Rick and Renee’s Interstellar First Date

Chapter One  

 The Summons   

For crying out loud. Too much burnt sienna. I visualized lush oak leaves with shadows so deep, the tree looked three dimensional, but I’d painted khaki blobs with flat muddy edges. 

I threw my pallet, a pane of tempered glass, against the wall where it broke into a hundred tiny cubes. Held together by a thick layer of paint, it slumped against the wall, as defeated as me. 

I’m an artist. Sure, everybody thinks they’re an artist, just like everybody’s a writer and they’re great in bed. While I think I’m great in bed, I know I’m an artist. After all, that’s how I made my living, and at least financially, it’s been a good living. It’d been forever since I had to sell plasma for gas money or unload trucks on the graveyard shift to pay the rent. In fact, my more popular art made it possible to buy my very own faux Spanish Revival house in north Scottsdale, Arizona.  

Once, I even had a show at a premier art gallery. The renowned Petron/Battle. But more than all that, I’m an artist because of the infinite images living in my head. Those images might have come from another universe or straight from God. I was never sure, but each one was stunningly beautiful or horrifically tragic. With brush, or chisel, I painted and sculpted, manifesting my wondrous visions to the world, frequently wishing the world cared more.

Art used to be easy– all I had to do was get out of the way and let it flow through my fingers to the tools. It used to be easy, but doubts and fears began infecting my life, then my art. Everything I created looked sad and stupid and made me feel lonely. Like the time my mom drank too much Chardonnay at the Olive Garden and said she never loved me.

Fucking Olive Garden.

But no matter what my future held, I always had my moment in the sun as part of the scene at the Petron/Battle gallery. But that was a year ago and now I was a resident at the Smilee Trails. That sounds like being an inpatient at an asylum and it sort of was. Hell, being on earth in general is being trapped in an asylum. The Smilee Trails was a gallery too, but very far from the ultra-cool Petron/Battle. In distance, it was just two blocks, but in prestige, the galleries were light years apart. The Smilee Trails Gallery and Coffee Corral was at the outer edge of Gallery Row, so even on Thursday’s Art Walk, few people made the effort to visit just another space overflowing with paintings and sculptures of an Old West so idealized, some people thought it was a parody of art. No such luck.

I rented a studio in the rear of the Smilee Trails– a twelve by twelve room that reeked of linseed oil and turpentine and was stifling hot on that mid July night. The rattling swamp cooler was off because it blew a tornado of dirt and aspen shavings all over the room. In a corner was a Charmin toilet paper box filled with shards of glass. The shards were covered with gooey rust colored paint that looked like thick blood. It was the remains of a performance when a local artist did a mock suicide. Later, he performed a real suicide, just not as art. When times were bad, I would hunch over that box and gaze at the Picasso reflections of my face in the shards. It made me feel better, which was a relief, but also made me anxious about my weirdness. 

The studio was a visual nightmare, filled with a vivid history of creation and agony. I loved every paint covered square inch. 

Squeezing out more paint onto my new palette, the lid of a takeout container, I mixed the acrylics, hating the scraping sound of palette knife on Styrofoam. I took a deep breath and dabbed away. Not bad. Then I closed my eyes and let images gather and play in my mind. Yes, there, I could see the leaves. There was always hope. I opened my eyes and beheld the crap I’d just painted. It was impossible. The intravenous drip of art, keeping my self-esteem on life support had at last been choked off. Without the art, I was just me– Rick Harrison– the nine and a half-fingered guy from a nondescript Midwestern town.

I tried flinging the Styrofoam pallet across the room, but it did a graceful flip and landed at my feet– paint side down. When I peeled it off the floor, the result was abstract swirls and drips that were very cool. That did it. Even my art by-products were better than my art. 

I sat on the shaky plastic chair, and gazed into the box of broken glass. Recently, while looking into the Charmin box of enlightenment, I came to the painful realization that my glory days were over. It was an entire month of glory days, but that was a year ago and the only thing left was a few images of me smiling awkwardly on the Petron/Battle website’s Previous Shows page.

My present days without glory, consisted of churning out cowboy “art” for people who would call it art without the quotes. I had to finish my latest masterpiece and get the gallery owner off my back. Just get the damn thing done, Buffalo Phil would say. This isn't the Last Supper and you aren't Michelangelo. Phil said things like that to get on my nerves but I was afraid to ask if he really thought Michelangelo had painted the Last Supper. 

I wanted to do a crappy job and just get the damn thing done. After all, it was just a painting destined to hang in some rich guy’s man cave, ending up sprayed with beer and stuck with darts. I wanted to do a crappy job, but couldn’t. It was art and there was always a quiet yet irresistible voice in my brain demanding perfection. Maybe the voice was my grandmother’s and her rigid work ethic but I wasn’t hearing the mechanical monotone of a Midwestern woman. The voice was rich and soulful, and while my grandmother said art was stupid, the voice in my head loved art passionately. Existed because of art.

Hopefully, I was channeling Louise Nevelson. I was a master of many mediums but especially loved making my own versions of her assemblages. Mine were cubes about two feet each side. Chambers filled with found objects that were small worlds of fantasy, cruel reality or just simple fun. My assemblages were on display, but that gallery was the spare bedroom of my house, far from the judgment and dirty money of gallery row.  Safe at home was my scale model of the Ark of the Covenant– a tiny motel for God on earth. Another was a home in the process of being engulfed by a flood while the residents sat on the roof. The dad engrossed in his soggy newspaper and mom doing the dishes in the rising water, while the kids stared at a blank TV. The flood waters constantly circulated by a fish tank pump. Personal spaces made public. One room of a fancy hotel with all its oppressive luxury burying a guest. One room of a sleazy motel with all its items of passion and despair. A scale model of a church that looked like two fists where the thumb/doors could be opened and see all the people cowering before the huge beings staring down at them. Then there was the foot high tree decorated with fifty glass doll eyes while sheep grazed on the snowy ground below. I’d stenciled the words, Eye See You, ICU and Icy Ewe, all over the sides of the assemblage. I never did understand that one but it sure was fun. 

