Did I have unsold pieces that I might consider parting with?
Of course I had to tell him that I sold everything a few years ago when devastating poverty took hold of my life.
We all have our ups and downs, he said. He is truly a wise man for a cop.
I asked him when he would come sit for me and he became agitated. I guess the thought of sitting for eternity is frightening to some. It brings out that fear that their flaws, that one tiny flaw that everybody has, might bemagnified through the ages. After awhile all they would be would be the flaw.
My name is Vincent van Gogh and I’m one hundred and thirty-eight years old. Just kidding.
Day 16. I dreamt I was a child again. It must’ve been when I was in the sixth grade. We had an art teacher who we went to see twice a week. She gave us the assignment of drawing something on the school yard, so I drew the blue portable toilets that had been placed on the football field. I could see them from my desk if I craned my neck over. The bell rings and class is over and I was supposed to have the picture finished by the end of the period. Mrs. Elgood came over and told me to give it to her. That I could work on it Thursday. I said just a minute I could finish it and then it was done and I handed it to her, and she said, “Tyrone, there is nothing like this outside.” I told her to look and she wouldn’t look and I told her to look and she wouldn’t look so I took hold of her head and tried to make her look and I pushed her face through the glass and she bled.
Then I woke up and all I can say is you should have looked.
I re-read my entry for yesterday. I am really mad that the newspaper files have been tampered with. Maybe I’ll go paint all of them. I’ll paint every fucking critic into a corner. I was too mad to open the shop today. I heard some people knocking and the damn phone kept ringing. Ring a ding a ding until I took it off the hook. Probably the damn owner. I’ll take care of her too. You shouldn’t disturb a genius at work. There should be a law. I painted a bright red and orange painting today Angry Sun Bites Man. I’ll open up tomorrow.
Day 17. Depressed and mad.
Day 18. The police banged and banged on my door. Mr. Pound wasn’t with them. They wanted to know if I knew that Ms. Roberta Sais, who owned the Book Cellar (and who in theory is my employer) had died. No, I said, I didn’t know. Murdered, they said. No, I said, I didn’t know. I was very busy. I had to work on my paintings. I thanked them for the news. She had heirs, they said. I said I always thought she put on airs. Heirs, they said, I should close the shop until the heirs came. And I said good. I made a “Closed on Account of Death” sign and hung it in the door.
In the afternoon Mr. Pound came by and pounded on my door until I answered it. I told him we were closed.
He said he was here to pose.
I let him in to do some sketches. He started to go up stairs to my studio. I told him I do my sketches in the shop. He wasn’t easy to sketch because he kept talking. He hinted that he was a vigilante going after criminals the system might let off on some technicality—like no Miranda rights. Lots of stories of cars in the nights. For some reason I pictured them as moving silently and without headlights. “Dark of night doesn’t stop you, eh?” I asked.
He reacted violently, then chuckled, and said, “No dark of night doesn’t stop me.”
He talked a lot about criminals who made their confessions got off easily. With his pull down at the station he could help such a criminal. If the criminal doing the murders now were, say, to confess to him, he could make it very easy on the guy.
If on the other hand the current murderer were to try to weasel out—to escape from the long arm of the law—he would make it very difficult for him. He would track the murderer down and strike when the killer least expected it.
He didn’t ask to see my sketches, which was good, because I wasn’t pleased with them. When I left I tore them all up in little pieces.
I am going to sleep in the studio tonight—to protect my paintings. I am worried about them somehow.
Day 19. Today I painted The Last Innocent Man. The picture is full of big blue eyes looking everywhere. In the lower right corner is a single yellow square—representing a window. Inside an artist can be seen painting a flowery peaceful landscape. I may change the title to This Is My Skull.
Day 20. This morning I came to my senses and took my medicine. I realized I must have done some pretty bad things. I figured I’d wait for Mr. Pound, and when he came I’d confess to him. He could make it easy for me. He was my friend. I waited all day, but he didn’t show.
About six I called the downtown police station. Mr. Pound had told me that he still had friends on the force. I figured I could ask around and they could put me in touch with him. It took forever to get in touch with homicide. While I waited I cursed myself for not having got his number. Then I got Detective Blick. I asked if he knew Mr. Pound.
“Mr. Clarence Pound?” he asked.
“I’m not sure of his first name. He is a retired policeman. He had told me he still had friends on the force.”
“Let me guess, he told you that he tried to make detective but ‘political’ forces kept him from making the grade. He also said that he was a vigilante, bringing criminals to justice who had escaped their just desserts.”
“Well, yes,” I said.
“I am sorry to tell you this, sir, but Clarence Pound is a retired postal worker with some severe personality problems. Every few months he stops his medication for awhile and gets to thinking he’s some super-cop. If he’s been bothering you, let me know and we’ll pick him up and take him to his doctor.”
“No. He hasn’t been bothering me at all. Thank you.”
I hung up as he was asking “Who are—”
Mr. Pound is some kind of nut. I’ll have to be ready for him.
Day 21. I slept in the studio and he broke in. I woke up and saw him looking at my paintings. He had a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
“They’re blank,” he said. “All of these canvasses just painted white.”
“No,” I said, “They’re very subtle. You must study them carefully.”
“They’re blank. You’re some kind of nut.”
“No, you’re the nut. You’re an ex-postal employee. You’re not a cop. You’ve never been a cop.”
“That’s not true.” He pointed the gun at me.
“It is true. You’re not a cop.”
Suddenly he sat down. Just sort of collapsed. He didn’t say anything for a long time. I thought about going over and taking his gun away.
Then he began to talk in a low monotone. He explained who he really was and everything became clear to me.
He is Mr. Carlos Pound, owner of a very important gallery in New York. Today we are putting my paintings into a U-Haul van. We will drive up to New York, where he’ll host a one-man show for me.
I bet we make quite a splash.
THE THIRTYERS
When the world didn’t end in the Year 2000, the Reverend Jessie Cancun was among the first people to proclaim the idea of the “Babylon Calendar.” According to Rev. Cancun, the evil forces of the Whore of Babylon had stolen the right and true calendar of the pious and replaced it in the year 1066, which was actually 1096. It was unclear to the general public why Rev. Cancun had taken the year of the Norman Conquest as the pivotal moment for the calendar hoax by the forces of Darkness. His own explanation that “1096 adds up to 16, whereas 1066 adds up to 13,” while numerically true (if there is some reason for such addition of constitute digits), seemed at best a bit odd. The same could be said of 904 and 934 for example. But Rev. Cancun did little to woo the public.