Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

Simon crouches next to my sign and laughs.

“Twelve dollars a jar? ” he says. “Holy shit. People don’t actually pay that, do they?”

“I have had hundreds of customers,” I inform him.

“They must have been tourists or something.”

“They were New Yorkers,” I say. “They came because my pickles were inside their New York Magazine. ”

“You were in New York ?” Simon says. “Huh. Don’t know how I missed that. Was it a long article?”

“It was in Approval Matrix, and I know that you have seen it because Claire told me you have seen it! You lie to pretend you are not jealous, but really you are jealous!”

Simon turns red and is silent for long time. Eventually, he picks up jar and squints at it.

“No labels, huh?”

“They are unnecessary expense.”

“I wonder if the Health Department thinks so.”

He grins at me, his yellow teeth moist like a dog’s.

“Maybe I’ll pay them a visit?” he says.

At this point I am hungering to violence him. I take long, slow breath to calm myself.

“If you pay them a visit,” I warn him, “you will soon get two more visits. The first will be from my fists. And the second will be from Malakh HaMavet, the Angel of Death.”

We do not speak until Claire has returned.

“Well?” she says brightly. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Simon mutters. “Come on.”

He flags a yellow taxi car and drags her inside the backseat.

“Bye, Herschel!” Claire cries through the window. “Good luck!”

I shout as loud as possible, so Simon can hear my words.

“I do not need lucks! I do not need anything! ”

The home I made with Sarah was very pleasant, but it did have several flaws. For example, the stove often caught fire, there was no indoor bathroom, and we shared our room with fifteen other Jews.

Sarah and I slept in mattress in the corner, behind curtains stitched from flour sacks. The curtains took us many days to sew, but we worked fast and hard (we had just been wed and needed privacy for married acts).

Since moving from Simon’s couch, I have been sleeping in McCarren Park. It is not so bad. I bathe in public toilet and tie tarp to tree for shelter. Sometimes the policemen come with lights and chase me, but I am quick and not afraid of them.

I have $4,128 and could easily buy my way into some household. But it would be needless expenditure. I have trained my body to sleep just four hours each night, since that is all the body really needs, and why should I care where I spend such small portion of the day? I am comfortable on my own and do not miss having companions around. Being alone is nothing for me. Is fine.

One night, though, while lying under tarp behind toilet, I realize something: in order to increase pickle production, I must have more storage space for jars. I can only fit fifty in cart, plus four in coat and two in pants. In order to expand my business, it is vital to find myself a room.

The cheapest one I find is out in Bushwick. According to flyer, rent is four hundred dollars per month. When I show up at building, there is line of young people gathered on street. A short man with green hair addresses them.

“Please have your portfolios ready,” he says. “Thank you!”

“What is this place?” I ask young girl holding stack of strange photographs.

“It’s called the Vortex Factory,” she says. “It’s the most selective artist colony east of Williamsburg.”

I do not understand most of her words, but I am happy to hear it is factory. I have always gotten along with fellow laborers.

Eventually, after waiting long time, I am motioned inside by green-haired man. When I step through the door, I gasp. The space is gigantic, big enough to house at least ten thousand pickle jars.

“Oh my God,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “It’s pretty incredible.”

One area is covered in tarps and splattered with paint. Another is crowded with drums and electric pianos. I cannot see where they are making their vortexes.

There are many sleeping peoples on the floor, huddled on mattresses, surrounded by empty alcohols. There are lagers, wines, spirits — more bottles than I have ever seen.

“Was their wedding last night?” I ask.

The green-haired man laughs. He does not answer my question about wedding.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you around.”

He walks me through factory, telling me names of sleeping boarders.

“That’s Jordan,” he says, pointing to man with beard. “He’s an experimental poet.”

“I have not heard of him,” I admit.

“You will,” he says. “His stuff’s incredible. He just got his MFA.”

I do not know what is this “MFA,” but it must be rare achievement, because when he says it his eyebrows go up.

“Who is she?” I ask, pointing to snoring woman.

“That’s Alison,” he says. “She’s an actress.”

I squint at the woman. She is homely and overweight with many blemishes on face.

“ Radio actress?” I ask.

“Spoken word, mostly,” he says. “She just got her MFA. She’s incredible.”

He points to group of hairy, filthy men.

“Those guys just got their MFAs,” he tells me. “In painting, sculpture, and sound design. They’re in a noise band called the Fuzz.”

“I have not heard of them, either,” I admit.

“You will,” he says. “Their music’s just…”

He pauses, thinking of way to describe.

“It’s incredible,” he says.

He folds his arms and smiles at me.

“So. Let’s have a look at your portfolio.”

My face flushes.

“I do not know what that means.”

He laughs.

“You know what? Me neither. The idea that art belongs in a manila folder — it’s preposterous. The here and now is where the truth’s alive. The moment you try to document it, the immediacy is lost.”

“Is fine,” I say, confused.

“So tell me, what would you bring to the Vortex Factory?”

“Just myself,” I say. “And many jars of pickles.”

He rubs his chin and squints at me.

“So you work in installations?”

“I sell pickles from cart,” I explain. “First I make salt brine, then I put in cucumbers, then I wheel cart and shout out, ‘Pickles, pickles!’ ”

“So there’s a pretty big performance element to your art.”

At this point I am starting to get frustrated.

“It is not performance,” I say. “It is my life. It is what I must do to survive.”

He smiles at me with look of admiration.

“Dude,” he says, “that’s incredible.”

I get biggest room in the whole house.

“How’s it going?” Claire asks me the next day at my cart.

“I am working,” I tell her. “I have no time to socialize.”

Her pants are so tight I cannot even believe it. I can see the shape of her kneecaps. It is crazy to me that she can dress this way and not be thrown in jail.

“There’s nobody in line,” she says.

I look. Is true.

“Still, somebody might come,” I say. “I only have time to speak with customers.”

“Okay, fine,” she says. “In that case, I’ll take a jar.”

“Twelve dollars.”

She folds her arms and smirks at me.

“I’ll give you four bucks.”

My eyes widen. I was not expecting this.

“Twelve dollars,” I say firmly. “That is price.”

“That’s outrageous,” she says. “I’ll give you six and you’ll be lucky to get it.”

“Ten dollars,” I say. “And you can choose which jar.”

“The jars are all the same,” she says. “I’ll give you seven and that’s final.”

“It must be ten.”

“It must be seven.”