Spider vs writer/Dreams never cease to die

Posted: September 13, 2010 in Uncategorized
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The New Yorker

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I had seen him before at the plant. He had come to the HR department looking very unemployed and asked me if I wanted to see his portfolio. I didn’t because I didn’t have any openings and didn’t expect to have any openings any time soon, for a pencil drawing artist. His hair was sparse at the top, in a disorganized sort of way. He seemed to have started a beard at some point but neglect and aging perhaps had halted its progress. Spots on, spots off, one could say he had a beard, sort of, anyway. The eyes smiled with humility making it difficult to lie to him. I dispatched with him, as I had done with so many others before him and would probably be doing to so many since him.   It was a couple of years hence that he came in again. He had put some meat on his bones, not much, just enough to wear an L tee-shirt with room to spare. There was a girl with him. Maybe a woman, I wasnt sure. She didn’t speak much and when she did it was difficult to understand her. A cloud would come over her eyes and she would mumble something like “can I have it in red” but it didn’t come out as a question, it was more of a statement, as if she had wanted to say “Red is a lovely color this time of the year”. They didn’t touch each other at all. He spoke into her, though, each word an invitation for her to be, to exert, to author, to prefer, to pleasure, to realise, to opine, to permit. He would look at her and lower his voice. Ms. Gladden? I asked. “Its Mrs. Richardson” – there! He Johns Richardson, the pencil artist, the cleaning company con, the car detailing middle man, had gone and married the little thing. She wasnt even used to it yet. I looked closer: her facial piercings were all vacant. Each darker area around the holes told me she had a nostril piercing, a left brow, one half way between her chin and the lower lip. I lost count of the ones on her ear, the one that was turned towards me and wondered if she had nipple or genital piercings, as I thought “she had run out of places on her poor young, young face”. She listened as I talked expertly with her Mr. Richardson, she laughed when I told him that an L shirt would show his awesome body which was a pathetic statement. I imagine that it took them to their recent marital bliss so they laughed with discreet enthusiasm and looks of common mysteries and revelations.  I closed my mind so as not to enter theirs and I endured them as I endure a bunch of other shit that happens in front of me. so, “can I have it in red”. By now I tell her that she can have it in any color she wants, since her business card is bright red and a very serious black. None of it had much to do with her business, or mine.  The next time I saw them, he told me that he had been to my office before and that he had applied for a job and that the other lady told him to come back with his portfolio but he just never did. “Why not” . “I didn’t”. Well, I knew that, since I had been the one to talk to him back then.  He added that he wanted to publish a magazine. “What kind?”  – “Stories, with pictures” “Neat, what about” – “Well the things that you feel, that I feel, I write them down and I draw things to go with them for people to read and look at the pictures.”  I looked at him, I’m searching for signs of insanity or greed and all I see is humility and hope. I give up and ask him what kind of market does he write for? Blank.  Is it stuff for children? .. no ..  Is it for teens?..  no  .. it could be.. Is it sacred or sacrilegious? Or maybe something in between? He smiles I can see that he is getting nervous. So I say, think about this: the New Yorker is one kind of magazine, People Magazine is another kind of magazine, right? There is comprehension in his eyes, or so I think:”I can bring the level down, so everybody can understand what I feel, how I feel”  I tell them both that we need to meet somewhere else, outside my office, because I have a ton of stuff to do today and I really want to hook him up with a magazine…I want to hook him up with Die Roten Punkte and cause him to dream and to laugh without care, I want to hook him up with a new house to clean… i want to hook him up with classes in the community college…i want to hook him up with anything that will cushion the fall from her bed, from her breast, from her lips, from her eyes, from her makeup, from her hands, from her clean skirts, from her spent body, from her soft voice, from her vinyl purse, from her acrylic finger nails… from her Volvo.


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