When I had my show, at the Petron/Battle, people couldn't wait to pay obscene prices for the honor of owning one of my assemblages. Everybody loved them and by extension loved me.

For a while. 

My considerable talent was nothing compared to the power and fury of Lillian Battle, the gallery’s co-owner. I’d made a couple of fatal errors with her. The first involved one of my assemblages I’d titled Look at Our World. It was one of my favorites, a wooden cube, a foot on each side, covered with old suitcase latches and little doors that when opened showed pictures of exotic locations from around the world. To give the piece a voice, I’d attached rake tines to the backs of the doors, and they made various ding sounds when opened– like a thumb piano.

On opening night, an old couple wearing the latest fashions from Walmart, had wandered into the gallery. They were making a U-turn get back out when their grown son spotted the suitcase assemblage. Not seeing or not caring about the Do Not Touch sign, he stepped over the visual barrier to snap the old suitcase latches and joyously opened and closed the doors. At the sounds, he threw his head back and laughed all the way from his gut, the only person in Arizona who simply and absolutely loved my art. The kid broke down in sobs when his very uncomfortable folks said they couldn’t afford to spend $1,200 on a wooden box. So, when Lill wasn’t looking, I sold it to them for pennies on the dollar. Making up an absurd story that there was a federal grant to make art available to kids with disabilities. I would have given it to them for free to stop the kid’s heart from breaking, but his proud folks demanded that they pay something. 

I didn’t realize, and didn’t care, that Lill had promised that assemblage to a North Scottdale couple who were thrilled that the colors of the piece complemented their fucking taupe couch. I also figured I’d made the piece so I could do with it what I wanted. Lill threatened to sue me over that transaction, but couldn’t figure out how that would work, so nothing came of it.

That was my first tactical error with Lill but being me, there was more to come.

* * *

Changing my focus from painful memories to painful reality at the Smilee Trails, I worked through the night going back and forth between cowboy art and sketching possible assemblages to keep my sanity but was jarred back to reality by a loud banging on the front window of the gallery. Wandering out through the showroom, I wanted to see who was rude enough to interrupt the genius at work. Morning sun came early during July in Arizona and it was already flooding the gallery, making the freakishly vivid sunset paintings even more garish. On my way to the front door, I avoided eye contact with paintings and sculptures, most of them mine. So many judging faces, the noble brave on horseback, the bronze of a Chief in his headdress, the Cheyenne maiden braiding her hair, surrounded by happy little Native American girls and boys who looked like they just stepped out of the insipid “Family Circus” comic. The gallery didn’t open till ten. Nobody was there by appointment; the Smilee wasn’t that type of gallery. I wondered who could possibly want cheesy cowboy art at eight in the morning.

Nobody was at the front door but a note was stuck to the big window with a wad of gum. I unlocked the door, reached around, ripped the note off then carefully tore off the gummed corner so I wouldn’t touch a stranger's mouth juices. 

The paper was a summons. Not the legal kind. It was way scarier than that. Lillian Battle, co-owner of the Petron/Battle, demanded an audience. A meeting with Lill, big fish in the local art pond, had potential to bring great benefits. As long as it brought benefits to her. At best it could be a show in her gallery and my release from Smilee hell, but contact with Lill was always guaranteed to bring along humiliation. Likely it would be both.

The note read- Egregious Goose. 10am. Today. Back door. Go thru alley. Your shitty life is going to b gr8 again. U R welcome. Signed Lill xoxo. It was disconcerting that she drew the X’s to look like stitches.

Lill holding court at ten in the morning? Probably some drama-fueled emergency at the gallery required dragging her staff and disciples out in the sunlight. It was very possible that, like me, they’d been up all night. Unlike me, they would have spent the night drinking top shelf wine while I’d been downing instant coffee in my studio. I’m sure I had a small part in the meeting’s agenda. Down at the bottom under other business. 

If that other business was making pieces for an upcoming show at the Petron/Battle, it wouldn’t be art I wanted to make. Lill only showed works for people who had a couple thousand dollars laying around and needed something to go with their decor. She would want me to copy some style that was popular at the moment. Just google styles of art that sell, then do that she’d say. It wasn’t exactly forgery, but in the end, it was just a higher priced version of cowboy art– classier prostitution.

I had a couple hours before the meeting and could continue working on my latest western masterpiece, or I could obsess about the meeting that was only an hour and 58 minutes away. I decided to obsess for a while, beginning with the lack of art integrity in our sad world, and feeling guilty I didn’t have any integrity, either. I also was struggling to suppress my nervousness facing Lill for the first time in a year, and I was trying to figure out how I could keep from screwing up a possible opportunity for redemption. 

After googling popular art styles, I got back to work on the Can’t Bear Interlopers painting. It was a bear peeking around a tree, watching an old prospector panning for gold. I worked until it was time to meet Lill and her hangers-on. Consarnit!

After cleaning up in the bathroom, I stepped into the harsh sunlight, an art fugitive sneaking through Scottsdale's alleyways. Reaching the rear door of the Egregious Goose. I stood for a long time staring at the logo on the door, a hideous goose with one foot wrapped around a meat cleaver, wondering if I really wanted to get back into a premier gallery. 

I sure didn't need the money. Whoring my talents had paid very well. I had an Amazon box buried in the insulation of my attic with $17,000 because I was making money faster than I could spend it. That wasn’t hard, coming from a family who was defined by the Depression and considered everything a luxury. I assumed this meeting with Lill would lead to wonderful opportunities and made the dangerous leap in logic that I’d have my work back in her gallery. 

