Ari is surprised to see that Burt has the ability to see some of what his art is all about.
Chapter 9
The boy’s dark eyes possessed a world that appealed to Sam the moment she saw him. Earlier that morning, he stood alone at the hotel’s entrance, thumb extended from beneath his frayed poncho, promising nothing in return for a ride down the road. Perhaps it was the look of honest need that appealed to her, or maybe the opportunity to relate the innocence she herself felt at that moment. But whatever the reason, she now sat beside him in the back seat of the Bentley.
The sun was hot that day, relieved only by the speed with which Max usually drove. Even with the top down and the sun about to enrich his already golden tan, he wasn’t comfortable. After a night of delirious lovemaking--as Sam had labeled it--he awakened to a very different bed partner. Now, he glanced in the rear-view mirror to see a woman who was continuing to experience unexpected motherly thoughts she had only read about. Neither understood why this particular morning beckoned her to the extreme. Certainly, lovemaking wasn’t new to them. Had he done something extraordinary during the night? The thought was both flattering and troubling. Why she had suddenly awakened with the compulsion to explore the day as someone other than Sam or Samantha--for the maternal personality was foreign to both--was troublesome enough to Max, but her having him slam on the brakes before they were even up the ramp and on the highway did nothing but aggravate his sense of alienation.
“Whoa…” she said, smiling at the boy and his worn cardboard case open at the side of the road to display shell necklaces and cheap silver ring settings. As she leaned out the window, she debated as to which was more pathetic; jewelry of delinquent semi-precious stones; rubber-tire soled tennis shoes the boy wore on his dusty feet; or the extended thumb that suggested he wasn’t pulling it in until someone picked him up.
“You’re a real work,” she muttered to him, “Yeah, you truly deserve a lift. How long have you been standing here with your thumb out?”
Although he shrugged, his Hershey Bar eyes told the answer.
“How far are you going?” Again, another shrug and a general motion of the hand. She had turned to Max at that moment, “We’ll give him a lift, Okay? Of course,” she answered for herself as Max was still considering the request.
Max finally nodded, “Sure, Sam.” He wasn’t going to resist her notion. Not today. He had more nagging considerations. Like determining the significance, if any, of this personality trait unseen before. That was the surprise she addressed him with at breakfast, when she said in a soft, simple mid-western accent, "I might be pregnant, Maxwell.”
And so, she helped the boy of twelve into the back seat. Max could only think it wasn’t easy beginning this third day of his honeymoon. He was not only dealing with an orphaned boy, but his bride calling him Maxwell, a choice she had never exercised since he had known her. He didn’t have a clue what it was all about. What he did understand was at a time when two people usually spend their time learning more about each other’s intimate side, he was faced with an unexpected episode of the “people game” as she usually called it. He knew from experience it could pop up anytime. The “people game” was a trade-off Max had willingly made. He wanted to just be her husband, but he knew her unique identity-needs were greater. Much greater. At least when she needed to flip out, Dr. Quinlan could be there and when she needed to mildly explore a people observation, Director Quinlan was available. It was somewhat consoling to know she could go for unpredictable periods of time working comfortably between Sam the woman and Samantha the celebrity for months, sometimes. But when the interruptions came, she would assume the role of a stage character or sometimes simply another citizen that would totally consume her. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t aware of what she was doing. Max had lots of experience with the “real thing” at St. Luke. No, Sam was different, and she knew it. How many times, he thought, had she in the heat of an argument asked, “Is it so bad to honestly play out roles that others merely bottle up until it explodes into “postal worker” headlines?” She was serious and convincing as well. So many times, he had heard her say, “While others around me, strangers on the street, even fellow actors, merely flirt with the need to be someone else, I can be them, really convince others that I’m someone else. Is that a talent or a curse, Max? Whose better off, them or me?” “You’re not going to tell me I’m sick, are you, Max? Don’t you have to be out of control to be classified as really sick? Am I out of control, Max?” His response was always the same, “Eschew obfuscation. All we can do is play it out and see.”
He took another glance in the rear-view mirror. There she was. Sam and Antonio, playing something out. But what?
That was the innocent beginning of the day.
***
As the big Winnebago lumbered along, Burt raised his voice over the engine’s growl, “I’ve got to tell you, this isn’t working out the way I thought. Stoppin’ whenever the Bentley stops... hey, this could take, you know…okay, how long you think this is gonna take?” Burt looked over from his driving to Ari who showed nothing in response. “I can’t be stoppin’ every night like this just because…”
“When they stop for gas, you can call it a day, okay? I’ll find me another driver. I understand,” said Ari as he nodded out the windshield.
“Thanks. No offense, you understand, I just thought when you took me on…
“You thought you’d be working for someone who’d play tourist and get to the destination quick.”
“Yeah… kinda.”
“And you thought when this guy showed he was crazy enough to give you a thousand just to drive him to Cabo, you’d accommodate, right?”
‘Kinda.”
