A Note: A few different influences working here, the most striking was thinking I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a metal sculpture of a man hanging from a noose with his neck broken. The figure’s stare had such a malignant and sorrowful purpose, I was struck to the heart. It was the golden hour before sunset, and as I brought my attention to this phantom, I could not unmake the image even as I saw the bit of tin for what it really was. Then, even unto the next morning, I felt haunted by that thing I thought I saw. I started writing out a short story for it, but the project is not one I can really pursue at the moment. I’m fairly sure it belongs to a group of stories I’m working on, The Wedding, and after I put these crazy 60+ hours work weeks behind me, I hope to be able to give more focus to it.
As the maze of rooms in the art-show dimmed its lights and the few late visitors perambulated toward the door, I found, to my consternation, my old pal had once more given me the slip. Going upstream against the trickle of departing guests, I began my search for the wayward youth. It was no longer time, I felt, to gawk at things we couldn’t buy; I wanted to sink my teeth into things we could, like a big, juicy steak from the steakhouse which I could smell across the street—a pleasing aroma which had called to me on the threshold of this labyrinth of distorted images.
Far more pleasing, I felt, than anything we had found in these halls of horror. I finally understood the impressionists and dadaists and whatnot. They were cowards, and so was I for that matter; I didn’t want to look at or think about the meaning of any of the exhibits which weren’t complete nonsense. If this was art, then I would be proud to be a philistine. I’d at least be able to enjoy a sunset, which did not come with a thousand dollar price tag; I don’t think the type of people who could paint and sculpt the types of things I’d seen today could.
It did not take me too long to find him. I rounded a corner by a dry fountain which looked like a bunch of dicks and saw his drabby trench coat. Coming up beside him, I gave him a nudge.
“Come on,” I said. “Closing time. Time for—well, let’s get dinner.”
“I hate it,” he said.
“So do I,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“You haven’t looked at it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Look.”
The sculpture was realistic enough, even artful in its way. The way it seemed to hang, as though suspended, even though it was sitting on the floor, was astounding. The rope looked quite like a rope, like a rope pulled tight, even though one end stood up in the air attached to nothing.
Tale Told 