by Greg Ames
Before encountering Gerry’s work, Parker had never before meditated on the idea of a Bundt cake. Who consumed them? The bourgeoisie. Satan’s Hollow (Key Food, #1) provoked him to think about his own middle-class upbringing and the cakes his mother had baked. Surprisingly, he had never before considered the implications of what had been on the dining room table of his childhood home. Removed from its known context and placed in a museum, a Bundt cake invited him to interrogate his life, his untroubled politics, and his country’s history.
Thanks to his minimum donation, Parker learned in the next Info-Pak, his adopted artist bought a pair of navy blue Dickies work pants, a thermal undershirt, and a bong. “Gerry is thriving, thanks to you. If you could give a little more each month, your artist will continue to make enormous strides. Only ten dollars more per month would make you a Gold Donor.”
Parker checked the “yes” box and sent it back in. He was making a difference in another person’s life. No amount of money could equal that feeling. Miraculous how that worked, Parker thought. You thought you were giving life to the artist but, in fact, the artist was giving birth to an unformed part of you.
Parker told everybody at the office about the adoption. “His name is Gerry,” he said, beaming. He passed around a photo showing Gerry’s adorable chin scruff and crow’s feet, his mischievous middle finger extended.
Carla Donofrio, the Marketing Admin., stepped out from behind her desk and hugged him. “I heard you adopted a child, Parker.” Then she looked at the photo. “Oh, my God,” she said, flinching. “What’s that?”
“That’s my boy,” Parker said. “That’s Gerry.”
Michael Bean, a junior account manager, gave him a double thumbs up, the phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder. “Talk later,” he mouthed.
The next envelope he received from the Adopt Art headquarters contained three heartrending photographs of Gerry “The Balls” Husk lunging through the streets of a rapidly gentrified Red Hook, a hand-rolled smoke dangling from his lips. Dressed in a worn flannel shirt and ripped jeans, his belly distended, Parker’s artist looked sick, depraved, in need of a hot shower.
“I can give you ten dollars more each month,” he told the phone operator. “But that’s it! Please help Gerry get what he needs.”
Parker kept his coworkers apprised of his artist’s growth. “He’s over a hundred pounds. Three meals a day. Vegetables even. He’s completely off meth. In fact, he just celebrated a ninety-day anniversary at Hugs Not Drugs.”
“An anniversary every ninety days? My wife would love that,” Michael Bean quipped. “That’s right up her alley.”
“It’s not that kind of anniversary,” Parker told him. “Don’t belittle Gerry’s achievements.”
“What?”
“That’s what we call emotional abuse.”
“He’s getting so big,” Carla said, looking at the latest photos. At heart, Carla was a kind person. She felt bad, she had told him, about her initial horrified reaction. Now she had become as supportive as anyone. “Time flies,” she said. “Enjoy it while you can.”
On the first of every month, the Adopt Art people tapped into Parker’s credit card. Each month he noticed additional charges, six to eleven bucks extra, usually for taxes and surcharges and miscellaneous fees, in addition to his added payments as a Premium Platinum Member, but it was never enough to concern him. Not at first, anyway. Gerry seemed to be enjoying his new bong. In the most recent photographs Parker noticed a fresh tattoo on his artist’s neck, a dagger piercing a spider web.
“You look good, Parker,” Carla said to him one day. They were alone in the conference room after a staff meeting. She appraised him from head to foot, nodding her head. “Are you working out?”
He laughed and gathered his papers. “No time for that, Carla. Not these days.”
She stepped closer. “I can’t stop thinking about your adopted artist. It’s so weird how you sponsor him. I mean, it’s cool. It’s different.”
“Don’t even get me started.” He smiled at her. “I’ve definitely got my hands full with Gerry, that little dickens.”
She touched his forearm with her fingertips. “I’d love to hear more about it. Hey, we should get a drink sometime. What do you think?”
