Bob Fingerman - Pariah

“No one’s happy, son. Listen, Karl, step away from there. I mean toward me. Back away from there. Not forward. Don’t jump.”

“Don’t jump.”

“Right. Don’t jump.”

“You ever see that old cop show, Dragnet ? Or any old cop show, for that matter? There always was an episode where some kid would try LSD, or sometimes even just pot, and he’d be up on the roof of the local high school or church or wherever. He’d be some square from Central Casting’s notion of a hippie or beatnik. Or sometimes he or she would be ‘the good kid who’s fallen in with the bad crowd.’ And there this twenty-five-year-old high school student would be, saying things like, ‘I can fly, man. I can fly. I just know I can,’ and Joe Friday or some other stiff in a fedora and skinny tie would be trying to talk the kid down, but not off the roof. ‘Don’t do it, son, you’re having a bad trip.’ Yeah.

“I don’t want to jump. I don’t want to fall. My balance is fine. I used to play games like this as a kid. I’d pretend that I was way up high, only I’d be down on the sidewalk, walking along the thin edge of the curb. If a breeze came and unsettled my balance, if my footing got away from me and I dropped to the asphalt, in my mind I’d fallen into a bottomless chasm. There’s no breeze. I’m challenging God to knock me off this roof. Bring a wind. Sweep me away. I’m not worried. My dad always said ‘God is in the details,’ and I believe that. Because look at this world of ours. Seems like God’s missing the big picture, don’t you think?”

“I thought it was ‘The devil is in the details.’ ”

“No. That’s wrong. That’s a variation. What’s funny is that we’re not quite sure who to attribute the quote to. The consensus goes with Flaubert, but some say Michelangelo. Others go with the architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, or Aby Warburg.”

“How come you know this shit?”

“It’s called retaining trivia. Maybe someone would be kind and call it knowledge, but it’s not. It’s trivia. It’s why I would have made a great ‘Lifeline’ on Millionaire . It’s why I kicked ass at Trivial Pursuit. I can throw facts at you and quotes and all kinds of shit. But it’s all meaningless.”

“It’s not meaningless.”

“Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that. Every Sunday my dad dragged us all to church, but you know what? In spite of that, I still believe in God. They taught us that God made man in His image, and that makes perfect sense. Man is a petty, awful creature. So, from that I deduce God is the pettiest and most awful creature in the universe. We’re God Lite. Are we being punished or did God just get bored and come up with a way to wipe us all out and have some fun watching the carnage in the bargain? Who watches NASCAR for the racing? People watch for the chance to see someone blown to smithereens-several someones if they’re lucky. I know that’s not an original observation, but it’s true. God’s watching this sick show and laughing His ass off.

“I’m rambling.”

Karl stepped back from the ledge and headed for the stairwell. As he opened the door he turned to Dabney.

“Sorry about the jaw.”

The door closed behind him and Dabney just stood and looked into the empty space Karl had just occupied at the ledge. He felt tired all over. Two roofs away he saw Gerri staring off into space like one of the things.

Maybe it all was meaningless in the end.

“Is that what I look like to you or is this what I actually look like?”

Ellen stood at the easel admiring Alan’s immortalization of her in oils. With tiny orangey highlights on her back from the interior candles and her extremities rim lit from the light spilling from outdoors, she actually looked radiant. All but she was softly deemphasized, warmly enveloped in rich shadow. The pose was Ingres but the painting was pure Rembrandt, its understanding of chiaroscuro complete and accomplished.

“Alan, it’s remarkable.”

Ellen recalled ads in her ladies’ supermarket magazines for a syrupy hack named Thomas Kinkade, so-called “ Painter of Light ™,” that self-appointed appellation rendered in precious curlicues. With his squinty little eyes and fey mustache, Kinkade embodied American kitsch at its worst: cloying, banal, and tacky. Alan was a genuine painter of light-and dark. Though the figure on the small canvas was gaunt, it radiated eroticism. The sweaty pinpricks of light drew attention to the sharp contours, but somehow didn’t detract from the innate femininity of the subject. The subject. Ellen. Herself.

In all her years she’d never been captured so vividly. There were probably thousands of photographs of her, maybe even some good ones, but they all fell short. They were surpassingly two-dimensional. This representation didn’t just lie there, and even though it was a portrait of her present condition, it had life.

“May I have this?”

Alan hadn’t considered his attachment to this painting. While he painted he sort of zoned out, focused on technique and execution, but now that it was done he could stand back and judge the work. It was good. The best he’d done in…

Ever.

He knew it was good because even with things the way they were he was reticent to give it away. In his gallery of death he’d managed to create a single image that was, of all things, both tragic and optimistic. Ellen could see Alan was debating inside his head. For the first time in months she felt like she wanted something that wasn’t just a staple. But maybe this was a staple; one she’d forgotten a woman needs. This fed her sense of self. This fed her vanity. How long had it been since she’d applied makeup or thought about her body as anything other than a rundown, withering collection of deprived tissue? Alan had painted a twiggy but eminently fuckable woman, and that woman was her. Twiggy. Ellen’s mind raced back to the waifish ’60s icon. Small tits perched on a rack of bone-Keane-eyed and shaggable.

“Yeah, of course,” Alan said. It seemed like an eternity of deliberation, but only a few moments passed.

“I’ll cherish this,” Ellen said. “I didn’t think I was capable of cherishing anymore. Or coveting. But I couldn’t bear to not have this painting. And besides, you’ll get to be with it every remaining day we have. Mi casa es su casa, remember?”

“Uh-huh.”

As Ellen reached for the artwork Alan stepped between her and the canvas.

“Wait a little while. Oils take forever to dry. I can’t just pluck it off the board without wrecking it.”

“I’ll take the board.”

“I need the board to paint on.”

“Are you reneging?” Ellen’s expression was puzzlement with a hint of dander.

“No, not at all. Just let it dry a while longer. I’ll bring it up later. Or tomorrow.”

“You’re sure you’re not reneging, because…” There was an edge to her voice.

“No, no. I swear,” Alan said. “I don’t want to mess it up or tear it. Later. Scout’s honor.”

As Ellen went up the stairs, touching the wall to guide her, she felt a curious combo of up-till-now dormant emotions. She felt flattered, acquisitive, manipulative, feminine. She’d already manipulated Alan into cohabitating with her. Isn’t that what she’d done? Fresh on the heels of Mike’s demise she’d played on Alan’s compassion and hoodwinked him into her tender, needy trap. And it felt good. At first she’d felt she’d been pathetic, but now, in light of Alan’s painting, she retroactively amended that take. She’d used her feminine wiles. She beamed. She still had feminine wiles. She’d seduced him. Maybe it was with shock, grief, and tears, but he’d taken the bait.