I had no trouble finding the neighborhood. I'd been there many times before. Finding his address was more difficult. I parked my car in a nearly deserted lot. The door to his studio turned out to be down a back alley beside an old brick warehouse. It was a barren, lonely area. I knocked on the door. The sound of my raps seemed to be swallowed in the desolation. I got no answer. Knocking again, louder, I wondered if I should turn around and go home. The promise of a glorious new artistic find lured me on. I pushed on the heavy metal door, and it swung open, the smell of stale air and mold assaulting me. With trepidation, I inched through the door.
Inside, I was met by a hallway painted industrial green, and dotted with wooden doors locked with padlocks. A dimly lit stairway led to the bowels of the building. A black arrow pointed down. A sign proclaimed B 1-5. I checked the address Hampton had written, and sure enough, it said B5. I wasn't sure I wanted to be here. What if Hampton was some crazy murderer waiting to slit my throat? I started down the stairs, each step creaking ominously as I cautiously set foot upon it. This whole place could come apart at any minute.
At the bottom of the stairs, a solitary bulb suspended from the ceiling barely lit the way. Shadows ate the walls and floor. I resisted the urge to turn and flee. I was a big boy. I didn't need to be afraid of being alone at night in the basement of a creepy old building. At the far end of the hall was one lone door. Reaching for the wall, I crept forward. I could hear music coming from the other side of the door. It was Holst's The Planets.
The sign on the door, made of candy wrappers folded into various shapes and letters portrayed a pastoral landscape with a sleek spaceship floating in the sky. Letters in the sky spelled out the slogan 'Do Not Fear Them.' The artistry was really quite amazing.
I knocked on the door and to my surprise it opened immediately. Hampton stood inside eying me with bemusement. I held out a basket filled with gourmet candy. He let a grin slip across his face and grunted at me.
"Come in."
Stepping into the room, I wasn't sure what to expect — a regular artist's studio, paint spattered everywhere; a moldy old hovel housing a penniless derelict, a stark and barren edifice? What greeted me could have been mistaken for a well-kept apartment anywhere in the city. As I looked around the comfortably appointed room, I found no trace I was in the basement of an old warehouse. This room had the look of an old retired man's living room — an easy-chair was situated before a television. An end table next to the chair held a plate from a recently eaten meal. Hampton softly closed the door behind me and set the basket of candy on an expensive looking antique writing desk.
"Good stuff," he said, indicating the basket. "Foil wrap is hard to find."
"This is a nice place you have. Not what I was expecting at all."
"I wear rags when I go gathering for safety. Nobody bothers an old bum who goes through the garbage."
"Indeed. Smart move."
He gestured for me to follow him.
"But I'm not an old bum. I worked as long as they would let me. Now I live on a pension. Come, I'll show you the operation."
We entered another room with a curtain for a door. It was filled with high metal shelving units, a long worktable, and an industrial sink. A couple of garbage bags sat next to the door. Some of the shelves overflowed with various art supplies; paper, boards, bottles and bottles of glue. Other shelves held box after box of candy wrappers, each wrapper carefully flattened and sorted by type of candy and color. The table was heaped with rumpled candy wrappers. From one side of the table rose a stack of bricks wrapped in fabric. On top of the sink rested a stack of neatly folded rags.
"This is where it all begins," he said. "All the recently gathered wrappers come in here so I can clean them. Even wrappers that look clean have to wiped off. They have food particles that attract bugs. Bugs are not good. Also, They like things to be clean. After I clean them, I flatten them. After flattening, they're sorted — type of candy and color. They like things to be orderly. Raw materials for art."
"Very impressive."
He led me into another room. This one had a large wooden table with a multitude of candy wrappers strewn about, along with scissors, a variety of X-Acto knives, canisters of glue and other art supplies. There was a shelf in the corner that held a collection of old record albums and a turntable. "Vinyl is much better than that digital crap." Hampton crossed the room and turned the record over. "Fuller spectrum. They like that."
