Support the Arts

A sort of funny thing happened to me the other day when I was walking home from work. I like to think that I’m the sort of person who minds his own business and doesn’t cause trouble for anyone. I wouldn’t consider myself to be short-tempered but even I have limits. The whole episode was completely silly, to be perfectly honest. I’d imagine that it made a huge impression on the villain in this story but I can’t blame myself. It’s not like I was out to provoke a world war. If it isn't the incident that I am about to describe then something else surely will push that guy over the edge. He's simply strung too tightly. I’ll do my best here to recount the details.

I was taking my usual way home one evening when a group of vagabonds in the square caught my eye. One of them was selling bunches of wild flowers he had arranged on a blanket on the sidewalk. A colorful arrangement cost me what I normally paid for a beer in a café. The plan was to give them to my girlfriend at the time with the hope that she would assume that I had paid more and had actually put a bit of thought into this bit of thoughtfulness instead of the truth, that I had literally almost tripped over the blanket stretched over the sidewalk on my way home. I’ve always been a firm believer in the “what they don’t know can’t hurt them” school.

After paying for the flowers I was almost immediately overcome with pride in what a caring and generous lover I was when I noticed another vagabond selling oil paintings. He had a small sign on which was scribbled “Need Money for Art Supplies” next to his four poorly-framed canvases. I resisted the joke of telling him that he could also use a few more art lessons but I’m not a cruel person, never have been. His stuff wasn’t bad, really, forlorn representations of local architectural landmarks and farmhouses devoid of much light and completely lacking in vitality or humanity. I was too much of an art snob to even consider hanging one of these amateur works in my flat but I thought that perhaps I could pass one of these painting off on a less discriminating friend as a birthday gift.  

More out of politeness than interest I asked him what it would take for him to part with one of his masterpieces. He named a completely ridiculous price which he almost immediately lowered to one tenth of that when he saw my reaction. To this I countered with an offer that was far from insulting yet he instantly became unpleasantly hostile.

“You must be joking,” he screeched. “This is a work of art, not a postcard.”

“Listen, kid. I make a pretty good living and I offered you what it takes me five hours to earn. Even with supplies this is more than fair,” I said.

I quickly noticed what a rat-faced little creep he was as he worked himself into a lather. He started gesticulating wildly as he shouted, “What could you possibly know about the life of an artist?”

“I never said that I did know anything about the life of an artist but let’s find one and ask.”

With this he stepped closer to me still spitting as he wailed, “Get out of my sight, you cretin!”

He wasn’t that short but I had a good 20 kilos on him so his aggression amused me more than anything. He was boiling with rage. Jesus, what a touchy little fucker! Now I thought that I’d just have a little fun with him.

“Yo fucko, this is a city sidewalk in case you didn’t notice. If you want me out of your sight I’d suggest you start running as fast as you can…and take your paint-by-numbers trash with you.”

A few passersby who had stopped for the developing spectacle were laughing at this. His humiliation further fueled his tantrum, especially when I started laughing out loud at him. He rattled off a stream of obscenities aimed first at me but then towards a host of other demons he obviously had cooped up inside his diseased mind. His insane and racist rant caught us all off guard for a tick.

After momentarily recoiling in revulsion I came back calmly with, “Dude, what in the fuck are you even talking about?”

The peanut gallery on the street had quickly grown to quite a crowd and they all laughed at this question which everyone seemed to have been thinking. The hack artist lunged forward and began swinging his arms in what looked like a hilarious parody of a man fighting. It was obvious that he had never been in a fight and perhaps had never even seen one before. I simply placed my left hand on the top of his head to stop his advance as he flayed wildly with both of his twig-like arms. The crowd went wild with laughter. I still had the bunch of wild flowers in my right hand as I didn’t feel the least bit threatened by the fanning of his harmless punches.

An old woman told me to let the man go, that he had suffered enough. It was sort of pathetic and the old woman’s words put a stop to the laughter as we became aware of the fact that we had become bullies. The half-pint artist stopped swinging and I thought that he had had enough but he turned towards the old matron and spat at her. He then let loose a string of hateful obscenities and racial epithets concerning the woman’s presumed religious beliefs. Then he spat at me. That was it! I’d had enough. No more Mister Nice Guy.

