I Saved Latin. What Did You Ever Do?

2000-2009: Worked on my new movie, "Dances with Wolves in Space"

This past decade constitutes the latter 33% of my life. It felt long and difficult, but also breathtakingly brief depending on how I focus the time line. I made some life-altering decisions, faced demons (the psychological kind, not the cool ones), and in many ways it was just as formative a time as childhood. Certainly I continue to work through some of the changes that took place. If you care, here is a rundown of my post-college life:

2000
The new decade started without a bang. The world waited for the unseen havoc of Y2K to topple governments and financial districts,* whiskey bottles in hand. I remember feeling worried, but I do not remember making any preparations besides dressing like the narrator in Fight Club, you know, in case.

Of course, nothing happened and I stayed out all night dressed like a waiter and feeling sorry for myself since I had been dumped a few days prior by my girlfriend of several years.

Things improved. I completed my undergraduate program on time; my girlfriend took me back; most notably I got into graduate school at the Art Institute of Chicago. For the first time in my life I would leave the cold, damp arms of Ohio.

I arrived in Chicago with my parents towing a horse-trailer full of my stuff. I had about 40 dollars. Fortunately, the city was good to me. I enrolled in courses called "French Cinema: Nouvelle Vague" and "The History of Whiteness," and began to see exactly how little I understood about anything.

I met Leah, (my roommate at the time), who is a wonderful friend and who I don't think ever charged me for utilities. I also met Darby, a tough-looking gal who took me to some thrift stores. By November, my already-fragile relationship with my then-current girlfriend had disintegrated like a bong rip. I began dating Darby, and my crush was total.

2001
Completing the remainder of my first year of grad school went off without incident. The big event occurred on June 1 when Darby and I moved our collective belongings to an apartment on the far north side where we planned to co-habitate.

The very next day Darby and I boarded a plane for England. We spent three weeks shuttling between cities all over Europe. If there were feelings of nervousness about our domestic plans, I think an extended vacation was a good way to shelve them. Fortunately the trip seemed to solidify our relationship, and I still refer to it as our honeymoon.

Not long afterward I began working at a veterinary hospital. I mentioned wanting to get a cat, so Darby wasn't too upset when I came home with two. Besides, they hid under the bed for about three days. When they came out she could see we had two of the fattest, nappiest cats that ever lived. However, it's mean to criticize orphans.

Very shortly after this, Darby's beloved dog Mable died. Mable was the sweetest dog, but she also viewed me very much as an interloper, specifically as it pertained to who was allowed to sleep in the bed and who had to sleep on the floor. Still, it was a tragic day for our family and as intelligent people, we dealt with our sudden loss by getting a puppy.

Reflecting on this, I remember feeling pretty overwhelmed by the sudden upswing in animals I needed to care for. It created a bit of resentment at times, but I grew to love Josie. On the other hand, she is still wary of me.

I would be remiss if I did not mention the attacks of September 11. I will not try to elucidate these events, and I will try not to be sentimental, but I should say that this day had permanent effects on me. I watched television for 13 hours as parts of Manhattan burned to the ground. I listened to first-person accounts and watched videos sent in by New Yorkers.** Suddenly the French New Wave didn't seem quite so important. With all the health care workers, police and firefighters involved, this is the first time I remember thinking about not being an artist.

2002
I completed graduate school with no job prospects and very little direction. Net gain: -$50,000.

I took the first month after school to relax and live off of my savings. This is also the time in which I began drinking heavily, going to bars with friends several nights a week. Getting my first job out of school was little deterrent; I found it easy to frame art on four hours of sleep.

That fall I was offered my first teaching job at my prestigious alma mater. The whole reason I went to grad school was to become a teacher, and I was terribly excited. Of course, one semester of actually teaching cured me of this right quick, (see above net gain).

I also had my first and last solo exhibition, which I enjoyed even less than teaching.*** At the age of 23 I was ready to start my second career. Despite my sorry futures, Darby agreed to marry me.

2003
In January, W declared war on Iraq. I did not agree with his decision, and after seeking approval it turns out that the rest of world didn't either. Nevertheless, the United States invaded a country on the grounds of suspicious boogeymen and state-of-the-art-but-invisible weaponry. Were there more widespread support for the so-called war on terror I may have been able to accept this maneuver. Without it though, I felt our country had been made to seem like the bully of the world, and I was embarrassed to be an American. This marks the first time in which I have hated my president.

Much of the early part of this year was spent planning our wedding. I like to think of myself as easy-going with simple taste, but the topic of napkin color and menu planning can transform a person. Suddenly I found myself arguing about things like the order of songs on our "wedding soundtrack." Most of the time our spirits were high, but it also caused quite a few blowouts. Anyone who is planning a wedding should take heart that they are passing a test—if you get to the wedding day and you still want to marry this person, you have chosen well. And anyone who can get through the planning stages can survive a marriage—it is much more stressful than the average spat over alleged gambling or embezzlement.

