Preparatory notes for fu.., p.4
Preparatory Notes for Future Masterpieces, page 4
I bounded down the stairs, not even stopping to pick up a dropped pencil. Both hands full, I banged on Enrique’s door with my forehead. His mother opened the door just wide enough so that I could see an eyeball and her nostrils. “What do you want? Enrique’s not here,” she said suspiciously. That was when I remembered it was Wednesday and Enrique would be selling newspapers on the corner of Tenth and Union. I ran down the steps, out the door, and turned one last time in case orderlies in white outfits were entering the building just as I was fleeing.
The second I saw Enrique, immaculately dressed as usual, his fedora pulled stylishly low over his left eye, I called out to him, “We need to go! We need to go now!” He stopped yelling out the headlines and turned in the direction of my voice. The expression on his face, the radiant happiness, his great joy at seeing me so unexpectedly, instantly reassured me that I was going to be okay. My mother no longer wanted me around, but someone did. My mother was ashamed of my singularity, but Enrique wasn’t. His devotion was palpable.
“Where are we going?” he asked, his complicity assured.
I didn’t know where we were going, I hadn’t thought about it yet. But in that instant I had a revelation: Albuquerque was too small for us. It was a city, sure, but what we needed was something grander, some place where worlds converged, where ideas were exchanged, where history was written. It was so plain to me then. I don’t know why I even had to think about it. Our destiny was before us.
“We’re going to Paris!” I said.
“Paris?”
“Yes, Paris!”
To his credit, the smile did not leave Enrique’s face—it was obvious he didn’t want to quash my enthusiasm—but he was always of a more practical bent. All he said was, “Well, I have enough saved for the two of us to get to Los Angeles.”
“But that’s in the opposite direction of Paris!”
“We’ll figure it out from there,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder and giving it a little squeeze.
I accepted that compromise. It was his money paying our way after all. I was ready to head directly to the bus station when Enrique asked me where my clothes were. I told him that all I needed was what I held in my hands. He glanced momentarily at the rolled strips of canvas, the sheets of paper, the remnants of my personal bible, The Great Book of French Painting, and my little box of drawing utensils, and he smiled. “You should really get some clothes. We’ll be gone for a while.”
“Forever!” I said. “We’re gone forever.”
“All the more reason why you need a change of clothes.”
I explained somewhat incompletely that I couldn’t return home because my mother had banished me. Enrique thought for a moment and then said that he had an idea. He would visit his father’s tailor shop and rummage through the bin where his father kept miscellaneous articles of clothing. He would find a few outfits for me and then he would stop by his place to see if his mother wouldn’t pack us a lunch. I worried that he would run into the orderlies, so I cautioned him about returning to the boarding house. “Maybe it’s best to steer clear,” I said. “There might be people looking for me.” Enrique eyed me strangely, but then said, “I’ll be on the lookout.” He took off.
I waited for him there on the corner, looking around me, still expecting the orderlies from Dry River Sanitarium to be on my trail. Forty-five minutes passed, and just as I was sure that my pursuers had captured Enrique and were pressuring him into confessing my whereabouts, he appeared in the distance, saddled with two bags. He was also now wearing two fedoras, his black one and on top of that a gray fedora with a burgundy band. I rushed to greet him. He handed me one of the bags and said, “This is full of clothes. I grabbed what was there.” I peeked inside and to my delight found articles made of the finest fabric: a few slacks, a white linen dress shirt, a heavier cotton dress shirt, and a pair of suspenders.
“What’s with the two hats?” I asked.
Enrique smiled and took off the second fedora. “This,” he said. “Is yours. I found it lying about. No one will miss it.”
He placed it on my head. I was instantly overcome by a head-to-toe tingling sensation. I felt as if all my life I had been tottering back and forth and that this hat, this wonderful short-brimmed 100 percent wool fedora, had restored my balance. I felt complete, I felt whole. I felt as if all my life had led to this point—this escape, this departure—and all of my life following would flow from it.