But the meeting could be anything. Once, she needed me to come to her gallery asap. I thought we were going to discuss another show, but when I showed up, she got sadistic pleasure telling me she just needed some sap to change the gallery’s air filter. She asked if I thought we were going to talk about my art. I’d said of course not but her big smile showed she’d seen the disappointment on my face. It was good she called though. That filter really needed changing.

 I stood at the restaurant’s back door and even in the Arizona July heat felt a chill, my stomach was knotted, and I scratched at the hives I always got when seeing Lill. 

The Egregious Goose was a ridiculously trendy restaurant in Old Town Scottsdale. That’s Scottsdale, Arizona, of course. The West’s Most Western Town. Which seemed true only if you hadn’t been to Cheyenne, or Laramie, or Big Piney, Wyoming which had a bar called The Spur, with worn saddles on posts instead of bar stools. 

I took a deep breath, which was a mistake since I was standing between a tank full of used cooking grease and a dumpster. Garbage and grease cooked to perfection in the heat. 

The door was locked, and my pounding made a deep resounding boom that I hoped would intimidate those inside. The door screeched and scraped on the concrete floor as it swung slowly inward. Cold air rolled out onto my flip-flopped feet, and an old man materialized from the gloom. His sweaty face was smeared with either drywall dust or flour. 

“Hi,” I began. “I’m . . .”

“You’re letting in the heat,” he said, roughly pulling me in, slamming the door behind.

“Or letting out the cold. I guess it depends on your perspective, eh, old timer?”

He glared at me. Apparently not liking our temperature banter.

“I’m here to see Ben and Lill,” I said. 

He continued to stare, probably trying to figure out who I was, but didn’t come up with anything since I was a nobody.

“The gallery owners. Ben Petron and Lillian Battle,” I added, helpfully. Surely, he knew who they were. “I’ve been summoned.”

He stepped back. “They are,” he said, and pointed dramatically across the room, “over there.”

I could just make out people shapes as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. One of them sitting in the farthest corner was rail thin and in constant motion. It was either Lill or a meth addict. I hoped for a meth addict.

The old man stuck a bony finger in my face and said, “You just watch yourself.”

“You bet,” I said and took a step away, a very clear signal humans used to show that a conversation was over. But he wasn’t done, or maybe wasn’t human.

“Wait,” he said, and fished around in his pocket. 

Jesus what now?

He pulled out an old railroad watch and shoved it in my face.

“Watch yourself. Get it?” Then he cackled and shuffled off. 

I was considering making a break for it when Ben called from across the room, yelling above the din.

“Rick! Over here.” 

I tried to figure a route through the restaurant’s meeting room, packed with humans and furniture, but there wasn’t a clear path. Six big tables were jammed into a space for three, the people, chairs, and tables made one solid mass. The fire marshal would have been horrified. 

Stepping sideways behind a couple engaged in furious conversation, I squeezed behind a guy in an unnecessarily loud Hawaiian shirt. Then unavoidably rubbed my junk on another guy’s shoulder. I couldn’t get past a woman who had her chair pushed out from the table. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, and gave her my sweetest smile. 

She spewed profanity, then huffing and sighing, scooched her chair forward to let me by. It was apparently the worst thing that had ever happened to her or any human since the beginning of time. I thought about rubbing my junk on her shoulder, but she didn’t deserve the pleasure.

Finally, I made it to Ben, only to have him wave his arm in an arc and say, “Come sit by me. Go around.”

So, I retraced my junk-rubbing, chair-scooting journey. The woman was so livid at the nightmare of having to move her chair a second time, she was unable to curse at me, which was nice. But it was the same gauntlet going around the other way, and by the time I made it back to Ben, I had annoyed everyone in the room. They all hated me, which worked out well because the feeling was mutual.

Well, everyone hated me except for Ben, who was the warm and nurturing mother I never had. He managed to stand and work his girth between the table and the wall to engulf me in a crushing hug. 

“Sweet Rick. We’ve missed you!” Then squeezing my various parts, he said, “Oh, my lord, you’ve wasted away. Let’s get you something to eat. Sit, sit.”

I wanted to sit, sit, but there was no chair, chair.

“Monti!” Ben barked. “Go get my laundry.” 

Monti stood and stormed out as fast as he could in that packed room. I watched him go, hoping he had discovered a good escape route. Nervous about making eye contact with Lill, I glanced over. She was staring off into space, head tilted back, like the sculpture of Nefertiti while  holding her ever present neon pink X-acto like a tiny scepter. I sat in Monti’s vacated chair, which was still warm, and wished I’d stop feeling his ass heat.

“Where have you been, dear heart?” Ben asked. “I don’t even know where you’re showing.”

“At a gallery down the street.” I didn’t offer the name.

Lill slowly turned her gaze on me. It was like looking into the eye of Sauron, but she was scarier since she had two eyes and depth perception. Her unwavering glare made my hives flare even more. The room got deathly quiet. 

“There are rumors,” she began, then paused to give everyone a moment to prepare their best smirk, “that he’s at Happy Trails.”

Lots of titters and a loud Ha! from across the table. 

“It’s actually called Smilee Trails,” I said, “The Happy Trails song people . . .”

“Oh, I guess I’m wrong then. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I . . .”

“Was I wrong when I took your little doll houses into our gallery? Was I wrong to give some punk from Iowa a chance to come into the fold? To be part of our world? Our inner sanctum? In my innocence, I performed an act of kindness, only to be betrayed and crucified. Was that wrong?”

It sure sounded wrong.

The beautiful woman sitting next to Lill pulled her in for a hug. She was probably the staff hugger, on call whenever Lill felt a human emotion.

