Unlike this fraudulent Picasso, I have none of my work to sell. Although I do the occasional work in chalk or charcoal, my favorite medium is trash. Which is a statement on our society itself, as trash is sadly the most abundant, free, manmade thing in this country. And since part of my artistic signature is to always clean up after myself, the only record of my work is photographs and, more importantly, tiny specks of memory in the minds of those who see it.
But as I prepare to demonstrate to those gawking at the fraud’s one-eyed, sharp-boobed women what real art is, I find the handy trashcan – the only trashcan in the area – is totally empty.
I see Robert’s devious smile has now relocated itself to the little fraud’s face. I also see that one of the gawkers of his so-called art on display is Socks. The fraud’s face is barely-contained joy itself as he takes a couple of steps in my direction.
“So, you have come back to Key West, have you, Dali? If you are not too rusty, perhaps you would be interested in a small challenge?” I hold my ground, nose in the air to show my disapproval of his very person, and say nothing. He continues. “How about a little contest? Fifteen minutes in the medium of our choice, and the tips determine the winner? Winner takes all?” He gestures toward his tip bucket, the one Socks is now standing directly behind while looking this way.
A solid challenge indeed. The empty trashcan puts me at a disadvantage, but with that set of innocent eyes above stripey knee socks now focused on me I would probably accept any challenge. Though this competition sounds fair enough, I know to be cautious.
I lock eyes with the beret-wearing little faker and nod once. He turns and immediately begins slashing colors at the canvas and easel he had at the ready.
I grab a Seagrape leaf from a planter to quickly dispatch the dog crap so I can get to work. A couple of handfuls of mulch and plant debris from the same planter and I’m on my knees, ready.
I may be a bit crazy, but I’m not stupid. In spite of the handicap of an empty trashcan I have the contents of my full pockets and I am now setting things out on the ground before me. I glance up only once and see in the gathering crowd the stripey socks close by, toes pointed my way.
Robert appoints himself official timekeeper, mediator, and announcer.
“A challenge! Over here!”
After dropping my fedora to the ground to accept offerings from those enlightened souls able to appreciate true art, I find my lump of orange chalk and quickly mark a wide frame two feet by four feet on the hard surface in the center of my designated spot. With my hands I carefully arrange the planter debris and contents of my pockets outside the frame so that I can see all the textures and colors I have to work with in my palette. I close my eyes, steady my breathing, and see images. I do not pick one of the images I see, it picks me, so that when I open my eyes again we are one. Now I am ready.
“Ten minutes to go!”
Robert’s bellowing to the crowd startles me, and I have to close my eyes once again to find the image. When I again open them the image comes into full view, fitting perfectly inside the orange outline on the ground. To my eyes it is as if a vibrant, crystal-clear picture were under a thin sheet of glass. Now all I have to do is place objects the right size, texture, and color on top of the glass. Simple!
“Five minutes to go!”
My hands are selecting, tearing, spacing, pushing, mixing, and creating. My mind relaxes and my fingers take over. Bits of brown leaves flow into white sand next to black crushed charcoal with tiny tinfoil stars and a melting watch made of banana peel, mulch, and tiny flecks of paper napkin. I am so focused I am barely aware of a rumbling in the distance. I pay no attention to the ohs and ahs of the crowd now watching and dropping money into my hat, or even to the breeze beginning to blow through my hair. The breeze!
“Two minutes!”
A gust of wind comes through the legs of the crowd and scatters half the nearly-completed painting. I panic, but my fingers fly across the ground frantically scraping and placing and –
“One minute!”
My fingers are pushing and pinching and suddenly I feel it coming and try to cover my painting but the cold gust of wind finds my painting and blows it across the shoes of the spectators. Another strong gust and my work is all but gone. I look and see only smudges on the ground.
“Time!”
I sit back on the hard ground in defeat and see Robert handing the meager contents of my battered old fedora to the grinning little fraud just as a big raindrop hits me square in the forehead like a wet marble. The crowd stampedes as vendors scramble to close up and performers scatter. In no time I’m the only one left, sitting alone in the rain. At least the ringing in my head has stopped.
