven’t ever had. I’m celebrating.” This seemed to cheer him up for a moment and he ordered with due diligence, only to add, “Too bad it’s the best they offer.”
Perhaps you’re getting the drift of my tale here. In the past, whenever we would eat in this particular restaurant, located near my building, of a mid-range price point with a high-end quality, it was in a spirit of merry delight. I loved the food, I thought Michael and Louis did too, and I adored the family that owned it, who made us feel like valued customers even when we had to share dishes and drink moderately. Louis had had a few already but I couldn’t help but feel condescension. Instead of being his jocular, highly sociable self, he seemed as if he were doing me a favor to eat in this restaurant that had not quite the cachet he might prefer. He had nothing good to say about the food when formerly he would be eloquent in his descriptions, the wine failed to interest him, and while bantering with the owner with the usual charm, there was something missing in his tone.
“Well, Lou, what do you want to do now?" I asked when we were on the sidewalk outside.
“Whatever you’d like to do, Mel. Your wish is my command.” Was he being funny or facetious? There was still the taint of an attitude that annoyed me through dinner.
“Is something bothering you? I asked.
“No. Is something bothering you?”
“Of course not. I had a great day. You just seem to be in a snit. I chose this restaurant because we always have such a fun here.”
“Yeah. If that’s all there is…but if we had a choice, there are better options. Sure, this place is okay, it’s just that it’s more fun to try new places, the wine list is minimal…I’m just saying, we could do better, couldn’t we?”
“Well next time, you suggest the place. You know all the hot spots, I don’t. I only know a few in my neighborhood and that wonderful Vietnamese place in the Ferry Building. We could have gone there I suppose but we’d have needed a reservation. This was sort of last minute, you know. I couldn’t reach you all day. And Michael is missing in action. It’s not like him to disappear.”
“I don’t know. I think he went out of town.”
“Out of town? Why wouldn’t he say something? What’s going on with him?”
“Let’s get off the street, okay? Do you want to get a drink somewhere?”
“Sure. Your pick, my treat.”
“We walked a few blocks to a bar that specialized in whiskey where Louis was a regular. It is not a place I frequent, the habitués mostly hard-drinking males, but I was trying to be agreeable. We sat at the bar, ordered drinks and since there was a football game on, Lou's attention strayed to the TV set while I sat nursing a drink I didn’t really want. We made small talk but said little. I finished my drink and said I wanted to be out in the air, maybe walk for a bit.
“Yeah, you and your air. Well, I’m tired of air so I’ll just stay put and watch the game.”
“That’s fine,” I said. I ordered another drink for him and stood at the bar trying to pay for it from a dense bartender intent on football. I was glad to get out on the street, dark bars with surly bartenders were not my thing. I’m an English pub kind of girl and wished I had suggested going to the neighborhood place I hung out in but remembered Louis didn’t think the bar well-stocked enough for his taste - he grumbled about it last time we were there and I teased him about becoming an effete snob. He had more or less become a gourmand, a connoisseur and carried a new disdain for what failed to interest or please.
Michael called the next morning somewhat reserved. “Why didn’t you come over last night? I thought you were, Lou and I ended up going to our Indian place but he didn’t seem to care for the food even though it was delicious, in my opinion.”
“I had something I had to do. You didn’t say anything definite…”
“I said come over, we’ll have a critique. I finished two more paintings and they’re just great if I do say so myself. I really want your opinion before I start on the next two. Do you want to come over later?”
“Yeah, I guess, what time?”
“About three or four. I’ll finish early.”
“Okay, but what about lunch? I thought you could meet me downtown and we could have lunch.”
“Can’t. I’ve got to work.”
“Yeah, well, whatever…”
“Are you going to give me an attitude too?”
“What do you mean?”
“Lou gave me one last night. Somehow the restaurant wasn’t good enough, he couldn’t be bothered with my paintings…just something snotty about his attitude.”
“Well, maybe he’s pissed that you didn’t tell us about the money.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah, sort of; it is carrying secretiveness to the limit. I could barely pay the rent last month if you remember.”
“Okay. Okay. I stand corrected. Or accused, whatever. Are you going to hold it against me from now on? I’m still in shock myself. I was advised to keep it secret until I had a handle on how I would live life as a person in a different tax bracket. I was nervous. I’m sorry. Yesterday was the first time I realized what it meant when I went shopping for art supplies. I’m not trying to deprive anyone…I’m just not used to the upscale life. I’ll get used to it, I’m sure but for now I have to concentrate on my paintings. You may remember I have a show coming up. I still have seven paintings to produce.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll come over after work? I won’t bring dinner if it’s alright with you. Maybe we can go out.”