“You’re ‘kinda’ a taker aren’t you?”
Burt shrugged. “I didn’t take nothin’ you didn’t offer.”
Ari took his gaze from the window to Burt. “What I offered was for you to take me to Cabo. I never said how long it would take. But that’s okay. You owe me four hundred fifty back, right… kinda… huh?”
“I’m keeping five fifty?”
“Did you earn it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep two hundred then, okay?”
Burt didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. Ari nodded back and turned back to the windshield.
The next few minutes were silent. The motor home rode above the road just high enough for Ari to see over the other traffic and keep a distant fix on the Bentley. On his lap was the iPad. The impression taking shape on the screen caught Burt’s eye. With a nervous chuckle, he broke the silence. “You’re pretty good with that stick. Looks like a nifty room with that… that a chandelier?
“For the moment.”
“That them?” continued Burt.
“Somewhere in the mix.”
Burt leaned over for a better look and pointed his stubby finger at a corner of the photographic image that was rapidly becoming a new impression. “That’s them, right?
“Partly. Partly them…partly me.”
Burt glanced up at Ari and saw that he was looking out the window like the day before, with just an occasional glance down at the screen that told him his hand was accurately carrying out the necessary strokes across the touch screen to fulfill his own interpretation of the photograph. Without looking over at Burt he asked, “Do you like what you see?”
“I…it’s different.”
“But do you like it? Does it do anything for you?”
“Like a said before, I ain’t no art critic.”
“If you saw it in a magazine, what would you do?”
“What do you mean, what would I do?”
“Put it down? Throw it away? Make paper dolls, c’mon. Earn your pay.”
“Well…” Burt took another look. “Probably look a minute then, you know, turn the page.”
Ari stopped and turned, placing the screen so it faced Burt. “For that minute, Burt, what would you see? Look at it now. It’s not finished, but that’s okay. What do you see? Not what’s just there, but what do you really see?”
The sudden demand not only made Burt feel uncomfortable, but also “I can’t drive and look at your screen.”
“No problem,” said Ari as he reached over and took the wheel with his right hand. “Now, take the minute and tell me what you see.”
As Burt looked at the screen, Ari pondered the terrain passing him by. Suddenly, he was not only here, but also in a place where thoughts were growing, shifting, appearing idle, threatening to be furious like the unpredictable desolate sand blowing over the road before him. Memories of similar landscapes pastthe awe of the Sahara, the intimacy of the Mojave, and blood-soaked sands of the Libyanall rushing past his eyes mixed and layered with the Baja, vying for their rightful place in his visionary landscape. He knew that without those previous experiences, there would just be sand on sand. But could others appreciate or even want to appreciate his kind of perception? Especially of famous personages? He glanced over at Burt who was contorting his face and twisting his head, studying the images in earnest. “Well, Burt? Time’s up.”
“Hmm. I see lights. They’re kinda blurred, you know.”
“Yeah, kinda blurred.”
“And faces. Lots of faces kinda buried in there, kinda hiding, you know?”
“Kinda.”
“And…well, this is kinda silly…”
“Go on. Nothing’s silly, Burt.”
“Well, this dress right here, I think it’s a dress. Kinda blowin’ in the breeze. Goin’ out you know?”
“Yes.”
“It’s…to me anyway…like a lizard holdin’ on for dear life in a hurricane?” Burt couldn’t help but laugh at his own thoughts. “It’s silly, like I said.”
Ari smiled. “I’m proud of you Burt. That’s a dress, or the skin of a chameleon… your choice. And it’s on a woman of infinite change. You see you are a critic, and… you see. That’s good. Most everyone out there just looks. You know the difference.” He passed the wheel back to Burt, pulled the iPad around and closed the screen. He resumed his gaze out the windshield. “That’s good, Burt. That gives me hope. I like to feel there’s hope, don’t you?”
Burt nodded, took a deep breath of pride, took out his Camels and offered one to Ari.
Ari shook his head politely, took out his Gauloise and offered Burt one of his.
“What are those?”
“Gauloise, a French cigarette.”
“French, huh. I’ll try one of those.”
“The two lit up and after a moment or two of tasting, Burt smiled. “Different.”
“Yes,” replied Ari.
“Like your picture stuff.”
“Kinda,” smiled Ari.
“Yeah,” answered Burt as he took a deep drag.
The Winnebago sped past a fence post where a raven perched, blinked, and pushed off, catching the motor home’s draft that lifted it up into the high noon sun.
|
|
|
Love ya!
Jane
Ari shows Burt that we all can be art critics if we take the time to examine art more carefully than simply glancing at it and moving on. I just looked at examples of art that has been posted on Snapchat by several female artists and one male artist that has caused them to be banned or blocked because the images are deemed too sexual according to their algorithm. All of the artwork I saw was quite creative and not at all offensive to me--some actually humorous. But then, I find that sex is more of a natural thing and not something to be hidden from view just because of someone else's failure to like it.
Ron