We took the Greyhound to Los Angeles. I talked almost the entire way. Several passengers in front of us and behind asked if I would be quiet so that they could sleep, but I couldn’t stop talking as long as Enrique urged me to continue. He listened, hanging on to every word, every “um,” every brief dramatic pause. I told him about my mother’s letters, how delusional she was about my delusions, how I almost wished for a confrontation, measuring my perspective with hers, and that I would only refuse such a confrontation because the world had proven itself over and over again unkind to free thinkers and visionaries. As I spoke, Enrique recorded what I was saying in his notebook, emitting encouraging “uh hum”s every few seconds, as if he knew exactly my meaning. I believe he did. I had convinced him that this trip was going to be something special, and we agreed that every aspect needed to be recorded.
Eventually the passenger in front of us, a fat man with a pinkish bald head who had covered his face with a handkerchief and kept banging the back of his head against his chair and groaning, turned around and said, “Boy, it’s dark out and we all trying to sleep. Will you please shut yer mouth?”
I don’t think I even paused. I was in the middle of a point and I could see that Enrique was really enthusiastic about that point and I didn’t want him to miss a word, or to lose my train of thought. I continued talking even as the man in front of us stood up from his chair and raised his Coca-Cola bottle over me. Then he began to pour it. I can still hear the slow glug as, unable to move, I felt the liquid soak my shirt and pants.
“That’ll teach you to quit yer blabbing, you goddamn Spic,” the man said.
It did. I was quiet for a long time after that. Soon the stickiness seeped through both my shirt and pants and plastered the small hairs of my body to my skin. Every time I breathed I felt as though I were ripping them out one by one. All I wanted was for the bus ride to be over so that I could wash myself. I was glad that Enrique had brought me a change of clothes. Being dirty made me anxious, wearing soiled clothing even more so. I felt suffocated, and I began to breathe more heavily, gasping for air. I remembered the breathing exercises the doctor had taught me, and I started inhaling, deeply, deeply, deeply, forgetting, of course, that the small hairs of my body coated with syrup were clinging to my skin. I whimpered in agony. I don’t think Enrique noticed my pain. If he had he surely would’ve waited to pose the following question:
“What are we going to do when we get there?” he asked quietly.
Until then I hadn’t thought about what we would do once we arrived. Of course, I imagined myself painting in a studio with plenty of northern light, working from a live model, maybe even a beautiful aspiring actress, while Enrique sold newspapers on a street corner. But that would happen eventually, once we were settled in. But upon immediate arrival? I had no idea, and apparently neither did Enrique because his next question was to ask if I had any money.
“Not a penny,” I said.
That was when he informed me that all the money he had left wouldn’t buy us two plates of ham ’n’ eggs. When I asked him what we were going to do for lodging, he shrugged. Then he said, “It doesn’t even matter. It’s California. We can sleep on the beach if we need to!” His voice rose, but he quickly quieted when the passenger in front of us stirred. He began again, “And tomorrow we’ll go looking for work. I’m sure there will be plenty, and we’ll have enough for a room in a flophouse, at least.” Then he added another “at least!” for emphasis, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. This is what “at least” looked like to me: a rat-infested hotel frequented by prostitutes, pickpockets, and drug users where we would survive like rats on little more than stale bread, moldy cheese, and water. And here I had thought Enrique was the practical one.
In addition to the stickiness, I was now drenched in sweat. So focused on my discomfort, I hadn’t even registered Enrique’s comment about the two of us getting jobs. Slowly, it dawned on me, and I waged battle trying to push it from my mind. If the first three-quarters of the trip flew by, the last quarter dragged on interminably. I thought we would never get off that bus. I thought I would endure this nightmare forever, drenched in both sweat and Coca-Cola, with the canvases that were my destiny to paint forever moving farther from my reach. “Can’t an artist just paint?” I cried. I looked at Enrique. He had fallen asleep. I waited for the man in front to turn around and pour yet another bottle of soda pop over me. He was asleep too. I waited for someone else to shush me. But all was quiet. Maybe I hadn’t said it. Maybe it was just a silent cry in the night.
