Elizabeth Hand - Generation Loss

“Hasn’t worked out that way. Denny—how come he didn’t sign his name?”

“Didn’t he?”

“There.” I pointed at the corner of print. “It says ‘Spot.’”

“Oh yeah. That’s him.”

“Spot? What’s that mean? Gryffin said it’s a joke.”

“A joke?” Ray held out his hand, and I gave him back the photo. He looked at it then replaced it on the wall and settled back into his chair. “I guess it’s a joke. Tell you the truth, I don’t really remember. It was something weird, though. Denny, he was into that kind of woo-woo stuff. That commune of his, they got into all kinds of ritual shit. Well, they called it religion. I called it ripping off the Indians. Native Americans, I mean—they were crazy for that kind of stuff. After they finished the Buddhists and the Hindus and the God knows what else. All those off-brand religions. But those kids, none of ‘em was any more Native American than me.”

He sighed. “Denny, he was way into it. He was smart too—he flunked out of Harvard. He was studying comparative religions or some such. Gilgamesh , that was one of his big things. Babylonian stuff. He was a beautiful young man, Denny. You wouldn’t know it now. Let’s face it, living here takes years off your life. That’s why everyone drinks like a fish. It’s the winters. Heating with wine. Look at me! Aged before my time.”

He downed another shot of Calvados. “But that photo—what think you, huh? His stuff is starting to get picked up. Lucien Ryel, he bought some. That one there, I paid a grand for it a year or so ago. It’s probably worth more now.”

“A grand?” I gave him a dubious look. “That’s a lot of money for someone no one’s ever heard of.”

Ray shrugged. “Hey, I’m a collector. You know how it works. Everyone wants to bet on the new kid. Even if he’s an old new kid. The photography market’s crazy these days, you know that. I don’t think Denny gives a rat’s ass about that kind of shit, but Lucien, he’s got an investor’s eye. He turned on his rock star friends—Pete Townshend, he bought some of Denny’s stuff. Townshend goes for outsider art. I guess this qualifies as outsider photography.”

“Pretty good for someone who used to live in a bus.”

“Did Gryffin tell you about that?” Ray gave his braying laugh. “Hey, don’t knock it! This is one of the last places in the country where people can still live between the cracks.”

It didn’t seem to me that Ray would fit between a crack smaller than, say, Chaco Canyon. But I kept my mouth shut as he went on.

“They’re all one-offs, his stuff. Does he do a lot of these? I don’t know. I’ve never seen where he lives. But he obviously spends a lot of time on them. Like Aphrodite used to, you know? Making her own paper and stuff.”

“And emulsion,” I said. “He must prepare his own emulsions too. That’s what it looks like to me. If they’re really one-offs, then he’s producing some kind of monotype. Or monoprint, if he uses the neg more than once. Interesting.”

“That the kind of stuff you did?”

“No. I would’ve been happy to sell lots of copies of my stuff. If anyone wanted to buy them. But—”

I pointed at the photograph. “What it means is, that’s an original work of art. Like if this guy was Robert Mapplethorpe, that picture would be worth a ton of money. Probably you’ve already figured that out.”

“That it’s worth a lot of money?”

“That this guy ain’t Robert Mapplethorpe.” I finished my Calvados. “So, what about her? Aphrodite. How come she stopped taking pictures?”

Ray ran a hand across his scarred cheek. “Hard to say. Those early photos—she never really had a success big as that again. I think part of it was she took so long with each one. And there wasn’t a market back then for photographs, like there is now—she couldn’t make money at it. She refused to do commercial work when they wanted her to, and after a while no one wanted her to. And the drinking—that’s been going on a long time. When she and Steve got involved—well, you know, she really loved him. And he loved her too, in his way. But it was different then; for a long time he couldn’t really admit to himself what he was. That he was gay. Unlike me, who never had a problem.”

He laughed.

“They must’ve gotten along at least once,” I said. Ray looked at me, puzzled. “Gryffin. They had him.”

Ray made a face. “Oh yeah. Gryffin. The miracle child. That was Denny’s idea. Like I said, Aphrodite never really took to it—being a mother and all. But things went bad between her and Denny early on. They got real competitive, he started taking photos, Aphrodite encouraged him—like, here’s this beautiful young guy, she takes him under her wing, you know? But then they got competitive, and then it got weird. He got weird. Aphrodite, she’s accusing him of stealing stuff—”

“Like what? Camera equipment?”

“No. Stealing her soul . Stealing her pictures! Not the photos—stealing what she did. You know, ripping her off. Her ideas. Her ‘vision.’”

He laughed and wiggled his eyebrows. “Totally insane! Like how people used to think you’d steal their soul if you took their picture? That kind of thing.”

I frowned. “She couldn’t believe that.”

“Nah. She didn’t believe it. But Denny did! He was very convincing, too.” Ray looked at me and shrugged. “I guess you had to be there. Anyway, nowadays she spends all her time drinking with those damn bony dogs.”

“Are you two done?” Gryffin stood in the hall, watching us.

“Yeah,” I said. “Bathroom that way?”

He nodded.

Compared to the rest of Ray’s jerry-rigged palace, the bathroom was luxurious. Mexican tiles on the floor, a small Jacuzzi.

Best of all, a well-stocked medicine cabinet.

I locked the door then perused the contents: Percocet, Hydrocodone, Adderall. I pocketed some of the Percocets, but I was more interested in the Adderall. At 25 milligrams apiece, they’d provide a nice little blast of Dexedrine. I popped one then added a handful to what was already in my pocket. Ray wouldn’t miss them.

When I returned, Gryffin was staring stonily out the window. Ray looked at me.

“I thought maybe you decided to use the Jacuzzi,” he said. “You can if you want.”

“No thanks.” I sat down. Immediately a phone began to ring. Ray turned and bellowed at Robert, still sound asleep on the couch.

“Robert. ROBERT. Get the frigging phone!”

Robert stumbled to his feet. I glanced at Gryffin. He raised his eyebrows, silently framing a question: Leave? I nodded.

“Hey, Ray.” Robert stuck his head out from the kitchen. “It’s John Stone.”

“John Stone, John Stone,” Ray muttered. “Now what.”

He shuffled off to get the phone. Robert came out and sat at the table.

“She was looking for you.” He ran a finger across the seaglass necklace.

“What?” I said.

“The other night at the Good Tern? Kenzie—she was looking for you.”

“That girl from the motel?” I frowned. “I don’t even know her. Why would she be looking for me?”

“I dunno.” He stared at his feet. “But she told me. She said there was some lady from New York City staying there. She said you were nice.”

He shot me a baleful look. Gryffin glanced at me then leaned across the table to ask, “So you saw her, Robert?”

“No. We were IMing. I was going to meet her later, but she never showed up. She said you were going to give her a ride.”

“A ride? To where?”

“New York, I guess.”

I stared at him then laughed in disbelief. “Jesus! Poor kid. She must really be hard up.”