He placed the needle on the edge of the disc and lush classical music filled the room. The old man then turned a rheostat on the wall, and a collection of lights on the ceiling lit up and began rotating above a multicolored plastic contraption that filled the room with waves of ever changing colored light. "This is where I create. The colors help me connect to Their energy."
So he was a crazy old crackpot after all. "Their energy?" I inquired.
"The Ones Who Talk. They gave me my mission, my purpose and my talent."
I moved closer to examine the table. The picture in progress appeared to be of a face floating in the clouds assembled from small Bit-o-Honey wrappers. I hadn't seen those in years. Uncomfortably, I fancied the face looked a bit like my own.
"Tell me more," I invited, not really sure I wanted to hear more. "Your... mission?"
"Now you're sure I'm some crazy fanatic. Maybe, I don't care. Life's not boring anymore. They first spoke shortly after I retired." He picked up a book from the table and caressed it. "Reading Virginia Woolf, a phrase electrified me. 'I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.' She was right. Except for art, there's not much about humanity to like. Then They spoke. Get candy. Make art. Tried not to listen, but They were insistent. I started collecting candy wrappers. Better for art than candy itself. They agreed. They're not unreasonable."
This was getting a little deep for me, and the colored lights were starting to make me dizzy, but after taking the trouble to come all the way out here, I wanted to see the art. "Do you have any of your work here?"
"Course I do. Where else would it be?" He left the room and went farther down the hall. I followed him to another door. Screaming from the door was the word "Gallery," in an ornate script, made entirely of folded silver and gold foil candy wrappers. It was exquisite handiwork. The old man smiled at me. "Get ready," he warned, pushing open the door.
A faint smell of sweetness wafted from the room. He reached his hand inside and twisted another rheostat on the wall. The undulating pattern of colored lights illuminated the room. What I saw when I stepped into the room, for the first time in my life, made my jaw drop. I was speechless. I was dumbfounded.
What lay before me was a room, at least thirty feet square, full of brightly colored, glimmering objects, furniture included, apparently made completely from candy wrappers. I timidly walked a few steps into the room, trying to take it all in. The wall to the right was one large mural depicting an alien landscape, complete with tall, spired buildings, a yellow and pink sky, and a number of gray-skinned humanoid figures waving hello. Covering the left wall were tiny waxy papers approximately three inches square. When I went closer, I discovered they were Bazooka Joe bubblegum comics. The floor was an intricately woven carpet of wrappers displaying a spiral mandala. The ceiling was a dark purple and black night sky, complete with shimmering planets and stars.
Filling the room were all manner of furniture and sculptures, each one seemingly constructed of nothing but candy wrappers and boxes. I saw a small table, a bed, a bookshelf filled with what looked to be books, and yes, when I took one off the shelf it had a cover made from flattened candy boxes and page after candy wrapper page, each one a different illustration. I estimated over a hundred of these books crammed the shelf. A couple of the gray-skinned alien figures with big heads stood four feet tall, and from their positions, I could only surmise they were dancing with each other. Where did he find gray candy wrappers? In one corner sat, of all things, a bathtub, hardened with some kind of glue or something, as it was rigid to my
touch.
The centerpiece of the entire room was what I could only describe as a throne. Intricate scrollwork adorned every inch of the eight foot tall chair. Every color in the rainbow wove in and out creating symmetrical patterns which seemed to pulsate under the ululating lights. Above the throne, across the back, stretched a banner that entreated, in more gold foil letters, "Let Them Into Your Heart." It was simply breathtaking. Where did he get all these candy wrappers? I turned to find Hampton. He was standing by the door, a faraway look in his eyes.
"There must be millions of candy wrappers here. Where do you get them all?"
"You've seen. Parks. Office lunchrooms. Anywhere people eat candy."
"But you can't get all that many that way..."
"You're right. Theater dumpsters are goldmines. Certain times of the year are key — the week after Halloween, Easter, Valentine's Day."
"Mr. Hampton, I'm simply floored. This is the most original collection of art I've ever seen. It must be shared with the world."
Hampton looked at the floor and chuckled to himself. "Glad you like it. They're glad too. But, you haven't heard the whole message yet. Haven't heard Them. These pieces are not just pretty. They have a purpose."
