A Night In Old New Orleans
by Henri Bauhaus
Copyright 2011 Henri Bauhaus
Smashwords Edition
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The old brewery stood hidden behind a thick, twisted canopy of live oak surrounded by a white, shiny mist. Sometimes the fumes were so thick that even on a bright, sunny, spring day, the concrete structure resembled a wizard’s lair, hidden amidst a salty fog on a distant shoreline. The distinct smell of fermented yeast, a by-product of the Briarpartch Brewing Company, permeated the neighborhood for many blocks around. The persistent aroma was not all that unpleasant; and for those who lived near the mighty cauldron of a building, it was the smell of money and success.
Hans Umber lived across the street from the popular New Orleans brewery in a rundown, second-story apartment. From his front porch the blue-eyed young man could watch the delivery trucks in their daily procession to and from the loading dock. The wailing, hissing noises that were constantly being emitted from the vast assemblage of brewing tanks, pipes and vents combined with the high-pitched squealing of the truckers’ air brakes to create a virtual symphony of mechanical melodies.
It was a warm, April day, when Gilbert Tamarack drove his gray Dodge van over to the Briarpatch Brewery to get his airbrush charged up with CO2, a task which the brewery employees gladly performed for only a nominal fee.
Once that chore was completed the young man from Maine, stopped in at the local corner store and purchased two six-packs of Briarpatch beer. One was a light lager and had a picture of stylishly dressed rabbit on the side of the can, while the other half-dozen containers were bestowed with the image of a fox in a tuxedo. Inside this slickly, decorated can was a tasty bock brew.
Next, Gilbert drove the short block and a half and parked his trusty vehicle under one of the live oak trees that grew in front of the two-story apartment building, where Hans lived. With two six packs under his right arm, Gilbert bounded up the flight of concrete stairs that lead to Hans’s two bedroom apartment.
“Anybody home,” yelled Gilbert through the screen door.
“Come on in,” replied Hans, who was seated in the living room reading a book. “How you’ve been?”
“Not so bad,” said Gilbert as crossed the screened-in porch and entered the living room. “Just getting my paint gun charged up across the street.”
“Paint gun,” exclaimed Hans. “What you do? Get tired of splattering canvases with paint.”
“No way,” replied Gilbert. “I’m going to paint my apartment. It could use a fresh coat of paint.”
“You? Paint an apartment, I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Need a beer,” replied Gilbert.
“Always, said Hans.”
“Here you go fresh from the brewery,” said Gilbert.
“Yeah right!” said Hans. “And one of these days we’re going to get a line installed right from the brewery to the kitchen.”
“Can’t wait for that,” said Gilbert.
“When we do, we’ll have to put a B on the tap, so everybody won’t get it mixed it
up with the hot and cold water.”
“You’d better,” said Gilbert. “Washing your dishes in beer could get kind of expensive.”
By this time Gilbert had deposited the rest of the beer in the frig and then joined Hans in the living room. Once in the living room, Gilbert spots the old and black and white TV sitting on the coffee table and immediately out of habit turns the electronic device on, gets mostly static and then turns the volume down to almost nothing.
“I’d complain about the reception, but I’m probably not missing much anyway,” said Gilbert.
“I like the M.A.S.H. reruns,” said Hans.
“Too bad they come on till later,” replied Gilbert.
Hans pulled the zip top off his can of Brer Rabbit beer and sets the shiny piece of aluminum next to the TV. Then he tosses a question at Gilbert.
“Have you sold any paintings this week?”
“Two so far.”
“That ain’t bad, wish I could say the same,” said Hans. “It’s probably been six weeks since I sold anything.”
“You should try the square. It’s better than that artsy-fartsy crowd you hang out with.”
“Maybe,” said Hans, “But I need to save up some money first.”
“Screw it!” said Gilbert. “Just go for it. Saving money ain’t goin to help you none.”
“Yeah, you right.”
“No really, Hans! All you need to do is get a vendor’s license and take some of your Magic Marker drawings down to the square and you’ll probably sell some.”
“Those are designer pens I use. I wouldn’t be caught dead with a Magic Marker.”