“Yeah, we can certainly go out. My treat. Name the place.”
“I’ll see you later.”
For the next week, the three of us went to a different restaurant each night with drinks in all the trendy bars. I was worn out from so much drinking, dining on rich food that gave me trouble sleeping. I was trying to be a good sport, running around town, taking in everything, consuming like pigs. I’d wake up groggy and unable to focus for the first few hours when previously I popped out of bed anxious to begin painting. Now I was just anxious, drinking numerous cups of coffee and walking the sludge out of my system before I could settle down to work. All of this played havoc with my visualizing and my next two paintings were a bit of a letdown. When I complained to Michael he either brushed me off or replied, “You’re just hung over.” Thanks a lot.
This indulgence went on for about three weeks, nights that included concerts, gallery openings, a trip to Napa for a weekend, dinners every place but my place and small shopping trips. At the end of the month, Michael asked me if I could help him with the rent as he’d spent so much going out. I could do nothing but capitulate and throw the money around. Mr. Whistler had nothing on me; I was living the free-flowing life of a butterfly. And like the artist, I was beginning to have trouble with the imagery, became petulant when Michael or Louis were critical of the works as they now felt they could be without sanction. Michael wanted to spend more time in my bed than previously, adding to my weakened condition in the morning before he left for work. He talked about quitting “his shitty job,” a tack that was not lost on me. I was losing heart and gaining weight.
After another week of what I can only call dissipation, I decided to visit my mother and her husband in Davis, seventy-five miles north of San Francisco. I found them surprisingly benign on the subject of my inheritance. My mother is a real back-to-the-earth sort who ekes out a living selling her tapestries, her organic produce in the summer and marijuana year round, the latter a recent crop via her husband, Randy, who is a decade younger than she is. I have many of the traits of my mother but have never been all that keen on living close to nature in a rural setting though I am as adept at living in the margins of capitalist society as she is. I just always hoped I would join the “regular folks” on some level and she has always hoped to get as far outside of society as possible. She picked me up at the airport in an old pickup truck that threatened to overheat on the way back to the “farm” all the while claiming it was the best vehicle she’s ever owned. My mother is always a conundrum - it’s her M.O.
“So darling daughter, tell me all about life as an heiress. You don’t look all that different. I expected designer clothes, posh hair and makeup, a million dollar handbag. You were always trying to get me to buy you stuff when you were a teenager. Remember the fights we had over whether you could wear makeup, high heels, all that junk?”
“I remember you being horrified that I shaved my legs. I remember you refusing to let me buy a prom dress in pink chiffon that I coveted, I remember you reading The Feminine Mystique to me at bedtime.”
“I didn’t want a Barbie doll daughter.”
“I couldn’t even own a Barbie doll. Remember when Grandma sent me one for Christmas, how freaked out you got? Threatened to burn it in the fireplace. What a bitch you were then.”
“Your father’s mother, speaking of a bitch, was always trying to impede my authority. She offended me.”
“How’s Randy?”
“Thankfully, since they passed the medical marijuana law, he now has a legitimate business.”
“So you really are a dope dealer then?”
“Not me, but my husband could be described as such, and don’t say a thing. Let him bring it up if he wants to.”
We pulled into the farmhouse and a herd of dogs greeted us. I forgot how earthy my mother’s lifestyle was. The house looked like it was made of mud but on closer inspection, it was just the putrid color of the shingles. My father would never in his lifetime have lived like this but they were always vastly different. After parking my suitcase in the spare room, I began setting the table for lunch. At least I could count on a really healthy salad with minimal fuss, something my stomach craved after the intense meals I had been eating. “So Mom, how’s life treating you?”
“Life is good, honey. No complaints. How’s things with you?”
“Well, naturally there have been some changes.”
“I can imagine. What about your upcoming show?”
“Soon. That’s why I can only stay the weekend. I’ve got to get back. I still have three paintings to finish but it’s all good. I’m making headway, my style is progressing…getting less representational, more abstract.”
“Did you take any pictures?”
“I did, as it happens. I’ll show them to you later. Mom, I am having a problem, nothing major, it’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Money.”