"A purpose?"
Hampton left the doorway and approached the throne. "Let me tell you. Have a seat." He motioned toward the throne.
"Oh, I couldn't."
"It's okay. It's strong. Very strong. I insist."
Doubtfully, I sat in the huge chair. It was surprisingly comfortable, but from where the throne sat the swirling lights on the ceiling were very bright. My head was swimming. I felt something on my right arm, and when I looked down, Hampton was fastening my arm to the chair with a strap made from Hershey's chocolate bar wrappers.
"Wait a minute," I tried to raise my arm.
Before I knew it, he had moved to the other side and was securing my left arm to the chair.
"Hey now, what's going on?"
Hampton had bent over and was now strapping my legs in place. I tried to stand up, but the chair was much stronger than you might expect of something constructed from paper and foil. Something held it to the floor.
"This isn't funny, Mr. Hampton. Let me up."
What the hell was he up to? What did I have with me I could use to get out of these straps? Had I brought anything with me I could use as a weapon? Why hadn't I let anyone know where I was going?
"Don't worry," Hampton cooed. "Everything will be fine in just a few moments. Do not fear Them. Let Them into your heart. That day when They first spoke, when I had been struck by that Virginia Woolf quote, They told me of their mission. There's so much strife in the world. So much unhappiness, pain. They want to end all that, and They can. Just need people to help them." From behind the throne Hampton produced the most artfully crafted tin foil hat I had ever seen and placed it on my head, fastening it with a strap under my chin. Immediately I felt a mild jolt of electricity through my body.
"See here, Hampton, this isn't funny," I said, trying to sound commanding. "Let me loose immediately."
"Look at the lights. You'll hear Them talk."
I didn't want to look at those lights, but I couldn't close my eyes. I was feeling decidedly dizzy. Electricity coursed through my body again. This time it was stronger. My vision blurred. I had to get out of here before something bad happened. I struggled, but my candy wrapper bonds were too strong. Electricity shot through my body again, and this time it was so strong my body convulsed. I was able to look away from the lights long enough to look down at myself. I was shocked to see the form of one of the gray-skinned alien creatures sitting on my lap. No... not on my lap... in the same space I was occupying, and it was transparent, like a ghost.
"I am here, Hampton."
"I am glad," Hampton answered.
"You have done well."
Who was Hampton talking to? That sounded like... like MY voice... but I wasn't talking!
"This will be a happy time," the voice said. MY voice! "When I share space with this one, we will bring much peace to this world."
"Do you hear It, Mr. Art Critic?" Hampton asked. "You're lucky. You get to Share. Look at the lights."
Involuntarily, my eyes rose to the twirling lights on the ceiling, and I felt a huge jolt of electricity. My tongue stuck out, my entire body shook, and I could feel my consciousness fading...
* * *
My eyes flickered open. What the hell? Had I been asleep? I turned my head to look around, and my neck felt stiff. I was sitting in the throne in Mr. Hampton's amazing candy wrapper art gallery. But, how did I get there? I didn't remember sitting down. I heard a shuffling noise to my right, and I turned to see Mr. Hampton entering the room with a glass of water.
"Good. You're awake," he said. "You passed out." He handed me the glass of water. "Careful not to spill. Feeling all right?"
I put my arm up to take the glass, and for a minute it seemed like there was another arm moving along with mine, a thin gray arm. I rubbed my eyes, and the image was gone. Draining the glass, I felt better.
"That's odd," I said. "I don't think that's ever happened before."
"Anyway. You like the art."
"My goodness, yes. It's the most exciting collection of art I think I've ever seen. We're going to want to do a feature on this. If I'm not mistaken, you're going to make a big splash in the art world. May I bring a couple of photographers over tomorrow?"
"Sure. The world needs a big splash."
I stood up, a little unsteady on my feet. I must have really crashed out. Making a mental note to visit the doctor, I held out my hand for Hampton to shake. Again I had the strange feeling there was another arm alongside mine. Hampton took my hand and gave it a single pump. His grip was incredibly strong for an old man. He saw me to the door and put his hand on my shoulder as I was leaving.
