Don Lee - The Collective

“Barboza’s got to be a closet queen,” Jessica said. We turned to her, faltering over the non sequitur. “So there’s nothing we can do?” she asked.

“There’s one tactic I can suggest,” Margolies said. “File a criminal complaint of malicious destruction.” He cited Chapter 266, Section 127, of the Massachusetts General Laws, which set the penalty for wanton destruction of personal property at a maximum of ten years in prison or a fine based on the value of the property. “It’s unlikely he’d get any jail time, but it’d be an expeditious way for us to make our point.”

“What are the chances he’d be convicted?” Joshua asked.

“Fifty-fifty,” Margolies admitted.

“How long would it take to litigate?” I asked.

“We could submit the complaint as early as Monday, the arraignment would be in a week or two, the trial five or six months after that.”

“What about the costs?” Jessica asked.

“We’re willing to do this pro bono,” Margolies said. “There is a monetary threshold, however, for filing the charge as a felony. We need to be able to claim that Barboza caused damage in excess of $250. Is that something we can claim?”

I could see Jessica mentally tallying the expenditures for the repair material, which could not have been much.

“You should also factor in the reduction in the mannequins’ market value, since they’re no longer in their original condition,” Margolies said. “That loss would be irrevocable, I imagine.”

Jessica had arbitrarily priced the mannequins at $3,000 apiece, never believing anyone would buy them. “In that case,” she said, “yes, definitely more than $250 in damage.”

“All right, then, we can do this,” Margolies said. “But I have to warn you, if we go forward, you’ll have to be prepared for the resultant shitstorm. It won’t be just Barboza. The Christian Coalition and other factions will probably marshal their forces to support him under all sorts of guises. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were protests and dirty tricks to try to discredit you and the 3AC.”

“Are you shitting me?” Joshua asked.

“No, I’m deadly serious.”

“That’s beautiful, man,” Joshua said. “This will be war.”

Margolies gave us the weekend to think it over.

As Sunday evening approached, one 3AC member after another phoned to say he or she could not make the potluck that week. All good reasons — a deadline, a relative or a friend visiting, a gig out of town, tickets to a show. Jimmy was the only one available. When he heard no one else was coming, he said he’d give this one a miss. Grace didn’t bother to call at all.

I made pajeon — scallion pancakes — from the batter I had already prepared, and Joshua, Jessica, and I ate them with rice and kimchi in the kitchen.

“I checked these guys out,” I told them. “The CCFE. They’re a bunch of kooks. They want to ban prayer in the schools and eliminate the word God from all government entities, including money.”

“So they’re atheists. More power to them,” Jessica said.

“Yeah? You know they also support NAMBLA?” The North American Man/Boy Love Association. “They’ve gone to court for convicted sex offenders. They’re trying to get the sale and distribution of child pornography legalized.”

“That’s nothing new,” Joshua said. “The ACLU’s been doing that for years. When you’re trying to protect civil liberties in absolute terms, you end up having to defend the indefensible.”

“I think we should let everyone have a say in this,” I said. “It affects the rest of the 3AC. We should tell them what’s going on and put it up for a group vote.”

“Screw that,” Joshua said. “Do you see anyone else here? Fucking cowards. The first sign of trouble, they bail.”

“They all had legitimate excuses this weekend.”

“Every single one of them? By coincidence?”

“Let’s wait until next Sunday,” I said. “They’ll all be back then.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. They deserted us. It’s just us now. We’re the only group that matters. What’s your problem? This is just like at Mac. Why are you so afraid?”

This was not just like Macalester. I had always regretted my initial reluctance to act then, chagrined by my passivity, and I had been committed to proceeding now. I wanted apologies. I wanted retractions. I wanted denunciations. Yet that was before Margolies had promised a circus. I did not want that kind of strife or notoriety. Not over this.

“This just doesn’t feel right,” I said. “It might escalate and get out of hand, and that’s exactly what Margolies wants. That’s why they’re pursuing this. They’re not looking out for us at all. They want to use us.”

“I’m being publicly humiliated, and now you are, too,” Jessica said. “You’re going to let that pass? This is about our dignity.”

“Once Barboza made the egg roll comment, he crossed the line,” Joshua said. “He made it racial. There’s no way we can back down now. The crazies and detractors will come out, but so will supporters and admirers. This will make us famous. It’ll help our careers, I’m not too disingenuous to say. And the timing couldn’t be better for you and me, bro, with the Fiction Discoveries issue coming out next month.”

“That shouldn’t be our motivation,” I said.

“No? Let’s not be naive. We can’t sit around waiting for things to happen. We’ve got to make them happen. Nothing’s going to fall in our laps. That only happens to beautiful white people. I’m telling you, that photo of us in the Record , someday it’ll be reprinted in magazines and biographies as a watershed moment for the three of us.”

I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere with Joshua, but I tried to sway Jessica privately when we were in the basement later, doing laundry.

“This is a mistake,” I said.

“I’ve become a joke,” she said, putting her clothes in the washer after I had moved my load to the dryer. “I’ve got to salvage my reputation.”

“You can do that with another exhibition.”

“No one’s going to give me another show now — not if I let this go. Joshua’s right. Even if the shit comes down, at least my name as an artist will get out there.”

“Are you sure it’s worth it?” I asked. “Are you sure that’s how you want to make your mark?”

“Are you implying the show’s not worth defending?” she asked. “That it’s something I should be ashamed of?”

“I wish you had exhibited your paintings,” I said, looking at the stacks of canvases against the wall. “I think these are wonderful. I really think that’s the direction you should’ve followed.”

“Don’t obfuscate. Answer my question. Say what you really mean.”

“Why do you think all those other organizations wouldn’t take the case? Purely out of legal considerations?”

“Answer me.”

“Maybe,” I told her, “the Globe review had some validity. Maybe there could have been more substance, fewer gimmicks.”

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” Jessica said. “I can’t believe this, coming from you. You’ve written one good story in your life, and you took what could have been Esther’s slot in the Discoveries issue, no compunction whatsoever, even though you’re on the staff. For what?”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “I did have compunctions. A lot of them. I wanted to pull my story. Joshua convinced me not to.”

“And he’s the god of propriety,” Jessica said. “I hate the bitch right now, but Esther’s the real deal. You know that. She works hard, she deserves to be recognized. Whereas you’re always complaining you don’t have time to write. Let me ask you: When will you? Will you ever do anything instead of just talking about it? Maybe you should just quit, Eric. Give up trying. The world doesn’t need another dilettante, and that’s all you’ve ever been.”