100 Swings

Thirteen

The screen began to reform as I lifted the phone.

Gene, what are you doing tonight?

A series of green numbers flowed into place and I wondered, Who?

Are you working now?

Sure. Call me back.

You know this is Paul, right?

Sure.

A second light on the phone flashed. I said, I’ve got another call. I’ll call you.

I hit F6, and as the dial tone sounded in my ear, the numbers on the screen were swept away and then rushed in again. I hit 0557 on my phone.

Spaulding, I said.

It’s Paul. Remember?

Orsillo?

God, you’re slow in the afternoon.

I just...

It’s my new technique. Put two calls in. Bang them once, then bang them again. What do you think?

Devastating.

Listen, there’s an opening on the West Side tonight. Let’s go. Diseased art skirt.

Stop talking like you’re still twenty-five.

Come on.

When is it?

Six to nine, said Orsillo. Bring your own angst.

I’m going to the gym first.

Good for you. Pump it up.

Drop dead.

Did you drive in?

Yeah.

"All right. I’ll see you there. At our locker."

I hung up a second time. The curser blinked from the G12 cell. After a while, you tire of the endless projections. My father used to spend hours at an adding machine and thought it was only when the work became less tedious that finance turned glamorous.

So I exited the program, filed the disks and turned off the machine. Outside the sanctuary of the cooled building, the afternoon heat was an irritant. I walked the few blocks and was hot by the time I reached the gym. The too-loud music nagged at me and I wondered, for at least the hundredth time, whether the strain of the weights on the heart was, on the whole, more harmful than good.

Afterward I walked to the parking structure and up the four flights of stairs. Arriving late in the morning had its penalties. One was parking your car in the sun, baking it for eight hours, cracking the dashboard and hurrying the disintegration of the vinyl so that the air in the car’s interior was laced with floating molecules of plastic, seeking new homes on the glass and in your lungs.

Paul Orsillo was leaning against the car, reading the Times.

You didn’t make it, I said.

Long conference call. Good workout? he asked.

Oh yeah. Tops.

Any offers?

No good ones. Hey, drive, will you? I flipped him the keys. We pulled into traffic and climbed the on-ramp, jerked along by the metering light. Paul said, Remember Sarah? Kind of tall, nose job? Called me about tonight.

She works there now?

Yeah. We’ll see for how long. Why didn’t you call her up?

Anxiety.

Stop watching porn. You feel like a midget.

Jesus.

The light flashed green and we rushed forward, only to be slowed by the traffic. He weaved right and passed several waiting cars before re-entering the line. He said, I like it when a dozen guys are riding the bikes watching an aerobics class, with all those butts pointed at them. They all look ready to climb off and crawl. He waited for my laugh before asking, "Was she there?"

She was.

And?

Every machine she used, this little stocky guy jumped on. Do you know him? Dyed black hair?

Comb overr? Glasses? Knee-socks?

Yeah. Ivan.

The fucking sniffer.

The freeway traffic dislodged and fragmented and the car reached forty-five. I felt the cooler dusk air through the sunroof and considered having Paul drop me off. But it seemed easier to ride along to the gallery.

We parked in a closed gas station and walked the two blocks. The warm night air of October reminded me of why you lived in LA. Back east there was a gray winter coming. We forgive the smog and traffic.

Paul was lost in the gallery. I made a casual survey, unmoved and uninterested, and felt compelled to initiate another when Paul approached with Sarah in tow.

Anything you want to buy? she asked.

I don’t think so. Not tonight.

That’s our Gene, said Paul. A cautious investor. He winked and left me with Sarah, both of us uneasy.

How’s business? I asked.

We sold three pieces last night.

I thought tonight was the opening.

Last night for collectors. Some designers, buying for their clients. When they drop in, we hustle out everything.

What’s in? I asked.

Hard to say. Maybe, smaller pieces?

Did this sell? I asked, pointing to the work in the corner.

