The Dry Spell by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 10
“I’ll have to ask a few questions. Is this the Albuquerque Museum of Art?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, where are the three other museums?”
“Here, too. Art on the first floor, Natural History on the second and Native American and Spanish on the third.”
“Oh good, that’s convenient.”
She appeared tired and disinterested, cutting off expected chit-chat which wasn’t on the way and said; “What do you want to see?”
“Art.”
Looking for a bigger ticket, she informed me; “The Native American and Spanish museums have art, too.”
“I’m not interested in Native American or Spanish art.”
Realizing that I may have unintentionally taken a mild swipe at her heritage, I added; “Today.”
She must have thought that she had me on the defensive and said; “The package deals can be utilized any time up to a year from date of purchase.”
I waved my hand and said; “No, that’s all right. If I come back, I’ll just get another ticket.”
“Is there any particular artist you’re interested in?”
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Very pushy, I thought, but for some stupid reason I answered honestly and said; “Mary Kravath.”
“Sounds like a white name, but it could be her husband’s.”
“So, what if it is?”
She clucked at my stupidity and then said, as if it were too terribly obvious; “If she was born Spanish or Native American, her work would be in the Spanish or Native American Museum.”
“Why?”
“That’s just the way things are done. Haven’t you noticed?”
I was beginning to get annoyed. What gall I had in not knowing the details of her petty job. So I said; “I don’t go out much. I usually wind up in some headache inducing, retarded conversation when I do.” She was wordless and actually did a good facial act of being hurt. I wasn’t really broken hearted about her pains or pleasures, but wanted to cut the talk as soon as possible, so I added; “Okay, give me the combination ticket for Art, Native American and Spanish.” I reached into my pocket and retrieved my wallet and held it impatiently as she stared at the yellowing plasticized fee card.
I said, “Is there another issue?”
She looked right in my eyes and proudly said; “That’s not a valid option.”
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“Okay, I’ll settle for an invalid option.”
“I can’t do that. She turned the plastic information card toward me and said; “You’ve asked for , and , but as you can see, it’s not on the list.”
I perused the card and saw, indeed that my requested preference was not there. So, I said; “It’s obvious that, if it were on the card the price would be $50.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m not sure, I’m being logical.”
“Whatever you think, I have no way of processing your request.”
“This wasn’t even my original request. If you recall, I was willing to settle for a simple Number and you talked me out of it.”
“That isn’t my exact recollection and more importantly there’s no point in bringing up ancient history.”
“Pardon me. I thought that was precisely what this place is for.” She just looked at me blankly and I realized that the comment was irrelevant to her, so I decided to somehow combine two or more of the available options which would result in ,
and . I couldn’t do the math in my head, so I asked her for a pencil and paper and I was surprised to see that she obliged me, without some story about not being able to provide both in the same package and at no charge. I wrote down:
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1 alone, 3 alone and 4 alone= $75
1 + 3, 4 alone
= $65
1 + 4, 3 alone
= $65
3 + 4, 1 alone
= $65
1 + 2 + 3 + 4
= $55
It seemed strange to me that buying the total package was the best financial option, but it irked me that I’d be forced to purchase something I didn’t want, so I said; “I’d like to get 1, 2, 3 and 4 for $55 and simultaneously sell 2 back to you for its stated price of $25.”
“Are you a wise guy or some kind of nut?”
“$20?”
“No.”
$10?”
“No.”
“Don’t you ever give refunds?”
“No.” I could see the red veins in her eyes, as she said;
“I’m going to get the manager.” Anticipating going through this conversation a second time with two opponents and not having all the time in the world, I said; “Please, please wait.” She stopped after two steps and turned back to me. I continued;
“I’m sorry, I was trying to make a very poor joke. Can I just have 1, 2, 3 and 4 for $55?”
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“Yes, I’ll be glad to help you with that.” She walked back to the register and said; “Cash?”
“No, credit card.”
She fortunately found no problem with that, but asked to see identification. I retrieved my driver’s license from my wallet and handed it to her. She looked at it, then me and proceeded to push the appropriate buttons on her machine. After extensive thrusting she handed the two cards back to me and said; “The purchase of the complete package allows you to be a member of the ‘Museum Club’.”