I was actually from Indiana not Iowa but thought it might not have been the best time to mention it. The crowded room gradually became silent. While Lill was recovering from having a feeling, I reminisced about my fun relationship with MS Lillian Battle.

I met Ben Patron and Lillian Battle when they picked me up as I was hitchhiking cross country. Once I found out that they owned a gallery in the magical art city of Scottsdale, Arizona I knew our meeting was destiny. Endless Nebraska was the perfect place for those with art in their hearts to bond. 

I made the first tactical error during my show at the Petron/Battle when I secretly sold art to the old couple who really were from Iowa. But her hostility began long before my secret sale. She was an ultra-cool, and very rich, Black woman, and I had the nerve to be just some white trash doofus from Iowa, or Indiana, or wherever the hell I was from. It didn’t really matter. I also had the nerve to be brimming with inexplicable talent. Lill was a genius in business, and of course her people skills were impeccable, but she was a disaster as an artist, which led to my second fatal error with her. One night, after drinking too much weird wine that tasted like tobacco, I made elaborate fun of some art I’d found in the back of the gallery. My comments got back to Lill lightning quick. Turned out the sculpture was made by Lill, and wasn’t crapped out by a dog as I surmised. It was probably that last thing that made her hate me most. 

“Well?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure what she was welling about. 

“Well, it’s good to see you. You look great. Still doing Pilates?”

“Enough of the small talk from small minds. Let’s get to business. Lights up!” she yelled, and the sudden glare made everyone moan in agony.  

“Goddamit, Rick,” she said.

Yes, it was my fault that light existed.

“No, Lill,” Ben said, using his position as the only person who could tell Lill no and survive. “First, let the boy eat.”  He snapped his fingers and called, “Clark, Clark!”

Boy was stretching it since I was 36, but I did live on Cap’n Crunch and Taco Bell, and I spent my days playing with colors and clay, so maybe boy was appropriate.

Another old guy, I guessed Clark, who acted more cordial than the psycho doorman, gracefully threaded his way through the packed meeting room.

“Yes, Mr. Petron?”

“What would you recommend for our young friend here?”

“The hair, perhaps a textured crop.” He tapped his finger on his lips. “Hmm, leave the beard but trim it close. It’s rather thin. Oh, never a light blue shirt. No, he’s a summer. Maybe a late summer. It’s hard to tell in this artificial light. Corduroy pants in summer? You know. That almost works. It’s fun!” 

“What to eat!” Lill snapped. “We know he’s a mess.”

“Ah, well, Ms Battle, the kitchen is always open for you.” Then Clark proceeded, with vigorous hand motions, to go into graphic detail about the gastronomical delights offered at the Egregious Goose – which, ironically, included breaded geese feet. 

I stopped listening to Clark since I knew the drill at upper crust restaurants. Establishments that didn’t have prices, or pictures on the menu. The food was always the result of a poor creature who had suffered in some unique way, then was slaughtered or boiled alive. Or it would be a glob of something that the good Lord never intended humans to eat. That’s why the portions were so small– they were disgusting.

“I’m actually not that hungry. Do you just have some rolls, or bread, and maybe iced tea?”

“Tea?” Ben said “Rick, please don’t tell me you’re teetotaling.”

“No, it’s just that it’s ten in the morning and I’m going to need to drive at some point today.”

“Oh, such a will with this one! A will of iron. Lill, don’t you think we all could learn from Rick's example?”

Lill’s fuck you, Ben was so lacking in energy, I was a little worried about her. 

It wasn’t that I had an iron will. The last time I drank with them, I woke up the next day hungover with regrets I’d never imagined. What I remembered of that night would, by my minister-grandfather’s standards, punch my ticket to hell. On the positive side, that was the last time I heard nagging demon voices. They probably left because they knew they had me and could move on to another poor soul.

“Just some bread and tea would be great. Thanks, Clark.”

But of course this wouldn’t be easy.

“Well, Mr. …?”

“Harrison. But you can call me Rick.” 

“Well, Mr. Harrison, we have a charming little artisan loaf that’s baked in our own wood-fired oven. The grains come from plains near Thrace. Thracians are so sweet. I met them one delightful summer. It is they who harvest the grains in the late afternoon. After the harvest, it is the mules who carry the grains into town center where the people gather for the winnowing. Here is the important part, because I know you were going to ask, how is the integrity of the grain preserved?

Lill was loudly tapping her X-Acto on the table. Clark needed to read the room. 

“Yes, I was wondering that,” I said, encouraging Clark. I wanted someone other than me to get nicked by Lill’s blade. 

“Well, the people in that region have very soft and supple hands. It is they who separate the grain from the chaff. Never by machine.”

I tried to interrupt, because I had a vision of doughy locals scratching their asses then fondling grains. Their soft and supple hands put me off my feed. Clark didn’t realize Lill was fuming, because he was off to the races about all things bread related. 

“Ancient stone grinding wheels add significant mineral content to the flour. At that time, tiny amounts of mule dung are added for a distinctive tang.” 

Lill was scraping her X-Acto across the tabletop. Surely Clark heard the scritch.

But he didn’t. 

“The flour is shipped to this country in climate-controlled containers, and the bread is baked right here by my brother, Charles, who is also our maître d. He smiled and waved at Charles, who ignored him.

Ass hands, mule crap, and baked by sweaty Chuck. Three strikes.

“How about just tea,” I said. 

Clark managed to soldier on past my cruel bread rejection. “Ah, yes. Our teas are made from leaves imported …” 

“Jesus, Clark!” Lill yelled. “Just get him a piece of toast and a bottle of water.”

“Yes, ma’am. We have nine different waters. My personal favorite …”

Lill jabbed the X-Acto into the tabletop and worked it back and forth to widen the gouge in the mahogany. She glared at Clark with jaw clenched. We all shrank back while he scrambled over patrons to get away.