“Yeah I know,” replied Gilbert. “But whatever you do; the tourists would snatch those right up. And if you ever decided to draw French Quarter scenes, you might even get rich.”
“My drawings are inspired by cracks in the wall, lamp posts, neon lights, clay tile roofs, banana, plants, brick archways and lots of other things.”
“That’s cool. But if you could just shake loose from the galleries and just paint for the street you’d have it made in the shade.”
At that very moment the noise of the brewery and the traffic moving back and forth on the street is broken by the distinctive putt-putt of a Volkswagen bug, which can be heard entering the driveway and then coming to a halt in the carport underneath the building. Next come the footfalls on the stairs that lead up to the interior hallway of the apartment. The door opens and Harold Rasmussen, Hans’s roommate, can be heard walking down the hallway of the apartment.
Harold hears the conversation in the living room and heads up the hallway to see what is going on. Harold sticks his head around the corner and then pops the question.
“Mind if I grab one of your beers?”
“Not at all,” said Gilbert. “We got fox beer and rabbit beer.”
“What?” said Harold. “No bear beer!”
“No,” said Gilbert. “I could only afford two.”
There is a pause for a few seconds while Harold retrieves a beer.
“How’s life in the auto business?” inquires Gilbert, as Harold returns to the living room.
“Busy as always,” said Harold.
“Are you still working on German cars,” asked Gilbert.
“Actually,” said Harold. “I did a tune-up on an old Chevy Impala, today. It was a beautiful machine with an old mouse motor. I’d buy one myself if I had the money.”
“When are you going to get your Audi Fox on the road,” asked Hans.
“No time soon,” replied Harold, as he crouched in front of the TV and started to fiddle with the knobs. “Mind if I switch over to Star Trek? You guys got to be the only people in the world who watch static.”
“At least we don’t listen to it,” chimes in Hans.
“Yeah, I agree! That would be really bad.”
“How’s Mister Spaak doing?” asked Gilbert.
“Not too good right now,” said Harold. “Looks like he’s got a bad case of the spots.”
“I can fix that.” And with those words Gilbert hopped over to the back of the small TV set and started reconnecting the antennae wires.
“Wow! Things are coming in clearer now,” declares Harold.
“Amazing what a little pen knife can do.” Then Gilbert folds the knife and puts it back in his pocket.
Harold relaxes back into the stuffed chair and then says. “Oh! I almost forgot. I have some good gossip for the art community.”
“What’s that?” said Hans.
“Shoot!” said Gilbert.
“Does anybody know the painter Dallas West?” asks Harold.
“Never heard of him,” replied Gilbert.
“Oh! That’s because he doesn’t paint on Jackson Square,” said Hans. “I saw some of his paintings just the other day.”
“Where’s that?” asked Gilbert.
“At Mrs. Jefferson’s place,” said Hans.
“What did they look like?” said Gilbert.
“Big globs of paint,” said Hans.
“Like in Jackson Pollock,” asked Harold.
“More like bas relief,” said Hans. “The guy really likes to pile on the paint, heavy duty.”
“No kiddin‘,” said Gilbert.
“What’s up with Dallas West?” asked Hans.
Harold speaks. “I heard from one of my customers that he has a show coming up at the Wellington-Smith Gallery.”
“That sounds like the kind of place he would show at. It’s top-notch,” replied Hans.
“Well, that’s not all I heard.”
“If there’s more I would like to hear it,” said Hans.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Go on! Try me,” said Hans
“Well, according to the lady with the BMW, he’s taken off two weeks from his teaching duties at Magnolia College to put the final touches on his show.”
“Do you really believe that?” inquires Hans.
“Perhaps,” said Harold.
Then the phone rings and so Harold walks back to his room to answer the phone.
Hans turns to Gilbert.
“What do you think this West character is up to? Do you really think he is putting together the whole show in the last two weeks?” asked Hans.
“That’s how I would do it,” said Gilbert. “By the way how’ your beer doing?”
“I could use another.”
“Good! I’ll grab two while I’m up.”
Gilbert returns from the kitchen, plops himself down on the sofa, so he can keep an eye on the Star Trek program, then resumes his conversation with Hans.
