Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

$975, I thought, curious what determined the last dollar. Why not $974?

The fat man bustled out with another painting. At first, he held it out toward me. Then he set it on the ground, leaning it against one of the wooden partitions. We took a step back together, in order to appreciate the piece. Through some wild stroke of genius, Ms. Wilcox had managed to produce something even more disgusting.

Inexplicably, my voice somewhat excited, I said, “I love it.”

“It’s striking.”

“I like the whole equipage.” This comment made no sense, but the fat man agreed.

“Yes,” he said.

“And the self-reflexive motif.”

“It’s very smart.”

“And the autoeroticism.”

The fat man agreed again, as though all my absurd observations were plainly obvious. I was beginning to like him very much.

“It’s extremely—” I paused for an instant, searching for some outlandish word.

“Carnival,” the man said, filling the void.

“Yes.” I lowered my voice, feeling the force of the man’s precision. I was surprised how quickly he’d earned my respect. “Carnival,” I said. There was no better word. The painting suddenly fell into place and began to brim with significance.

“What’s it called?” I asked.

“Carnival,” the fat man answered, and I realized that it wasn’t him at all whom I was beginning to respect and like. It was Celeste Wilcox, for she’d undoubtedly named the painting.

After a few more minutes, I began to detest the man. In a very pleasant manner, he continually put me off; he refused to tell me anything useful about Ms. Wilcox. When I casually asked whether she was a student and where she studied, he told me that her method was apparently Baroque. When I asked if she was exhibited elsewhere and if she ever personally visited the gallery to promote her work, “to chitchat over wine and crackers,” the man responded by saying, “Sure, sure,” but added that she had nothing scheduled. I understood his tact; he was the middleman, the one getting the commission, and he didn’t want me trying to approach Ms. Wilcox directly and thus to cut him out. The more I ventured to elicit information, the more he began to sense that I didn’t want to give him my money. As we talked, I became conscious of a steady, annoying tapping sound, and then I realized that it was me, that by some nervous reflex, I was tapping the metal tip of my umbrella on the hardwood floor. Even so, I continued to make the sound.

“Then tell me,” I said suddenly, “does she do portraits, say, of my wife or little daughter?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Could we possibly arrange something, ask something. I mean, you could ask her, right?”

“Sure, sure,” the man said.

We weren’t looking at each other, but at Material: Perverse, Polymorphed, and Primed .

“Yes,” I said, just to emit some sound. If in a single move I could turn myself into a husband and a father, then why not into a rich man too. Glancing back at the painting on the floor, I asked, “Of course, you’d frame that if I wanted it.”

“Of course.” The man nodded his round head.

“Could I get matching frames?”

“I don’t see why not.”

We were silent for a moment, looking back and forth between the paintings, avoiding each other’s eyes. I was simultaneously frustrated, agitated, and amused. Indeed, what a loving man I must have been, to have wanted the precious image of my wife or daughter rendered by the hand of that tortured artist!

“And those heads.” I gestured to the hewn blocks of wood. “Do they come as a set?”

“Sure, or separately,” the man said.

“They’d—” I started to say that they’d go perfect in the baby’s room, but I stopped myself.

“Is it possible,” I continued, “for me to give you my name and address, and if Ms. Wilcox is interested in doing a portrait, then you can give me a call?”

“Of course.”

The man produced two business cards and a pen from the inner pocket of his suit. When he handed me the cards, I read his name: Lyle Tartles. I wrote my information on the back of one card and slipped the other into my pocket with the novel and fred’s number.

“Mr. Tartles,” I said, smiling. “This is an impressive place.”

“Thank you,” he said. “There’s a lot of talent in our city.”

I surveyed the gallery slowly, nodding my head.

“You’d understand, Mr. Tartles, if I returned with my wife. I’m not free to spend a single dime on my own. You understand.”

“Sure.” The man smiled too.

He was so agreeable and pleasant that it was difficult for me to get an accurate read on him. Was he just humoring me, following business protocol, or actually believing my spiel?

“You couldn’t possibly hold these pieces?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “If you want to leave a—”

“No.” I cut him off. “I shouldn’t commit to anything yet. My wife would see red. Take my head off.”

The man smiled.

“Mr. Tartles.” I abruptly grabbed his meaty paw and pumped it once. “Thank you.”

I wanted to add some finishing touches, to convince him thoroughly of my sincerity.

“I’ll see you again,” I said.

“Sure.”

On my way toward the door, I paused to inspect the pair of grotesque heads. I considered them in a reverential way, as if trying to take in the full impact of their beauty or truth. I even touched my chin and nodded thoughtfully at the sculptures. When I turned to leave, I looked back at Mr. Tartles, to see if he’d witnessed my little show. There was a strange grin on his face that suddenly unnerved me. I couldn’t tell whether he had seen through my charade, only that he was apparently amused by me. This misshapen, unfortunate globule was amused by me, as though I had been a pubescent boy casually browsing through a car lot and expecting the salesman to show me the respect due to a man. The only thing I could do was smile, nod, and rush out the door. As I hurried away, heading along the sidewalk in the gray mist, I began to feel even worse, more exposed, like a pubescent boy caught in the middle of algebra class, trying, like a dirty fiend, to sneak the porno-stroke under his desk. I lurched forward with my head down. Before the shame could fully overwhelm me, the man on the motorcycle — the real Dr. Barnett — exploded out of a side street, turned the corner, and whizzed past me. He jolted me out of my self-affliction. His mixture of ease and insanity made him my hero. Even though he was just some guy joyriding on a dreary Sunday afternoon, he managed to deflate the fat man and imbue me with a bit of strength.

Now as my mind swarmed with thoughts, with urgency, and with a single drop of borrowed potency, I found myself walking faster. A strange compulsion drove me forward, though I didn’t exactly know what I was running toward or away from. The black man reminded me that I was supposed to be on the playing field of men, which meant that I was no longer going to bother erecting a world of massive monuments with vaulted ceilings and endless corridors and chambers stretching as deep as my tiny, gray brain could imagine. I was going to assert myself using my body. With a little spasm, a momentary shudder, and a drop of potency, if a person was not quite born into manhood, then he was at least allowed into the arena and given a chance to test his mettle.

As I hurried forward, I became aware of the buildings looming up around me, of every bit of earth covered up with concrete and tar, and of the air saturated less with the natural elements than with waves and signals and blathering voices too numerous to fathom. It all seemed significant and portentous, as though the grimy fingerprints of man could not only be seen on everything but also were intimately and mysteriously connected to the secret places of my own heart. I wasn’t quite certain what this meant for me or what I actually needed to do.