33. art or abetting - Sick Sacraments

33. art or abetting

“Even in his reduced environment, he felt that they still wanted more.”

Micky had just woken up from a bad dream of burning bread to the pain  

of a terrible cold sore pussing on the left side of his lip. He was  

lying in the back of the Galaxy 500 thinking about his options. He  

did not have the money to go to the clinic.

I didn’t ask to be born. Micky thought to himself. It is no wonder  

that people don’t give a crap about their own lives, carry guns and  

take pot shots at anything that moves. Society should maintain its  

people and not just regard them like another cog in the wheels of  

industry. If society doesn’t care doodly-squat for my life, let alone  

theirs, why should I respect anybody else? A gust of wind rattled the  

Galaxy.

Micky knew his worth as an artist, even though he did not deserve  

this viral crustation on the side of his mouth and consequently the  

scorn of every female he approached. He had proved himself adept as  

an A.C.N.E. artist / to be adept with his anti-constructivist, neo-

errorist actions, and felt that he had paid his dues and society now  

owed him one. It was true that his sublime artistic statements left  

many with a bad taste in their mouths. Some statements were never  

really fully digested by the public. He felt that if the world was  

going to get any better, it was the role as an artist to be a  

catalyst for change.

He smiled to himself, knowing that their dislike was an appropriate  

critique of his works in progress. It took time for parody to sink  

in, especially if the piece was so self-explanatory that the viewer  

did not understand the irony the first time around. It was  

unfortunate, he determined, that his brilliance would only be  

recognized after being studied in the academies, coming to light in  

the everyday world probably long after his death.

There must be some place somewhere for me in the universe. Micky  

thought staring out through the back left hand window of the Galaxy  

500, that respects their art treasures when they’re living and not  

when they’re dead and safely decomposed. I suppose, I am just too  

much of a threat for the living and will have to be silenced or  

sacrificed in the present, only later to be resurrected as a hero.

He wadded up a Kleentex extra soft and scented facial tissue and ever  

so lightly touched the open wound at the corner of his mouth. What  

the hell have I been doing, he questioned, to get such a god-damn  

massive cold sore? He studied the yellow pus on the facial tissue. I  

haven’t been sucking off stray beer cans, lately. Damn, this pisses  

me off! He crumpled up the Kleentex and tossed it over the front seat.

Micky sighed at his lack of prospects of meaningful activity for the  

approaching day. He would visit Dallas, smoke a joint, drink a cup of  

coffee, eat a sticky bun and talk about art, love, work, people and  

in general, life. They would sit on the porch and discuss the  

fundamentals of the anti-constructivist, neo-erroristic art movement.  

They would debate the role of the art academy in society, research  

different methods of communication, grapple to understand the bizarre  

nature of social codes, and devise a plan of action to lash out at  

the depravity of mankind and the abyss of non-creativeness.

With time to kill, ugly and broke, Micky felt his life had run amok  

and not even a cup of java could brighten his spirits. He fumbled  

through his back seat closet, rummaging through the empty cans of  

Pap’s, crumpled bags of Cheez-do’s, Hostess Ho-Ho’s and tiny wadded  

up balls of aluminium candy wrappers, and pulled out his diary.

He made himself comfortable, propping himself up in the back seat.  

There was just enough dawn for Micky to write, and with the aid of a  

nearby street lamp, he was ready. He sat for a moment, opened to a  

blank page, pulled out a pencil and began to jot down a few thoughts  

as he sat waiting for the day to arrive.

Time is outside my understanding, he wrote. It just creates problems  

because time is its own problem. I have come to the conclusion that I  

have to get a job.

Micky pondered the repercussions of such an act. It would certainly  

mean death to his famous bohemian lifestyle. Money is a tool of power  

and oppression, the root of all man’s evil. Money is also a tool for  

survival.

Getting a job meant for Micky the worthless consumption of his  

precious time and the betrayal of his politics and his principles. He  

placed his pencil between the pages and closed his diary. Change was  

in the air as another gust of wind shook the Galaxy. He started by  

collecting the discarded articles around him into a plastic bag. One  

trash bag led to another and within a few minutes, Micky had managed  

to straighten up his mobile home.

“Hey, hey, hey! What’s this?” Micky had stuck his hand between the  

seats and located a coin. “I think I’m goin’ to have breakfast.” He  

dislodged the seat temporarily to facilitate further salvaging. Amid  

the dust and little objects lost from purses and pockets, he found a  

quarter, a dime, one nickel and a newly minted penny, forty-one cents  

in all. He counted his newfound resources, combined with the few  

cents that he still had. The grand total gave him enough to make a  

visit to Slaveway worthwhile. He would pick up some specialty  

breakfast products before heading off to Dallas.