Normally he would have jumped at her offer. Carla was conscientious, kind, and generous, not to mention physically and intellectually attractive, but his needs had to come second to his new responsibilities as a benefactor. Maybe some people could just traipse all over town without a care in the world, but Parker was accountable now to another life.
“Sorry,” he said to her. “Wish I could.”
“I completely understand. Let me know if you change your mind.”
At night Parker worried about his artist. He slept very little, his ear trained to the ring of his phone. Would the Adopt Art phone operator call to tell him that Gerry needed him?
One morning, exhausted from lack of sleep, Parker staggered to his local playground and sat with all the young parents and nannies. Eager to swap stories, he held a recent photo of Gerry “The Balls” Husk in his lap. They all seemed to know one another. They traded mirthful banter about sippy cups, organic snack foods, and the viscosity of feces.
“Tell me about it,” Parker said and rolled his eyes. “They do make messes.”
One of the mothers spoke up. “Sir, do you have a child here? At the park?”
Grateful for the opening to connect, Parker passed around his favorite photo of Gerry sunbathing at Riis Park in his banana yellow thong, a strip of zinc on his nose. Sweet Gerry had never looked happier or healthier. His neck tattoo glistened with oil.
She inspected it briefly before handing it back. “I think you should leave.”
“Ma’am, the thing about being a benefactor is—”
“I will call the police.”
Undeterred by the scorn, Parker carried Gerry’s photograph to the tallest slide in the park. He climbed the steel rungs and pushed the curling paper down the shiny dented surface. He descended the ladder, ran around lightning quick and caught his adopted artist at the bottom of his descent.
Then Parker laid the photograph in a swing, pinned it down with a heavy rock, and pushed with all his might. The other mothers watched him, whispering to one another. He gathered the photo from the dirt, where it had fallen, and strolled out of the park, shouting, “Who wants ice cream?”
An hour later, Parker’s boss called his cell and demanded to know why he wasn’t at work. Was he taking a vacation day?
Parker stared out the window of Baskin-Robbins, infuriated. After his nine loyal years at the agency, never demanding a raise or a promotion, this was the thanks he got?
“I’ll be in tomorrow,” Parker told him in a chilly but professional tone.
“Wise choice,” his boss said. “That is, if you want to keep your job.”
“Watch it, Pops. You’re cruising for a discrimination lawsuit.”
Parker actually said this after the old man had hung up, to spare his boss the embarrassment of being on the wrong side of history.
That night, late, while Parker was watching TV alone in his living room, he caught the Adopt Art commercial again. The same two characters appeared, the gorgeous thespian and the struggling artist, Beauty and the Beast. Again Beauty encouraged viewers at home to donate to the cause. This time Parker understood—no, he felt that this auburn-haired woman, this talented young person had, of course, been a child not long ago, riding a bicycle for the first time, smiling up at a parent or guardian, experiencing all the guilt and sorrow of a human life. Perhaps she had sat beside her piano instructor on a hard bench, her back straight, her little hands perched over the keys, as Parker once had, practicing scales over and over. Perhaps she had drawn a detailed picture of a bulldog, every fold in its face precise, its sad eyes so “expressive,” a drawing that Mrs. Lucas praised in front of everyone in class, announcing that there was a true talent among the student body, a proclamation that
resulted in the artist getting his head dunked in a toilet by Chris Andruzzi, the toughest kid in school. This time, though, Parker ignored Beauty and focused on the Beast. The dirty artist in the Slayer shirt had once been a child, too. Perhaps he had loved bottle rockets and the sound of ambulance sirens. Perhaps he’d dreamed of being a brain surgeon or a big league shortstop, before life turned sour for him and he decided to pursue the arts.
Tears welled in Parker’s eyes. He saw them both, this older man and younger woman—and the whole world, for that matter—as miraculous and fragile. How could we make such crude distinctions between people? Nobody was one thing alone, he realized, neither Beauty, nor Beast. Both sides warred within us.
The mailman brought terrible news that afternoon. Parker’s adopted artist, his boy, sweet Gerry Husk, had been arrested.