Watching him flee, Lill said, “I love that guy, but sometimes … Jesus fucking Christ.” Then she turned to me.

“So, Rick. Do you still go by Rick?”

“Uh, yes, that’s my name.”

“Oh, I always thought that was unfortunate. So, the Happy Trails?”

“Yes.”

“Not the Petron/Battle?”

“No.”

“Interesting. Don’t they have mostly …” then, with an expression as if she just ate mule crap, she spat out, “ … Western Art?”

She pronounced it West Run.  

“Yes, but they also sell coffee and knick-knacks in the gift shop.”

I figured I might as well embrace my humiliation.

“The knick-knacks come from ranches nestled in the foothills of the Rockies. Authentic items collected by ranch hands as they go through their cow-poking days. It is they who gather the items which are then driven south in freshly-washed semis down scenic I-25. Lovely stuff. I can get you a discount on a horseshoe napkin holder.”

“That’s charming,” Lill said. Then she looked around the table and asked, “Isn’t that charming?”

There were confused nods of agreement from the sycophant gang, as if they weren’t sure whether or not Lill really thought it was charming. She didn’t.

“Well, let’s all visit the Happy … Smilee Coffee Shop some time. Make a note, Monti.”

Monti wasn’t there, but it didn’t matter. 

“So, on to the reason I called you here,” Lill said. “I have an opportunity that could make all your dreams come true. What was that clever thing you said Ben?”

Ben put his hand over mine and leaned close, “This is a test on your journey to artistic redemption.”

Well, that sounded good and even kind of epic. If my redemption required making art, it would be a fun-filled journey. 

“Ben, if you will,” Lill said.

He reached next to his chair and pulled out a binder. We all watched as he opened it, then leafed through the pages, looking carefully at each one. While he paused to consider, everyone was distracted by a piece of toast landing in the middle of the table as if we were at a screening of Rocky Horror. That was followed by a bottle of water that hit, then rolled over the edge. I gathered my meal with a napkin so I didn’t touch Chuck’s bakery sweat. 

“Here it is!” Ben said triumphantly. He lifted a page from the binder and handed it to Lill as if it were a fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Everyone leaned forward as Lill examined the document.

“This is your mission. Your art mission,” she said.

She didn’t hand it over. I had to stand and reach across the table. 

After glancing at the paper, I said, “I think this is the wrong page.” 

Ben shot back, “Is not!”

“But this is an assignment for an Earth Space class. It looks like high school. I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” Lill said. “And I must add that your lack of understanding doesn’t mean Ben made a mistake.”

Okay, point taken.

Lill poked at her weird food with the X-acto. “I have a dear friend who’s a teacher. At a school, a high school. She’s a sweetheart, and I love her. She teaches kids who are … not that bright. What’s the word, Ben?”

“Not that bright.”

“Follow?”

“No,” I said.

She sighed dramatically and glanced at the ceiling. “Ah, yes, it's been a while. I forgot you aren't that bright, either.”

“I’m bright, I just don’t process new information as quickly as others. It’s …”

“Students today don’t have talent or any imagination,” Lill said.

“It’s the video games,” Ben said sagely to murmurs of assent around the table. 

“No matter the reason, my friend Renee needs examples. What's the word she used, Ben?”

“Explicit.”

“Yes, explicit examples,” Lill said. “It’s for a big science project to get them excited about space. That’s where you come in.” 

“Okay,” I said, starting to catch on.

“Look at the sheet.”

The teacher’s painfully detailed instructions described making a diorama of a planet or moon in our solar system. It also had to include a rover.

“Do you see why you’d be perfect for this?” Lill asked.  

“Yes, I make assemblages. This is actually kind of cool. It never occurred to me that my assemblages are like dioramas for adults. It’s …”

“I’ll tell her you’ll do it.” Once this is done I’ll have some other work for you. If my friend is happy.”

Lill pulled out her phone and we waited while she pecked away.

This sounded promising. Other work could have meant showing a few pieces in her gallery. I wasn't even hoping for a show of my own – yet. Of course other work could mean anything. I hoped it wasn’t just more filter maintenance.

“She said thanks and wants your email so she can send you more information. What is it, loser@happytrails.com?”

“It’s – “richardhharrison at gmail dotcom.”

“Spell it out,” she said.

After spelling it out, Lill asked, “Harrison has two h’s?”

“No ‘h’ for my middle name, Henry. Richard Henry Harrison. I'm related to the president.”

“Which one?” she asked. 

“William Henry Harrison.”

“Oh, I was hoping it was Obama.”

“Me, too,” I said.

She shoved over her phone. “You enter it. Don’t drop my phone, don’t smudge the screen, don’t look at porn. Hurry up.” 

It took four tries to type it in with Lill harassing me, but I finally got it. 

Lill exchanged a few more texts with the teacher. “I didn’t give her your name because I just don’t like ‘Rick’ and ‘Richard’ is even worse, so I called you ‘the artist,’ in quotes, of course.”

Of course. 

“One more thing,” She said. “This is a poor school. Why kids would go to a poor school is beyond me, but this thing can’t cost more than five dollars to make.” 

“That’s not a problem,” I said. “I use mostly found objects on my assemblages. I feel that grounds, you know, connects my work to the environment, since …”

“You have a week.”

“That’s going to be tough. I have other projects.”

“You have a week. So you’d better get to work.” She dismissed me with a wave. 

I could have been insulted, but was thrilled to be released from her clutches. 

Standing, I said, “Well, okay it’s been …”

“Yeah, yeah, you can pay for the meal on your way out.”

Ben stood, too. He hugged me and grabbed my ass, as he always did. It was unnerving, but I would’ve been disappointed if he hadn't.

“Let’s get together for lunch soon,” He said.

“We will, Ben, right after I finish this project.” 

“You're just saying that.”