Despite these trials, we both showed up and said our vows, after which my grandma said, "Those were some pretty tough promises you made..."

To celebrate we spent three days and three nights in beautiful Milwaukee. (That is not a joke. We were very, very poor).

Ever since, Darby's family has become a part of my life too, welcoming me into their home and treating me with great respect and generosity, and helping Darby and I through some tough times in past several years. Thank you again, Sharon and Fred.

The only other thing I can remember from this year was my return to the two-wheeler. It is said that one never forgets how to ride a bike, and I found it to be true. That said, I was never what one would call a careful biker,**** and the time away didn't improve this. Twelve inches from the ground, I felt frightened and vulnerable. However, it didn't take long before my confidence grew and I was darting between traffic. My decision to bike, which seemed small at the time, is probably one of the most important I've made, and all before it was cool to be quote-unquote green.

2004-06
I lump these together for several reason. For one thing, this piece which began as a list is starting to run long. For another, these years are so thematically similar that it is difficult to distinguish them. That said, a few momentous things did occur.

After 86 years the Red Sox won the series. While I am not strictly a Red Sox fan, many of my favorite players spent their careers in Boston, and I have always rooted for their team. As a moment in baseball history to have lived through, it is hard to top the improbable comeback against the Yankees.

Speaking of improbable comebacks, this nation also re-elected one George W. Bush. Honestly, I have never felt so alienated in my life, and I was part of the gifted and talented program in elementary school. I was literally depressed the day after and I didn't go to work in the morning.

More personally, this is also the time period when Darby is first diagnosed with some medical problems, setting off a chain reaction of bills, investigations of fraud, and ultimately a deep hole of debt.

Of course, this is also the year in which I begin to work for Marie, a local artist. Her company, Creamco, which employed nine of us, was undoubtedly the most amazing job I have ever held. It is also a huge reason that the years run together for me in this way. I worked steadily for almost three years, all the while earning a great wage and setting my own hours. To put it mildly, it was a mindfuck. But that is a much longer story. Suffice it to say that I was given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I sort of squandered it. Ah, well. I was in my mid-20s and not too clear on where I was heading. Giving me more time to be directionless didn't help. At any rate, I am extremely thankful for my time there. Many good friendships were forged, and I am sure it will make a good book one day.

Overall though, these were dark times for me. I continued to drink a lot. I dabbled in a few business relationships, as did Darby, but this only seemed to drive us further into debt. I felt adrift. My depression was becoming more unpredictable and irregular, rather than being seasonal (winter, the Cubs). I was not making any art whatsoever and my diaries at this time are self-loathing rants about wasted potential. I was becoming a fine chess player though.

Fed up, I decided to become a firefighter. I trained hard and bulked up, eventually passing the physical exam, which is basically an adult obstacle course. Sadly, there were just not a lot of positions available. In many cases, even if you are accepted, you can sit on a waiting list for 5 years before you are called. I felt discouraged once more.

2007
The next year showed very few signs of improvement and in April we received some crushing news. To cover our medical expenses, I was working more hours at Creamco. Due to my increased earnings, our taxes were through the roof. I won't bore you with details about independent contract work and home/office write-offs. Let me just say that we suddenly owed a LOT more than we had. Of course, the only solution was to work even more, which would only exacerbate the dilemma. Faced with huge trouble from the IRS, we devised a plan—we would cast about a wide net for new jobs; we would go wherever we had to to earn more money and spend less. And that is how we came to choose Albuquerque.

I was very sad to leave Chicago. I lived there for almost 8 years, and I considered it home. Many of my friends from school had since moved away, but it still had a community of art friends, great restaurants, the Cubs, and it is fairly close to our families. I felt excited to do something new, but I really knew nothing about New Mexico beyond what Wikipedia had to say.

I spent three weeks packing our belongings while Darby went out ahead of me to start her job and find us an apartment.***** When I arrived, I saw she had done well. She loved her job, the weather was fantastic, and we could see mountains from our window. Mountains.

Thankfully, I was quickly able to land a job too and we were well on our way to crawling out of debt. We both worked hard, tightened our belts, and paid every penny we could to the IRS and Citibank.

At some point (actually, it was August 15) I had the idea to start posting some writings on the internet. Though I am a lifelong journaler, I had never written for an audience before (and by audience I mean two of my friends). I found the endeavor challenging, but I also got a lot of enjoyment from the responses, so I kept at it.

By year's end I was feeling pretty homesick. I didn't know anybody. I missed my family and friends. We were so broke we couldn't travel together so I flew home for Thanksgiving without Darby, no doubt setting off rumors of impending divorce.

