Christopher Hacker - The Morels

They had gone to a party at Vic Tedesco’s place a couple of weeks prior — Vic was a self-proclaimed real estate baron and patron of the arts. He converted a warehouse on Mercer Street and West Broadway. It was immense — restored brickwork and wrought iron. He had built a solarium on the roof — accessed via a sweeping spiral staircase — which enclosed a pool. Vistas of the Midtown skyline, clear up to the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings.

She stops teasing Doc after that night and in fact encourages him — for the most part staying out of everyone’s way. She even takes to wearing a shirt around the house.

Occasionally now as Doc works, in that pure, blank mind state that hard work produces, he finds himself thinking about Dolores. He can hear her saying, I am willing to work as hard as I can . And then he can picture her perfectly, standing before him in their kitchen, hands sudsy, hair plastered to her forehead, waiting for him to respond. He has the strongest urge during these daydreams to pick up the phone, just to hear her voice. He hates himself for the urge, for whatever forces in him bring this memory to the surface, but finds himself unable to refrain every once in a while, after he’s had a few drinks, from picking up the phone and dialing his home in Plainfield, a number that he still remembers easily. On all but one occasion, he hangs up before anyone answers.

On the occasion he doesn’t, it’s a man who picks up.

Is Dolores there?

Who is this?

It’s been only five months since he’s left, less than a year. Is it possible she remarried? Maybe she moved.

And then, into the pause: Dad?

Benji?

Oh, my God, Dad, where are you?

Doc hangs up, heart thudding, his whole body gone into high alarm.

This is a mistake he does not repeat. Now, when the image of his wife comes to him, he locks himself in the newly constructed bathroom and lies in the smooth cool dry tub until the wave passes.

November brings with it another reason that the buildings in this neighborhood are ill suited for residential use: the cold. They are drafty and impossible to heat properly. A modern boiler system needs to be installed, but in the meantime they are making do with space heaters.

He is on his way out to buy two more to replace the ones that have overheated and died the night before. It’s brisk, but he sees — passing through Washington Square Park on his way to the Woolworth’s on Sixth Avenue — a throng gathered around a dry fountain basin.

A man in a leotard and bow tie is performing magic tricks. His assistant is a young woman in a peasant dress. It’s clear that she’s very pregnant. It’s also clear, as he comes closer, that it’s Cynthia.

When the show is over, she goes around with the maestro’s top hat. She passes Doc without noticing him.

He reaches out and puts a twenty-dollar bill in the hat. When she recognizes him, sees that the bill is his, she becomes angry. She fishes it out and gives it back.

Not so fast, the man in the leotard says.

He shakes Doc’s hand and offers him a business card. On it is a graphic of a unicycle and the words The Meticulous Ticulous . No address or phone number.

Ticulous?

At your service, Ticulous says, and bows deeply.

Where are you staying, Doc, asks Cynthia.

Around.

The Meticulous Ticulous says, Are you her father?

Cynthia snorts. Hardly.

Have you been to see a doctor?

She gives him a confused look, and he points at her belly.

My friend, Ticulous says, childbirth is not a medical procedure — it’s the most natural thing in the world!

So’s a postpartum hemorrhage, Doc says. Cynthia, it’s freezing out. Your legs are bare. And you’re wearing beach sandals.

Doc takes out a pen and crosses out what’s printed on the business card Ticuolous has given him and on the other side neatly writes the address and phone number of the carriage house.

Cynthia refuses to take it, so he drops it in the top hat and walks away.

Ticulous hollers out, Farewell!

Doc, in spite of himself, waves.

When Cynthia met Ticulous, she had been trying, unsuccessfully, for an audience with Andy Warhol.

After the shooting, the Factory effectively closed its doors to the public. Warhol became much more private — and wary of strangers. She was met by a voice over an intercom and told to leave her contact information and that somebody would get back to her. She gave the number of a public pay phone nearby and had been guarding it ferociously for days.

There was a mime working the passersby of the block. He was engaged in a routine wherein he would pretend to be hurrying along wearing an invisible hat, carrying an invisible briefcase. He would stumble, and the briefcase would fall open, and invisible papers would fly out that he would scramble through the crowd trying fruitlessly to recover. Then he discovered Cynthia, stubbornly pretending to be on the phone, waiting out a growing line of impatient people.

I’m on hold, she snarled, reaching into her pocket for a nickel, pretending to insert it in the slot.

The mime liked this. He got on line and acted out extreme impatience, tapping his foot, looking at his invisible watch — and then, discovering an invisible phone booth next to the one Cynthia was on, he would step into it and make a call and, mirroring exactly Cynthia’s body language, stave off a growing line of invisible people, claiming with a shrug, an eye roll, a pointed finger, that he, too, was on hold.

During a lull in foot traffic, he asked her, with hand gestures, whom she was waiting for.

I’m waiting for a call from Andy Warhol, she said.

That asshole?

Hey! You’re not allowed to talk.

Pop is the death of art, the mime said, and that man is the grim reaper.

He introduced himself, handed her a business card. He explained that he was just one of several street performers in a troupe. This loose collection included former students of half-a-dozen illustrious institutions: Julliard, Oxford, Yale. We are an impressive band of dropouts, he said. Ticulous had been to Lecoq. Their shared ethos was the renunciation of artistic professionalism . Appalled by what they saw as a rise in the commercialization of their chosen callings, and the willing participation of their colleagues and mentors in the greed machine , they opted out and somehow found one another, taking a monastic vow of poverty; the only means of protest available to them in a capitalistic state was with a dollar — or its refusal. They gave the gift of their art freely, accepting donations given only in a similarly free spirit — food, clothing, shelter, or, if it was all you had, money. They prostrated themselves like monks to the generosity and goodwill of the people of New York City. Koko, who had spent three years at Academy of Art in Bonn before coming to New York, drew elaborate and lavish oil-pencil murals on the pavement. Winston, who had been dancing from the age of five and endured two years at Birmingham Royal before calling it quits, made the various platforms of the subway system his stage. They were, all of them, hounded by police. They had all been arrested repeatedly, spent time in jail. Most had been mugged; a couple had been beaten. Many nights were spent freezing — or wet and freezing — on park benches. They were not above fishing through trash for food. The fervor with which he talked drew Cynthia to him — and away from the phone booth. By the end of their conversation, he had made her vow never to return. It’s not like he was ever going to call anyway, she said, so he didn’t think she was too easily persuaded.

For the rest of the day, she followed Ticulous around as he performed his routines, taking an increasing delight in being his straight man. If they were able to draw a crowd, Cynthia took the bowler from his head and circled for tips. She invited him up to her room — she was renting a sublet on Thompson Street — and they talked until morning. He convinced her that art was not a commodity to be bought or sold but rather like love to be received and given freely. He demonstrated with a kiss.