Andrea Dworkin - Mercy

straight up and I don’t have no money and I say so because I’m

planning to pay half because that’s fair and also I don’t want

wrong ideas communicated or to take advantage because he’s

a famous painter and he’s saying shit it doesn’t matter, it’s so

fucking cold we w on’t make it if we don’t take care o f

ourselves, and we talk about Hem ingway or something, and

we take o ff again, and we get a little further and there’s another

bar and we dive in, grateful, and we sit at the bar and there’s

another Stoli in front o f me and w e’re talking about some actor

he knows w h o ’s shooting cocaine and he’s saying it’s a tragedy

and I’m thinking yeah it is; and I’m saying Jill will w orry and

he’s saying there’s plenty o f time and I’m saying we should

just brave it and walk to his place and he’s saying it’s Jill’s

opening and she’s the center o f attention and that’s how it

should be and it’s good for her, she needs to stand more on her

own, and he’s proud o f her, and it’ll be fine, and there’s

another Stoli and another and another bar and another and he’s

putting down ten dollar bills for the bartender and I see the

vodka in front o f me and I drink it, and we talk about

H em ingway, and Ginsberg, and Whitman, and we duck into

another bar, and it’s almost empty, they all are, the weather

makes everything deserted and quiet and we seem like the only

people on earth, really, and the streets get darker, and the wind

gets colder, and the Stoli goes down smoother, easier, faster,

and he unrolls the bills faster, easier, more, and I’m saying shit

I’m tired and I’m telling him m y sad story o f this night and

how I didn’t have anywhere to go and how I don’t have no

money and how things are and he’s concerned, he’s listening,

I’m saying how frightened I was and he’s taking it all in; and

shit I can drink like any man, you know, I mean, I can drink, I

don’t fold, and I say I can outdrink him and he don’t think so

but I fucking do because he stops but he keeps ordering them

for me and I know I’m going to be crashing soon so I’m not

concerned, there’s nothing I have to do but sleep, alone,

warm , inside, and we get to his place and I ask for his keys and

he says he’ll open it because it’s hard and he opens it, it’s a lot o f

locks, it’s locks that slip and slide and look like they have jaw s,

they m ove and slide and spring and jum p, and the door finally

gets open and he says he’ll take me up and inside the door

there’s steps but first he locks the locks from inside, he locks

them with his keys and he says see this is how you do it when

you come in, don’t forget now, and he pockets the keys and I

think I have to remember to get them so when he leaves I’ll be

able to lock the door behind him, it’s unfamiliar to me and I

don’t want to forget, and then there’s the steps, these huge,

wood steps, these towering flights, these creaky, knotted

steps, these splintery steps, there’s maybe a hundred o f them,

it’s so high up you can’t see the top, so you go up the first

twenty or something and there’s a big, em pty room, more like

a baseball field, it’s not like an apartment building where

there’s other people on the first landing, there’s no one there

and it’s em pty, and there’s another twenty or thirty steps and

it’s knottier and there’s holes in the middle o f the steps and

you’re trying to get up them without looking like a fool or

falling and there’s another floor that’s some cavernous room

with canvases and boxes and it’s brown, all brown, stretched

canvases and paintings wrapped in brown paper for shipping

and huge standing spirals o f brown twine like statues and

brown masking tape and these vast rolls o f heavy brown tape,

the kind o f tape you have to wet and you use it to reinforce

heavy boxes, and there’s brown boxes, cartons, unfolded and

folded and there’s brown crates, it’s a kind o f dead brown

room, the air’s brown, not just dark but brown as if it’s

colored brown, as if the air itself is brown, and the walls and

the floor and everything in it is dull brown and it’s not a room

in the normal sense, in the human sense, it’s more like an

airstrip, and you keep climbing and then there’s this next

floor, it’s big like a fucking commercial garage or something

and it’s completely covered in paint, oil paint, you could park

a hundred cars in it but the whole floor is thick with dried red

paint, oil paint or acrylics you know, like the blob’s all dead

and it died in here, the paint’s fucking deep on the floor, it’s

shocking pinks and royal blues and yellows so bright they hurt

your eyes, I don’t mean the floor is painted like someone put

paint on a brush and used the brush to paint the floor or a wall

or something, it’s more like the paint is spilled on gallon after

gallon, heaps and heaps o f it, it’s inches thick or feet thick, it

dries hard and sticky, you walk on it with trepidation thinking

you will sink but it’s firm, it gives a little but it’s firm, it’s dry,

it’s like an artist’s palette like you see in the movies but it’s a

whole real floor o f a room as big as a city block and you walk

on it like yo u ’re outside in the hills walking on real ground

that’s uneven and it’s been wet and you sink in some places or

at least you expect to, the earth’s higher and lower by inches

and you got boots to help you find your footing, your feet sink

in but not really, the ground just gives a little and it ain’t even,

you don’t fall but your footing ain’t sure, but it’s paint, not

earth, paint, it must be a million paint stores all emptied out on.

the floor and then rising from the paint, from the thick, dried,

uneven, shocking paint, there’s canvases and there’s paint on

them, beautiful paint, measured, delicate by contrast, esthetic,

organized into colors and shapes that have to do with each

other, they touch, you see right aw ay that there is meaning in

their touch, there’s something in it, it’s not random, it’s too

fine, almost emotionally austere, your heart sort o f skips a beat

to see how intelligent the paint is, you look up from the chaos

o f the paint on the floor to the delicacy o f the paint on the

canvas and I at least almost want to cry, I just feel such sorrow

for how frail we are. I just had never seen it so clear how art is