My first winter in ABQ, my depression struck on schedule, but I noticed something else. Namely, the extreme sun we receive here helped stave off the prolonged phases of sleep. I had more energy than usual. I even managed to keep writing a little. Normally I will remain catatonic until pitchers and catchers report to camp, but I found that I could go for a walk in the afternoons and alleviate much of the nameless dread that I feel in these bouts. Despite my lagging social life in my new city, I was finding other things to love about it.

2008-09
If you are reading this, no doubt you know what happens from here—our cat dies, we get rid of our car, we get a puppy, I quit my job to go to nursing school, we elect my candidate for the first time since I have been able to vote (unless you count Rod Blagojevich, who we each voted for twice), etc.

I haven't seen many of my friends since I left, and I only rarely see my parents. This is already my third New Year's Day in New Mexico. It's these last few years that really seem to have flown. I recently finished an entire year of biology courses, and it feels like yesterday that I sat on this very couch wondering what on Earth I would do now that I was unemployed.

As the decade fades I see how much ground I have covered, and how different my life is. Then again, sitting down to write it all out makes it seem more cohesive than it felt at the time. A lot of things that happen to us are unexpected, or accidental. We don't plan to spend thousands of dollars on surgeries or to suddenly quit our jobs, but these events ultimately determine our paths. How we react to them defines us.

I never thought of it this way before, but Darby has been in my life for almost this entire decade. Finding someone you can spend the rest of your life with is life-altering in the truest sense. All of my decisions consider her feelings (or they ought to anyway...) and it makes the happiness all the more satisfying when it can be shared. Looking back I can sense our good intentions prevailing. We made some bad decisions along the way, but we also worked hard to reconcile them. And we always made it a priority to be happy together and to stay in touch with loved ones.

Of course, I am sorry for the way some things turned out. There are people I no longer speak to, or who no longer speak to me, and at these moments when I am feeling nostalgic it is hard to understand the terms of the conflicts. At any rate, my feelings of anger have long since subsided and have been replaced, mostly with regret and sadness. I can only hope I will behave better in the future.

Heading into the next decade, I am still hopeful. The world seems more dangerous than before. The economy is certainly not in the place it was back when. But I am moving towards my new career with optimism. I feel I will enjoy helping people in a way that administrative work cannot approach. I don't feel quite so manic about my art either. Recently I made a chalkboard for myself. To test it out I wrote:

"Breathe. One day at a time."

It's not exactly profound, but it didn't seem like something I could have thought of at 21. It reflects a mellower approach to life. It is emblematic of growth. Thank god. Sometimes my life seems like no more than a whisper or yawn. It is good to see that I'm still here, and still looking forward to mañana.

To all of you, happy new year, and many more!


* Little did I know, it would only be three short years until George W. Bush went ahead and did it anyway.

** One in particular has never left me. A fairly close shot of the second plane smashing into the towers from an apartment window punctuated by the photographers scream, a sound that overwhelmed the capabilities of their microphone, distorting it with all the anguished helplessness a person feels when something the size of an airplane is about to hit something. What could she do but scream?

*** At this point I would like to state that I do not feel bitterness like so many of my predecessors in the field. I just have different goals for myself, among which exhibiting and selling work are not.

**** I once knocked my teeth out by riding up a tree.

***** It should also be noted that this is the point at which I "accidentally" threw out Darby's oil paints. She never used them, and upon inspection I decided they were very old and in poor condition. I figured if Darby wanted to paint, she could use my set. I think I was in town for two days before she asked where her paints were. It took until Christmas 2008, when I replaced her set, for forgiveness.

Qwerty Monster

Idea for a story: A farmer teams up with a pirate to save a princess from an evil robot who is his father...

When I was little, maybe six or seven, I went to a Tigers game with my dad. After the game he agreed to buy me a jersey. Though we lived in Ohio, a state with two professional baseball teams, and my father was a devout Detroit fan, I selected a Cubs jersey, mostly because I thought it was cool looking. And it was cool looking—a satiny material of royal blue with nifty white and red stripes at the ends of the sleeves. I was young, but I was pretty sure I had the best shirt of anybody I knew.

Sometime later—I am not sure how long, those jerseys last forever—I was playing football with the big kids from my neighborhood. Most of them were the older brothers of my friends and neighbors. The point is, I didn't know them very well and they were all at least twice as tall as me. The other important thing to tell you is that I was absolutely dominating the game against them. Carrying the ball, surrounded by a group of three or four big kids, they kept missing me. They would dive, I would run, and they would miss me and roll onto the grass, laughing. Even if they got a hand on me, my Cubs jersey was apparently too slippery to hang onto and they would fall and lose their grip. It was hysterical. It was almost as though they were letting me evade them, like they were purposely throwing the match; I was that good. I mentioned that my Cubs jersey was awfully hard to hang onto, and that would explain why I was so difficult to tackle on this particular day, you know, so they wouldn't feel too bad. And they agreed. The jersey combined with my guile and quickness was making it damn near impossible to catch me. It wasn't fair, but that's how it was. I guess they should have gotten their own jerseys.