“Ah, you said a mouthful there, kiddo. It changes things. Don’t think for a moment it doesn’t. I’ve been fairly well-off, with your father, and I’ve been poor, after we divorced, and in some ways, poor is better though it can be frustrating. I’ll tell you something Randy always says: ‘As soon as you have a lot of money, every one gets busy trying to get it from you. Before that they knew you from nothing, now every one wants what you got. People just smell it.’ You know he earned a lot of money on Wall Street in his younger days. Just the mention of the stock market puts him in a funk. Ask him about it, he’ll tell you. Your friends no longer look at you the same way unless they’re really good friends. I hope for your sake, love, you’ve got a least one of those.”
“I’m worried, Mom. About the changes. You know, all I ever wanted to be is a painter. Now I am getting my chance, things are going good on that front, and this money all of a sudden…well, it’s a distraction. A good distraction, but how much of my time do I have to divert to buying a lifestyle? I know it’s ludicrous to live like a pauper when I’m loaded but consuming has become my life or would if I let Michael have his way.”
“Sounds like you have some specifics.”
“He can’t relax. He wants to be on the go constantly. Before the money, we spent one night a week together. The rest of the time we were friends, casual dinners, nice walks. Now he’s clinging to a life raft - me - like he is in danger of my drifting away. He’s sort of hostile that I pay for everything but yet he wants me to pay because I have the dough, as he puts it. His manhood is in conflict with my cash. So he’s clinging and hostile at the same time, sometimes in the same hour. He calls me several times a day from work saying he wants to quit, can’t stand his boss, wants to concentrate on his book of cartoons--working me. That’s it. I always feel I’m being worked now. Louis is a little more subtle because we really are just friends but even he assumes…well, I’m always on notice, somehow.
“That’s just how Randy described having money. It takes over. Are you thinking of moving?”
“Michael is hectoring me about buying a loft.‘Why are we paying rent for two dumps?’ he says. Why? Because it takes a lot of time and effort to find and purchase a place in San Francisco and because I’m getting ready for a show, which by the way, both have lost interest in, completely. They no longer pretend to enjoy looking at my paintings and it is making me feel dilettantish all of a sudden. Like I’m just pretending to be a painter when it was only a few months ago that I started working on this show with enthusiasm from all corners. I was ecstatic over the Durand Gallery wanting to include me in a show. Now all of a sudden, it’s lost importance. I tell you Mom, this exhibit is the most exciting thing in the world to me. I resent its being given short shrift. I don’t resent spending money on them at all; it’s their side-lining what’s important to me. I don’t even like restaurants and I’m in them every night. I sometimes feel I’ll throw up if I have to look at another menu. Louis is now online reviewing every restaurant in the city like he’s some new Turk about town. It’s depressing. They’ve become gluttons at my expense. And drunks, but I’m not supposed to be so crude as to word it that way: they’re connoisseurs.”
Mom laughed. “Honey, have you ever thought of having girlfriends? You’ve always hung out with guys, why is that?”
“I’m a guy-girl, like Kramer says of Elaine.” My mother loved Seinfeld so I knew she’d appreciate the reference.
“Sometimes girlfriends can be a source of comfort, they’re more giving. What about your friend Katie? Is she still in San Francisco?”
“Yes. The newspaper didn’t cast her aside like me so she feels guilty. I haven’t had time to look her up and tell her she has no reason for feeling guilty at all.”
“I’d find some chick support if I were you. And tell Michael to fuck off.”
“I couldn’t. We’ve been friends for too long.”
“So what? Get tough, girl. You’ll have to some day, might as well be sooner.”
With that motherly advice, we sat down to eat and all of my anxiety felt like it was dropping from my shoulders as we laughed over old times. Randy came in and we talked of my show and the inheritance. Mr. Whistler, I suspect would never talk money over dinner. His gift of repartee would look for a higher purpose. But that was the nineteenth century and this is the twenty-first. Money is the new art.
PART IIII was happy being with my mom for the two days. One thing about having a counterculture mom is she has never bugged me with things like, Why don’t you go to law school? When are you going to get married? Have you thought about having kids anytime soon? Are you so set on being a painter? You’ll never make any money. She never resorted to the banal, the commonplace. She did not like being married, did not think much of the institution and was a socialist. She admired my painting career much more than my previously held day job in the production department of a newspaper and she didn't think too highly of Michael. “He’s okay, babe, but not good enough for you. He’s spoiled on some level, entitled. He’s nice enough, but I have always felt it was a mannerism, not heartfelt.”
