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Originally Published Thursday, November 13, 2014

"Tripple Elvis" by Warhol.  Andy, not the other one.  It sold last night for $86,000,000. 

1920's French Camel Back Club Chair.  Two of them and a cute little French Bistro table.  Last night they sold for around $3,000. 

OMG!  Here's an image I didn't even know existed.  It is a classic work from C.S. on Fuji Instant Film.  Early Era.  I will put it up for auction at a price anywhere between the two items above.  No, no, I can sell it for less.  I will.  Just don't make me die to do it.  

Weird that I don't remember this picture at all.  It might look good printed big and turned into an encaustic piece with some text transferred over it, perhaps some polka dots, too, in faded garish colors.  "Employees Must Wash Hands" or maybe something from an ad for pain relief.  I am amazed, really.  I don't remember this girl ever wearing clothing.  

*    *    *    

I spent yesterday at the factory.  I was a hollow shell of my former self.  I merely existed.  I had neither equilibrium nor motivation.  There was a constant stream of people through my doorway.  Each of them in his/her turn would pull up short and, wide-eyed, say something about my new haircut.  None of it was positive.  The very best I got was, "I don't hate it."  After that, I'd say the best was, "Oh. . . it will grow back."  There were the, "Noooooo. . . nooooooo. . . why?" statements and the flat out, "I hate it" statements.  Why are people so bold with me?  Truth teller that I am, I guess, nobody felt the need to lie.  But I didn't think the hair so bad myself.  In truth, it probably was the face and not the hair itself.  Perhaps it is more visible now.  Youthful hair contrasted with a face that has been destroyed.  Still. . . I am just off surgery.  I am in a delicate state for god's sake.  Why didn't they consider that?

I stayed longer than I intended.  I tried to get work done, but my mind was like the buzzing of bees in a little glass jar (Updike).  After everyone was gone, I walked to my car in the parking lot on my bad knee, the other not feeling so steady itself.  I climbed into the Xterra and sat for awhile.  I had a text to which I needed to respond.  The sky was full of altocumulus clouds and of that terrific color that says winter in the south, that high, translucent blue.  It was the sky I love.  The sun was slouching then, the air inside the car still warm.  I felt lazy, felt a laziness come over me that was not the fatigue I had been experiencing all day but a drowsy laziness that washes over you so comfortably, that makes you think of red wine and rich food and heavy deserts, and of the lovely, empty hours.  It was commanded that I would break my routine.  I sat longer thinking of how to respond to the text.  I hated the person on the other end.  I hated her so sadly, so softly.  How do you say that in a text while sitting in the warmth of the car at days end with the sky so heartbreaking and lovely?  

"Birdman" was playing at the local arthouse theater.  It was a Wednesday night.  The show started at 6:30.  I hadn't a need to be anywhere, really.  I was just tired and vulnerable and full of laziness.  I would meet her there.  We would go.  

"Should I see if they will give me that discount that ended yesterday?  Should I just buy the chairs before the movie?  Should I just go in and see?"  

In the growing dusk, I limped the block from the small, now nearly empty parking to the store.  This was it, I thought.  This was life, the very thing itself.  Normally I would be going to the gym now, a sterile life-denying activity that is somehow not optional.  But tonight, I had escaped.  Just now I was living life as it should be lived, me an escaped automaton.  

The woman from the day before who suggested that I might still get the sale price the day after the sale had ended greeted me like a friend.  

"You came back!" she said.  She was smiling warmly like a relative you've come to visit.  

"Yes," I said, "but I still haven't decided on which chairs to buy."

She told me which she preferred.  It was in agreement with the advice I had gotten from someone else.  

"Listen, if I pay for these now, do I still get the discount?"

"Yes," she said.  

"And if I change my mind, can I get the other chairs instead." 

"Sure," she said.  "You can do that."  

The store was beautiful on a Wednesday late afternoon.  Who were we in here now, I wondered?  There were a few others scattered about, and they were all buying things, big things, expensive things.  We did this as others hurried to the gym or drove to pick up the kids or flew home to make the evening dinner.  This was different, though, removed from all of that.  We moved slowly, elegantly.  Everything was leisurely and precise.  We represented something just then, I thought.  The way life should be lived.  In the moment, undistracted by mundanities or duties.  

"I'll take two of those, then," I said, "and that cafe table, too."  

"Very good.  I love all of that," she said.  

I flipped her my card, and while she rung up the purchase, I told her I would be back for some lamps and one of their minimalist Christmas trees. 

"Do you like those?" I asked her. 

"Oh, yes, very much," she said.  

"I will definitely get one," I said.  

Walking out into the dusk, crossing the Boulevard, everything looked familiar but different, too.  I had entered a forgotten town, I thought.  It had been a long time since I'd been here.  

In the car, I looked at the clock.  I just had time to make it to the theater.  I picked up my phone and texted, "What kind of fellow goes into a store, flips a card, and casually buys two leather chairs and a beautiful table on a Wednesday night?  Who?  Jesus Christ, do you know how big my dick is?  I'm on my way.  I'll be there in a moment."  

"I just got here.  I'll be at the bar.  Do you want something?  Yes. . . I know how big your dick is :)"

O.K.  I can not do that every night.  I really couldn't do it last night, either.  But I did, and it now defines me.  Oh, I still have time to change my mind.  I know that.  I can call and cancel the order and have all the money put back into my account.  But I won't.  No. . . I won't.  I am the kind of guy on a Wednesday night. . . .  

Maybe, though, I should quit reading romantic novels.  They seem to get me into nothing but trouble.