“Seriously, if I had a show to do at Wellington-Smith, I’d wait till the last minute. I do my best work, when I’m under the gun. Pressure is great inspiration.”
“You’re nuts,” replied Hans. “I’d never do a show unless I had the work all complete beforehand.”
“No way,” replied Gilbert. “I can’t work that far in advance. No pressure and everything comes out looking like soggy oatmeal. That’s even true for those Ab-X things I do for the tourists on the street. They’re kind of like baked bread. The fresher, the better.”
“Well, your red paint does resemble strawberry preserves a bit.”
“Yeah! You understand now. For example, the weekend is just around the corner, and I need two new paintings for the street. The best time for me to work is Thursday night. Maybe I get started around midnight, and go at it till just before the sun comes up. Then, I’ll crash till early afternoon and I make it out onto the street by three or four – and I’ll have a good weekend. Plus, I get to hang out with all the musicians and street performers, even drink a few beers if things go good.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to entice me down to Pirate’s Alley.”
“I’m always trying to do that.”
“I know. But I really have a hard time with the way you defend this West dude. I mean the guy took a whole two weeks off just to do the paintings.”
“No. I ain’t defending West, I don’t even know him. I’m just defending the way he likes to work. Staying home from work is a whole other issue, but if the man ends up waiting till the last minute, cause that’s when he’s most inspired, then I am supporting him; because I can relate 100% to what he’s doing.”
“I’m sure not supporting him.”
“That’s because you don’t get what I’m saying. The only thing I’m trying to point out is that maybe he can pull this caper off. That doesn’t mean I would like his work or
anything else about him. My hunch is that from what little I know about him, and the whereabouts of where he teaches – that when I see the work, I’ll probably be disappointed. But I’m trying to keep an open mind about the whole thing. I don’t want to prejudge the man. But you and Harold are making that a bit difficult for me.”
“Well, I guess you do have a point. It’s just that every time I see paintings that are trying to be sculpture, I get turned off. That’s especially true when they start adding things like condoms and toy soldiers to the canvas. What this cat is doing is nothing more than going three-dimensional with a whole bunch of paint. I’m not really too crazy about that either. I guess I’m a bit of a purist.”
“So the show is next Friday. It’ll be interesting to see what this guy comes up with. Honestly, I’m not expecting a whole lot.”
“Me neither, but it sure will be fun to go see the show. You have to give ole West some credit. His marketing scheme is brilliant.”
“I agree with you on that. People will be coming all the way from Bogalusa, just to see what this crazy painter is up to. I know if it was me, I’d have the whole crowd buzzin’, when they got there.”
“I’m sure you would, but with that splatter technique of yours, you have a distinct advantage. You can cover a lot more canvas in two weeks.”
“Who knows what I could do in two weeks, if I had a show uptown.”
With the grand exhibition of Dallas West being over a week away, anticipation was running high, at least in one Mid-city apartment. As the week passed by, both young men quickly got caught up in the day-to-day rhythm of life in the Crescent City. Hans had lots of home repair work to do; and for Gilbert, there were many tourists in town watching the azaleas bloom and the Old Man River flow by. Music was everywhere, both indoors and outside, and it was a time of great revelry. New Orleans is always like that, but especially in the spring.
The fateful day snuck up on the dynamic duo kind of quickly. Gilbert appeared haphazardly on that Friday afternoon at Hans’ front door. After a few minutes of hanging out in the apartment, the two aspiring artists headed out to the street and climbed into Gilbert’s trusty vehicle. The gallery was located uptown near the bend in the river, at a place called Carrollton. The long, narrow artspace was part of an old row of wooden buildings that had once been shotgun houses. Many of the quaint little houses in this part of the city had been renovated and then been converted to a business or store.
The Wellington-Smith Gallery was once a single family home that recently had been gutted and transformed into one austere interior space that was especially suited for hanging art. The walls and ceiling were painted a solid, neutral gray and the long strings of tract lighting, which were attached to the ceiling, lit up the place.
The gallery director was a young astute man by the name of Alexander Evans. The 6-foot 2-inch gentleman had dirty blonde hair, which he always kept closely cropped to his slightly oversized head. The young man from Mobile was always clean-shaven, plus he always wore some of the better threads that could be purchased in the city.