According to the enclosed police report, Gerry had assaulted a coffee shop barista, a graduate student in Fordham’s Theology department. Evidently Gerry tried to punch the young man in the mouth after a dispute over an insufficient amount of caramel in his macchiato. Gerry fled the scene with a full bottle of caramel syrup in hand but was later apprehended in a taqueria next door. Eleven eyewitnesses were willing to testify against him. Gerry “The Balls” Husk ruined quite a few lunches that afternoon.
The theology student was unharmed, and even finished his shift, but later claimed to have suffered a debilitating ontological wound that required weeks of bed rest. His lawyer filed a lawsuit seeking six figures in damages.
Of course Parker blamed himself. He hadn’t shown enough interest in Gerry’s latest projects. And he’d ignored Gerry’s obvious cries for help.
Parker tried to remember if he knew any trial lawyers. He entertained fantasies of tracking down the theology student and silencing him for good.
Unable to sleep that night, Parker lay in bed questioning everything. What kind of person had he become? Was Gerry “The Balls” Husk really his type of artist? Parker had tried to like The Last Supper but couldn’t find the beauty or deeper meaning in it. Now Gerry had brutalized somebody in broad daylight. His adopted artist had clearly violated the terms of their contract. Gerry’s actions were not defensible.
After another sleepless night, Parker called the Adopt Art headquarters in Cincinnati. “I’m not sure I really like my artist,” he told the operator. “Can you match me with somebody else, please? A nice quiet landscape painter maybe? Or a water colorist? Or maybe even a senior citizen trying to make one last splash in the crafts world before the final curtain call of death?”
“Impossible.” The person on the other end sounded almost angry. “You agreed to sponsor Gerald Husk for the minimum period of eighteen years.”
“Eighteen years?” Parker said, his own voice sounding foreign to him. “I thought it was only for six months, a year at the most.”
“Because you didn’t cancel at any time during the twenty-eight day introductory period, you committed yourself to the full contract.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“As I’m sure you know,” she continued, “the Adopt-an-Artist program is a tiered system designed to give your artist the education he or she deserved but probably didn’t receive. This, of course, includes overseas travel.”
Parker’s mouth went dry.
“The contract is binding, sir. We have your signature and your social security number and your credit card number, of course, so we’ll take care of everything. Your artist hopes to study in Rome, Paris, and Tijuana.”
In a daze Parker hung up and took to his bed.
At work the following morning, Parker asked Carla to look over the agreement. She told him he was screwed. “Why on earth did you sign that thing?” she said. “Did you even read it?”
Parker shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was kind of lonely.”
Carla wouldn’t drop it. She continued to grill him. Had he just acted on a whim, drunkenly indulging himself, without considering the consequences? So many men thought they could be benefactors, she said, but few of them gave thought to the logistics.
“My life seemed kind of meaningless,” he told her. “I thought this would help.”
“Next time,” she said, “get a puppy.”
He lost a considerable amount of weight. Once a month his father called long distance to make him feel worse about himself. Parker’s father talked about the advantages of having children when one was “young enough to enjoy them.” He begged his son to find greater meaning in his life, clearly misunderstanding the emotional bond shared between an artist and a benefactor.
“Gerry and I will be just fine without your interference,” Parker told him. “You don’t understand my generation. The art world is different now. Clement Greenberg is dead.”
“Who?” his father said.
“Exactly.”
“Help me to understand,” his father said in a calm voice. “Tell me again, please, what this man does.”
“He’s a gelatin sculptor, Dad. A wildly talented one. You’d be amazed by how many razor blades and French fries he incorporates into his molds. He cut his teeth on baked goods, but this new medium opens the door for greater innovation.”
“I see.” His father’s sigh sounded like a gust of wind strong enough to fell power lines. “And he calls himself Gerry the what?”
“Okay, sure.” Parker chuckled. “Gerry’s a little rough around the edges, I’ll grant you that, but he’s a good boy at heart. He deserves a second chance in life. We all deserve a second chance. Jesus Christ got one, didn’t he?”