Sometime after that—I don't know, a week, three months—we were going to play again, only this time my jersey was in the dirty clothes hamper. The hamper was a wicker container painted blue, with a blue vinyl lid. I hated the hamper. It was where my favorite clothes went for what seemed like ever. I am sure my mom did laundry often, but to a boy who believed that certain garments had magical powers, it didn't feel often enough. I have always been the type to have favorite garments that I will wear for days before changing. I'm fairly superstitious, and messing with your outfit when you're on a good streak is luck suicide. Anyway, I asked if I could get my jersey back out of the hamper. I was told no.

I pleaded with my mom. I explained that the big kids couldn't catch me in my jersey, that I needed it, for my safety really. Her answer was still no, which is understandable—I had probably been wearing it for the entire previous week. But this was important. If she would just look out the window she would see that these were the big kids.

She remained unfazed. She explained that the jersey had nothing to do with my abilities, and if I had been able to evade them before, I could do it again. This, of course, made no sense whatsoever. Not only were these kids big enough to be able to outrun me, but they had all agreed the shirt had been the difference. I remember that very clearly. Alas, I was left to fend for myself, thrown to the wolves sans jersey like an ordinary little kid.

Now that I am older, I understand what my mom was trying to tell me—that it is what's inside that counts, that the uniform does not make the man. However, to this day I still don't believe it. Like most artists, I have a vivid imagination, and I often use it to imagine myself doing something amazing. Unfortunately, my dreams are rarely accomplished by hard work or discipline or any of those qualities we speak of at people's funerals. Instead, the secret to my success is almost always a possession I covet.

I will fixate on said item, and I will become convinced that without it I will be unable to move, all my future plans hinge on having this item. Sometimes it is a garment, like a new pair of shoes, or a hat. Sometimes it is a bicycle part, or perhaps an entire bicycle. It is often an art supply, typically related to oil painting which I do about once a year. Most recently it was a typewriter.

Even though I have never written more than a few short stories, I still feel in my heart that I am destined to write novels, plays, and other works of fiction and, of course, to be famous for doing so. I think about it all the time. It's quite perverse, spending so much time pondering something I never actually do. It's actually a lot like being a virgin again. And as with losing my virginity, I am constantly conceiving of ways to get myself to write. Unfortunately, as with losing my virginity, it seems like it's taking forever.

I have pretty good excuses. For one thing, I am a painfully slow writer. I agonize over word choice. Also, I am pretty moody about when I will write. For a long time I could only write if I had complete silence, and it was early morning. I certainly couldn't write if anyone else was around. It's getting better, but I still have to limit the sound to instrumental music.

Lately I have taken to my studio to write. It is (usually) quiet, there are no dogs or people or telephones or even internet. The only drawback is that I must take the laptop with me, a fact that is unpopular with some of the Tetris-playing members of the household. Furthemore, if the computer was reserved for something legitimate it would mean that I would have to wait to use it! I don't know if I can explain this to those of you who are not artists, but having to wait when you are inspired is just about the most uncomfortable feeling there is. It is more or less mental constipation. And the longer you must wait, the less likely anything is going to come out of it.

Considering these issues, I hit upon a brilliant idea, one that would eliminate my hoarding of the computer and also fulfill my desire to purchase a new device that would finally provide me literary regularity. I became convinced that a typewriter was the missing link in the chain between me and greatness. It was one of those ideas that, after I thought of it, seemed so obvious that it was amazing it had been overlooked for so long. At last I would be afforded the freedom to travel the world, writing machine in hand, recording events in person, fashioning stories about the people I encounter. No longer would I have to sit in front of a dull-eyed screen, arguing with spell check about whether douchebag is a word. Finally I would know the joy of working without the crutch that is the delete key. I began researching typewriters that very day.

Whenever I am about to buy something that I know almost nothing about, I will progress through a series of beliefs that reflect the amount of knowledge I have been able to accrue by googling the word.

I will begin by saying that I should just get a cheap one, since I am only a beginner. That way, if I don't like it I'm not out a bunch of money. Besides, a true artist doesn't need fancy equipment to do their work.


Honey, where is the doorstop?

Next I will realize that for only a little more money I could actually get a pretty nice one, and it seems a shame to spend good money on something that might not be of very high quality, especially if I'm just going to turn around and upgrade anyway. I believe a person gets what they pay for, especially if what they pay for is a really hip vintage model.