When Hans and Gilbert arrived, the time had advanced only a few minutes past the five o’clock hour, but already a few perspective patrons were walking back and forth in the gallery, trying to put the whole event together. They spoke in quiet, hushed voices, which contrasted a bit from the over-amplified conversation of the two, painters.
“This place smells like a paint factory,” said Gilbert, who was very surprised at the painter’s results.
“Oil!” exclaimed Hans. “I don’t believe it. The guy did everything in oil.”
“That’s certainly not what I would have done.”
“Thick paint, too.”
“What was the dude thinking?”
“I’m not sure he was thinking at all.”
“He must have spent a wad on modeling paste and encaustic. I bet the art supply store is real happy about the show.”
“Sure thing. They ought to buy one of the pieces as a sign of appreciation and gratitude.”
“They could do that and still come out ahead.”
Then, there followed a minute of silence as Gilbert and Hans caroused the small gallery. On each side of the fashionable art space, there was hung one large painting. Each one of these colorful abstracts must have been at least eight feet long and maybe four feet in height. Also hanging were several small paintings with the largest of these being two foot by four foot. On the back wall several very small canvases dangled by invisible strands of fishing line, plus there were several matted works-on-paper in the back room next to the bar.
“All these paint fumes are making my head spin, I think I need a beer,” said Gilbert, as he turned towards his friend.
“Or a clothespin,” said Hans.
“The beer is closer, right in the back room that’s behind that little painting on the wall.”
“Let’s go! Maybe it doesn’t smell so bad back there.”
One of the really nice things about the Wellington-Smith Gallery was that they served fresh red and white wine along with Dixie Longnecks in a bottle, plus they almost never ran out of alcoholic refreshments. You could stop by the establishment at ten minutes till nine and still get a cold longneck, most likely served by Mr. Evans himself. Whereas most galleries purposely ran out of alcoholic beverages early in the evening, this gallery kept the liquid refreshments flowing. That may be why the Wellington-Smith did so well, though one cannot dismiss the discerning artistic eye of the director, Alexander Evans.
Gilbert makes it to the liquor table first.
“Two beers, please.”
“Two Dixie longnecks coming right up,” the director replies, as he places two, very well chilled brown bottles in front of Gilbert and Hans. “How’s everything going tonight?”
“Couldn’t be better,” said Gilbert.
“We always like to start at the top first,” said Hans. “Coming here is always a pleasure.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Hope you guys enjoy the show,” said Alexander.
“We sure will,” said Hans. “I’m sure this one will be talked about quite a bit.”
“Be cool,” said the director, as he goes on about his business of passing out drinks.
Gilbert and Hans quickly make their way back into the main gallery, so as to get out of ear range of the city’s most successful gallery director. A few more people have entered the gallery, but just as many have left without even bothering to make the trip to the back room for a refreshing drink and a few words with Mr. Evans.
Out on the main floor Hans recognizes a Mrs. Flora, who lives in the very fashionable Garden District.
“Good evening, Mrs. Flora,” said Hans. “How are you doing on this fine evening?”
“I was just doing just fine, Hans, until I got a whiff of this place. I think it is a little bit much for my sensitive sinuses.”
“Yes, we were just on our way out,” said Hans, but Gilbert is already out the door for a nice breath of fresh air.
“I will not be very far behind you. The whole show is such a shame. And that Mr. West is such a nice man, I just don’t understand why he put up a show like this.”
“C’est domage,” says Hans, who often speaks to the well-to-do patron in the language that he sometimes heard as a child.
“Oui, oui, je ne l’aime pas.”
Quelle endieu!”
“Je sais. C’est si tres triste.”
“Oui, C’est triste.” Je dois aller, maintainant. Mis amie est attendant.”
“Au revoir, Hans. J’ai joyeux te voir, toujours.”
“Au revoir, Madame.” And then Hans is out the front door and into the
refreshing, cool, late-afternoon air of Magazine Street. Hans finds Gilbert leaning against the front of the gallery, sipping his beer and watching the cars go by on the street.
“Fresh air never tasted so good,” said Hans, as he stops and takes a deep breath.