“You never said anything.”
“How’s the sex?”
“Mom, I’m not talking about my sex life with you.”
“Why not? I have a sex life too you know.”
“Mom, forget about it.”
“Probably a little cool, I’d guess.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Spoiled people are always out for their own pleasure.”
“Mom, I can’t have this conversation, okay?”
“Okay. So what’s it like being really rich all of a sudden, besides the friend issues?”
“You know, it’s really great. At first I couldn’t absorb it. I just let the money sit there gestating, waiting for my own personality to alter itself. I was so tense because I didn’t tell Michael and Lou at first and all I could think about was how would it change things? Then after I did, and saw firsthand the effect, I felt miffed. But when I’m alone, walking around the city, I feel positively elated at times. I’m going to buy an apartment of course. I started thinking of the neighborhood I’d live in and why. What sort of architecture I prefer, what sort of space. I’m letting it sink in slowly, enjoying the anticipation. Then there are clothes and cosmetics. How will I shop in upscale, intimidating stores when I’m used to the Salvation Army? What will I buy? Will I spend on designer wear or stick to Gap where everything fits me perfectly? I must say my mind is starting to clutter itself up with choices but in truth, I haven’t made the transformation yet. I’m still wearing paint clothes and haunting Blick and Utrecht art supply stores. I did buy a high-end CD player at Michael’s urging and some great CDs. I had my first professional haircut in several years. That’s about it besides the endless restaurants and wine bars. You can’t believe how many ethnic cuisines there are in San Francisco now.”
“So, you think you’ll get the hang of heiress-style one of these days?”
“It’s bound to happen.”
“Are you going to support Michael forever too?”
“That’s a complicated question.”
“How’s the sex?
“Mom! Stop it!” I started giggling. My mother has a comic’s timing and deadpan delivery and I can never be serious with her for long.
“I’m just saying, you might want to think about the future before you get bogged down with the past. Besides, he’ll probably get fat and gouty in time.”
“It’s funny you should mention that; he is gaining weight and so is Louis from all the dinners and so much drinking. Plus they smoke pot so they have the munchies all the time. Michael can’t even walk up Polk without stopping in a bakery…so yeah, he’s looking pretty porked-up.”
“Think about it, doll. You’ve got quite a future before you, don’t get dragged down. Call your friend, Katie. I like her. Better than those guys hanging around you. She will at least help you with your show and support you.”
“Or resent me for being rich.”
“She didn’t strike me as that type. She seemed genuine. Like you.”
She pinched my cheek the way she always does when she feels affectionate and her smile carried all the adoration a mother could bestow on her only child.
I returned to San Francisco in better spirits having begged my mother to let me buy her a new truck but she said Randy might not like it. “We’re not poor, doll. Don’t think that. We can afford nice shiny toys but we like our life as is. It’s always interesting. Besides, we need to keep a low profile in the community.”
“Promise me you’ll let me know if you need anything at all, or even if you don’t but want to take a world cruise.”
“Randy would never leave his plants. Did I tell you he has come up with a new breed that is making quite a splash in the medical marijuana field? There’s plenty of money in them there weeds, my dear. I was looking forward to supporting you.”
Back in the city, I got right to work on the last three paintings. With renewed energy and a few days of healthy eating, my creativity returned. I hesitated telling the boys I was back in town wanting to keep my mind on my work. After the first day I knew I had to tell them if only to avoid more accusations. I paid both of their rents before I left so they could spend their paychecks expanding their waistlines. Anything to keep them happy.
The second day back, as I was finishing up work, I decided to do several errands I’d put off as well as stock my refrigerator. I was walking up Polk when I passed by a restaurant I used to love but that now Michael and Louis didn’t love as much. I saw our favorite waiter, Bruno, standing outside and stopped to say a few words. He invited me to an Italian wine tasting on Sunday at the restaurant. To my surprise, when I glanced in the doorway, there I saw Michael sitting with a woman I had never seen before, playing with her hair and flirting with every fiber of his being. My heart almost dropped onto the travertine floor. I grabbed the invite and made haste to move out of the range of his vision. I stumbled on a discarded book lying on the sidewalk and ran up California Street to Van Ness before I could be seen. What a shock to the system.
