Fire In The Belly - Act 1: The Second Building Fire
As we stood there, watching the flames, I couldn’t help feeling the warmth of satisfaction. There was only a hint of bittersweet lurking in the shadows, represented by the knowledge that I couldn’t share the beauty of my revenge. It was a small price to pay. Giant rafters burned, brick walls crumbled in on years of work. Clouds glowed ruby and pumpkin as the rain sizzled in the inferno. For once the karmic scales had tipped my way. The great wheel in the sky, which had always turned a blind eye to my need, had finally landed on my number. In front of me was regular old combustion, handed down through countless generations. Inside of me was cold fusion.
Of course, a thing of such beauty really can’t be kept private, I know that. So here it is, committed to history in the only form certain to protect me from harm. I don’t worry that it’s here in my journal - I’ve come to accept that these words will never be published and read. No matter how prolific I may be, and no matter the quality of my work, no one seems to take notice. No one except Roger, of course, but then he’s the reason this whole thing happened in the first place. It’s his fault. All of this is his fault.
This entire thing began with another fire, a truly tragic fire, a complete waste. There was nothing poetic about that blaze. The end result was merely the ruin of hundreds of beautiful artworks. Someone died. It wasn’t meaningful or metaphorical, there was no sense of justice, no one was paid back. No one deserved that fire; it was just an accident. And that thing was just a campfire compared to this inferno. This fire was seen for miles around, and required four stations to put down. This fire was epic. Mr. DeMille himself could not have done better. We watched it all from the Cortland Avenue bridge, Roger, Melanie and me. The molten pours of the Finkel foundry behind us could barely compare.
The flames changed colors in phases, as the fire worked it’s way through the building, discovering new combustibles. Green! Blue! Orangebrown! Sprinklers of silver and gold floated into the three am sky. The foundry shut down. Could it have been anything but embarrassment? Even molten steel fell short in spectacle. We were witness to all of this, the three of us. Pulled together by unseen forces with sadistic intent and little regard for our welfare. The fates are cruel. But we watched, and as we watched the river rolled by. Our reflections blended with those of the flaming Belly. Everything was recorded on the surface of the Chicago River. The river sees all. Back in October, back before all of this, I didn’t even know Roger and Melanie. I was just working away in a small sculpture studio, privately, industriously. I had made some headway, having finally gotten all those undergrad voices out of my head. Roger’s studio was on the first floor, and down the hall from mine, which may explain why I never saw him until the night of that first fire. We watched that fire together, too. Other people were there, but Melanie wasn’t one of them. We met her later. The firefighters attacked their work much differently that night, but then again, that event was over in just two hours. The October fire was small, and the building was repaired and reopened in just a couple months.
I lost everything in that fire; all my sketchbooks from undergrad, most of my cd collection, all my tools, everything. I can’t say that I lost very much new work, because there were only a half dozen finished pieces, but they were all keepers. What got lost was the thread I’d found to tug on. That fire, coupled with the deflating influence of Roger Murray, prevented me from finishing even one decent piece of art since then. Gallery interest came and went. I told myself that scheduling a show in advance of the work was a good plan to get me going again. It wasn’t.
The old studio, the pre-October studio, was a great space. Perched on the southeast corner of the second floor, bathed in light and solitary bliss. I was ten months into a 2 year lease, fully settled and moving forward. The rent was affordable, and all the neighbors worked day hours. I’d bike over after work, grabbing dinner on the way. As the potters and metalsmiths drove away I’d carry my Dollar Tacos and my bike upstairs, open up The Reader and enjoy dinner. The Metra train passes at a distance of about 35 feet. From time to time I’d make eye contact with someone on their way home. I loved that space.
I lived alone at that time. I’m alone now, too, but that’s a recent development. Mel was with me for about 4 months. Now she lives with Roger. They’re not lovers; I think Roger’s maybe gay. Who knows about him. Regardless, I’m sure that there’s nothing there. She’d never settle for someone as boring as Roger Murray.
The Ravenswood El tracks run along the west side of that building, and I used to laugh about how much louder it was than the Metra, which often hums along at three times the speed. At first I was excited about the objects I found under the El, but I got bored with the regularity of those discoveries. Spikes and formed metal plates accounted for the majority of those finds. I don’t think I ever even tried to use them. They were lost with everything else.
There is a yard on that side of the building, fenced in but accessible from the first floor studios. The track supports are masculine and aging, wearing several dozen coats of enamel, like the rings on a tree. Roger and I met in that yard, watching the October fire. The firemen made us move, but not before we got a chance to talk.
“Time for a new studio.” Said Roger Murray.
I looked at him. It was still unclear whether or not my end of the building would be affected, and the first half hour of the fire was actually kind of entertaining. I found out the hard way that it’s never entertaining when people lose everything. Satisfying, at times. Entertaining, never.
“Where are you?” He asked me.
“I’m in the corner, over there.” I said.
He nodded seriously. “I see.”
Firemen were inside the building now, pushing up the hallway. We’d see them through open doors, and refer back to the rapidly growing plume coming out of the roof. The ladder truck was providing water from above. As the smoke turned from black to grey to white it looked like this would prove to be an easy put out.
“I know a place we can share.” He said.
“Say what?”
“I know a place we can share.”
“Really. You and I.”
“You look like someone I can trust.”
“I do?”
“Sure.” He smiled. “You do need a new workspace, dontcha?”
“Yea.”
“Well, then, I’ve got the place!”
“And where’s that?”
“It’s at Cortland and Mendel, see, right on the river. Across from the foundry. It’s amazing. Really.”
I should have ignored him. Why didn’t I? Maybe it was because he seemed so harmless. It was hard to get a handle on him, but he struck me as a sunday painter, a yuppy, a guy moved by a late night re run of Lust For Life. That’s the movie Lust For Life, he film with Anthony Quinn as Gauguin and Kirk Douglas as Van Gogh, not the song. Roger Murray had no clue who Iggy Pop was until he met me. He got all his good music from me.
© copyright David Roth 2006
Next week: Act 2: Working In The Belly
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