36. an icky day - Sick Sacraments

36. an icky day

There sure are a lot of little things that can really fuck up my day.  

Like when people tell me I look tired when I’m not. Or when I got  

this piece of spinach stuck on my tooth and no one mentions it and  

I’ve talked to a hundred people.

Such were Micky’s thoughts as he waited for the mile long train that  

cuts through the grid twice a day to pass. He was bummed out. He had  

just had a bad experience that had gotten him thinking. He had been  

craving a vanilla That’s That and had gone to his local market to  

satisfy his yen. When he got there, he was told that the last one had  

just been sold. Disillusioned, he chose a peppermint Dove Bar instead  

and went to pay. June refused his five-dollar bill, claiming it  

was counterfeit. Disenchantment with his neighborhood grocer 

led him to  question the ethics of consumerism as he walked 

down the street. On  his way, he noticed an Art Angles flyer, 

tore it off the telephone poll and stuck it in his pocket. A modicum 

of faith renewed.

Micky waited and smiled at the others who had collected waiting for  

the train to pass. Behind them he noticed the holiday lighting that  

had started to appear around town. He wondered why people bought 

into the world of commercial festivities, if there was any depth in  

holiday merry making or if it was just another excuse for self-made  

disillusionment.

“Hey you, psst!”

Micky looked around.

“Hey you. psst. Over here. Psst!”

He continued to search the faces.

“Psst. Over here, man.”

Micky finally noticed the chubby youth sitting on the wooden steps of  

a dilapidated victorian.

“Come here, man.” He waved for Micky to approach.

Micky peered at the youth, who seemed vaguely familiar. He looked  

trustworthy enough in his red and white sweatshirt and green jogging  

pants. He was even sporting a new pair of Jordans running shoes.  

Micky turned around and pointed to himself, “You talk’n to me?”

“Yeah. You buddy. Come over here.” He motioned for Micky to approach.

Micky sauntered over to the steps of the dilapidated Victorian.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Micky nodded.

“You like to smoke?” He took a quick puff of an imaginary object.

Micky nodded again and sat down next to the youth.

“I thought so.” He lit the joint he had been hiding in his palm, took  

a quick drag to get it burning and handed it to Micky.

Micky smiled, said, “Tastes really good,” and returned the joint to  

the youth. Micky somehow managed to remain high throughout 

his waking  

hours. However, for the past weeks, he had been smoking some nasty  

skunk that got him only a teeny bit high and left him with a sore  

throat.

“Yeah. It be Californian Sunny Bud, the best, man. You don’t get this  

stuff that often.” They watched the train and passed the joint  

between them, carefully milking every wisp of smoke from the doobie.

“Too bad this stuff is illegal. If it was legal, it would change the  

world. Do you want the rest?”

“No. You finish it.”

Micky took a nose hit and threw the joint into the garden. They both  

sat in silence and enjoyed the high. Sometime later, they  

simultaneously became aware of their environment and realized the  

train had passed.

“Look. I gotta go. I was wondering if you could do me a favor? Do you  

need some holiday gifts? I just got fired and I need some money, I’ve  

got to unload some records, maybe you’d like to buy some?”

“I thought I recognized you. You work at Power.’”

“I did until recently. There was a massive culling, man and a bunch  

of us got fired.”

“You know my friend Denver then. He got fired too.”

“Yeah. I know him. My name is Juan.”

„Micky’s my name.”

They shook hands.

„So, I got fired the next day. My replacement was already there.  

Power is a machine and we are slaves. So how’s Denver doing?”

“Like you. Lookin’ for money. Look. I don’t need any records but I  

would love to buy some pot.” He reached around for his wallet. “Do  

you have any extra?”

“My uncle’s got pot. You’ve got to come with me. We live in the  

victorian over there.”

The two walked over the tracks to another dilapidated victorian where  

Juan introduced Micky to his uncle and went to the kitchen to make  

some hot chocolate. After a moment, Micky suddenly realized with whom  

he was speaking. It was the artist whose claim to fame came from  

creating a scandal by ripping off his clothes at a televised Church  

of Opportunity, First Christian service, and prostrating himself  

before the altar whilst foaming at the mouth.

“You know, I wrote about your church action in the local rag. Wow! I  

finally get to meet you.”

“You found me. It was meant to happen. At first they didn’t know what  

to do with me. I pretended to be in a religious trance and I got to  

sleep in the church next to the altar. People would bring me food and  

I’d lick their sins. It was really art but it’s hard to get a show  

when you do stuff that criticizes society. No one wants shit hanging  

on the walls. They want pastoral scenes and all that kitsch.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this long ago. I’ve got stories  

to last a lifetime. You want to see some documentation?” He lit a  

joint, took a deep hit, and passed it to Micky. Juan came back with a  

spicy hot cacao drink and some biscuits.

Micky watched and listened as José recounted his adventures at the  

church, and how he had met Preacher Dan and persuaded the reverend 

of his saintliness, or at least his ability to bring in the crowds.

“At first Preacher Dan wanted to pry into my devoted intentions, but I  

just babbled on about my art and gave it some religious overtones.  