“Take all you want it’s free,” said Gilbert.
“A little pure oxygen wouldn’t be such a bad idea either.”
“That ain’t free.”
“I know it.”
“That Alexander guy is being one cool cucumber tonight,” said Gilbert. “If I was him, I’d be swearing up a storm. I don’t see how he does it.”
“He has to play it cool. He has no other choice,” said Hans. “It would be bad for business.”
“I guess so.”
“But I’ll tell you one thing for sure,” said Hans.
“What’s that?” inquires Gilbert.
“I’d sure love to have been a fly on the wall, when West was hanging the show.”
“Me too! Evans may be cool and collected right now. But I’ll bet you ten to one, he was having a royal shit fit at that point.”
“I’ll bet it was a real humdinger,” said Hans.
“I’m sure he was a ranting and a raving.”
“Let’s leave this place,” said Hans. “I think I’ve had enough art for one night.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Gilbert.
It doesn’t take long for the two to make their way downriver, back towards the main city. After a few minutes of driving down beautiful St. Charles Ave. and a few minutes of searching for a parking spot near the St. Charles Inn, Gilbert and Hans walk into the popular tavern, which is starting to fill up with the young Friday night crowd. On this balmy, spring evening there is no better place for a single person to be, than this upscale watering hole that is located in one o the South’s most attractive and prestigious neighborhoods.
Gilbert finds perhaps the last open table and promptly takes a seat and orders up a pitcher of cold Michelob. Hans bumps into someone he knows, has a short chitchat and then joins Gilbert at the square wooden in the far corner by the jukebox.
“Who was that?” asks Gilbert.
“Just a neighbor of one of my customers.”
“Schmoozing for some work, are you?”
“Not really. They are doing some renovation. But its way over my head really.”
“You mean like in roofing.”
“More like re-roofing, putting in dormers and a bunch of electrical wiring.”
“You’re a good electrician.”
“Quiet about that please, I’m tryin’ to stay off the radar.”
“Sorry, I’ll change the subject.”
Gilbert turns around and spots two, casually-dressed, young women, maybe aged about 25, milling around the jukebox and trying to decide what kind of music to play. Gilbert walks over to the jukebox and asks the two, if they could help him choose a song or two for his quiet friend, who is seated at the table, slowly drinking a glass of beer. That comment breaks the ice and the three of them spend five minutes carefully picking a pair of songs. First choice is “Jambalaya” by Hank Williams and the other musical number is “Blue Bayou” by Fats Domino.
Soon Gilbert returns to the table and the two young ladies join them. The young women are fairly close in appearance and dress. They are both wearing a nice pair of slacks and a light colored blouse and they are also wearing some make-up like they have just gotten off work. Gilbert requests two more glasses from the very busy waitress, and then introduces his friend.
“This is my friend Hans.”
“Glad to meet you all,” replies Hans.
“Same here, I’m Alice. “And this is my friend Debby.”
“How do you do?” said Debby.
“What brings you out on this fine evening?” asks Hans.
“We’re just getting off of work,” said Alice.
“We’re both employed by the Landry Insurance Agency,” said Debby.
“So how do you two know each other,” asked Alice.
“We’re both painters.” Said Hans.
“You mean like house painters,” replied Alice.
“No, we make art,” said Gilbert. “I paint on canvas, and Hans fills up little pieces of paper with Magic Markers.”
“It’s called mixed-media,” chuckles Hans.
“That sounds neat,” said Debby.
“Do you all support yourself this way?” asked a curious Alice.
“I do and Hans sometimes paint houses.”
“And sometimes I do carpentry an sometimes I do sheetrock and sometimes I do electrical work, but don’t tell any electricians about that.”
“We won’t,” said Alice.
“Your secret is safe with us,” adds Debby.
Just then the waitress shows up with two empty glasses and Gilbert deftly fills the two glasses with some beer from the pitcher.
“Thanks so much,” said Alice. “It has been a busy week at work and this drink sure tastes good.”
“Yes, one of the secretaries quit unexpectedly, and so we had to both work extra hard this week,” said Debby.
“Think the company will find a replacement soon,” asks Hans.
