rushed in from the hall. ‘Hey, somebody fell down the elevator shaft! I heard him scream!’
‘Christ! Somebody get the janitor!’
‘Where the hell is he?’ demanded the walking hot dog. ‘He was right here a minute ago. As soon as there’s any work to be done…’
Two pork-pie hats swiveled to look at him. ‘Forget it,’ said one of the musicologists. ‘No hurry now.’ They went back to their amiable discussion of the recording date of Deef John Holler’s
Decatur Freight Blues,
One floor below, Deef John Holler lay on the roof of the elevator. He had few cues to his whereabouts, being not only deaf but nearly blind, but he found this place more congenial than Glen’s penthouse. Here there were no irritating, jerky vibrations from amplified clumsy playing, no smells of stale smoke and spilled whiskey, only a gentle descending motion. He was not interested in getting anywhere, in being anyone, or in living at all. So Deef John sat up, dusted off his new overalls, and began to sing.
All the rest of the evening, riders of the elevator declared they had never heard Melodiak sounding so good.
‘I see what must’ve happened,’ said the Knight of Columbus. ‘Some prick left this mop stuck across the door like this, and guess some drunk tripped over it.’ He unstuck the mop and let the doors close.
‘Forty floors. Some trip.’
Miss Columbine, plumping her enormous breasts into shape, came out of the flat. The stiff blonde wig was askew, and one trickle of mascara ran down to her white—faintly bluish-white—jowl. Drawing her red velvet cloak about her, she turned her back on the others to wait for the elevator.
When she was gone, they chuckled. ‘I think Ank was right about her, she is a lesbian,’ said one. ‘I mean, did you see that five-o’clock shadow?’
‘Sure upset her, though. She spent the whole evening sprawled out on the couch, bawling.’
They went back inside.
Someone lurched up to the bedroom door and peered at the lighted sign over it, spelling it out. ‘Fums?’ he said. ‘I wonder where in hell the other one is. What do they call it? Ohms.’
The water in the bathroom was thigh-deep, but the six pseudo-Egyptians hadn’t noticed. They were all piled up against the door to the bedroom, listening to Glen’s taped music.
Ank awoke to see Myra and a man in a feather cape looking over his two completed paintings. He was at home, on the bed. One of his paper sleeves had fallen off; it lay in the middle of the floor, like an abandoned snakeskin.
‘Never mind those,’ he roused himself to say. ‘They’re not…not what I wanted.’
‘They’re what I want, thougih,’ said the man. He introduced himself as Drew Moody of the Moody Gallery. ‘Those paintings
live
. All right, it’s corny, but I’ve been looking at other stuff all week. Cold mechanical stuff, the kind those computer jerks crank out.’
‘Computer…?’ Ank tried to clear his head.
‘Half the kids in the country think if they can only get a random number generator they automatically become a painter. But this—this is by God
human
art, untouched by mechanical hands. Can you do a few more? I’d like to give you a one-man show.’
‘But…do you think the critics…?’
‘The critics! The critics are a bunch of dehorns who wouldn’t know paint from diarrhea. The real world will eat this up, if I present it right.’
‘Et’s e wenderfel eppertenety, Enk.’
‘He’s tired and foggy,’ said the dealer. ‘Tell you what, Ank. I’ll give you a jingle in the morning. And here’s my card. Now Myra and I will sneak off and let you get some sleep.’
On the way out, the art dealer noticed the tarpaulin-draped painting machine. ‘What’s this? Sculpture?’
‘Uh, no, it’s—it’s just a paint-mixing machine.’
‘See you then. So long, Ank.’
The door closed, setting up a breeze that stirred the empty paper sleeve on the floor. It made one clumsy painting movement, then lay
‘Christ! Somebody get the janitor!’
‘Where the hell is he?’ demanded the walking hot dog. ‘He was right here a minute ago. As soon as there’s any work to be done…’
Two pork-pie hats swiveled to look at him. ‘Forget it,’ said one of the musicologists. ‘No hurry now.’ They went back to their amiable discussion of the recording date of Deef John Holler’s
Decatur Freight Blues,
One floor below, Deef John Holler lay on the roof of the elevator. He had few cues to his whereabouts, being not only deaf but nearly blind, but he found this place more congenial than Glen’s penthouse. Here there were no irritating, jerky vibrations from amplified clumsy playing, no smells of stale smoke and spilled whiskey, only a gentle descending motion. He was not interested in getting anywhere, in being anyone, or in living at all. So Deef John sat up, dusted off his new overalls, and began to sing.
All the rest of the evening, riders of the elevator declared they had never heard Melodiak sounding so good.
‘I see what must’ve happened,’ said the Knight of Columbus. ‘Some prick left this mop stuck across the door like this, and guess some drunk tripped over it.’ He unstuck the mop and let the doors close.
‘Forty floors. Some trip.’
Miss Columbine, plumping her enormous breasts into shape, came out of the flat. The stiff blonde wig was askew, and one trickle of mascara ran down to her white—faintly bluish-white—jowl. Drawing her red velvet cloak about her, she turned her back on the others to wait for the elevator.
When she was gone, they chuckled. ‘I think Ank was right about her, she is a lesbian,’ said one. ‘I mean, did you see that five-o’clock shadow?’
‘Sure upset her, though. She spent the whole evening sprawled out on the couch, bawling.’
They went back inside.
Someone lurched up to the bedroom door and peered at the lighted sign over it, spelling it out. ‘Fums?’ he said. ‘I wonder where in hell the other one is. What do they call it? Ohms.’
The water in the bathroom was thigh-deep, but the six pseudo-Egyptians hadn’t noticed. They were all piled up against the door to the bedroom, listening to Glen’s taped music.
Ank awoke to see Myra and a man in a feather cape looking over his two completed paintings. He was at home, on the bed. One of his paper sleeves had fallen off; it lay in the middle of the floor, like an abandoned snakeskin.
‘Never mind those,’ he roused himself to say. ‘They’re not…not what I wanted.’
‘They’re what I want, thougih,’ said the man. He introduced himself as Drew Moody of the Moody Gallery. ‘Those paintings
live
. All right, it’s corny, but I’ve been looking at other stuff all week. Cold mechanical stuff, the kind those computer jerks crank out.’
‘Computer…?’ Ank tried to clear his head.
‘Half the kids in the country think if they can only get a random number generator they automatically become a painter. But this—this is by God
human
art, untouched by mechanical hands. Can you do a few more? I’d like to give you a one-man show.’
‘But…do you think the critics…?’
‘The critics! The critics are a bunch of dehorns who wouldn’t know paint from diarrhea. The real world will eat this up, if I present it right.’
‘Et’s e wenderfel eppertenety, Enk.’
‘He’s tired and foggy,’ said the dealer. ‘Tell you what, Ank. I’ll give you a jingle in the morning. And here’s my card. Now Myra and I will sneak off and let you get some sleep.’
On the way out, the art dealer noticed the tarpaulin-draped painting machine. ‘What’s this? Sculpture?’
‘Uh, no, it’s—it’s just a paint-mixing machine.’
‘See you then. So long, Ank.’
The door closed, setting up a breeze that stirred the empty paper sleeve on the floor. It made one clumsy painting movement, then lay
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