Upstairs he settles debt. Bankruptcy. The titles of books outweighing the landowner. William Dufferage knows what it’s like not to be at home. His fifth landlord in as many years. If only he could just PAINT. Instead he misuses time, alcohol, drugs and sometimes clients to bare a landscape worthy of a brush.
“Yes, it is harsh.” he tells a woman. “My life is not made for me, like my bed. I have to work.” His last show, a group effort, was four years previous. He sold one acrylic for a thousand. He has two shows, at his studio to go out the door; with no one willing to hold it open. They are even more controversial than his 20s.
An agent, has said, as an aside, to go with the lesser ‘prettier’ works than the more abstract. He did not listen. Will sings:
“When day breaks
Your back,
Climb out, the stairs.”
The second time he had checked his grandmother’s jewellery. He had been given a bag of it as part of the estate. Pawned four pieces. He sees his drug dealer from the fifth window and whistles. They finish a line of coke and an impromptu video for close friends. Hutch puts the bongo back leaving three portraits of nurses exposed.
…Will’s gone. “Then my brother said, you have no right to tell me that I can exist.”
“Too heavy, man. I gotta go”, uttered Hutch. “She’s starting to look over the edge and boy does she get mad if I’m late.”
“How far along?” interrupted Will.
“Five months.”
Will pointed to the kitchen counter. “Give her the ooh-long tea.”
“Thanks.”
He cleared the room of smoke and stale expression. Cold shower and cold beans. “I live like a miner now”, he thought.
On the Gateway Network he spotted a right-wing vigilante. He was from the States, and was reinforcing stereotypes of crooked cops. He went on to say that they hunted sex slaves to extinction in some families. Following them from port to big cities. Identifying their class and clothing as a monopoly of ‘a free thinker.’
Will brushes his teeth with Bourbon, slaps some Hugo Boss on his cheeks and finds a white shirt (without paint drips) in which to wear. Today he’s meeting with an ex-girlfriend at Honey Pot café. He hopes she orders small-as he is likely to pay. (He gets commission on lower sales w/ his dealer.) The Nut Runners, a retro punk band, are playing on Thursday. He wants to invite Joanne. Joanne’s an art director at amen’s fashion magazine. She has a bag of samples and goodies for him. He likes it. An artist herself she sometimes photographs the in-crowd’s kids to make a few bucks. She dresses them in Roman costumes, or big graphic back drops. It pays the rent.
They are trying to figure out how to get William hired. He has been turned down as an illustrator twice and his own work is “too private.” So today is yet another scheme to earn money. On the way out they bump into a millionaire friend of Joanne’s, and Will is greeted with disgust. Outside as a blizzard draws near he sees the stains of the abstracts appear in the fingernail ridges all the way to his inseams. “I am a model of my own development,” he thinks.
He drops by a tacky souvenir shop in Chinatown. For greeting cards.
Christmas happy time 4 you & someone
Snow melts hearts & rainbows
To Will this is Christmas. He is just a bit Chinese. It is pleasurable to know that these sent messages are not filled with Facebook gossip or Western greed. New Years Day is a Chinese buffet. There are usually 15-20 that arrive. All with curious homemade gifts. (Lychee jam to glow in the dark wallpaper.) It is January 15th and he is lonely. Hasn’t had a cat in 4 years. Usually one finds him amid lost bills or name calling. He looks to the sky. He is high again. Chemicals. Pills. He thinks the clouds are auditory and screams onto the street. He knows he has a good joint somewhere and almost checked the incinerator. He’s gone through his dirty laundry twice. Out of breath, he gets out a canvas and decides on three colours. It takes 70 hours. Then he watches re-runs of Bewitched. He admires Tate, that he can formulate all the daily dilemmas of a comfortable life into a campaign.
Where he is, he is lucky to get a $300 grant for an insightful essay depicting modernist liberation in a streetscape. He constructed it with broken tiles. A contractor had left them on a boulevard. They had slight cracks. He brought them to the studio and took a hammer to them. A pledge to the sane living below poverty and equal rights. It lives in his father’s basement.
His dad, a painter himself (a better painter) worked as a mechanic and copy editor. They talk about galleries and go three times yearly–they usually both have dates. Today, he is taking off and spoiling himself with a copy of Crossing Guard and Haggen Daz. What joy it is! To read art criticism: from lowly student award winners to the established. There is an article of 3 portrait painters- 2 females and one male. All quite different. One a modernist absorbed in kitsch culture, the second an immigrant with third world iconography, and the last, male, streaming with traditional techniques and art society lingo.
He enjoys the local female best. The faces close, uninterrupted like choreography. Hues of ghost colours- robin egg blue, tempura white. One, a Goth, with lips bleeding black caked lipstick, her eyes bloodshot, and one dimple penetrated. The forest colour of her green tee. Hunted like a fawn.
“Ugh. Fuck.” He gets his text message: CU@7. A job. Drywall. He does it once in a while with an old friend, Eli. Yugoslavian, it’s a family trade. He finds elegance in that. On the way to the beer store, two men quarrel. They are Middle Eastern. It is a barrier, and Will doesn’t know whether to get involved. If it’s even his business and crosses the street. He decides on a pub. Wow, is there a hot girl there tonight. She must be pushing 21. Blonde. Petite. Looks Icelandic. She’s unfortunately with a guy, good looking dude, but he beams a smile her way. “Guinness pint.” Plays some darts and throws his voice.
At home, he decides to go through belongings. One suede coat (buccaneer style), hockey sweater, 2(now empty) portfolios, one pair of crocs, and overalls. A curious pile he thinks laughing and grabs a pen. He writes four post-dated cheques. “Oh man is she sick.” Mariette is once again swearing she hasn’t touched junk in between heaves. This is their eighth fight this pregnancy. Hutch misses fishing he tells her. Can’t wait for Simon’s birthday so he can buy him a rod!” Okay. Tell Will you didn’t do it.” “I didn’t.” “Okay, Will you can leave.” Half an order this time and one commissioned piece. A sculpture which he rarely does. It is for an indigenous client, and inspired by a folktale. It is a present for a non-indigenous relative. $3700. It will take two months.
Down the alley lives a girl he used to love. Her second marriage now. “Rat a tap, tap.”
“William.”
“Hi Delores. Hope its okay. I was just in the area.”
“It’s not the greatest of times-but not the worst. We’re moving. No, Gerard got a job offer. Kingston, and you know he’s thinking of running for office. It could be an omen.”
In the greys of the afternoon he helps take apart two IKEA bookcases, partially disassemble a dishwasher, and makes a minor repair to a vacuum cleaner. The vacuum was for his help.
In his studio he had two Turkish rugs, a 15-yr.old fern and several rare wooden frames from Delores’s family. She had been good to him. He was ten times healthier when he lived with her. She never touched drugs and was pretty clean with the boys.
He approaches a canvass. 6×8. A postcard he decides to his past life w/ Delores. She’s been gone 5 years. Heard from her twice. Phillip her husband, WON.
It is a view they shared on a canoe trip with her brother.
The banana ripe with freckles, he peels the aging skin back, enjoying the fruit. Licks his lips, and starts SPELL CHECK. Tonight is inventory. It is New Year’s Eve.