I tossed the wild flowers to the old woman who caught them deftly. Then I grabbed the artist by his stupid little mustache and yanked very hard. He let out a terrible yelp. I looked down and saw that I had a good clump of his facial hair and skin between my fingers which were no longer attached to his upper lip. I didn’t mean to go that far but it isn’t my fault that his skin was so fragile. He was bawling like a child at this point and galloped away comically while holding his injured lip with both hands. He’d left his paintings and other belongings on the sidewalk.

At this point I thought that I’d better get out of Dodge before a policeman showed up but I didn’t want to leave the guys stuff unattended. The other vagabond vendors were already scattering with their wares under their arms. I just sort of pushed his four canvases and his bag into a pile. There were still several witnesses standing around as curious as I as to the identity of the horrible little artist. I picked up one of the paintings. I saw that it was signed. He used only A. for the first name and I speculated to the crowd that it must have stood for “asshole” (arschloch in German). 

The last name was Hitler. I hope the little guy gets some sort of psychological therapy because the path he is on will surely end badly.

In the Year 2565

After decades of watching the best and the brightest in the medical profession gravitate towards cosmetic surgery, world leaders decide that something must be done. Outward appearances become so important that even patients simply in need of something to stop a runny nose are given a bit of a nip and tuck around the eyes. Of course, cold remedies are readily available over-the-counter at pharmacies, but try telling that to a 70 year old hypochondriac and, truth be told, Mrs. Berkovich doesn’t look half bad with the new work.

The last straw comes when a seven year old boy suffering from leukemia goes to the hospital for treatment and is instead given a truly magnificent pair of breasts and a collagen injection in the lips. The public is outraged…strangely aroused but outraged! People demand that something be done to arrest the world’s free-fall into a culture where looks are everything.

After a few years of unsuccessful policies, the world court in The Hague comes up with an idea. A daily exam will be issued to every citizen of the world that must be completed by everyone and then they must wear their answer sheet around their neck for the remainder of that day. Citizens have exactly 20 minutes to complete the exam with a new subject chosen daily. On Mondays, instead of the exam, it's the New York Times crossword puzzle (at first the Friday puzzle was used but its difficulty left most people too embarrassed to leave the house in the morning). 

Every evening at 6 p.m. the subject for the next day’s exam is announced so that people can cram. The transformation of society is astonishing. Instead of “hitting the gym” after work people flock to libraries and bookstores—and not just to buy diet and exercise books like before. The entire fashion industry basically goes down the toilet and people no longer really give a crap about their looks and only care about not humiliating themselves on the morning pop quiz.  

The new edict surpasses all expectations and in only the first week a Victoria's Secret model was laughed off a city bus for her abysmal effort on that day’s exam, a map test. She tried to deflect attention from her exam by wearing a short skirt with no underwear but her fellow commuters howled with merriment at her almost complete ignorance of world geography, especially the part in which she had written “Disneyland” where everyone else on the bus had correctly scribbled “Brazil.” When asked to comment on the incident the top model stated, “I went to Disneyland when I was 10 and I remember that it was down. Right?”

The world was left no less unkind, no less cruel by this policy as smart people can be every bit as mean and bitchy as the beautiful people once were. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose (tomorrow we have a French exam so I've been studying up). 

Thanks for the Memories

Thanks for the Memories
the conclusion (finally)

Nothing Arthur said could convince his parents to move out of the gatekeeper’s house, so in the spirit of family cohesion he decided to stay with them. Ice Pick and Peanut said that they wouldn’t be caught dead in that dump and so they set up in the mansion by themselves. They would keep themselves busy playing video games on the big screen TV and eating pizza while Arthur went about collecting the cherished memories of his fictional childhood.

After he settled in Arthur came out to the porch to meet his parents. He was wearing white tennis shorts, a white cable knit cotton sweater, and canvas boat shoes. He looked like a fifth grade male gigolo at Martha’s Vineyard. “We should take out the sailboat,” Arthur said to his dad. “Mom can take pictures of us.”