"You're a good man," he said. "You let Them into your heart.
In His Own Graven Image by Pete Clark
The creature was exactly as Harris had described. It stood, quiet and bowed, in the centre of the room. Both windows were closed and curtained, and within the room's dark confines, a rank sourness tainted air and mood alike. Harris stood a way off to the side, apparently in close conversation with the creature's owner, perhaps discussing fees and insurance excesses. The man stood as did his charge, with head bowed and the soft rhythmic rise and fall of his chest the only clear sign that he was alive. His face bore a look of worried perplexity.
Dauphin stood at the room's only door, his fingers describing unnatural configurations as they twisted and writhed. Sweat stood out on his brow like blood on a thorn-pricked brow. The creature moved suddenly, a great gassy shudder as it shifted its feet. Their sound on the rough weave of the carpet was deafening to Dauphin, for he had closed off all other noise, narrowed his eyes to stare at the thing in front of him with arrows of bright comprehension. He unconsciously twinned the creature's movement, stepping forward and then back again as the thing's eyes found his. There was a kind of blank recognition in them, as if it had been primed for this very moment. Dauphin let out a small noise, part revulsion and part ecstasy.
In the pockets of his too-large jacket lay a pair of powdered vinyl gloves and a Polaroid camera. He removed these and set them on a table to his left. Under the jacket he was naked, and he achieved this state now by shrugging the garment from his shoulders. Its size allowed it to fall easily, and it pooled around his feet. He stepped from it, an almost feminine gesture. The man who had led them here to his creature let an involuntary gasp of horror at the sight.
Dauphin's skin was lashed with scars from temple to ankle, livid cross hatchings that seemed to glow in the dullness of the room.
Dauphin spoke softly now to Harris, and the procurer broke from his conversation and crossed the room to where his boss stood naked. The warm air could do nothing to soften the nervous tautness of his skin across chest and stomach and scrotum. He breathed the sour air in tight little gasps, as if he needed th
e oxygen but none of the taste or smell of the creature that tainted it.
"I'm ready," he said.
Harris nodded and turned his attention back to the creature's owner, where he repeated the nod, this one with a beckoning flick of his wrist. The man stepped forward and laid a hand on the creature's head. It turned to him, a rattling purr in its throat. Harris laid his hand upon Dauphin's arm and gently encouraged him forward.
Dauphin knelt onto the rough carpet, not feeling the bite of fibre at his knees, feeling nothing now except a rush of pleasure which invariably accompanied acquisitions of this type. He shut his eyes slowly, using his hands to feel the familiar contours.
Every inch was a topography of scarification; keloid ridges every shade of red from maroon to faintest pink. There were huge white slashes across his back, old scars from a time before he had learned control, before he had yearned for order and classification. As the scars followed the bony ridges of his body, over his shoulders and down the jut of his chest, they darkened in colour and thus showed their younger age. These were more orderly, smaller and set so as to render pattern and aesthetic surety. He had tiger-striped legs and buttocks. Set as punctuation for all of these major scars, were smaller, neater marks. These could only have been made by teeth, and closer study revealed sets of two, four and as many as twelve punctures per bite. There were none on the backs of his hands, although there was a pair worming around his wrists. These would jut from his sleeves, if he were wearing any, like the heads of tiny snakes.
He laid his hands on the carpet and opened his eyes. The creature had moved forward and was standing no more than four feet away now. His eyes widened at the sight of it this close. It resembled a chimpanzee in basic physiognomy, but one perhaps with cockerel and wolf in its lineage. A lurid violet comb of flesh ran the length of its flattened dome of a head, and split at the nape of its neck to flow back around the thing's shoulders, meeting at a knot of bruise-coloured gristle in the hollow of its throat. Its jaws were too elongated for ape, and too heavily furred. It dripped thick saliva from these jaws and wiped away the mess with a hand like bunched knives. Dauphin quivered from his position of supplication. The creature edged forward.
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