10. peach-clobber - Sick Sacraments

10. peach-clobber

Denver was lucky. He knew his living conditions were better than those of 

ninety-five percent of the people in the world. He had a roof over his 

head even if it was somewhat expensive to maintain. He had hot running 

water  coming out of the walls, a toilet that washed his waste away,  

electricity that made life easier, and trash removal. He was living  

in the paradise of sacramento. Lots of sun, and lots of fruits and nuts.

Since he had been out of love, he had not been paying too much  

attention to these basic gifts. His health even played second fiddle  

to his heart. What went in came out, on a regular basis, and that was  

good enough for him. Even the inconvenience of a loose molar, forcing  

him to chew on the left side of his mouth, was inconsequential  

compared to his broken heart.

He knew that he was lucky enough to be doing something he liked  

instead of liking something he had to do. He was an artist, and even  

though it meant self-discipline and a meager income, he was more than  

willing to pay that price. He did his service to society by working  

at a local record store, which meant the rent could be paid even if  

it meant sacrificing his ego during his hours of employment.

“I am lucky. I got a job to do.” Denver Griess made his way to the  

toilet, turning on the radio in the living room before sitting down  

to shit. While doing so, he thought about the last time he had made  

money with his art. In it he had juxtaposed his lifestyle with that  

of his father.

Whenever business brought Martin up to sacramento, he would stop over  

at his son’s house and stay long enough to unload some free samples  

and test products, explain what they were about, and drink a cup of  

coffee. His father’s visits were always spontaneous. If his son was  

not there, he would dump the gimmicks off with Janet, who was always  

at home or in the garden. It seemed to Denver that this ritual was  

his father’s pathetic attempt at acknowledging his son’s existence,  

perhaps in some way, evenhis artistic lifestyle. More than that his  

father did not ask, and changed the subject when Denver wanted to tell.

He had plastered every inch of the End Art Gallery with the  

advertisements, free samples and test products he had accumulated  

>from his father. He called the show, ’Open Space’. The general crowd  

did not understand his concept and instead got caught up in a test- 

and-free-sample frenzy. He had enlisted a few friends to be sales  

assistants and the show sold out. Denver had made sure that there was  

something for everyone and had given away as much as he had sold. To  

top it off, he auctioned off the items he most valued, and sent the  

crowd into a bidding frenzy. It was a great publicity stunt and the  

sacramento art crowd had lapped it up.

Based on this success, he had a group show at SoToDo in the fall and  

had been promised a solo show at the prestigious Benjamin Levy  

Gallery by Benny himself. Though if it actually materialized, it  

would be a miracle. The show was scheduled for November but Benny was  

known for weaseling out of oral commitments when his wallet required.

Is that what it takes to bring art to the people? Denver asked  

himself. Isn’t there another way to get my message across? People  

like Benny only really want a Martin to come along and present them  

with catalogues of cheap objects for top dollar resale. I’m not a  

maker of art. I’m simply a line in the sales pitch. It’s the goods  

that matter. Bennys and Martins are the middlemen and I’m the  

sweatshop worker, the bottom rung on the ladder of capitalism. Is  

that how it has to be?

Denver stood, flushed and entered the bathtub. He cleaned his rosette  

with water, long ago having rejected toilette paper as a symbol of  

man’s devolution. Purged of fecal material, he plugged the tub and  

let it fill with warm water. He laid back, caressed his penis and let  

the water slowly envelop his body.

Denver thought about his art marketing strategy. It was mostly a one- 

man show with a lot of community service in between. For the past few  

years, he had been experimenting with yellow, a color seldom used in  

western societies. He primed all art pieces with yellow wash, and  

wore only yellow clothing, declaring it an ongoing performance art  

piece.

The transition had been organic. He gradually replaced worn clothing  

with yellow items. When none such could be found, he simply dyed  

white garments. He no longer needed to separate because everything  

came out the same in the wash. However, he was not dogmatic about it.  

He reasoned that wearing black and white was okay as they were not  

colors, but the absence or presence of light.

At first people commented, but now only took notice when he wore a  

different color.

Going monochrome had brought unexpected benefits.

There were constant gifts of clothing. Everyone had, at one time or  

another it seemed, bought something yellow only to never wear it,  

usually claiming it clashed with their skin. He was never lost. He  

could wander away from a group of friends at will, knowing that they  

would have no trouble spotting him in a crowd. His color decisions  

were also simplified, whether it be salt-shaker, toilet brush or dish  

soap. In the process, what had started off as a continuous  

performance art piece, had evolved into his corporate logo.

The phone rang and his answering machine activated.