I have been going off and on with Michael since we were in our late twenties. Both of us left San Francisco and returned, our relationship enduring separation. We were both friends and sometimes lovers, as I said. I am not the only woman he has known but for the past three years, we’ve been pretty involved with each other. If either of us maybe saw someone for lunch of drinks, we were upfront about it. We did not have a possessive attachment but it was exclusive. Or so I thought. Seeing Michael with this exotic dark-haired woman in a fashionable dress and high heels did not make me jealous so much as confused. Who was she? Why didn’t he say anything about her? Do I sound naïve? Maybe so.
I continued my errands, banking, buying a new cell phone, Whole Foods, and returned home. I was a little shaken, in need of repose. I put on some music, made a pot of tea and spent the afternoon looking at my paintings, adjusting here and there. They were looking good. I would be bringing them to the gallery in two days and Michael had rented a truck for the transport to downtown. Parking would be horrific and I was especially in need of not only his help but was hoping Louis would be on hand also. For this assistance, I made reservations at Fleur de Lys for dinner, considered by many to be the best French restaurant in town. Randy gave me two bags of his finest to dispense as I chose and I knew they were going to be thrilled. I was taking good care of my friends. Wealth is beautiful that way.
A week later my show opened and my mother came down for it. She stayed in a glossy hotel and we made an attempt at improving our wardrobes but were worn down by the process within a couple of hours though I did buy a svelte black Max Mara dress to wear to the gallery reception, disappointed at being a size larger. We were in the shoe department deciding if I would attempt high heels or stick with flats: “I want to go all out and wear heels with such a great dress but…”
“…but falling down never adds to anyone’s glamor quotient, does it?” Mom said, never one to encourage frivolity or fashion dictates.
“Michael will be so impressed if I wear the heels…he likes them.”
“Michael doesn’t have to wear them. Tell him you’ll wear them if he does.”
“Oh Mom. Only you come up with such ludicrous statements. You’re so droll.”
“Glad you find me so. But a mother is supposed to carry some weight, some authority.”
“You gave that up when you became a dope dealer.” We laughed to kill ourselves and then went and had a makeover at the cosmetic counter. When we looked in the mirror she looked like a drag queen with her farmer hands and sun-damaged skin and I looked like a prostitute but I emerged with an entire line from a newly celebrated brand.
“What foolishness money can buy,” said my stoic mother. She settled for a moisturizer/sunscreen from an Italian organic line, more expensive than everything she was wearing combined, as she happily totaled up her thrift store outfit. “We should do this more often,” she laughed.
“We could but we’re too boho,” I said.
“Maybe that will change, Mel. I hope I don’t lose you…”
“Not even hardly likely, Mom. You’re all the family I have.”
The Friday my show opened, I was naturally nervous but excited. The paintings were hung and they looked stunning - everyone said so. I was glad I ended the twelve with two larger works; 48"x48” and 57”x57”canvases that really made the others seem more significant than they might have if they had all been in the smallish range. I like small paintings, always have, but once my motif became more abstract, I found bigger made for a well-defined statement. More inches come with bigger prices which my dealer appreciated.
I made the decision for bigger canvases after Michael made a snide comment over the necessity of my working one night when he wanted to see a movie: “Just slap the paint on a couple of 10”x10s” and be done with it,” he said when I was down to the last two. “Who cares at this point?” Could he have said anything more heedless? I was stunned, really. He’s always had such a fine manner. This naturally resulted in an argument, one reason I ran home to Mother. “It does matter! Why have you become so odious?" I shrieked. The last honest words I spoke. After that, all was subterfuge. When I came back, I went large and painted them in three days, the oil barely dry before hanging
He arrived at the reception late and more than a little drunk. Louis was on hand before, always helpful. He entertained my mother and played the role of bon vivant. He put his great social skills to work and sold the largest canvas. I told him he would be receiving a nice commission and to keep up the good work. Everyone was having a great time and even Katie showed up which pleased my mother. When Michael finally arrived, he had missed the first part of the party and wasn’t in on all the jokes and references which made him sullen. When an old friend of ours, Martin Gloss, a semi-famous guitar player, arrived out of the blue, he cheered up but everyone noticed the whiskey bottle in and out of his pocket and if I was worried about falling down in heels, I now had to worry about Michael falling down and making an ass of himself. Louis, sensing my nervousness, got him out of there and took our old friend with them. After that it was just art talk and some additional sales.
My mother had a few things to say but you can guess what they were, I don’t have to tell you. Katie added to her ire by saying she never liked Michael, he was too self-absorbed. I didn’t listen to either of them; I’ve heard it before. I was sad that he came to a public gathering so hammered, that he didn’t think any more of my opening than a display of his own abjection.