Ring!
∨ Key Dali ∧
9
Green Motel
Ring!
Where am I, man? And what the hell am I lying in?
Ring!
I pop myself on the side of the head and the ringing stops. I try to go back to sleep, but can’t. It’s dark, so I open my eyes. Oh, bad move. Wherever I am, I’m definitely sporting a serious hangover. It’s dark inside this room, and it smells bad.
Let me just lay my head down again on this pillow.
Wait, it’s not a pillow. It feels like a plastic trash bag and smells like it’s full of garbage.
That’s it! I remember now. I’m in Key West, in the Green Motel – the name I gave my favorite dumpster. Ah, yes, many pleasant memories there.
But I must remember why I am here. I push up and the lid opens enough so I can see daylight, but it’s raining. Oh shit, now I remember.
I remember sitting alone at Mallory. In disgrace. In the dark. In the rain.
I remember walking the wet, cold streets of Key West wrapped in my poncho with the hole in it while half-listening to conversations in my head. Sometimes they are a comfort.
I went out on the empty Grunt Pier with the waves slapping the pilings and for a while looked out across the black water at red and green lights flashing in the distance. I had hoped to receive a message from my Spirit Animal, but only received a message from my stomach. I made my way to the Parrot for a dinner of peanuts and beer, and perhaps some companionship.
As usual, the place was busy with locals and I was happy to find Stoney camped out at the bar putting a move on Ruthie of the healthy chest and crazy cop sister. In spite of the hole in my rain gear thanks to Nancy the Pyro Witch, I’d managed to stay surprising dry until almost to the Parrot, when a mini van caught a big puddle just right and soaked me from the waist down.
Ruthie and Stoney were holding hands across the bar and looking into each others eyes when I slogged in. They turned at the same time.
“Holy shit! Look what the cat dragged in!”
I pulled myself up onto an empty stool next to Stoney. Ruthie went back to work behind the bar and Stoney frowned big while looking at me just sitting there dejected and dripping.
“Damn, Dali, what happened? You look like you just lost your last friend.”
Ruthie glided over with a tentative smile, a draft beer, and a basket of peanuts in the shell. Over the course of several more beers I related to Stoney the sad story of the evening’s events at Mallory. Bolstered by my friend’s sympathy, and the beers, I was starting to feel a bit better when Robert walked into the bar.
The place was packed by then and the only vacant seat in the house stood in a puddle of water next to a disheveled man wearing an old orange poncho. Robert reluctantly took the stool next to me.
Actually, Robert and I are old friends; we just have the occasional strong disagreement from time to time. The current, long-running difference of opinion centers around the writer Carl Hiaasen and is the reason Robert had sworn not to sell me any more signed editions of his own books.
And it didn’t take long for the two of us to renew our ongoing argument over whether or not Hiaasen has lost his edge from too many years of wealth and fame – those twin evils nearly every struggling writer or a
rtist vehemently detests, unless it happens to them. It was the kind of argument no sane sober person would care that much about. Luckily, by then I was a little drunk, and Robert is always a lot crazy, so we had a lively discussion.
I don’t remember much after that, though. At closing time Stoney offered to let me stay the night at his place since he had other plans. I politely declined, as I’d gotten a bad crick in my neck the last time I’d stopped by his place for a visit.
I don’t know what happened to Robert, but I remember Stoney leaving with his well endowed other plans, and once again I found myself alone, walking the wet, dark streets of Key West in the middle of the night.
But things are much better now. Now I’m in a dumpster.
Time for a situation assessment.
Overall, I figure things could be worse. At least I’m out of the rain and cold, here in my snug dumpster, though it does smell a bit. And smells different than it used to. Perhaps a new menu at the restaurant?
I seem to somehow still have a few dollars in my pocket. I hate to spend money on myself, except in emergencies – and the depth of depression I was falling into after leaving Mallory definitely required drastic action involving beer and camaraderie to take my mind off things.