That seemed to satisfy him. Juan, here, filmed the encounters with  

the pilgrims, and pretty soon it was like a carnival. They started  

building an altar around me. I had a bed of flowers, candles, there  

was food galore, plus wine and rum, and I just lay there. When I  

needed exercise, I would just shake and howl a lot. But I could see  

after a while that Preacher Dan was not happy. My altar had started  

to challenge the beauty of his. Here’s the scene when I got up and  

walked out.”

“You just left?”

“Yeah. I felt that my popularity was beginning to wane. You know when  

you’ve overstayed your welcome. I wanted it to remain a mystery with  

no hard feelings. So one foggy night in Sacramento, I blew out the  

candles and just walked out. Performance art doesn’t have a beginning  

or an end.”

“Sounds like an A.C.N.E tactic to me, anti-constructivist, neo- 

errorist.”

“I call it The Opportunists. Clever and money.”

“Yeah. Clever and money. The Opportunists. If that means randomly  

breakin’ down the concepts of tired males who burn for post- 

modernism, then I’m with ya’.”

They slapped their hands together.

“Wow! What a coincidence. I am so glad to have met you. When I  

started researchin’ about you for the Sutters Weekly article, about  

the man who’d been livin’ in the church, I put two and two together.  

I knew it had to be some art thang. I know about what you did in  

Hanford. You got thrown out of town for that.”

“Smart, dude. I shouldn’t of mixed gasoline with religious hatreds.  

People were bound to react. But that was the point of the action. I  

haven’t been back since. That’s also why I decided to just up and  

leave the church of christ.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So what are  

you up to?”

“Right now, I’m doin’ this time-space work. I’ve been livin’ in a  

Ford Galaxy, documentin’ my life on the streets of Sacramento. I  

don’t drive it that much. I lock my bike to the car bumper. Can I  

take your picture?” He popped a last morsel of biscuit into his mouth.

“Sure. Sounds like a good idea. This will be my first documentation  

since the church event. I’ve been hangin’ low planning my next  

action. You know that Reallife is coming up here to build a chemical  

factory. Say, what’s your name?”

“Micky Hill,” he mumbled and sucked the last drop from his cup of cacao.

“Icky Ill?”

“Okay.” Micky swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Why not?” He  

coughed harder. “Yeah. I guess that works. Thanks.” He took the glass  

of water that Juan offered. “You know, people have been callin’ me  

all sorts of things. Just recently, I used to have an ’m’ and an ’h’  

attached to my name, but I guess I’ve just been baptized Icky Ill.”  

He nodded to José. “A while back, people called me Micky Hill, and  

before that it was Micky Bill, and before that, Billy Hill and Micky  

Bill Hill, and way before all of that, it all started off with  

Michael William Hill, The Third. You get the point. I guess sooner or  

later, I’ll be reduced to Ill or K.Y., or maybe even just Y.”

“Wow. How deconstructivist, reducing one’s name! That’s something to  

think about. So, Micky Hill, or Icky Ill. The former name rings a  

bell. This is a long shot. You wouldn’t happen to know an artist by  

the name of Vella Schwartzman?”

Icky whistled loud and clear in affirmation.

“I thought maybe you did. I know her, too. We went to school together  

in sacto before she moved to stockton. We did a piece in berkeley a  

while back where she ironed and told stories of abusive childhood and  

genocide, and I lay naked in a bathtub full of cow eyes for twelve  

hours.”

“I remember Vella telling me about it. I’ve seen pictures of the  

performance. To date, the only one she has officially done. A really  

strong piece. I wish I would’ve seen it.” Icky yawned and stretched  

his arms above his head. “Sorry, oxygen deficiency.”

“Oh, it was. We had people throwing up. Vella was on so much speed,  

she was going, going, going, gone. I don’t think she shut up for a  

second except for the times when she broke down and started crying.  

It was an emotional soup kitchen. We had people coming in and telling  

their stories of debauchery. We had people coming in and bleeding  

their souls out on the floor. It was beyond the grasp of any ordinary  

consumer. So it never played again, that constellation.”

“So you’re the one in the bathtub.”

“Yap. That’s me. I had hair back then, long hair.” He ran a hand over  

his bald head. “You know, Vella showed me some stuff from you and 

a friend of yours, I think his name is Danny Griess.”

Icky laughed. “Denver Griess.”

“Yeah. That’s him. She says you two are a clever and creative duo.”

“That’s good to know.”

“She also says that she has a lot of respect for the both of you and  

is glad that others are here to take up the sword.”

“She said that? That’s nice of her. I respect Vella but she put me  

through hell. It was only after I calmed down, that she calmed down.  

She really knew how to work my nerves.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve got a few stories myself. She’s always  

trying to bring out the best in others.” He nodded sympathetically.  

“We’ve got to meet again. You know where I live. I’d like to read  

that article you wrote. Plus, I’m planning an action that you might  

be interested in participating in. So how much pot do you want to buy?”

“A small bag. I don’t have that much money.” Icky reached around to  

retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. “Oh shit.” He tapped his  

other pockets and surveyed the area around him. “Where’s my wallet? 

I  had it this morning. Wait minute. I know.”

Without explanation, Icky ran out the front door and across the  

street to the victorian where he had met Juan. He frantically  

searched the surroundings but found no wallet.

“D’ooh!” he cursed and slapped his forehead with the palm of his  

hand. “This is a bad day.”