SHARKFORUM: OPINION WITH TEETH

To truely know ones self is a good thing. It’s rare, but knowledge is the beginning of wisdom. From time to time life presents you with a vision into the depths of self, and those who dare look would do well to consider the gravity of such knowledge.

One of the things that I’ve learned about myself is that I’m essentially reactive. For all time I spent drawing up my master plans, in the end I made it up in real time and acted on instinct. I had taken other actions which proved essential to my success, but they were intended for other uses. No matter. I appropriate those aspects and folded them into my actions. Sometimes life requires that we move swiftly and with decision.

In mid April I made the climb up the stairs. I eased the heavy steel studio door closed, careful to keep the bolt from latching. Even though it almost never happened, we had been forced once to come down the fire escape because the force of the door closing had thrown the lock. Climbing down the ladder was pretty low stress, but getting over the wall was tough the first time. There were three rungs on the roof side of the ladder, which got you over the top of the building wall. At that point you would actually swing your legs into thin air and grope for the first rung on the other side of the wall. Practice made it easy, but the first time over the wall was a challenge.

I started to think about the time we’d been locked out, and it gave me another thought. I decided that it was time to fix that lock once and for all.

The door at the top of the stairs was supposed to be locked as well, but the latch was rusted open. It took me 3 days to clean that lock, and another 2 to figure out how to make it close and lock on it’s own.

I figured I had plenty of time to enact my plan. We had the rest of the summer left on our lease, and Roger was so entrenched that I figured he’d be there long after I’d gone. Somehow I had to lure him to the roof alone, effectively locking himself up there. In the meantime I’d devise some way of painting all of his canvases white and then bolting. How poetic would that be? He kept a large supply of gesso on hand, and he often worked with the hallway door open.

Anyway, I thought I had all summer, and then everything came crashing down. I ran out of time. It was early May when I lost my job. Who knows why. Every time I’ve been fired it’s been a mystery to me. But Bruce was seeing it another way.

“You had to see this coming, son.”

“Actually, no.”

“Things just ain’t been the same without Peter Thomas. Sometimes it just goes that way. But hey! You’re a great kid, and no one can say we didn’t try.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Easy, now Joseph.”

“Easy? That’d be news! I’ve been busting my ass for you.”

He looked at the wall.

“And I told you, just because my driver’s license says that doesn’t mean...”

“Yea, yea. Whatever. We gave you a shot, you didn’t make the grade. Don’t make a thing.”

Kurt Monahan, aroused by the shouting from his morning nap, filled the doorway.

“Dad? What’s going on here?”

“I had to tell ‘im.” He shoved a thumb at me.

“Tell me I just didn’t hear you swear at my father.”

It was my turn to look at the wall.

“I thought so.”

Kurt turned to leave, but he stopped to drill me with one last look.

“I never liked you anyway.”

I didn’t even go home. It was 8:30 on a Monday morning, but I drove straight to The Belly. Why the hell do they call this place The Belly, anyway? It’s kind of a stupid name for a building, really. A building should have a name that makes sense, like The Brentwood, or The Elms, or The Sears Tower. Even a name like Monadnock makes more sense that The Belly.

I used to chew on that name for hours, mulling it like a whodunnit. The river bends around it a bit, producing a curve on the shore. Maybe someone thought that looked like the belly of pregnancy. Stupid if you ask me. It should have been called The Hole. The place was a dump.

Whatever. I rode the elevator up and left it on the second floor. So what. I’ve had to walk the building plenty of times trying to find it. It was someone else’s turn to play find the elevator that day.
Roger wasn’t dancing around canvas that morning, but it was clear that he’d been there, and would probably be back soon. I walked over to his bean bag to grab his Reader, glancing intently in the direction of his gesso stockpile. It was gone. Walking to the couch I began snapping through the classifieds. There was nothing there, and I could hardly focus anyway. I walked to the fridge and opened a beer.

Roger walked in 2 hours later.

“I heard your bad news.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, I called MSW this morning looking for you. That weasel Kurt told me everything. He said he never liked you.”