He added an extra layer of clothing and prepared his materials for  

the day. He stuffed his telephone book and his pocket instamatic into  

his backpack. He removed the bags of trash that he had collected and  

left them next to the locked industrial dumpsters in the parking lot.  

The usual morning onslaught of commuter traffic had not yet begun.  

The dawn light was slowly breaking over rice fields, birds were  

singing in the trees. It was the beginning of yet another beautiful day.

He locked the Galaxy and patted the hood a couple times for  

sentimental reasons, thanking his home on wheels. He knew if ever the  

Galaxy were to be towed away, he would indeed be homeless. To be  

without a home would be straw that would break him, sending him  

spiraling down through social disorder and delinquency.

Last night he had stationed his home in the parking lot of the almond  

factory at 13th and B, not the best area in the Grid to leave his  

home, but he saw no alternative. He was running on empty and would  

probably have to search tonight for another place to park and sleep.

He strapped on his backpack and started walking the twenty or so  

blocks to the supermarket. It was gray and moist, intermittent gusts  

of cold and warm air with morning drizzle, a day to cherish for it  

was not too often that it was overcast. Actually, he thought, this is  

perfect weather for spending a day at the Bum ’n Burn, reading,  

writing, babbling endlessly with caffeine freaks on their tenth cup  

and maybe even finding some kind of job.

He changed directions and walked east through the alleys, checking  

out the back of people’s houses, passing elm trees slated to be  

chopped down. Always on the take, Micky decided to make a quick  

detour and stop off at the tram station and bum extra change from  

commuters. He had not planned on doing a performance action so early  

in the morning but he knew as an artist he was always creating. Life  

for Micky was one big neo-erroristic action.

He knew his cold sore would work to his advantage in coaxing coins  

away from the brainless yet politically correct state workers as he  

sat on the platform passively begging. He donned his knitted cap and  

a note he had written stating his need for a snack and began singing  

à cappella the words of a song which spanned generations.

It takes five seconds to decide

if you’re going to be like a butterfly,

five seconds of your time,

if you’re goin’ to be hers or goin’ to be mine.

Never goin’ to be happy again.

How am I going to get through?

Lying naked in a cage,

can’t take it, full of rage.

Like an animal in the zoo,

what am I goin’, goin’ to do?

How can I still love you

after what you put me through?

Lying naked in a cage,

looking up in the sky,

I am full, full of rage,

constantly asking why.

Want to be a butterfly

flying free at the zoo.

I want to fly, fly away

and get away, ’way from you.

I want to be a butterfly

flying free at the zoo.

I want to fly in the sky

and get away, ’way from you,

’cause:

Butterflies are free at the zoo.

Butterflies are free at the zoo.

Butterflies are free at the zoo.

Butterflies are free at the zoo.

Micky sang the song until he was escorted off the platform by Lite  

Rail guards. He did manage to double his bounty, though. Deciding it  

was still too early for Sunbeams not wanting to confront the mass of  

state yuppies grabbing their first double espresso on their way to a  

power breakfast, he returned to his original plan.

He passed through Mrs. Gabor’s garden shaking rose petals to the  

ground. Mrs. Gabor was a local downtown celebrity. Old and forgotten  

by her husbands, she improvised by holding church at her house with  

the neighborhood turks, smoking pot and offering bakery treats. She  

had cured herself of cancer through a macrobiotic diet, and had  

convinced local authorities that her property was outside their  

domain of eminence. It had been a long and arduous battle. The Grid  

community had rallied together and prevented developers from  

demolishing yet another historical landmark and constructing a  

disposable glass cube office complex in its place. Occasionally in  

summer, Micky would do some light garden work or paint a chalk mural  

on the sidewalk in front of her house. For which, Mrs. Gabor would  

bring him out a beer and a sandwich and they would chat a bit till  

the sun got too thick and she had to retire.

He walked past 1617 18th street. He had a particular interest in  

the address, a freak accident when it came to the postal service  

parceling out addresses. The same was true with the telephone  

company’s distribution of phone numbers. Denver’s in particular,  

444-5678, was dead easy to remember. Micky searched for a  

metaphysical coincidence and finally shrugged the idea off after  

associating it with the chaos theory. He continued east, crossing  

over to the Alkaline Flats section of the Grid. He spied a woman  

putting money into a newspaper machine and quickly ran over to her.