Oh no, those are Lizzie Vaughn’s. She hasn’t sold in years. But Russell is very loyal. He keeps showing her.

She turned, said, I’ll see you later, and walked away. I felt the corner was under-populated and unvisited, a corner of the zoo where the animals were in hibernation and the customers paid no attention, so I stayed and looked, wondering how it was made and why someone would spend the time.

Do you like it? I was asked.

Sure, I said to the woman who had approached me.

It’s mine.

You’re, I said, searching, Lizzie Borne.

Vaughn.

Sorry.

It’s all right. Let me guess. You’re a lawyer.

Accountant.

How thrilling! No, I mean it. It’s the profession now. Money schemes. Tax credits. Sheltering.

That’s not really my line.

Oh, she said, that’s disappointing. Do you do private work?

Not usually.

Do you have a card? How am I doing? This is networking, isn’t it?

I gave her a card.

Put your home number on the card, she said. I wrote it out. Thank you, Gene Spaulding, CPA. Now you say, ‘I really enjoy your work.’ I smiled, and she said, No, say it, and there was a brittle edge to her voice.

I really enjoy your work.

See? That was easy. You can always say that. Always say, ‘your work.’ Sometimes, ‘your piece.’ Okay? Now you can go, Gene.

She stared at me until I felt uncomfortable enough to leave.

Looking back from across the room, I saw she was still alone but now turned, staring at her piece.

A little weird, am I right? said Sarah.

A little, yeah. Is there a restroom?

Down the hall. To the right.

I passed through knots of people, opened the restroom door and positioned myself before the urinal. The room door opened and Paul entered. He looked at me and grinned, and then turned and said, It’s clear, come on.

A younger woman trailed behind him into the room. They approached the sink. I wasn’t really finished, but...

Gene, this is Mandy.

She nodded at me. Paul opened a small pocket case and poured some coke on the metal tray below the mirror. He sliced and lined it. She did the first line and Paul did the second. Her brown hair was tied back but came loose as she leaned over.

Gene?

I took the rolled bill, did the third line, and then looked up at her. She had a small waist and a full mouth. Paul readied three more lines. She did the first, he the second. I shook my head, and she did the third line. I could feel my stomach lighten. She said, Thanks, and left the room.

I’m going to fuck her, said Paul. Tonight. He gave me a left/right to the shoulder. Sarah introduced me. She’s showing tonight.

What’s her name again?

Mandy. She’s the owner’s niece or something.

Paul left the room, and I washed my hands and wished.

I walked outside into the street. The blue and pink neon of the gallery seemed far away from the tramping feet on the wood floors in the museums and galleries my mother had taken me to as a child. A slight clouding muted the stars and the moon. I went back inside and lined up for a glass of wine. I felt a hand on my arm. Lizzie.

You’re still here, she said.

I’m the driver. I have to stay.

She kept hold of my arm and dragged me to the left. A tall, bearded and balding man was in conversation with a Bel Air matron, her skin stretched tautly and her hair chopped and speared with a vicious determination. Sarah hovered nearby; she saw us coming and stepped forward, but Lizzie brushed by her.

Russell, she said. This is Gene Spaulding. My accountant.

He never hesitated, simply turned, smiled and said, I’m Russell Newman. Glad you could come. Lizzie’s grip remained as tight. He asked, Are you happy with the installation, Lizzie? Then he put his hand on the matron’s arm and said to her, This is Lizzie Vaughn.

I felt her hand loosen and my arm freed as Sarah drew her and the matron away toward the lighted corner where Lizzie’s work stood alone and unattended.

She was one of our first artists. When our gallery was on Overland. Were you ever there? asked Russell.

No, I don’t think so, I said.

Sometimes I get homesick for it. There is something about building it yourself. Lizzie was our first opening. We hung drywall two nights before until five in the morning. It really was a case of the paint just drying before the doors opened. We owe a lot to her. She’s had some difficult periods, but I think she’s coming out of it. Don’t you?