But the thought of my disgrace at Mallory and Socks slipping away is still painful today.
Though tired and hungry, I am comfortable. Being careful to avoid thinking any more about the prior evening, I take in the Big Picture and decide the best course of action on this drizzly day in the tropics is to snuggle down and try to unwind before I continue on. Perhaps this all is a sign that I should get serious about my mission.
But as soon as I get situated and fully relaxed, I feel as though I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. I decide to just rest my eyes for a few minutes before I get up and get busy with my life.
∨ Key Dali ∧
10
Laundry
Wow, I’m waking up again. I’ll just push up the lid here and take a peek.
Whoa, didn’t need to see that. I must have been so tired and slept so deeply that I went into a dimension where time runs backwards. I mean, it was mid morning when I fell asleep, and now it’s dawn. What other explanation can there be?
Wait, I hear voices. They’re close, but I can’t understand a word. It must be because they’re talking backwards in this backwards world I’m in!
Okay, don’t panic. Best thing is to go back to sleep and wake up again – this time in the right dimension. Just get comfortable and drift off to dreamland.
Wait, someone is opening the lid of the dumpster. I peek out from my nest of garbage bags and see two sets of Asian eyes, and they’re looking right at me! I still can’t understand what they’re saying, but they’re definitely pissed.
Oh shit! Now they have a water hose! They’re hosing me down, man!
“AAAAUUUGGGHHHH!”
“You hippie out now or call cops!”
More water and then the lid slams down.
So that sucks.
Since I’m fully awake now, another situation assessment might be a good idea. A quick one.
Those guys must have been speaking Chinese, not backwards. Is it possible I slept all day and all night? I do feel rested.
And that would explain the funny smell in here. The restaurant must have new owners and Asian cuisine. I realize now it’s soy sauce I’ve been smelling.
Speaking of smelling, my current thoughts are that a casual morning stroll in the direction of the Truman Laundromat might be a better way to start the day than a tense conversation with cops. Time to check out of the Green Motel.
On the sidewalk and it’s a beautiful morning in Key West. But I really am grubby, and a trip to the Laundromat is indeed in order.
I’m so dirty I decide to take the back streets shortcut to the Truman. Walk past the rows of tiny old wooden houses so close together. A batch of baby chicks dashes across the street up ahead with the mother hen right there and, as always, a cat slinking along not far away. I wave to an old black man having his morning coffee on the front porch. Here comes a Queenie walking his trio of yappers on tangled leashes while he does a passable job of ignoring me. But the two girls heading to school give me hard looks like they’re practicing for careers in banking.
At the laundry I get change for the machine and buy soap and a large black trash bag from the attendant watching morning TV. Slip inside the men’s room and take off layers of ripe clothes and after carefully tearing holes for legs and arms, put on my new trash bag. It’s a bit tight between the legs, but otherwise a good fit, and the yellow drawstring pulls up just right around my neck.
Clothes, poncho, hat, and sneakers are all jammed in one washer, so while waiting I take a good sink bath with some laundry soap in the restroom. The warm air from the wall-mounted hand blower feels good and gets me dry just as my load of clothes finishes.
I’m feeling fresh as a daisy as I put my clothes in the dryer while again wearing my spiffy new crotch-conscious trash bag with the yellow bowtie. However, neither the attendant nor the tourist couple doing a load of shorts and t-shirts seems to appreciate my attire. I keep the wet fedora out of the dryer so I can reshape it after the cleansing, though traumatic, ordeal of the washing machine. A few minutes in front of the hand dryer and my trusty hat is on the road to a full recovery.
I pass the clothes dryer time by half-listening to some phone conversations while gazing at the traffic passing by on Truman Street on a beautiful day in paradise. I am content. I have so many things to be thankful for, most notably my friends and artistic abilities. I sigh deeply. I have so much it is no wonder that lately I’ve such a strong desire to help others.
My thoughts eventually drift towards how things would be even nicer if I had a girlfriend, just as the dryer buzzes and stops.