I don’t want to be a member of any club that would accept me, certainly not one so easy and also didn’t want to be on its mailing list, but rather than go through any possible harangue I decided to play the game. When she handed me a pen and information card, I silently filled out an incorrect name and address; that of one of my least favorite neighbors, hoping that the clerk wouldn’t recognize the discrepancy from the credit card and license. She didn’t even look at the card and placed it under the desktop and handed me a simple white card with the numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4 on it separated by perforations.
Confident that I didn’t need her kind assistance anymore, I attempted to make a smart goodbye, already having been accused of being a wise guy. As I walked away, I said; “Thanks, Winchinchala.” Her steely dispassionate eyes burned into me as
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she said; “I’m whiter than you are.” That struck me as perversely humorous and I smiled and waved goodbye, making my way through the empty vestibule to a closed faux classical Italian metal door painted dark green, beneath a simple white metal sign containing black letters stating “Museum of Art.”
With some difficulty I opened the pneumatic door and took a few steps when I heard; “Hey, I’ll need a ticket.”
I turned to my left to see a short Spanish man of about 25, his two day growth of black peach fuzz, apparently adding something to his shaven bald head’s clear status. I considered telling him that he could obtain tickets at the desk in the vestibule, but decided that I had already had enough communication, so I took my perforated 1, 2, 3 and 4 from my pocket and handed it to him, deferring to his snappy brown khaki uniform.
He said; “I’ll only need number one,” and looked at me.
I said; “Should I have torn the perforation for you?”
He dejectedly shrugged, but said; “No, that’s all right,”
and with grimacing difficulty performed the operation himself.
He handed 2, 3 and 4 back to me, saying; “Enjoy the day.”
I nodded, said “Thank you, sir,” and went my way, Patti Smith singing “Whirlaway” in my head. A large open door was in my view and I could see some paintings on the wall and glass enclosed tables, of lightly finished oak, in the center of the
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room. But, before I got there I viewed another artistic statement, in a simple black frame, hung above the open door.
The artist chose to leave the background in its natural canvas off white state. However, on it he painted perfectly, entirely in black “NO FOOD OR BEVERAGES ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT.” Hmm, what is the unsigned illustrator trying to tell me? I really wasn’t even considering eating or drinking at this establishment; it would seem obliquely unnatural and I had nothing to consume.
For a second I thought that the lady at the front desk might be able to help, but quickly decided against asking her, imagining the difficulty of that conversation. The best logical thought I could come up with was that the dead don’t require any sort of sustenance, perfect in their frigid state and with no stretch of the imagination this was a place of the dead. So, somebody who wanted to enhance their importance wrote a rule that everyone already obeyed, having no choice in the matter. I thought about it a minute staring at the perfect letters. Maybe if I read them backward or rearranged them somewhat I’ll get the real message, as the one I came up with was too trite to be any good.
When no hidden message was discerned, I walked away thinking;
“No wonder he didn’t sign it.”
As I entered the room I saw that it was my lucky day as a handwritten placard standing on the swirling white and blue tile floor indicated that only this week, ten paintings by the
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renowned Alan Camelittle were on display, on loan from Louise Benson of Santa Fe. Quickly scanning the ten, I wondered if Louise got any money out of this. The works are ideal for one desiring repetition. Each “human” figure, with their thimble-like shape, is standing on a line reading a newspaper, which Camelittle chose to represent by an actual cutting from a newspaper, rather than paint. The backgrounds include transportation centers, grocery stores, filling stations and banks, painted neither realistically, impressionistically or minimally, giving the appearance of a woefully done attempt at realism. It’s a good thing this guy found Louise. I tried reading the tiny newspapers the characters held in front of their faces, in an attempt to find out what I was missing. I got no further enlightenment as each tiny paper had a small section of a newspaper article about God knows what. The entirety of one said; “to begin the consideration. The participants were left.” I had to keep in mind that the letters were gigantic to a two or three inch thimble. So, perhaps the little deformed people are studying oversized messages devoid of meaning. A precursor of the internet? Fellini’s grotesques in word form? Whatever, it fascinates the little ones more than their poorly painted surroundings. Cute,.... once.