“No,” I said. “We’ll definitely meet in a week. I promise, but maybe not here.”

A quick exit would have been more dramatic but it took forever to wend my way through the mass of humans and furniture. I waved at the chair scooter on my way out. She raised a middle finger that was a tiny tower of gaudy rings topped with a bright red talon. Maybe she just wanted to show off her lovely jewelry. I was nearing the door and freedom. Only Charles stood in my way. 

“I need to pay for the bread and water," I said to Charles. 

“You didn’t eat.”

“Saving it for later. Yum.”

“What water did you have?”

“I don’t know, it was clear and in a liquid state.”

I pulled out my wallet, expecting him to say don’t worry about it, but he said, “That’ll be $23.45.” 

I gave him thirty and told him to keep the change. My grandmother was spinning in her grave. 

“Oh, I’ll keep the change,” he said. “You know I will,” 

“Good. I want you to. The service has been impeccable.”

“Well, thank you,” he said with an unnerving smile. “You know not many people appreciate my efforts. It's so nice to hear.”

I couldn’t figure out if he was fucking with me and I reached for the door wanting to get out before we hugged. I tried to limit guy hugs to one a year and I’d already had two in the last half hour. 

“Here, let me get that,” he said. The door screeched and scraped as he yanked it open. I was glad to step out into the heat. All public buildings in The Valley were freezing during the summer. My soul had been frozen growing up in Indiana and the whole reason I moved was to thaw out. I never got why the buildings in Arizona were always winter. 

In my rush to flee the Egregious Goose and get started on joyous art, I bumped into a couple walking in. 

“Hey buddy, excuse you,” the guy said. 

“Sorry, sport, I was distracted. Just had a confab with Ben and Lill, the owners of the Petron/Battle. You probably don’t know them.”

It was fun to be an arrogant prick now that I was part of the art scene again. 

“Try the bread. It’s great,” I said, tossing mine in the dumpster. 

I couldn’t wait to get started on the diorama. Real art resurrected. On the way down the alley, I kept an eye out for discarded items to make a rover until I realized I had no idea what a rover looked like. I also need to pick a moon or planet. Space/art research. Damn, it sounded like fun going down that rabbit hole. Better than looking up images of Indians in various tones of a setting sun, or cowboys doing things to cows. I had a solid knowledge of space from growing up with a kid astronomer, my brilliant sister Cassie. She had raised my eyes from the Indiana gloom to hope-filled, infinite space.

Because of her, I’d seen every comet and meteor shower since I was five, even though they only seemed to be visible at two in the morning. And through her little Sears telescope, she’d shown me five of the planets. I'd never forget a tiny Saturn with its rings and a little bigger Jupiter with four pinpoint moons. Cassie had lifted my eyes from the Indiana gloom to infinite space. This time, with my art mission firmly in hand, I walked proudly down gallery row. Running into the homeless guy who worked our neighborhood, I told him I was in a hurry because I needed to get started on art for the Petron/Battle. 

“It’s a real show, Horace. Finally.”

“Good for you,” he said, then asked, “You probably wonder why I never go fishing.”

I knew the answer to his random question because we had this conversion a hundred times but I asked, “Why don’t you go fishing?”

“Because fish scream when they get hooked.” He hooked his finger in the corner of his mouth. “No uddy ut e hears it. It’s awwful.”

“I’ll bet. Okay, no more fishing for me.”

I gave him a twenty and he strode quickly down the sidewalk on his way to the Circle K. As he walked away, I thought of fish screaming. That would make a great assemblage. Tiny sculptures of fishermen in a pastoral setting. Some wearing headphones while others covered their ears with their hands. If I made and sold it, profits would go to Horace. 

I practically danced down the street, as excited to get to the Smilee Trails as my first visit a year ago. That was before I realized the only art I’d be making was westrun. 

Chapter Two  

The Teacher

Safe in my studio, I googled do fish feel pain. Turns out they do. Then I searched and found the perfect world for my assemblage, fascinating Enceladus, one of Saturn's 83 moons. I learned that Enceladus is an ice-covered moon which is kneaded by the gravity of Saturn. That flexing causes the heated core to shoot plumes of water vapor through cracks in the ice surface. Sprays from the interior ocean were once sampled by the Cassini orbiter. It was found Enceladus’s ocean has most of the chemical ingredients needed for life, and just as fascinating, the jets of water produced Saturn’s E ring. All this made Enceladus a candidate for a world where life could exist. Damn, the teacher was going to be blown away.

For a week I lived on bean burritos, multivitamins and coffee, only leaving the studio to go out for parts. Treasures like an old alarm clock at a yard sale where the woman gave it to me for free when I told her it was for a poor school, and I bought a VCR and an Atari joystick at a Goodwill for two dollars. The housing for the diorama was made out of a packing crate I’d liberated from behind a paint store. I emailed the teacher frequently, with plenty of images to update her on my progress. Her reply was always the same- Great, thanks. I don’t know how, but she was containing her excitement.  

The diorama was two feet wide, a foot deep and open in the front like a stage. I'd painted part of massive Saturn and its rings on the back wall. The distant sun glowed through a pea-sized hole in the wood. That beautiful orange light came from the alarm clock attached to the back. Tiny iridescent dots outlined constellations to honor my sister Cassie. She was the one who showed me Orion, Taurus with his blood-shot eye, and of course the W of Cassiopeia. Real plumes of water sprayed from cracks in the surface of my Enceladus by squeezing an old perfume atomizer. The surface was made from a crackle ice panel from a drop ceiling which was lit from above with flashlight bulbs. A rover with a robotic arm and spinning drill to probe for signs of life, stood majestically under the lights. It was powered by parts from the VCR and controlled by the joystick. 