♦
It is indeed a glorious day to be alive. Again walking the streets of my favorite city and wearing clean clothes still warm from the dryer, I smile and wave to everyone I see. The rain clouds have completely pushed through and the sparkling bright blue tropical skies I love so much have returned.
But it is time to feed the angry beast that is growling in my stomach. I don’t have much money left, so I’m walking towards New Town to score a tasty and filling submarine sandwich from the giant chain grocery store. But now that I’m thinking of food, especially a giant overfilled sandwich made with fresh-baked wheat bread, I’m about to faint from hunger. By the time I get to the grocery store my whole being is locked on getting straight to the little ticket machine at the deli.
Luckily it’s still early enough that there’s no line yet at the deli counter. Before long I’m giving the girl at the cash register the last of my damp, crumpled dollars, and happily feeding my inner bear as soon as I’m out the door.
While savoring a few after-dinner burps, I’m once again on the sidewalks of Key West.
I strike a course for Old Town and before long spot my friend Ponce up ahead. With him is his usual entourage consisting of several trained cats and one beautiful woman.
“Hola, Ponce!”
I wave and have a big smile for my friend.
“My Dali!” I get a big hug. “You are just the person I am looking for!” The blonde girlfriend is talking on a cell phone, but edges closer to Ponce in a protective manner while giving me a wary look. Ponce turns to the girl.
“Sherrie! This is my friend I told you about! He would be perfect!” The blonde’s eyes narrow down to an even more suspicious mode, but she doesn’t say anything. Ponce is excited, as usual. “Mi amigo, I am about to leave once again on my search, and this time Sherrie is to come with me! Isn’t that right, my love?” The girl shrugs while still eyeing me and whispering into her phone.
Ponce takes me aside and does some whispering himself. “She’s a bit high-strung and doesn’t like cats, but her parents are quite rich and buy her anything she wants, including a very nice condo. In fact, that is why I was hoping to s
ee you, and here you are!” I get another hug. “You see, my friend, we need someone to stay at her luxury condo while we are exploring some interesting areas of the Green Swamp that I have just recently seen in aerial photos. The manager of the condos is, how do you say, a bit nosey? But it is no big thing to take care of the condo; mostly she just needs someone to feed her fish while we look for the Fountain of Youth.”
I get a big, warm smile. Ponce is such an open and friendly person there’s no way anyone could turn down a chance to help him out, and given my current uncertain guest status at the Green Motel, I allow him to take me to see the condo.
An hour later – after several lectures from Sherrie concerning her condo, fish, and alarm system – and I’m helping Ponce load the last of their gear into Sherrie’s SUV. I wave goodbye as they leave for the Florida swamps with a load of camping equipment and several cats. As I turn to go back inside a small, frowning man is standing in the way. He gives me a good looking over and frowns even more.
“Who the fuck are you?”
I patiently explain that I am going to keep an eye on my friends’ place for them, but he doesn’t like anything I say. I get the impression he is the type who resents many of the laws in this country, especially the ones against shooting someone just because you don’t like their looks. After an obscenity-laced rant on condo rules, including never to touch the security system, the man who I decide looks a lot like a troll grudgingly lets me go back inside while giving me hard looks.
In exchange for using the fourth floor condo with every conceivable modern appliance and a killer view of the water for the next few days, all I need to do is feed the fish. It’s a sweet deal indeed, except for the fish. Actually, what’s in the big glass tank don’t even look like fish.
When Sherrie showed me the things suspended in the tank I thought someone had dropped several black sausages into her aquarium – until I noticed the sausages had fins and predatory eyes that watched my every move. Sherrie cooed and blew air kisses to her babies and I tried not to be horrified when she showed me how to feed them. Like talking to a three year old, she informed me her babies are Chinese Lump Eels and twice a day need their favorite food. Which turned out to be the beautiful goldfish in a nearby fishbowl, and which the black sausages ripped to shreds while Sherrie giggled with delight.
Key Dali Page 4