“What kind of guy thinks that’s acceptable?” said my mother to Katie.
“The kind of guy whose self-image is higher than circumstances warrant,” Katie said. “I never understood what Melanie saw in him.”
She once came to my place for a wine and cheese get-together with Louis and Michael but didn’t like that we listened to jazz; she said it made her head hurt. Michael found this unbelievable coming from someone who listened to rap and said so. They lobbed a few caustic sentences at each other on music and henceforth, kept a distance. When I was laid off, we promised to stay in touch but hadn’t.
My show, happily a success, did nothing to improve Michael’s disposition and no matter how much money I spent or to what end, he remained sulky, petulant, unnerving to me. Nine of the twelve paintings sold and the largest was featured in a blurb in a touristy publication and my dealer said traffic in the gallery had noticeably increased. He asked to show my next series - I hadn’t even begun to think about it yet. I told him it would be a year or more before I could offer additional paintings. I did not tell him why. That I had to reorient myself to the world and find my place. I needed time to buy a home/studio, I planned to finally tour Europe and maybe visit a sculptor friend in Israel. I wanted to see what artists were doing in New York and L.A. and maybe meet some of them.
I had also decided I wanted to take Louis with me on my travels but not necessarily Michael. I felt guilty about this and hadn’t said a thing about it to either. The afternoon I saw him with the woman in the Italian restaurant, I left a piece of the story out. Once I reached Whole Foods, I sat on a bench in the parking lot to recover myself. I thought maybe I had twisted my ankle tripping on the book. I then phoned him on his cell phone and he answered, hush-hush, and told me he’d have to call me back. “My boss is hovering about,” he said. “ Let me call you in an hour or so, okay?”
So he felt he should lie about his whereabouts. He could just as easily have said he was having lunch with someone and couldn’t talk in the restaurant but he purposely dissembled. When someone lies, you have to wonder why, when the truth would have been fine in this case. I never press for details, another of my evasive traits, a tendency to vagueness. He was safe. In fact he did not even know I was back in town. When he came over after work, I asked him if he’d had lunch and his reply was, “No, I couldn’t get away.” I let him off, didn’t out him. We talked about my latest paintings, the larger ones, and went to dinner where we discussed real estate, neighborhood pros and cons and architecture. Afterward I told him I needed to work and he didn’t come home with me.
Now the exhibition preliminaries were over, Mr. Durand would handle everything else. I was free. I took Louis to dinner at le Central, our favorite spot, to thank him for his help during the opening and try to glean information. “Tell, me old friend, what is Michael up to?” Louis, loyal to his toes, said, “Don‘t involve me, it’s between you two.”
“Just tell me, who is the brunette he has a thing for?”
“Oh, you know about that?”
“Her. I know about her. Who is she?”
“She’s someone he works with. He’s been seeing her for awhile. You don’t really have that type of relationship, you know, that ridiculously controlled type thing.”
“Spoken like a true bachelor. No we don’t. I just wonder why he didn’t say anything if we don’t have that ‘ridiculously controlled type thing.’ Why is that?”
“Well, you know…he’s private. He never tells anyone anything if he can help it. You know how he is. We’re all that way, really. You didn't even tell us you were a millionairess, by the way.”
“Are you both still mad about that?”
“Not me. I’m just saying, we all keep secrets.”
“Is it a serious relationship?”
“With Simone? Hard to tell.”
“Ah, Simone. Well if it is serious with Simone, why has he been spending so much time with me? Much more than we usually do.”
Louis guffawed loudly and everyone in the bistro looked at us. “One word, make it two: big bucks.”
“You mean, since I now had cash to burn, he didn’t want to miss out. Where does that leave poor Simone, waiting for him to call or show up between meals?”
“Well, that’s one of the reasons he was drunk at your show. She gave him the old ultimatum even though he told her all along you two were just friends. But she suspected something else because he was missing in action so often after…”
“After I started throwing money around.”
“Yeah, well, he likes the good life, you know. Before you told us about the money, he was planning on telling you about Simone, let you know he was seeing her and would continue to. Then after hearing about the money, he had second thoughts about Simone, but when you just kept on with the old routine, no big plans, like you were indifferent to the money, he got anxious. He actually thought you might give it away. He thinks you are crazy to be painting in that dumpy efficiency apartment as if you were in a garret suffering for your art. He thinks it’s all bullshit.”