“I don’t know squat about boats, neither do you. I should remind you that ain’t both of us put together amount to much of a swimmer.” Mr. Andrews’ syntax was immune to Arthur’s derision so Arthur had stopped correcting him long ago.

The truth was that just about the last thing Arthur wanted to do was go sailing, but he had seen pictures of the young royals boating. Arthur was fairly certain that he would hate sailing and now he wondered if the royal kids hated it too. Maybe everything they did sucked? Before he had come across those articles in People Magazine describing the idyllic childhood of celebrities, he never had many complaints about his own. Maybe a youth devoid of memories of sailing didn’t represent neglect?

Tennis, golf, badminton, horseback riding, water skiing, and all of the other leisure activities usually associated with the rich also seemed like a total bore to Arthur and his parents. Arthur and his mother settled back on the porch swing of the cozy gatehouse with a book. Over the years reading had been the one activity that Mrs. Andrews could enjoy with her son in silence. Arthur also seemed contented with this speechless quality time.

Mr. Andrews looked around the compound for a way to entertain himself. He scouted out the boathouse but passed up the jet ski and speedboat as frivolous—he had a rule of never trusting toys with internally combusted engines that would need to be repaired. He settled on a riding mower in the six-car garage and cut the grass on almost the whole estate. Arthur wondered if his father’s choice of a pastime would rate him a discount on the rental of the mansion.

In the late afternoon on the porch of the gatehouse, Arthur and his parents sipped iced tea that Arthur had prepared himself from a recipe he found in Town & Country. For the first time Arthur explained to them the royal family envy that had infected him when he read the magazine article.

“That’s why you got me wearing a suit, because of them little royal pansy asses?” Mr. Andrews asked. “You’re picking a pretty lousy role model if you’re trying to be like royalty. Pound for pound they’s about the most worthless animals on the planet.”

Mrs. Andrews shook her head in agreement with her husband.

“Son, they got to build mental hospitals and drug treatment facilities just to house them folks. Good grief, if you need to admire people you might as well look at the most wanted posters down at the post office,” Mr. Andrews laughed. “The way we’s all brought up is pretty much a crap shoot as to how we’s gonna turn out in the end.”

Come to think of it, Arthur hadn’t really thought this through all the way. Historically speaking you’d have to go all the way back to Charlemagne to find a monarch who had actually achieved anything on his or her own merits—and Charlemagne was illiterate most of his life. In the modern era, our vestigial royalty had a completely shameful history. The same could be said for the progeny of much of our modern elite.

“I guess my whole strategy could use an overhaul,” Arthur said as he reeled from this new epiphany. “I had a pretty good life before all of this,” he said as he looked around at the trappings of the rich.

“You had it a lot better than you’re mother and I had it when we were your age.” Arthur was slightly startled by his father’s words until he decided that the proper pronoun and verb tense usage was completely an accident.

“I guess this means that I can shut down the casino and the sports betting operation,” Arthur added.

“I guess I can go back to my old job in the service department,” Mr. Andrews cheered. “I can save that suit for when you graduate from college,”

“Or maybe when I’m acquitted on my first insider trading conviction,” Arthur added. His parents had always encouraged him to aim for the stars.

Even Arthur’s mother was feeling elated, just not so much that she felt a need to verbalize any of her joy.

“I guess that I can call off the rather gruesome retaliation I was going to rain down on that Digotti creep and his thugs,” Arthur countered.

Mr. Andrews thought about that one for a second. “Wait a second, them the guys that kidnapped me and your mom the other night?”

“That’s them.”

“Hang on a second, Arthur. Let’s not be too quick to abandon all of your hard work. You probably spent a lot of time planning this thing, and besides, after what they done to us maybe you need to teach them a little lesson.”

“That will sure make my guys happy. Closing the casino they can live with, calling off Operation Overkill would probably cause an all-out mutiny.”

The next morning Arthur, Ice Pick, and Peanut drove back home in a private car. Arthur had a few phone calls to make along the way and he didn’t want to involve his parents in a criminal conspiracy by having them in the same car. Kick off time, for the game and for Operation Overkill, would be at 6:30 Eastern Standard Time.