Oh, this old thing? Wes Anderson said he wasn't really using it anymore.

After that I will begin to covet the extremely high-end models that are needlessly ornate and well out of any initial price range I imagined. I will not pretend that I think it is a good idea to purchase one of these high-enders, but I will spend the next 72 hours on ebay looking for deals.



Do you have anything with jeweled dragons on the sides?

Often what happens next is I am unable to reconcile my wish to own said object and the cost of the model I have decided is my fate, (usually due to some random article I read online). After a few weeks I will have forgotten about said object altogether. However, sometimes I get lucky. In this case, I was at my friends' house when I mentioned my desire to own a typewriter, whereupon my friend Becky produced two typewriters from her attic. I left with a 1943 Smith-Corona portable in perfect working condition.


Note: Not the actual typewriter. This one is a professional actor.

This is the part where I tell you how the typewriter has changed my life, that my dreams are in the process of being realized. Well, I am a little embarrassed to admit it, but I have had my typewriter now for a week and I have yet to complete a single thing with it. Don't get me wrong, I like using it. I love being able to look out the window instead of into the blue light of pixels. But I guess I still need to think of the stories before I can sit down and type them, they aren't just locked away in the aura of the machine. And this is merely the cognitive aspects of writing. Not surprisingly, physically using my new instrument is taking some getting used to, and it is also just not capable of doing some things that I rely on fairly heavily.

To say that the typewriter foregrounds my weaknesses is an understatement. Firstly, I am an abomanible speller. Of course, the typewriter cares not if I can't hit the keys in the proper order,* laying bare all the mistakes one makes along the way so that you end up with words like anoutmoded or unfamiar. I am also not a strong typist. I have good days and bad ones, but unless I am fully caffeinated and inspired I think I work at about 40 words a month. I don't think I need to say that the spring-loaded action of a machine made before the television doesn't exactly speed up the process. But probably most important is the fact that I can't rearrange paragraphs as I go. I have been told my writer's 'voice' sounds natural or conversational, usually by my relatives, but I can tell you that writing is an agonizing process that takes me hours or days complete. Often I will write several paragraphs or even pages that only serve to get me to the first sentence of my articles. Almost always I will change my mind about how the pieces should begin, or end. I like to copy and paste sections back and forth, reading them both ways before I decide. In short, I kind of suck at writing. The computer helps me suck a lot less.

Still, I remain confident. I continue to envision myself working late into the night with a bottle and a handgun on either side of the machine, smacking an original manuscript into leafs of real paper. I think it is going to be good for me to spend less time plugged in to the internet-ready laptop and rely a bit more on memory, imagination, and my thrift store dictionary.

Many years ago, as I lined up across from the big kids in my normal, non-magical shirt, I knew I was going to come up short. I knew that what was special on that previous day was gone. I had felt the shirt's power, and I was worse off without it.

Whether it is true or not, you can't argue me out of my feelings, and you sure as hell can't stop me when I feel them. Sometimes, with the right tools, I'm just invincible.


* Even the word 'typewriter' is kind of tough. Most of it happens with the left hand on adjacent keys. I just can't get it right.

Carmen and the Guardian Angel

...and apparently religious.

The other morning I had to tell a woman to stop calling my house. Before she finally got me on the phone I imagined what I might say to her, how I would handle the escalating situation. Truth be told, I felt great relief at having spoken to her, but I was also hoping it wouldn't come to that. I thought she might just give up and go away on her own. You see, I'm not very assertive. I have a lot of trouble telling people no. In this case, I definitely accept some of the blame, but come on. Take a hint. I guess some people, no matter how desperate or hopeless the situation seems, need verbal confirmation.

Her name is Carmen. In all, I think I received five messages, and I actually spoke to her four other times in a span of about two weeks. I don't have Caller ID, so I have no record if she tried calling other times without leaving messages. Of course, this means I also have no way to screen my calls.

From the start, I thought it was odd to be hearing from her. Because I am the art critic for the paper, she seemed to believe she could call me out of the blue, at home, in order to encourage me to review her friend's show. In the course of this first conversation I learned a lot of things. For instance, I learned she is a casting agent, and that she would be getting drinks later that evening with some high-ranking state official. As she spoke, the implication became clear—there might be a favor in my future if I were to write a review. Of course, she may also just be prone to exaggeration, as evidenced by her description of the artist.

I will call him M, and besides being a full-time surgeon and head of cardiology at a local hospital, he also finds time to paint and sculpt. Carmen would be the first to admit she didn't know how he found the time, but it was obvious that this information was supposed to inspire me. At any rate, after her lengthy espousal I politely agreed to see the show and get back to her.