This was going to be The One. Transformative art. It had the potential. This Enceladus diorama was sort of a selfless act and I was sure when I finally created one piece of art that was perfect, everything would change. Maybe it would birth a new universe. The present universe would collapse and be reborn with new physical laws where all creatures would be safe and loved. Maybe art made to absolute perfection would trigger the Second Coming. One without rivers of blood and torment would be nice. Or maybe it would be just me. Once done, I’d be released into another life or go to Art Heaven. Just getting back into a real gallery would be cool. At the very least, I’d inspire a bunch of kids, which was kind of important, too. 

Buffalo Phil, the owner of the Smilee Trails, was furious. That was one more thing my new universe wouldn't have – assholes like Buffalo Phil. 

He was fuming because I didn’t have my weekly painting on display for Thursday’s artwalk. Phil appeared in the studio, scaring me because I was deep in focus soldering the wires on the rover. I was also horrified anyone had discovered I was listening to that Call Me Maybe song on repeat.

“What the hell are you listening to and why are you playing with that crap?” he asked, his baritone voice way deeper than my dad’s, but the words were always the same as his. “You have work to do that actually makes money.”  

“Just doing a project for Lill Battle.”

Phil pushed back his cowboy hat looking surprised.

“Of the Petron/Battle Gallery,” I added.

“Yes, I know who she is. One vicious bitch.”

So he had met her.

“She’s okay once you get to know her,” I lied.

“Look buddy, you had your fifteen minutes of fame. Surprisingly, people have had enough kid’s art made out of garbage.”

“Apparently not,” I said, pointing the smoking soldering iron at my diorama of a moon that might have life. 

I envisioned an assemblage that had tiny sculptures of a guy plunging a soldering iron into another guy, but decided not to share that image with Phil.  

“Just get my art done first. Richard has finished and hung his already.”

Richard was the other big producer at the gallery and a surprisingly arrogant dick considering he didn’t have talent.  

“And for crying out loud,” Phil added. “Make sure it's dry before you hang it.”

I always worked the art until the last minute which meant it'd be displayed wet. A woman once got paint on her silk blouse for one of my pieces. It didn’t help when I told her we all had to suffer for art.  

“I’ll get your crap done,” I said, then added, “Richard gets his stuff done fast because he does paint by number.” Then resumed soldering as Buffalo Phil stormed out, muttering profanity. 

Four o'clock on a Wednesday morning I painfully straightened and stretched my back. I stood, sipped cold coffee, and struggled to focus my eyes. 

It was done. It was beautiful. The universe hadn’t changed so there was some little detail I’d missed which prevented perfection. Either that or making perfect art couldn't really change reality. Naw, that was crazy. Of course it could. 

I sent the teacher an email in bright red twenty-four point type, It's done!!!, then sat at the laptop waiting for her excited reply. Even though it was four am, I assumed the teacher would want to know the instant her diorama was done. Around eight, while I was working on the prospector and bear painting, her reply came. 

Great. Thanks. Be there at the end of the day after a meeting.

I’ll be here!! Did you know there might be life in the ocean of Enceladus and the plumes from that ocean created one of Saturn's rings!!?

Yes. 

Well, have fun at your meeting. I’ll see you this afternoon! 

Great, thanks.

I thought about asking if the meeting was about the diorama, but it probably was some boring education thing. 

I spent the next couple of hours toiling on the cowboy art assembly line, frequently tweaking the diorama, always prepared to be transported to a universe filled with happiness and love. A place where people bought couches to match their art, not the other way around. Later in the morning, Buffalo Phil called to say his niece would be there so I’d have to open the gallery and do the sales. His niece usually just sat in the gift shop on her phone and we never had many customers during the day so I just left the door locked since I couldn’t figure out how to use the cash register anyway. The niece had shown me five times how to use the register but it remained a number filled mystery to me and I was afraid to ask her to explain it again.

Late afternoon, I cleared the reception table of the horrid sage-flavored water dispenser and put the sculpture of a cattle drive’s grizzled cook on the floor where it belonged. I set Enceladus in the middle of the table, plugged in the extension cord, then checked all systems. They were a go. The lights worked and the rover responded perfectly to the controls. I’d missed a spot on the underside of the top, so I carefully touched it up, then went back to work on Buffalo’s Phil's crap while waiting for the teacher. 

How long could a meeting last?

I emailed her. How’s the meeting? See you soon? 

Sorry. Meeting went long. Have to finish some things and stop at Costco.

Great!! I’ll be here all night.

I hoped she wasn't taking the time to get me a gift, although the art set with 1,200 colored pencils would come in handy. 

Everything was set. It felt like getting ready for a date and I was nervous even though the focus was on the art, not me. The unlimited confidence I had in myself as an artist contrasted with my unlimited insecurities in every other area of my life. Then I realized I’d been so buried in art, I hadn’t showered for a week. Texting the teacher that I had to leave the gallery for a few minutes, I drove like a bat out of hell up the 101, to north Scottsdale weaving around landscaping trucks, Mercedes and an old guy putting along in a Lamborghini, rushed into my house, sloshed water on the plants, gobbled down a handful of trail mix, masturbated and showered. Then sped down the 101 back to south Scottsdale, weaving around landscaping trucks, Hyundais and an occasional Lexus. Back at the gallery, I checked but the teacher hadn’t texted back. 

Around six, I heard banging on the front door. Finally, the teacher. But instead, I found my homeless friend, Horace, who undoubtedly wanted to rant about aliens, the CIA and the evils of recycling. It was usually such fun insanity with him, but I couldn't just then. 

“I’m kind of busy,” I said, after unlocking the door and giving him money.

“But, but . . . do you know why I don’t go fishing?”

I needed to speed things up. “Because fish feel pain?”

He opened his mouth and froze. Seeing his expression, I looked behind me thinking some art-hating creature was charging through the gallery. Maybe it was the ghost of Louise Nevelson so disappointed, she came to haunt me. But there was nothing, other than a room filled with art abominations.