“I’ve been informed. I can’t believe they told you. That’s so unprofessional.”

“It’s a cold world.”

“This is how much severance they gave me.” I showed him my middle finger. I pointed it at the floor.

“No shit? It is a cold world.”

“Wait, you called me?”

“Uh, do I need a reason?”

“You never call me.”

“Well, I wanted you to know that I’m moving.”

“That was quick.” I grinned.

“What was quick?”

“You and Mel have only been living together for a few months.”

“Heh, well, see, it’s true that I’m moving out of that apartment, but she’s moving with me. That’s not what I meant though.”

“You’re ditching me?”

“Come on, Joey!” He refused to call me Bucky anymore, “You’ll do great on your own! You’ve wanted more of the space for yourself anyhow.”

“This isn’t happening.”

He tried to look compassionate. “I’m real sorry about your job, man.”

“This isn’t happening. I am not getting ditched by... YOU!”

But I was, and soon. Roger and Melanie had already signed a lease on a live/work space. In fact, he had just come from there.

“Why don’t we spend the day together, just you and me? I’ll buy the beer this time.” He was holding a 12 pack.

“I see you came prepared to let me down easy.”

“It’s not like that. You know.”

“Yea, well, what the hell.” We drank all day, we painted, we looked at art and we smoked weed. I was glib and jovial. I waxed nostalgic. I put my arm around him. I was faking it the whole time.

We staggered over to Joe’s around 8:00 and brought our greasy fish back to the inner sanctum. Around 10:00 Roger stood up, looking for all the world like a drunken Fred Flintstone stumping for the Bedrock Mayoral race.

“I,” he said, “am going across the street to go get more beer.”

He walked to the door and swung it closed behind him. The draw of the wind pulled up corners from the top 8 pages of The Reader, now sitting on his painting cart. The gears meshed and turned in my head. Cosmic tumblers rolled and fell into place.

When he got back I feigned sleeping, opening my eyes when he got close. I sat up and accepted a beer. He had 4 bags of chips under his arm.

“Hey,” I said, “let’s hit the tower.”

“Naaaah!”

“He he.”

“We should,” he said, “for old time’s sake. You know what? It’s a night pour.”

“Perfect!” I said, and I followed him to the heavy steel door, rehearsing the blocking in my head. It ran like clockwork. When Roger was halfway up the second flight I stopped.

“Oh, wait! I forgot to close the studio door.” I said, “you go up. I’ll be just a minute.”
He took the bait and kept going. I turned and ran through the studio. I slammed the studio door, just enough, just the right amount. The top 4 pages of section two rested on a burning candle. The flame was an inch away, poised like a fuse. It was just perfect.

I ran to the stairs, turning to look as I hefted the hinged steel. Exactly! The corner of the paper was burning. I pushed the door all the way open. It was easy: I’d been oiling the hinges for weeks, just a little at a time. I let the door go and took the first flight of stairs 2 at a time. With a bang and a snap the door closed and locked.

I repeated the process when I got to the roof door. Roger was already halfway up the tower. I sprinted across the roof with the sense of exhilaration in my mouth. It tasted like a battery. Light rain started falling. Thunder claps could be heard, and they were getting close. When I got to the foot of the ladder I stopped again.

“Shit! I left the joint downstairs!”

“Blow it off!”

“No way! We gotta bake one last time up the tower. We’ve never baked up there for a night pour!”

“All right, man, but hurry up! It’s gonna rain cats and doggies!” He was still climbing.

“The door’s locked again! I’ll take the fire escape.”

“Whatever! Just go!”

I rolled my legs over the ladder and made my way to the fourth floor landing. I couldn’t smell smoke yet, but I didn’t waste any time moving down to three. There was just the right amount of time to get back to the studio and put the fire out, preventing wider damage but ensuring the destruction of the painting my mother had puchased. All the interior lights were off, with the exception of ours, and I hopped down to the second floor. The rain grew thicker.

I looked through the wired glass - there was a straight shot down to our studio door. Melanie was standing in front of it, banging with everything she had. Smoke was billowing out of the cracks between the doors and the floor. The fire was worse than anticipated and spreading rapidly.