I see now my mistake. In the future I hope to be more candid with my beliefs in this regard, foremost of which is that I did not appreciate being called at home by a stranger one iota, let alone one making nebulous inferences about casting me in movies. I don't even want to be in movies, not with my teeth the way they are. Granted, she was very polite and wasn't exactly asking me for anything, but the implications of this kind of back-door deal are disgusting. Were I to follow through, viewing and then writing a favorable review of a show, just because some woman calls out of nowhere and says words like "Hollywood" and "State Supreme Court" I would be a pretty lousy reporter indeed. Alas, I saw no harm in checking out her friend's art, and I swear to you that I made no promises beyond that. Unsettling as I found her phone call, I was courteous. (Damn you, good upbringing!) If I could do it again, I would firmly and politely explain my feelings upfront. But that isn't really my style.

At this point I would like to segue into my past, to my last summer before I moved to Chicago. I was working at Arby's. I had just graduated from college and was trying to earn some money before I left for grad school. I knew I would be leaving in only a few months, so I applied at the closest job I could find, without disclosing this information. Admittedly, it was dishonest, but I want to say that throughout my tenure I was a very good employee, probably the best I've ever been at any job. Knowing I wouldn't be there very long allowed me a very healthy perspective on my position—it was a way to earn, it was easy, it was temporary. I actually kind of enjoyed working at Arby's. There was zero stress, the hours were relaxed, and I got free food. Just about the only drawback was the nightmares where I couldn't turn off the fryers. Anyway, one day a man came into the restaurant. He was disheveled, he smelled like alcohol, and his speech was incoherent. If I had to guess I'd say he was homeless, or at least very crazy.

He ordered food and as I was collecting his fries and drinking cup he put some change on the counter. I can't remember the total, but it wasn't really enough. When I told him it wasn't enough money he started to get agitated. He attempted to grab the soda cup, all the while rambling nonsense. He either didn't comprehend or didn't care that his money was short. He began loudly demanding his food. I felt foolish, but I wasn't really sure what to do. I figured he would realize he wasn't getting food and go away. After all, there was this counter between him and the food.

My manager, Bridgette, appeared from her office. I didn't know her too well, but my impression was that, for a short woman of wide berth, she was not the sort who would take any crap. I liked her but, as with all management I have known, she seemed deeply unhappy, like someone who is not in control of their own destiny. I also know this feeling can breed anger, and it is moments like this that bring it out suddenly.

She greeted the man sharply in a way that I imagine was taught to her at some corporate management seminar. Immediately the man zeroed in on her, his behavior escalating so he was staggering towards her, pointing and babbling. In response, Bridgette's tone and manner harshened. I cannot remember what was said, but the argument was between whether the man should leave or be allowed to have a turnover. Finally, Bridgette informed the man she was calling the police and went to her office to do just that.

It is at this point that the story becomes less like a retelling of an event and more like a religious experience. A person whom I believed was insane offered me guidance. I almost didn't believe it when it was happening, but it did happen.

Alone again with the man who had been yelling and reaching across the counter, he suddenly turned to me and said in the soberest of voices, "You let your girlfriend do your dirty work?" I was so stunned by the man's sudden transformation that I said nothing. He looked me over and then leaned in a bit closer. "One day, you're going to have to learn to stand up for yourself."

Bridgette returned and the man began gesticulating and croaking again, morphing seamlessly back into his belligerent self. He left in a flurry of swearing and we never saw him again. I didn't tell anyone about what the man said to me, or that he wasn't really drunk. They wouldn't have believed it anyway.

I was thinking about the man this week.
Actually, I think of him often. I was rattled by the event, his strange demeanor, his ability to assess me. He was right. I do not like confrontations. There have been many moments in my life when I have wished I would have said something or done something in the heat of the moment, only to wait it out. I don't exactly think I am a coward, but I often choose to say nothing to someone I perceive as an aggressor, not wanting to inflame the situation. Honestly though, I almost always regret this.

The week after I first spoke to Carmen she called again to see how I liked the show. I apologized for not getting back to her, but I had a legitimate excuse—I had not seen her friend's show. I had indeed gone to the gallery, but when I arrived the space was occupied with people spreading plastic sheeting on the floor and stapling it down. I asked a woman if the exhibition was open and a man called from behind a wall, "Five minutes! We'll be done soon."

I waited for about ten minutes before it started to rain. When I poked my head through the door once more, staple guns were still firing, so I left. I am in Santa Fe every week, so I saw no need to get wet. I would just come back the following week.

Speaking to Carmen again, she reiterated a lot of the information from the first phone call—she is a casting agent, her friend is a heart surgeon, he is brilliant, etc. I explained what had happened at the gallery. Once more, I said I would attend the show. Satisfied, she said she would wait to hear from me.