Out the pitch-black window I saw a promising glow in the distance. I woke up Enrique. “Look! We’re getting close.” He rose from his seat and peered out into the night. His expression was not very enthusiastic. All we could see at that moment were the waves of lights, the infinite sparkling expanse that was to be our new home, at least until we made our way to Paris. He muttered something about thinking there would be more beaches and palm trees. He probably realized that finding a quirky little flophouse filled with colorful characters was not going to be easy in such a megalopolis. Just moments before I had been the one fearful of ending up in a rat-infested hovel surviving on a pauper’s diet, but now I was the optimist. “Don’t worry,” I reassured him.
When we arrived at the bus station, I jumped up from my seat and headed straight for the exit, pushing ahead of the other passengers, ignoring their complaints and insults. I leapt from the top step, and as soon as my feet hit the ground, I inhaled deeply as though with this new breath I was accepting my future. All I got was a gust of diesel exhaust. Should that have been sufficient forewarning? Should I have jumped back on that bus and headed to its next stop, in Bakersfield? I ignored the omen and continued forward through the crowd, both our bags slung over my shoulders, my gray fedora with burgundy band tilted just to the left. I was a man on a mission, and Enrique struggled to catch up.
Once we were inside the brightly lit bus station, I saw more clearly the fear in Enrique’s face. He looked helpless. I understood that I needed to lead the way. I decided the first order of business was to freshen up and change my clothes. We found the bathroom, and I quickly stripped down to my briefs. In the mirror, I noticed that Enrique blanched white and turned away. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “You feeling queasy?”
“Yeah, a little,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “But I’m fine.”
“Well, hurry up my friend and pick me out an outfit. I gotta get this darn soda pop off me.”
While he rummaged through the bag, I took my shirtsleeve and placed it underneath the faucet. There was a bar of soap on the counter, and I rubbed it against the sleeve until I formed a decent lather. Then I began to clean myself, wiping first my stomach, and then between my thighs, until I had to lower my underwear a little and vigorously wipe all areas where that syrupy mixture had worked its way. Then I removed my underwear, folded them nicely, and asked Enrique to hand me a fresh pair. Instead, he leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. I rushed over to him. “You all right?”
“Yes,” he said. “I just need some fresh air.”
Just then a man opened the restroom door, saw me naked consulting my sick friend, and quickly closed it, but not before saying, “Goddamn fairies!”
I worried that someone else would come barging in, so I quickly reached into the bag of clothes and pulled out the first articles I could find: a pair of finely knit wool slacks, a stiff-collared dress shirt, and suspenders. I dressed quickly, feeling the clothes were a little large for my narrow frame, but at that moment more focused on reviving Enrique and getting out of the bathroom before our presence was again misinterpreted. Enrique slowly raised himself, holding onto the sink for support, but he was still unstable. “I’m really dizzy,” he said. I draped the bags over one shoulder and then placed his arm around my neck. “I have you,” I told him, and I felt a surge of pride. There I was, out in the big wide world bearing the burden of weaker souls. I was in charge of this adventure. Without doubting my purpose, I carried Enrique out of the bus station and into the Los Angeles night.
I don’t know what direction we went. I don’t know how long I carried him. I just know that the farther we walked, the more dangerous and sinister the city became. We passed whores, hardened thugs, hustlers, and men with vacuous faces. We passed drunks and beggars. I heard threats, promises of payback and vengeance. Even the buildings were ominous, dark and crumbling. I kept hearing windows break, followed by screams. Finally, a thief stopped us and demanded all of our money. I explained that we had none, and then I asked if he would be so kind as to recommend a cheap flophouse full of colorful characters. He told me to go screw myself and proceeded to take our luggage. I offered little resistance. I was almost relieved. Between carrying Enrique and the two bags, I was on the verge of passing out.
The thief disappeared into the night. The commotion seemed to do Enrique some good because instantly he became more alert and was able to walk on his own. “Where are we?” he asked. I told him I had absolutely no idea. “Where are we going?” he asked. I again told him that I had absolutely no idea. “Then why are we here?” he cried, his voice rising. Again, I couldn’t provide a reason. “I just kept walking in hopes of finding something promising,” I said. We looked around. We were anywhere but promising. I rushed to shift the blame: “If you hadn’t practically passed out in the bathroom, we could’ve planned things better.”