“I hope so,” retorts Debby. “I can’t take too many more weeks of this.”
“So, Gilbert, tell us how you make a living selling paintings?” asks Alice.
“Simple I sell my art at Jackson Square.”
“You can do that?” asked Alice.
“The hard part is selling the paintings,” replied Gilbert.
“What kind of art do you do?” asked Alice.
“It’s modern and abstract,” said Gilbert.
“And people buy that,” asks Debby.
“Sooner or later,” said Gilbert.
“Usually sooner, Gilbert’s a pretty good painter,” adds Hans.
“I didn’t know anybody could sell modern art on the square,” said Debby.
“There’re two other people who do,” said Gilbert.
“Do you show in any galleries?” asked Alice. “I hear some artists can sell a lot of paintings in a gallery.”
“No,” said Gilbert. “I like to sell my own paintings. I couldn’t survive on gallery sales.”
“We’re just back from a show at the Wellington-Smith Gallery,” said Hans.
“Really,” said Alice. “I hear that is a great gallery. How was the work?”
“It stunk,” blurted Gilbert.
“I guess you didn’t like the work,” said Alice.
“No, the work was actually pretty cool,” said Gilbert. “But the paintings smelled - like in bad fumes.”
“That’s hard to believe,” said Alice. “At the Wellington-Smith.”
“I was there too, it’s really true,” said Hans. “I guess the painter waited till the last minute to paint the show. Like he was cramming for a final exam. Very academic, if you ask me.”
“I paint like that all the time,” added Gilbert. “I’ll do a painting and then twelve hours later after it’s completely dry, I’ll be out at Pirate’s Alley trying to sell it.”
“Oh really,” said Alice. “That’s so cool.”
“Stop by some time and check out my work. I’m usually out on the square on weekends. It’s a fun place to spend some time.”
“I don’t go down to the “Quarter” very often. I get tired of all the tourists. But I would love to see your paintings,” responded Alice. “I still can’t believe what I’m hearing about the painting exhibition. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“He was a-crammin instead of a-jammin,” said Hans. “Painting is a lot like music. You can’t force it. You have to go with the flow. That’s why we’re here. To make art and listen to music. Then go out and listen to some more music and then make some more art.”
“Right on,” said Gilbert. “Or maybe just another pitcher of beer.”
Then he motions to the waitress, who promptly brings over a fresh cold pitcher that is filled to the brim with the ever-so-popular summertime refreshment. Gilbert pours everybody another round and everybody takes a sip. But is evident at least to Hans that the young ladies are not into a lot of drinking on that particular evening.
“So neither of you are from New Orleans,” inquired Alice.
“Hans’s from Vermont,” said Gilbert. “And I’m from the Pine Tree State.”
“You mean Maine,” said Debby.
“That’s right, spent a winter in old Mexico, just to get away from all the snow. And I never did quite make it back up north.”
“If you got family in the north, you ought to spend the summer up there. This place is hotter than hell come July and August, said Debby.
“I’ve already found that out,” said Gilbert.
“The summer does have a few advantages for me,” replied Hans.
“What would those advantages be,” asked a little annoyed Alice.
“No tourists, the streets are not crowded, plus you get to knock off work at noon,” said Hans.
“I wish I could leave work at noon,” said Debby.
“You must have an air-conditioned office,” said Hans.
“That’s true. I couldn’t work without air-conditioning,” said Debby. “But actually, I kind of like the summer here in the city. You get used to the heat after a while.”
“The movies are the only place I like to be in the summer, except maybe out on a sailboat,” said Alice. “I love the movie houses on a hot summer night.”
“That’s a cool way to live,” said Hans.
“It sure is,” said Alice.
“How about another beer to cool you off?” suggested Gilbert, as he slyly slides the half-full pitcher towards Alice.
“No thanks, I have to be going home soon. I haven’t been to the apartment yet and I really do have to get up early to go sailing with some friends,” replied Alice.
“Are you sure?” asked Gilbert.
“Positive,” said Alice. “But I’m really glad that I ran into you tonight. And I really, really did enjoy hearing about the art.”
“That was some story about the smelly art show,” added Debby.
