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.