“So you walk off into the middle of nowhere,” Enrique cried shrilly. I had never seen him so upset. “We should’ve at least asked someone if they knew of any flophouses!”
“I did!” I said.
“And what did they say?”
“Well—” I was on the defensive. I tried to shift the blame: “These clothes you picked out, they’re all much too large!”
He snapped back, “If it weren’t for those clothes you’d still be covered in soda pop!”
I was about to critique the loose cut of my shirt when Enrique began to sob. We were having our first fight. We were tired. Both of us had experienced severe nausea or outright fainting spells. We had no money, and we had just been robbed. Our predicament had quickly grown nightmarish. And it only got worse when Enrique asked me, “Where—where—where are your drawings?” It was then that I remembered that the bags contained more than just ill-fitting clothes. My developmental sketches, my years of diligent preparatory notes, my strips of canvas, my drawing utensils, everything that mattered in my life, everything was gone. Even The Great Book of French Painting was in the hands of that thief. I suddenly experienced physical pain, a sharp jolt from my shoulder to my chest and then up to my neck just behind my ear, knowing that that man, that despicable thief, was in possession of years of work. And not only that, he wouldn’t even know the true value of the treasure he’d plundered.
“He’s probably already dumped it in some alleyway trash bin. Let’s go!” I clutched Enrique’s arms and gave him an abrupt shake. “We have to get that bag back!” And I took off running in the direction I thought the thief had gone.
What happened next remains muddled. For my part, my panic and fear, my realization that our great escape was getting off to a horrible start, the sinking feeling that years of developmental groundwork would never see the light of true creation, the awareness that even if all worked out and I found the bag and my work was safely inside, we would still be without money, without a flophouse to rest our head, and our only hope of survival would be to find paying jobs, a burden that was the very reason for our departure in the first place, all came over me at once, midstride, and contributed to my breakdown. I was running very fast, but I lost my sense of direction, my sense of up and down, in other words, my balance. The gray fedora with burgundy band had lost its power over me. I was stumbling around, calling out who knows what nonsense. I had no idea where Enrique was. I was lost in the great horrible expanse of the Los Angeles night, overwhelmed by my own failed ambitions, and that was when I felt a great urge to swallow my tongue and my eyes rolled back in my head.
The last words I heard were, “Is that boy sauced?” Followed by, “No, that’s not sauced, that’s—”
Then I remember seeing white. I felt hands on me. I saw more white. Just a jumble of white.
According to Enrique, who had struggled to keep up with my manic pace, he rounded the corner and witnessed the following: six sailors on top of me, two holding my legs, two holding my arms and shoulders, and another trying to keep my head from spinning around like a top. The other was trying to pull my tongue out of my throat so that I wouldn’t choke to death. When he had succeeded, I began yelping savage wails that pained Enrique to hear. It also brought the attention of a group of young men from down the street. These young men were not sailors. They were dressed in oversized suits with shiny pants that ballooned outward. They wore suspenders. They wore fedoras with feathers in the band. They sported gold jewelry. Minus the feather in my hat and the gold jewelry, they were dressed just like me. What had been an accident on Enrique’s part—not checking to see if the clothes he removed from his father’s tailor bin were of the appropriate size—identified me as a fellow zoot suiter. I didn’t know anything about zoot suiters, but what I knew wasn’t important. What mattered was that a group of zoot suiters saw a gang of sailors apparently beating one of their own in the middle of the street.9
So the zoot suiters came to my aid, fending off the sailors who had done the exact same thing, come to my aid. They attacked each other, becoming a tangle of limbs, breaking noses and jaws and splitting open flesh. Blood splattered onto pristinely starched drapes and dress whites. And there I was, unconscious, splayed out in the middle of it. When the melee ended, sirens approaching in the distance, zoot suiters and sailors gathered their broken brethren off the concrete, and Enrique emerged from the shadows to drag me to safety in a concealed alleyway. He then went in courageous pursuit of our bags. He was sure the thief had looked inside, found nothing of interest, and discarded them. Enrique scoured every dumpster and alley in a mile radius, stealthily avoiding the dangers lurking on every corner, then found his way back to me like Theseus in the maze of the Minotaur.