His father fell silent.
“And look at J.C. now,” Parker continued, filling the terrible silence with words. “He ascended to Heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. He’s seated at the Table of Righteousness.” This was a wild guess but it sounded right in his head. “Supping on the Fruits of Salvation.”
“Where did we go wrong with you?” his father said. “Was it something we did?”
Parker didn’t respond. His mother wept in the background.
“Do you hear that?” his father said. “Do you understand what you’re doing?”
Parker couldn’t sleep after that. He couldn’t do anything more for his artist. Nobody could. If Gerry possessed real talent, he’d transform his suffering into a work of high value. He would triumph over his own mortality by producing something fine and lasting and true. If Gerry didn’t have talent or genius, well, then he could join the rest of humanity. Billions of people struggled every day to find value in their lives. Gerry would simply take his place among them. But, until then, someone had to support this boy and show him love. Was there anything more poignant and hopeful than an amateur artist who had yet to be disabused of his fantasies?
“Do it for us, Gerry,” Parker said, lying on his bed, alone. “Dry hump the world.” He looked up at a hairline fracture in the ceiling. “Hump it for all its worth.”
I FEEL FREE
I’d been dating Karen for two weeks, maybe three, when she told me an ex-lover was stalking her. They’d broken up over a year ago, she insisted, but Trang just couldn’t take a hint. He followed her everywhere, threatened her with a bowie knife, and had even kicked another man repeatedly in the mouth with his combat boots. Major reconstructive surgery. “He’s huge,” she said. “And crazy.”
I didn’t feel an immediate urge to speak. I am not a big man, and any comment from me, I believed, would only emphasize the disparity in our physiques.
“I don’t want to freak you out or anything, Wayne,” she said, “but Trang’s probably parked across the street right now, in that donut shop parking lot, watching us with his high-powered binoculars.”
I glanced at the window. “Interesting.” I didn’t want to appear weak or excitable. “Binoculars?” I said.
“Last night I felt him watching us have sex. When my bra came off, I could feel him cursing. He was pounding his fists against his steering wheel, vowing bloody revenge. He was sc
raping his knife against a small gray stone. That’s how he sharpens the blade.”
I laughed, still thinking it was a joke. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I just know,” she said. “I know Trang.”
Online dating was new to me. My friend Diamond Doug had suggested it. He said, “I know three people personally, three, who met their wives on the Internet.”
Advice on dating from a married man always rankled me. I suspected that Diamond Doug knew he had made a terrible mistake and now wanted all his friends to do the same.
I said, “Hell no. Put my face online? ‘I’m five-eleven. I like dark chocolate and literature.’ No thanks.”
“Listen,” he said. “I’ll ask one of these guys which website he used and I’ll send you the link. Totally discreet. Couldn’t hurt to try, right?”
I told him that I would consider it, primarily to shut him up. If I agreed, then we could talk about baseball. There were two interesting pennant races to break down and analyze.
The website, I learned the following day, was called GetEnmeshed.com and dubbed itself “the online dating forum for singles who want serious commitment now!”
The exclamation point gave me pause. I ignored Doug’s email for over a month, until I heard from an old friend that my ex, Mariana, was engaged to a human rights lawyer in New Orleans. The wedding was set for June. My solitude proved unbearable after that. I had eaten a thousand meals alone in the past year, mostly on park benches and street corners. My cheek bulging with lo mein, I watched couples pass hand in hand, laughing. That was no way to live. So I set up a dating profile, describing myself as “independent” and “friendly but shy.”
I met Karen outside the Italian restaurant she picked in Prospect Heights. When we walked in, the hostess squealed and pulled her into a big hug. “You’re looking good. No more bags under your eyes.” She gave Karen’s breasts a friendly squeeze. “Putting some weight back on, nice, nice.” I didn’t like the sounds of this. Why was this woman fondling my date’s bosoms? The hostess turned to me, her eyes shining. “I know this bitch from River Glen. Hey, were you there, too? Over in the men’s ward?”