“I’m sorry. All our operators are busy right now. Please hold the  

line.” The opening bars of Tammy Wynett’s ’Stand by Your Man’ whined  

for a few seconds until the voice of Denver broke in and announced,  

“Thank-you. You may now leave a message.”

“That’s an awfully loud message. Can’t you turn down the volume on  

your machine? You shouldn’t subject people to that. Don’t you think  

you’re a little too old for such silliness? I’m calling because I  

wanted to know if you’re alive. Shoot Denver! Rats treat their  

mothers better than you do. Did you see your dad when he was up there  

last week? Why don’t you ever call? The house could burn down and if  

you don’t keep in touch, you would never know. You’re always so busy  

doing whatever it is you do, which, if I know you, is probably  

nothing. The only two professions you’re good at are smoking and  

sleeping. I’ve got to go now. I got to pick up your father’s suits at  

the cleaner’s. I have things to do. In case you wondered, Grandma  

Griess is still in a coma at the home. I called the other day to  

check. Oh, here’s some news for you. I ran into your crazy friend  

Troy the other day at the salon. He said he just got back from taking  

a Princess Cruise in the caribbean. I told him you haven’t move. He  

said he will call. Oh, by the way, the cat’s sick again. She needs  

another diabetes injection, she hasn’t moved in days. Do me a favor  

and leave a message at least, so I know you’re alive.”

The phone went dead and the answering machine clicked to rewind.

The water had finally covered his skinny body with its blanket of  

moist warmth. Denver started to sing in strong low tones, “Night time  

is the right time for reminiscing …” Denver turned off the faucet  

with his foot, and his singing crescendoed, “When I get that feeling  

of indigo, I just want to lie down and die.”

The telephone rang again.

“Hello. It’s me, Vella, calling you from the abyss.”

Denver’s ears perked up and he stopped singing.

“I’m surprised I remembered your number. I don’t have it written  

down. I kept calling the wrong number. I kept calling 442. Ah, forget  

it! That’s a great message, Denver. I’m doing the same thing as soon  

as I get off. Thank you for calling me and caring about me. I know  

what loneliness is. I have been alone most of my life. I’m not okay  

but I’m not doing anything bad and I’m taking my meds and seeing a  

doctor every two weeks. But I’ve disappeared. No one calls me and I  

don’t call anyone else. I’ve disappeared. I wish you’d come and visit  

me.”

There was a moment’s pause followed by a sob. He was glad to be stuck  

in the tub at this moment for he was not in the mood to deal with her  

mania or depression. Although he truly felt her pain at the moment,  

communal weeping via satellite just did not make sense.

“I’ll try to call you again. I guess your receptionist is out on a  

break. I was going to write you an email but I can’t even face the  

computer. I’m real depressed but I’m not doing anything else bad. I’m  

trying to quit drinking so at least my drinking is cut down. I’m  

still drinking once a week or so and still craving it, you know.  

Having a hard time with it, but it is really bad for me. It makes me  

cry even more if that’s possible. Thanks so much for calling me and  

caring about me. Alright, I love you.”

Denver heard a sob and pictured her wiping her nose on the sleeve of  

her black kimono as she hung up.

How sad, he concluded, how love could make or break a soul. Vella  

knows the language of sadness. In the emotional state I’m in, she’s  

truly one of the only people I can relate to.

As he floated in the hot water, he could not help but bring back  

thoughts of happier times, times when he and Peach had been  

spiritually bonded. They had promised each other the world, shared  

social obligations and loved each other with wild abandon. Such times  

would never be theirs again, at least not today.

He stewed further, inadvertently slipping back in his thoughts to the  

separation, how it had occurred, how he could have prevented it, what  

he could have done differently, and what he would never do in a  

relationship again. He ached to love and to be loved. Holding back  

the cramping in his heart, he took a deep breath, and tried to sing  

the last line of the song that was still stuck in his mind, but tears  

welled up in his eyes. Sometimes the sadness was unbearable. He  

covered his eyes with his right hand and jerked off with each sob  

that overcame him.

He did not care if the bath water sloshed onto the floor. He felt he  

had a right to sob. Crying helped him release the tightness in his  

heart, helped him unload the emotional weight that was buried in his  

gut. From now until whenever, a big black cloud would be hanging over  

his head and there was nothing he could do about it. Sink or swim.

The phone rang again. It was Vella continuing her message.