In his planning Arthur had ignored all of the suggestions of the more pathological members of his organization. Slasher insisted that he could buy a few pounds of Semtec from a friend of his older brother in seventh grade. Rat Face offered the use of his extremely ill-tempered pit bull to help even the score with Digotti. Ice Pick came up with the idea to bribe the kitchen staff at the strip club to under-cook the chicken wings they were serving at the party. The Pièce de Résistance would be Arthur phoning in a huge bet under the name Sal Monela. Because Arthur was a very progressive employer and because he wanted to encourage his staff’s initiative, he gave them all bonuses for their ideas but told them that he already knew a nonviolent way to punish the gangsters. It was probably a good thing that Arthur was dissolving his operation and his crew could go back to playing little league baseball and video games. Childhood shouldn’t be filled with work. As much fun as it had been, there would plenty of time for jobs.

An hour before game time Arthur stopped taking bets and closed down his operation. He and his boys moved across town to the Déja-vu and waited across the street in a surveillance van they had hired for the day. The strip club had four exits: the front entrance and three heavy steel fire doors that all opened out. Arthur had hired a Department of Transportation crew for the day who quickly placed heavy concrete barriers, called Jersey Walls, in front of all the doors to bar egress from the Déja-vu immediately after kick-off. Everyone inside would be inside until they were rescued. It wouldn’t be the DOT crew as they all went home to watch the game.

Being stuck inside a bar with plenty of food and beer for the Super Bowl seems more like where good people go when they die rather than retribution, but then came the second part of Arthur’s plan. Frankie One Eye cut the satellite cable on the roof for all of the televisions inside. Sitting in the van across the street Arthur could hear the tortured howls inside the strip club. Arthur knew that he shouldn’t be so cruel but he cut the power at the club just to amuse the boys in his crew.

About the only people you can reach on the phone during the Super Bowl are pizza deliverers, and they wouldn’t be able to move twenty Jersey Walls, even if you gave them a really big tip. When someone inside called the police they were told that help would come first thing Monday morning. The Déja-vu was a known organized crime hangout and the police could care less about their game-day problems. Arthur had one more move to make as he and his crew pulled away. He punched in Digotti’s number.

“Digotti here.”

“Mr. Digotti, Arthur Andrews here. I just wanted to tell you that you won.”

“Wha?”

“I’m out of the business. I quit. I guess we’re even now.”

“Oh we’re pretty far from even, you little shit. When I get out of here…”

Arthur cut him off. “Before you do anything you will certainly regret, and you will regret it, let me fill you in on my insurance policy. Does the word “Goodfellas” mean anything to you?”

“That’s my email password. How’d you get that?”

“I also have your ATM PIN number and all of your online passwords. I have a great picture of you that I photo-shopped wearing a French maid outfit that I’m thinking of posting on the web site for the Déja-vu. To put it mildly, the picture isn’t very flattering. You just sit in the dark over there and check game scores on your phone. When someone lets you out, if someone lets you out, you had better forget all about me.” Arthur hung up in the middle of Digotti’s string of profanity.

Arthur was well aware that men fear that which they do not understand. He knew that men like Mr. Digotti had no understanding of the computer world—to them it was like magic. It had probably taken Digotti three years to open an email account and any warning to destroy it would weigh heavier than a death threat. He wouldn’t bother Arthur or his boys.

Arthur was dropped off at home just in time to watch the halftime show. His parents were watching the game together. Mr. Andrews had the coffee table in front of the TV loaded with his favorite snacks: chips, dip, mini pizzas, and domestic beer. As soon as Arthur had renounced his über-yuppie lifestyle Mr. Andrews threw out all the stuff in the fridge their son was making them eat. If Mr. Andrews hoped that he would never be forced to eat sushi, hummus, pâté, or caviar ever again. He hadn’t been this happy and relaxed in months.

“Welcome home, son,” Mr. Andrews said as Arthur walked in the room.

“Thanks, dad,” Arthur replied. “How are you, mom?”

“I’m good, Arthur,” Mrs. Andrews spoke.

“Yes, you are good, mom.” Arthur sat down between them, put his feet up on the table, and watched the vulgar halftime entertainment with a relish that he once thought was reserved for the people in magazines.