He left me and pushed on very neatly. I looked over and saw Lizzie and Sarah and the woman from Bel Air, who was looking over her shoulder across the gallery to where more people stood, where Paul was standing very close to Mandy.

It seemed easier to drive Lizzie home than not. Paul had said he was leaving with Mandy. She was talking with a thin man in his thirties wearing very tight black jeans and a woman whose hair was dyed chalk yellow white. We left the gallery, drove east through the city to Little Tokyo and parked in a day lot now nearly empty of cars. We walked the two blocks to her building. We passed a group of Japanese businessmen laughing as they left the Giant Saloon.

I liked the smell of turpentine as she opened the door to her loft. It reminded me of my father’s workshop, the reassurance of a room with wood-handled screwdrivers and coffee cans of nails and a toaster awaiting repairs and the leftover paint from my room, labeled and set on the shelf, a laboratory exhibit.

See? You’re still in one piece.

I wasn’t worried. The Japanese weren’t.

They remind me of teenage boys. Moving in packs.

I followed her across the studio. Some recent paintings were against the wall. She sat at a kitchen table. Her appointment book was open. Friday.

I smoke. Do you mind?

No.

I mean, what with the smog and these fumes, spreading her left arm to her paints, I don’t think it matters.

Sure.

She brought me a cold bottle. My problem is money, she said. I need some hints on what to do. Are accountants like lawyers? You know, a confessional is private?

I won’t tell anyone else, but I’m legally required to respond to any law enforcement enquiries.

She looked at me, her skin sagging a little below the eyes and the lines penciled in at the neck. Well, hey, what could they do to me? Take my paintings? she said and laughed. Do you know the 7th Street Bridge?

Yes.

I did that mural. I worked on it for seven months in 1974. No one can ever buy that. I kept driving past it and wanted to do something on it. I just started one day. Once some cops stopped and asked, but I said it was a public art commission and they left me alone. I kept working on it. Some guys from East LA worked with me. They would show up and start painting. Then they wouldn’t show up for a few weeks and then be back one day. We wouldn’t talk much; they’d just pick up where they left off. One guy didn’t come back for months. I finished his part. Then he showed up. He painted over what I did and finished it the way he wanted it to be. There’s graffiti on it now. I don’t mind. It’s supposed to be public art. Better than on some designer’s wall.

She got up, walked to the kitchen and then sat back down.

I haven’t sold a painting in six years and I’ve got $40,000 in cash. Go ahead. Take a look.

She pushed a shoebox toward me. It was a Payless size 7. I removed the rubber band and took off the top. There were hundreds of Franklins.

I don’t know what to do with them.

Well, there are all sorts of investment instruments...

She jumped up. Not what I mean. She walked around the room, smoking the cigarette. I noticed a pile of clothes in the corner, paint splattered on them.

Look, she said, sitting down again. I’m not really schizy, okay? But every tax return I’ve filed says I’m making less than four thousand a year.

Fix it, I thought. I noticed the circles under her eyes and the taut little lines running from her nose to mouth.

I’m not very good at telling stories, she said.

How about if I ask questions? You just answer.

She looked relieved. Okay. I don’t have the right kind of mind.

Where’s the money from?

The gallery.

Which gallery?

Russell’s. Where the opening was tonight.

And it’s payment for work they sold?

She laughed and said, I never sell. Didn’t Sarah tell you?’

Loans?

Russell and Allen...

Allen?

His partner. He owns the restaurant next door. Nine’s. They buy my paintings. They’ve bought all my work for years.

Is that normal? Do galleries own, I paused, thinking, an inventory?

She shook her head. Theirs is different. They wanted to run a gallery that was fair. They bought paintings from artists. They supported a lot of us.

And then sold them?

Yes. Listen, do you want another beer? I shook my head no and she went to the kitchen and poured herself a drink. "This was a crazy idea. I just thought you might know