I turned back and he was still frozen, mouth open. Kind of fish like.

Ah. I screwed up. He needed resetting.

“Hey,” I said, “Why don’t you fish?”

“You don’t know?” he asked. He leaned forward and I avoided the urge to pull back. My homeless friend was as easily offended as he was pungent. 

He whispered, “Fish, my friend, feel pain.” Then he turned, and shuffled down the street laughing to himself.

His insanity was not worse, just different from everyone else in my world. At least he was informative.

Where the hell was the teacher? I wanted to go home and sleep on a real bed instead of the air mattress that deflated during the night. I checked on her assemblage before getting back to work. It wasn’t transformatively perfect but was still incredible, and I took a moment to wallow in my brilliance. Then I finished the oak leaves on the bear and prospector painting. They looked real enough to pluck off the tree. Next was the black bear. Painting bear's fur is easy because it’s so coarse. It was meditation for me. Muscle memory took over and my mind wandered.  

I wondered what the teacher would do when she saw her diorama. It was such a grand offering and I had to think what I'd say if she demanded to pay me. No, it's an honor. Happy to help the kids. Then I’d gaze toward the heavens like the artist/saint I had become. She didn’t need to know I was stinking rich and the last thing I needed was to take money from a teacher at a poor school. She also didn’t need to know the real reason I was making her art was to schmooze her BFF Lill.

I knew exactly how it would go. I’d reveal the assemblage to the teacher and after a sharp intake of breath, her lips would part in amazement. Then, turning to me, she’d say, How could anyone even make something this amazing? Then she’d move close, unable to keep from touching me. Perhaps reaching out to hold the skilled hands that brought joy to humanity. I’d power up Enceladus and she’d laugh with delight at the lights and buzzing sounds. 

I’d throw the master switch and the assemblage would come to life. Unable to control herself the teacher would rip her shirt open, buttons skittering across the floor. Her beautiful breasts would be revealed, nipples proudly erect, and she’d exclaim breathlessly, Can I try it? while reaching out to tentatively touch the joystick. 

May you try it, I'd correct her, which would make her laugh and say, Oh you.

Licking her luscious lips, she’d look up at me enraptured. I had no idea you’d be so hot as well as talented. My God, you are a wonder of a man. 

Then I’d put my rough work-hardened hand over hers, which would be soft and supple, and we’d manipulate the joystick together like that scene from Ghost, only less muddy. Of course she’d be so carried away by art-fueled passion we’d have to make love right there on the gallery floor. I thought about bringing in Shakira in a French maid’s uniform for a gallery three-way fantasy but decided that would be unrealistic. 

Tapping on glass shocked me out of my reverie. This had to be her. The teacher, not Shakira. 

I moseyed through the Indian and horse forest, sure she was watching me lovingly through the window. Pausing dramatically, I pretended to admire one of the gallery’s lesser artist, Richard’s, paintings, while thinking that Ruby, the talented elephant at the Phoenix zoo, did a better job with her trunk at painting. Richard’s inspiration came from country songs while mine was sent down from Art Heaven. Hell, I was once the featured artist at the Petron/Battle. Why was I playing second fiddle to that dickhead even though neither one of us had any musical talent? 

Nudging the stupid I’m Okay, You’re Okay Corral painting to make it a little off level, I posed with hand on chin, letting the teacher’s anticipation build to a fever pitch before strolling confidently to the front.  

It turned out to be a middle aged couple. The man was rapping on the window with his ring. He was also wearing loafers and shorts so he was obviously evil.

“We're closed,” I yelled. 

“Can’t we come in just for a minute?” 

The guy seemed desperate. I wondered if he needed art or to use the bathroom.

“No. Closed. Come back tomorrow.”

After hesitating, they walked away, no doubt thrilled that a real artist had yelled at them.

As soon as I got back in the studio and picked up the brush, there was more metal tapping on glass. I’d given up on the teacher. It was eight and I understood teachers went to bed early after drinking lots of wine while grading papers in bed. It had to be the old couple again, demanding entry. Entitled fucks. 

But it was a beautiful, slightly overweight woman, rapidly tapping her keys on the window. If it was morse code, she was tapping out that she was the most annoying woman on earth. It had to be the teacher. She was very tardy.

Jesus, why couldn’t she use her knuckles to knock like a normal person? What the hell was wrong with people?

“You're going to scratch the glass,” I yelled.

“Okay, open the door!” she yelled back.  

Just for laughs, I said, “We’re closed for the day. We open at ten,” then knocked with my knuckle on the reverse-reading hours.

“No!” she yelled. “Some artist guy made an assembly for me. I’m here to pick it up. Ima friend of Lill’s.” 

She got out her phone. 

Oh, God. She was calling Lill. 

I frantically unlocked the door. 

“It’s assemblage not assembly,” I said, stepping back to let her in then added. “I’m the artist guy. Nice to meet you.” 

“Yes, nice to meet you,” she mumbled, and brushed past, glancing at me with a smile that held little friendliness. Yet even that fake smile was strangely beautiful. It looked like she had lots of practice smiling when she didn’t feel it. She shoved her keys deep in her purse, clutched it tightly, and glared at me. I was offended. I didn’t need to steal her damn keys since I knew how to use my knuckles to knock on doors. 

Her eyes wandered around the room. Her brow furrowed, revealing lots of judgment in her gaze, but curiosity too. She was maybe twenty pounds overweight and very intriguing, even though my taste in women leaned towards skinny, psychotic, and desperate. Maybe it was her confidence, or her ability to put up with me after a hard day that was intriguing. When our eyes met, I felt twinges in my stomach and hoped it was from the desiccated bean burrito I’d eaten earlier. When it came to women, messages from my body had often done me wrong.