“Can I come by the square and look at your paintings,” said Alice.
“Anytime!” said Gilbert. “I’ll be out there most of tomorrow and Sunday. You can’t miss my paintings, I’m the guy with all the splattered paint.”
“I’d like to see that, too,” said Debby.
“You can come by also,” added Gilbert.
Alice is the first to stand up, but Debby quickly follows her.
“It’s been very nice to meet both of you, I hope to see you again, soon,” said Alice.
“Avec plaisir madamemoiselles, I also hope we meet again soon,” said Hans.
“Good night,” said Alice as she slings her shoulder bag over one shoulder and starts to leave.
Gilbert then speaks to Debby.
“You mean you aren’t going to stay anymore.”
“No, I’d like to, but I really must go now,” said Debby. “I’d love to see your paintings, but I got to catch up with my friend.”
“Take care,” replied Hans, as Debby turns her back and briskly walks towards the front of the bar, not too far behind Alice.
The silence between Hans and Gilbert is deafening. Gilbert fills up his glass and then Hans’s stein. Hans goes over to the jukebox and slowly thumbs through all the different 45’s. He plucks in four quarters, makes his choice and returns to the table, where Gilbert sits with the half-full pitcher of beer.
“A lot’s gone down hasn’t it,” mutters Hans.
“That’s for sure. I won’t forget this night for awhile,” said Gilbert, almost like he was talking to himself.
“Don’t look so forlorn, maybe somebody besides me will show up at the square tomorrow.”
“I doubt if any of the girls will show. And you’re welcome anytime, you know that.”
“I got work lined up for tomorrow, but I might swing by on Sunday, just to see how you’re doing!”
Gilbert takes another sip of beer, glances up at the Hamm’s Beer clock on the wall and takes in the picturesque scene of the lake country. Finally, he speaks.
“Artists are a weird bunch; aren’t they, Hans?”
“No weirder than anybody else. Unless they get all screwed up on old Absinthe and go cut off a piece of their ear.”
“Yeah, I guess that guy was a little bit over the edge.”
“Maybe if we went over the edge, then we could become rich and famous,” said Hans.
“Rich and famous ain’t all it’s cracked up to be,” said Gilbert.
“How would you know?” asked Hans.
“Only by observation.”
“That’s better! For a moment I thought you were going to tell me that being on the square has made you rich and famous.”
“No! That’s where I make my observations,” said Gilbert.
“Is that so?”
“No, really Hans! We’re no different from the next guy. All we want is that sleek cherry-colored Ferrari, so we can buzz around the square and thumb our noses at the rest of the world.”
“I never looked at it that way; but if I had my way, I’d go for the Porsche,” said Hans.
“You get the picture now.”
“I wonder if that’s what ole Dallas West was thinking, when he put up that stinker of a show tonight.”
“I could see it that way. You know, giving the ole art establishment the middle finger.”
“The gallery owners aren’t all that bad.”
“They never did me any good.”
“That was your choice,” said Hans.
“Probably,” replied Gilbert.
“Well, maybe West was just getting tired of the whole scene and just decided to piss on the world,” said Hans.
“Could be. In that case then I should give Mr. West a little more credit,” said Gilbert.
“That might be the case,” said Hans.
Another pitcher comes and goes, as the night grows longer. A long stint on the pool table helps keep the two men active and alert. Finally, as the midnight approaches Hans and Gilbert leave the uncrowded bar.
Surprisingly, Gilbert drives over to Mid-city without incident. He stops across the street from the busy Briarpatch Brewery, which is still making beer and putting out large clouds of fog that glimmer underneath the glare of the artificial lighting. Hans hops out of the vehicle, thanks his friend for the ride and heads up the stairs to his apartment. The mist from the brewery is thicker than ever, as the van pulls away from the curb into a big cloud of carbon dioxide. Hans watches the taillights disappear into the foggy darkness. Then he crosses the front porch, unlocks the front door and enters the empty apartment.
The tired artist takes a cold bath to cool off, then heads to his room and turns on the fan. The mattress on the floor provides a soft landing, but Hans has to keep one foot on the floor to keep the room from spinning so fast. Eventually, he falls asleep.
The End