“Hello cheri, it’s me again. I forgot to ask you something. Could you  

call or tell Micky, I know he doesn’t have a phone, that I’m not  

dead. I am just not into communitcating, right now. Could you tell  

Micky that I really appreciate his postcards? Chad has never  

understood the relationship between Micky and I. We never did  

anything. Could you tell Micky? I can’t tell him. I can’t trust him  

after the bad things he said, even though he apologized and said that  

he would never do it again. I don’t want him to stop sending me his  

postcards. I really appreciate them. I‘ve been trying to answer the  

door but I can’t get out of bed. Could you tell him, please? You  

know, I got robbed and beat up in the same week. I mean I just don’t  

get it. I don’t get it. Some kid from the Kwiky Market beat me up  

when I was …”

Her time was up and the machine broke off her monologue. After the  

beeps, Denver allowed himself to be distracted from thoughts of his  

sadness for a few moments by thoughts of concern for Vella  

Schwartzman, whose life was made difficult by her bipolar disorder.

For months, she peaked. Everything she did felt great. She could  

consume excessive amounts of alcohol and pot, do a line of speed and  

go for days without sleeping. She would push herself to the edge. In  

her mania state, she believed everything she did had a spark of  

genius, once even crashing her car to smithereens for the thrill of  

art. During this phase, she felt she could do no wrong.

Below was the valley of depression. She would be lying flat on her back 

for  weeks, unable to make it out of bed, unable to make a decision on  

even the most banal of matters such as breakfast. Waking up was a  

mistake. Communication with the outside world was unbearable. Only  

friends whose trust she cherished were given access. Her only  

comforts during such spells were those of waiting and spinning out on  

handicrafts.

Denver remembered his first encounter with Vella at B.B’s in the wee  

hours of the morning. She had been sitting alone at a booth, looking  

like a high priestess from an ancient religion, dressed in black with  

matching lipstick and nail polish. Her ears were pierced and hung  

with silver earrings. Massive amounts of heavy metal jewelry adorned  

her neck and her wrists, and fell in chains from her garments. They  

tinkled against each other as if to ward off spirits, with even the  

slightest gesture. She was chain-smoking and drinking black coffee.  

She had brought her own saltines, on which she was nibbling while  

alternating between writing in her diary with a glass ink pen, or  

staring out the window.

At first Denver assumed drug dependency, but because of the honesty  

with which she carried herself, he became fascinated. He smiled. She  

nodded. She signaled for him to sit with her and that was all it took  

to strike up a friendship that would last through years of her peaks  

and valleys of mental illness.

He cherished her uniqueness but was always careful not to get too  

involved. Unfortunately, his best friend Micky had had to learn the  

hard way, for Vella had a way of sucking friends into her problems  

until they were forced to taking drastic and unkind actions to break  

away from the relationship. When visiting Vella, one had to know when  

to say stop and to always stress a definite time of departure,  

otherwise there was no way of escaping gracefully.

Denver decided he would return Vella’s call when he was in a better  

mood and sure that he could pay the phone bill. It was never possible  

to just call up Vella for a quick chat. They would have to speak for  

a good hour before he could even start saying good-bye.

Denver realized his fingers and toes were not only wrinkled but were  

beginning to hurt. It was time to get out of the tub and get on with  

his morning ritual. It was time to stop dwelling on the past. He  

would just have to learn from his sadness. Then, he could celebrate  

it and become more of the creative artist he truly was.

After buff drying, he moved in close to the mirror above the sink to  

make a little effort at beautification. He found nothing unusual. He  

pulled a few visible nose hairs and combed his fingers through his  

damp hair. Content that his body was holding up even in such tragic  

conditions, he exited the bathroom.

Still naked, fluffing his muff, he followed his two cats who were  

waiting to be fed into the kitchen. He filled a saucer half full from  

a carton of chocolate milk which he had left out on the counter  

overnight, and gave it to the cats. They sniffed apprehensively then  

cautiously lapped up the lukewarm chocolate-flavored dairy product.  

Since it had passed the kitty test, he poured the remains of the  

carton into a faded electric-blue aluminum cup and went searching for  

something to eat.

He started at the fridge and cautiously opened the door but found  

nothing except a carton of milk, an egg and a Bob’s Big Boy plastic  

doll kept there to remind him of the irony of life. He rummaged  

around in the cupboards until he found a small can of DeMonty  

peaches, some Sunkiss raisins stuck in the bottom of the box, and a  

few hard slices of chemically-enriched Wonder Bread. At the gas  

stove, he poured the peaches into a saucepan and added the  

egg, the milk, the pieces of bread, and crumbled the raisins on top.

As his breakfast mixture coagulated, he glanced at the bounty  

surrounding him and forced himself to remember he was indeed – a  

lucky guy.

“Peach-clobber. Let’s make it happen.”