“Even if my painting is bullshit, the show was scheduled, I did have a commitment, an actual contract before I knew about the inheritance. Was I just supposed to drop out of it? Did it ever occur to him that maybe I really love painting? Does that not count for anything?”
Louis laughed again and only added that the painting did not matter to him. “You know how he is, he’s what matters. We understand that about him and accept it because he has a lot of other cool traits.”
“Yeah, except when they’re not.”
“Oh come on, Mel, he’s always done whatever he likes. You don’t really think you had an exclusive on him, do you? I mean, come on, girl, get with it.”
“No. I don’t have an exclusive but he usually doesn’t hide things or lie about them. That’s the difference. Especially after making a big play for me, needing to sleep every night at my place like he was my big lover, wanting to spend every minute with me…”
“That’s just Michael. He always overplays it.”
“Yeah, but this time I find it offensive.”
“Well, you should. You have all the cards now. You don’t have to take any shit from anyone. Or had you not figured that out yet? I mean, you don’t really need him, do you?”
“I like our little trio. We have fun. We are on the same wave-length. We have the same ideals, the same taste.”
“Well, you’ll always have us, where would we go? Just don’t make it about other things and we’ll be okay.”
“What should I do about other things? I mean, what should be my stance? I saw him with Simone and then he lied about it. He didn’t have to, he could have easily said he was having lunch with someone and he chose to lie.”
“He doesn’t like to have to answer to anyone. A lot of guys are like that. Just forget about it. It’s not important, really. You women always overreact to such silly things.”
“Spoken like a born bachelor.”
“Yeah well, I think I like my bachelor ways…more than his plotting…or your fretting, for that matter.”
“I just want to know how things stand and where to go from here. I have a lot of plans to make and I don’t know if they include the three of us…I want to know what to do now that my show is over and I can breathe.”
“You’re holding all the cards, my dear.”
Epilogue
Well, yes, I was holding the cards. The big winner. My paintings continued to find an audience and I had one collector e-mail me asking me to let her know when I have something new to show. He collects Japanese art so I think Mr. Whistler would be pleased. I was in demand after years of obscurity. If you are thinking that now it doesn’t matter as much you are wrong. I wanted nothing more than to go back to my efficiency that everyone now found so objectionable, or a new one, and begin again. I wanted to channel up Whistler and ask his advice, find out if he thinks I took his measure correctly and if he could appreciate, ever so slightly, what I had been attempting. I didn’t want to let him go just yet. My consolation was that I would travel around and look at his works in museums.
So how did I spend the money, you’re probably wondering? Did I give it away? Did I continue to take care of my friends? Did I let Michael hoodwink me? Did I join the fashionable set? Did I ever buy that loft? Did I just lock my door and paint the next series and grow old and crazy talking to Whistler?
A bit of everything, actually. I did make a small amount over to Michael so he could work on his book if he chose to. I made him come clean on Simone and he admitted he was smitten with her but that she gave him a test which he failed and would elaborate no further - you know how he is. I did not buy a loft, but a rambling flat in the Mission with a sunny room for painting. I did not begin a new series because I hijacked Louis and took us both off to Europe where I am writing this story sitting in my open window in Venice, Italy. Am I now a writer? No, but while I am not a painter, temporarily, I thought I’d put my story down on paper while it is fresh in my mind - before the next café, trattoria, restaurant or wine bar. I believe as long as I have Louis to feed, I will be overeating and drinking but on my own, I would be a paltry tourist, content to just float around, keeping a low-profile. I am also rather well turned out these days thanks to an enticing shop in Rome.
I did visit quite a few of Whistler’s paintings in museums including his mother in the Musee D‘Orsay in Paris. I also went by the artist’s place of residence in London and looked at a fine collection of his etchings. Whistler, facing bankruptcy after attempting to sue a critic, was packed off to Venice to do a series of etchings on commission. He stayed more than a year rendering his much-lauded Venice pastels that redeemed his reputation and bank account. I would love nothing more than to do something similar while here - no artist can resist the light of this island and I am no exception but we are just passing through.
Viewing history through painting as Louis and I have been doing, I feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of creation. I am humbled and question whether I should bother with my own meager output. Then I remind myself I am happiest at my easel, the only place I really call home and look forward to being once again, that woman in the window who gives a city character. I'm rich. I believe I always have been. No amount of money can obliterate a passion. I think Mr. Whistler might agree.
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