The following Friday I returned to the gallery, and this time I was allowed to see what all the proverbial fuss was about. The space in which the show was being held is a small one, no more than twelve feet square. It has a single entrance but is basically an enclosure of four solid walls. Covering most of the walls were a dozen or so paintings, but these did not immediately get my attention due to the fact that an eight-foot high sculpture of a sea monster made from blackened spray foam was cutting diagonally across the room and staring me in the face the moment I turned the corner.

I will not bore you with too many of the details of the show. In truth, I was not quite sure what to think. These past few months I have seen a lot of art, much of it very boring or derivative. Well, this show was neither of those things. It was actually a little bit frightening in the sense that a supposedly sane person created it. My first thought was, "My god! They let this man operate on people." The sea monster was part of a trio of sculptures, all produced from the same glistening black foam and matted faux fur. They were, unequivocally, the worst sculptures I have ever seen from an adult.

The paintings weren't a lot better. They were crudely made and naively thought out. They featured the kind of imagery one might expect from an elementary school student, but they were violently painted at a very large scale. Most of the images included at least one floating head which, my friend Davey pointed out, is often a sign of schizophrenia in the artist. Best of all, the titles of the works—things like "The Boy Who Loved Socker and Barbie Dolls" or "Nightmare in the Boardroom"—were scrawled directly onto the walls with charcoal, 10" letters in a jagged, deranged hand that is the very picture of what it is to scrawl.

If I had stumbled upon this work on my own, I might have laughed, or written it off as a calculated attempt to seem like an outsider artist. I don't know. But there was something so sincere about the work that I couldn't believe anyone would want to pretend to be so unhinged. I mean, the guy flat out could not paint. His compositions were awful, his execution was a mess, and the imagery was very infantile. The more I looked, the more certain I became that this art had been created by a madman.

Even stranger, I learned that other galleries had been showing this man's work. I began to wonder if he and Carmen were somehow able to leverage shows from otherwise steady and reputable dealers, using their positions as bargaining chips. It wouldn't be the first time. But I also couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that other people would see this work and not either fall down laughing or just leave the room. (I really can't stress enough the ridiculousness of the leviathan. Those must be some bargaining chips). I actually started to get scared. Who was I dealing with here?

That weekend, my friend Bryan arrived. It was the week of Thanksgiving, and he would be in town throughout. In other words, it gave me a pretty good excuse to avoid Carmen. I was not at all sure what to say to her. How do you say to someone that their friend's show was probably the biggest disaster you have looked at all year? I suppose I could have told her I didn't think the show was something I was interested in. Or I could have made some excuse about not wanting to review the same gallery too often. But I just don't like to lie, even to strangers, so I did what I always do—nothing. I decided to enjoy my break with my old friend and not worry about Carmen.

This is when the messages started.

One, two, then three messages, all in the same little smoker's voice. Carmen was always just trying to catch me on her way somewhere. She always made a bit of small talk on the recording about her friend, lest I should forget why she was calling. I would have admired her persistence if I wasn't started to feel stalked. I had told her I would call. Never mind that I hadn't, I was surprised to see that she would keep trying.

When she finally got me on the phone, I was still at a loss for words. I tried to speak honestly about the works, their childish craft, and she tended to agree with me, only without the repulsion I felt. She described her friend some more to me. She said he was very sensitive, and could be very childlike. She told a pretty funny story about the time she brought him some food and gifts from her hometown. As part of the package, Carmen had included a small jar of dirt that was supposedly blessed. She called it "prayer dirt." The following day, M called to thank her for the food but, he said, he was worried that there was something spoiled in the Ovaltine. Of course, there was no Ovaltine, and M had drunk the dirt. I believe this story was supposed to endear me to him, but I felt it was further proof that I was getting very close to something dangerous and insane.

I panicked. In order to appease Carmen, I said I thought I might have more questions about the work, and that they could be better answered by M himself. In a huge bluff, I asked for his phone number. Well, Carmen happily gave it to me. To this I added I would likely not call this week with the holiday, but that next time I went to Santa Fe I might try to have coffee with him.

After I hung up, I felt terrible. I had no intention of meeting with this person. My selfish motive was only to try to get Carmen to stop calling. I felt that if the ball was in my court, so to speak, they might wait for my call and eventually get the message. I mean, the guy's a surgeon. What does he need a crappy art review for anyway? He'd get over it.

Oh, but I still have much to learn. Ten years after a madman gave me sage advice in a fast food lobby, I was still not standing up for myself. Here again, ten years on, I was being pushed and harassed by another madman, and they seemed to know it too.