“Roger! Roger for God’s sake wake up!”

I hammered on the fire escape door with my fist.

“Melanie!! MEL!!”

She turned and ran to me, pushing the fire escape open with both hands. Water spilled off the door sill onto her head. I thought I heard sirens in the distance. The smell of toxic smoke assaulted my sinuses like a taste of hell.

“Listen very carefully, Mel.”

Her eyes were darting, squinting in the rain.

“Go down, this way, OK? I’ll take care of Roger.”

“Is he...” She pointed up.

“Yes!” I turned, “Now go! We’ll see you downstairs!”

I took the stairs three at a time, stumbling near the top and opening my palm on the rusted grate floor. I cleared the wall and sprinted for the tower. The tar paper roofing was shiny and slick. I searched the catwalk circling the tank, without luck. Roger was lying on his back, on the roof of the tank. I shouted. There was no movement in response. The thunder and lightening were getting closer, perhaps as close as California Avenue. The rain was coming down in tympanic sheets.

Taking a deep breath I started up the ladder, shouting Roger’s name the whole way. The sirens got louder. I could hear the rain drumming the inside of the tank. It sounded as if it held standing water.

“Roger Goddammit! Roger!”

Pounding on the tank was foolish. We’d tried it once, and the whole tower had shifted.

“Roger......... PLEASE!”

I couldn’t see him. I started up the tank ladder. The fire engines were coming up Ashland. When I looked back up he was looking over the side at me. His hair was wet and dripping on me. His beard was matted and soaked.

“You are not going to believe how groovy it is up here, dude. We should have done this a long time ago.”

“That’s more true than you know.”

“You’re in for a treat.”

“Roger, we gotta go buddy. The man is coming...” The engines were turning onto Cortland.

“You never let me have any fun.”

He came down and I told him we had to hurry. I didn’t tell him that the building was on fire, but so what? He should have figured that out for himself by then. The smell was palpable, and smoke was rising about 20 feet from us. Cars started to slow and stop on Cortland. I had no moral obligation to full disclosure anyhow. I had gone back for him, hadn’t I? But that was never in question. I never intended to bring physical harm to Roger Murray. Melanie’s arrival only changed my plan slightly.
I never got the chance to put out the fire, leaving the space, and my work intact, but destroying Roger’s. I never got to do that, but I did get to play hero. So what if I never told either of them the truth? I didn’t set that fire. I can hardly even be held responsible for setting the events in motion which led to the blaze. Maybe I didn’t turn around; maybe I just went right up the stairs. No one can prove otherwise. We were pretty lit ourselves, after all. Who knows what really happened.

And don’t forget that I lost a lot in that fire myself - artwork, tools, the lot. But it was worth it. It was so worth it. We all make sacrifices for justice.

Once, late at night, I had been trying to repair an old sculpture from under grad. It was a thin and fragile piece, and required delicate care. I got frustrated, and I crushed the piece with my bare hands. I got a rush. I think it was Picasso who referred to the creative process as an act of destruction. Was he talking about Analytical Cubism, or art in general?

These objects we make, and the muses which impel us to create them, come to possess us. We are beholden to them, obligated to care for them, to tell their stories, to find them good homes. We bring them into the world like static children and then make thousands of decisions every day which effect our ability to provide them the succor they demand. Some say it’s romantic, but I say it’s a brutal, thankless grind. Being tattooed with a special talent is like contracting leprosy.

My Dad used to say that everyone has a special talent, that each of us is a genius in some area. Well I found my special talent, and even if I can only use it once, and never share it with anyone else, I know I’m the greatest fucking genius of all time. The Man In The Iron Mask has got nothing on me. I never intended to burn down the whole building - only Roger Murray’s little corner of it - but man did that sucker light up the night. As it burned, as the colors licked the sky, I felt liberated from the crushing need for attention which had yoked me for years. I had lost much, but I had gained so much more in the way of freedom. No longer would I worry about the value of art, what it means, or who will get it. The alchemy of fire had exorcised me of my demons.

fin

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