“Hey. Could you do me a favor, could I have one of those newspapers?”  

Startled, the woman was about to close the machine door but Micky  

stuck his hand in the way. “Look. I don’t have any money and I’m  

tryin’ to find a job.” Micky grabbed the Bee. “Thanks.”

The woman stepped back and studied Micky “Why, that’s funny. What a  

coincidence. What kind of job are you looking for?”

“I dunno. Something part time where I just do manual labor and don’t  

have to think.”

“There is a fast food place opening up on Z street. I saw a sign in  

the window the other day. They’re taking applications.”

“What kind of fast food?

“I can’t tell you. All those places look the same.”

“Where?” Micky asked.

“Near the old Target building. Next to the cemetery.”

“Do you mean on the other side of the YMCA?”

“No. Not that far. Further down from Tower Theater.”

“Is it next to the Sumitomo Bank?”

“Between the bank and La Loca Dia.”

“Oh. I know what you are talking about. It’s going to be an ethnic  

fast food restaurant. I think they’ll hire their family first. You  

know, I have to tell ya’, I’m tired of slingin’ burgers, ma’am. I did  

that already, and I am also over washin’ dishes.”

“Suit yourself.” She folded the newspaper and tucked it under her  

armpit. She took a step back and noticed Micky’s attire. “I hope you  

don’t mind me asking, but do you need a pair of shoes, it’s getting  

cold.” She was referring to Micky’s torn and dirty jeans, faded sweat  

shirt and bare feet.

“Yeah. Well maybe it’s time.”

“Well, if you want, I got some old shoes from a former tenant of  

mine. He was about your size. Say, if you want, I got a little job  

for you. I’ll give you something to eat.” she offered. “What size  

shoes do you wear?”

Micky held his breath, not knowing which question to answer first. “  

Yes. Yeah, I can do some work for you. Size forty-two.” He answered  

affirmatively, not wanting to miss an opportunity that could turn out  

positively. Micky was thrilled that this woman had taken interest in  

his life. He forgot about the cold sore for a moment. He reached into  

his pocket and pulled out a crumpled package of generic cigarettes.  

“Would you like a smoke?”

“Don’t mind if I do. It’s been a long time since I had anyone offered  

me a cigarette. Sure, thanks.”

“What kind of job is it?” Micky inquired, lighting the cigarettes  

with his Zippi lighter.

“Like I said, a tenant of mine moved out and left all his stuff in  

his room. I need for someone to clean out his room. You can have  

whatever is in there. Plus, there are some old newspapers and bottles  

in the cellar I need to bring to the recycling center. I have a  

shopping cart in the garage. You can make a couple of trips. Can you  

do garden work?”

“Depends. What kind of garden work?”

“I need someone to dig a ditch for a compost pile. It’s a day’s  

work.” She nervously held the cigarette in her hand. “We can talk  

about it later.”

“Sounds good.” He took a puff.

“Okay. I’ll pay wages by the hour and you can keep the money from  

returning the bottles. I’ll be happy to get rid of the junk. I think  

that would be enough money to do something about that cold sore.”

“Oh yeah!” Holding up The Bee to cover his facial blemish. “It’s been  

botherin’ me something fierce and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“You come with me now and I’ll doctor it up. I used to be a nurse’s  

assistant, you know, during the war. Come. I’m walking back to my  

house now. Do you want to come now?

“Yeah. I’ll follow. I have some time. Where do you live?”

“I live just a few houses down at 1418 F Street.”

“You live pretty close to the house where Richard Trenton Chase used  

to live.”

“Who’s he?” She stepped over a pile of dried elm leaves and dead puce  

gutted bugs. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“No,” smiling, “he’s the guy who went on a blood drinkin’ spree. The  

self-proclaimed vampire of northern california. You never heard of  

him?” He pointed to another house on the same street, “And that’s  

where Squeeky Fromm used to live. I had some friends who lived there  

afterwards and they found a gun in a secret compartment underneath  

the stairs.”

“Who’s Squeaky Fromm?” The old woman shuffled up the pavement with  

Micky along side.

“Ever hear of the Manson family?”

“No.” They stopped at the chain link fence surrounding her property.  

“I’ve lived here for the past 40 years. This house has always  

belonged to the Puente family. My father bought it when he came to  

work for the state. I don’t remember the Mason family living in this  

street.”

“Never mind.” He followed her into the front yard with a tinge of  

apprehension. “You wouldn’t understand anyway. It’s a long story.”

“Don’t forget to close the gate behind you.” She said going up the  

wooden stairs.