I never called, and for a few days neither did Carmen. It was last Thursday that the first message appeared on my machine. She was understanding. She knew, what with the holidays, I had gotten busy. She was sure I had probably tried to contact M, while he was in surgery no doubt, but he was still hoping to hear from me. Apparently, since I hadn't called, he'd been feeling a little down, but Carmen reassured him that I would call. What was this woman doing? Who is this bipolar hospital head that needed approval from a local art critic? By the end of the message, I was fully creeped out.

The next day, Friday, there is still another message. Not that it is of consequence, but I was actually quite busy last week, and I was not home during appropriate calling hours even if I had intended to call. People like Carmen, I guess they don't care if they come off as pushy or desperate. They are going to hound you until they get you on the phone. And I ask, what is the point? She must have known by now that I was giving her the brush off. I had been very rude by not returning her calls. Couldn't she see that I was trying to stonewall her?

I should add that sometime during the week I wrote to my editor and asked that they please not give out my home phone number. In the past, they have forwarded emails to me from people who are trying to contact me, but this seemed to cross a line. My editor responded by saying that no one in the office could remember giving out my number, and besides that it was against their policy. I thanked her, as it meant that my employer was not in the habit of aiding people that wish to harass me, but I was suspicious. How else could Carmen find me and know exactly who I am?

I didn't sleep well on Friday night. I thought about calling Carmen and putting a stop to all this, but again I could not find the words. Deep down, wasn't she just trying to do her crazy friend a favor? She was a sweet old grandmother. I just hoped and hoped she would stop calling and I would not have to tell her the truth. I was sure she I had heard the last of her.

Saturday morning, at about 9am, I was making blueberry pancakes when the phone rang. I promise that I did not suspect it would be Carmen. Up to that point, she had always respected normal business hours, and had never called on a weekend, so when she said "Hello, John?" I had to ask who it was. "John, it's Carmen." The voice so familiar from my machine had lost something, patience I think. Immediately she launched into a similar spiel regarding my supposed attempts to contact M, and the fact that I was probably really busy, etc.

I have to say, I was starting to get pissed. Not only was this woman flat out pestering me, on an early weekend morning, but she was also being, in my opinion, disingenuous. I simply do not accept that she felt I had in earnest been trying to call. Indeed, if my track record was an indication, I had never yet called. And still, she insisted on pretending to believe in me and playing at politeness. I could hear it in her tone. She was annoyed, and she was saying these things out of some perverse duty she felt to be polite to me, to whom she owed nothing. I cannot imagine she was enjoying this. I cannot fathom why she would bother. I hope she's being well paid.

Cutting her off, I asked, "Carmen, how did you get this number?"

There was a pause. "I don't know." Another pause. "It might have been in the phone book."

Indeed it is. I had not wanted to pay for an unlisted number. Carmen hadn't wheedled it out of anyone. Being a resourceful sort of bully, she had merely looked me up.

I was stunned. My paper hadn't given out the number after all. My home number is in the public domain. This is what I get.

Quickly I said, "Well, I'd like you to stop calling."

"So, you're not going to call him?"

"No. Thank you," I said, and I hung up.

As stated, I felt a great sense of relief at having finally said what I needed to say. Of course, I also felt no small amount of guilt too. I should have had the nerve to tell Carmen on day one. Or day two or three, etc. I should not sit around and wish my problems away. Unfortunately, I do not appear to be built for this. I am not quick to react to conflicts. When I do I always feel that I have overreacted. In this case, Carmen might still say that I overreacted. I don't know what to think. I don't understand any of it.

I do know that I have not learned to stand up for myself though. I suppose I could have caved completely and just written the review. That would be truly spineless. But the fact remains that I never did tell Carmen the truth. I never gave her an honest opinion, really. And that's too bad. After all, I'm a critic. Giving my opinion is my job.

In my opinion, Carmen crossed a line. And then she crossed another one. I can only surmise she was M's annoying little attack dog, hassling people for press. But she deserved to hear the truth about it. In that regard, I failed her. By saying nothing, I crossed a line too.

Since Saturday, I have not heard from Carmen, but I was a bit uneasy for a few days. Each time the phone rings I swallow hard. I picture myself being accosted while I walk my dogs. I daydream that I will be blacklisted from getting a nursing job in town. Frankly I don't see how this story could have had a happy ending. Sometimes people just come into your life and start pushing you. Sometimes the only thing you can do is push back.

After all this time, I can't decide if the man at Arby's was truly crazy, if he was faking it completely, or if it was something in between, a kind of sociopathic charade to keep people at a distance. The explanation I prefer makes the least amount of sense, but I decided he was some kind of guardian angel sent to help me. He was testing me, and when I failed he was telling me how to pass the test. He's going to keep testing me. He's going to teach me how to become a man.