There was a closed gray door on the other side of the room and above it hung another unsigned painting by Mr. Embarrassed,
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this time the black letters saying; “EMPLOYEES ONLY”. Was he now displaying a communistic political affiliation? I really didn’t have the interest or time to ponder that one, so I picked up my gait in an attempt to quickly find the room where they kept the pretty pictures, nature scenes, desiring to see the signature of Mary Kravath.
The next open door afforded entry to strange paintings of people who weren’t really people. The tall thin backgrounds were generally black or light blue and contained somewhat realistic paintings of women, but they all were missing at least one part, such as a stomach or legs. In one case the standing thin woman did not have a neck or chest, the black background having successfully bled to the surface. Incomplete people and all of the female variety, depicted physically, patiently waiting for someone to further define their existence. It’s amazing how many painters had the same idea. I didn’t dawdle and when I got through the next open door I was rewarded with pretty pictures. Where are you, Mary? I took two steps and there she was, right in front of my eager face. A four by five painting, simply framed in an unstained natural wood, titled
“Spirit of the Bosque”, was signed in violet by Mary Kravath.
My huge lost cottonwood friend covered 70% of the canvas and assuming the proportions were correct, he was about 120 feet tall at the time, just at the point he had to have been first
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realizing that he had a greater view than any of his brothers and sisters. I’d loved to have seen his excitement then. His summer leaves were thick, in some places to the complete exclusion of the sun. The formation of the mature oversized crown was already in evidence, as he precisely surveyed everything in sight. The day was bright, with some small friendly white clouds and the ground was as today, sand and brown dirt. I was not very surprised to see that today’s nearby clear path was not yet in evidence and required impeccable definition. In front of him was only tall green grass, immersed in the giant’s cotton and behind was the wild, high flowing blue river water. Mary had to have been near, but chose not to be seen. I sat on a nearby concrete bench, looking upward to get what might be my last long look.
I didn’t want to leave and started glancing at other natural scenes hung haphazardly on the plain white wall. While they were all attractive and elegant, I couldn’t help wondering if just beyond the boundary of their frames there was a slaughterhouse or cement plant lurking.
The windows near the ceiling indicated the proximity of sunset and I realized it was getting late in the day as the fluorescents bravely tried to imitate the glow of the day. I took one last thirty second look at the “Spirit of the Bosque”, my eyes excluding all others and left.
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When I got back to the lobby I saw that the gift shop was still open and decided to see if an overpriced print was available. Taking little or no notice of the rest of the store, I went to the racks and bins holding the prints and didn’t find the one I wanted. I went to the chic, well made up white, Native American or Spanish lady behind the counter and said;
“Excuse me. I’m looking for a print of a particular painting titled “Spirit of the Bosque” and can’t find it over there,”
pointing back to the section I had just departed.
She said; “I’m sorry, that’s all we have.” I started to leave when she said; “Wait a second. Let me check something.”
She retrieved a loose leaf book from under the counter. “Spirit of the Bosque, you say?”
“Yes.” I walked back to the counter, as she perused the book saying; “We may be able to order it for you.” As she continued flipping pages, I looked through the postcards housed near the cash register.
She said; “No, sorry, I can’t find that print available.”
But I found a postcard with the mammoth tree on it and said; “That’s unfortunate. Thanks for trying. But I did find this.”
She took it from me and said; “That tree really fills out the picture, doesn’t it?”
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I laughed, as she pushed the buttons on the register and said; “Cash or charge, $3.00.”
“I think I can handle that in cash,” giving her three singles.
She put it in a small bag, handed it to me and said; “Thank you. Please come again.”
I said; “Thank you very much. Had you not looked through your book, I wouldn’t have found it.” She smiled and I left passing by the confessed white woman at the front desk, who kept her head down, occupied by some end of the day wrap up details under the counter. I happily drove back home, still having the benefit of a declining sun in front of me, for the middle part of the trip.
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