The Private Annoyances Of Archibald Winnifeather
In the corner of the room stands a lanky twenty-five year old man with tangled sunbeam hair barely covering his wandering cerulean eyes, then sweeping back towards two dopey ears slightly sticking out from a milky complexion. Tiny freckles dot the crooked nose placed somewhat awkwardly above an almost pinhole mouth surrounded by thin nonexistent lips, seeming too tight and pinched shut for any words to ever find their way out, thus explaining his quiet nature. His barrel-less chest appears bony and fragile, his stomach sunken deep within a jutting ribcage, his back a little hunched over its frame, maybe from childhood Scoliosis or just a lack of self-confidence and all of this inadequacy trying its best to balance atop his flimsy stilt legs, which end in giant canoe feet wearing black Chuck Taylor All Stars and worn they are with scraggly holes lining the sides and soles, longing for better days when toes could remain safe inside without peeking through to pavement hardships. A simple black suit and green T-shirt cover the remainder of his blinding body. One Robert P. Wadlow hand wraps around a glass of red wine practically coming back on itself, while the other is thrust into his pants pocket shuffling through loose change and old Chinese cookie fortunes. The sticker on the left side of his jacket reads: MY NAME IS . . . ARCHIE. ARCHIE is written in red crayon, retrieved from his collection of dead presidents and Confucius' sayings, when he was unable to find a proper writing utensil.
Tonight marks the grand opening of Wit's End, an art gallery featuring prominent new talents, located on the east side of town amongst the urban upper-class neighborhoods and eclectic storefronts catering to the hip city dwellers and their many diverse subcultures. Some of Archie's paintings hang on freshly painted white walls alongside such other up and comers as Oliver Langley, Gabriella Soleil, and Vincent Sumner, to name a few . . . Gabriella being the most gifted and prolific of the lot with beauty and charm adored by countless male followers.
Archie still standing in the corner, legs crossed at the ankles, takes a long look around the gallery, admiring his fellow artists' work and eavesdropping on the grandiloquence of their conversations:
"Kerouac and I certainly weren't fast friends. He's too wordy for me . . . and his sentences just go on and on like they'll never end. Personally, I think he could use a grammar lesson or two. And what is it he's trying to say anyway? I walked around, caught a ride, drank some wine, 'dug some bop' . . . but what does that mean?"
"I agree. The way color explodes and intertwines in The Kiss is so passionately displayed . . . it really shows the violence and lust . . . and even forthcoming love in its subjects. Picasso truly had a gift for making genitalia seem elegant."
" . . . well, I'm not a fan of noise and I could never understand 'black music', so Miles Davis doesn't have any appeal to my senses. How can you respect a man who doesn't even face his audience?"
"Phonies." Archie softly mutters to himself.
His vision finally settles on one of his own pieces entitled The Child. It had taken him over a year to complete this, which he considered to be his finest expression . . . working only when he felt inspired and stopping often for great lengths of time to reflect upon each simple brushstroke, hoping in the end he would achieve perfection. The Child was Archie's interpretation of a newborn infant fresh from the womb, seeing the world for the first time through not-yet-jaded eyes of angel god light and wonder . . . full of optimism . . . devoid of disappointment or disillusionment and breathing in that first calm that holds no expectations.
Staring at his masterpiece, he notices a very small crack on the edge of the frame, unnoticeable to others, but a whirlwind catastrophe for its creator. He wonders how such a hideous imperfection of this magnitude could have slipped by the gallery's curator. Archie's faith had been put into this man, under the impression that his art would be displayed in nothing less than the highest and most complimentary fashion. He was not pleased. Had another artist sabotaged his work? Vincent Sumner always spoke ill of him during interviews, calling his work "pretentious and incomprehensible". Even though the two had never met face to face, it was almost as if Vincent had it out for him from the very start. Could he have broken into the gallery at night and mercilessly beat the frame with a hammer? Archie certainly wouldn't put it past him. It was rumored that Vincent had once gotten into a fistfight with another artist over wall space, complaining his real estate wasn't as valuable, due to the lighting or some such other nonsense and that poor man had ended up in the hospital with a badly broken nose and four missing teeth. Had the frame on The Child fallen victim to this same abuse? Or was it Oliver Langley, the millionaire investor? Archie was positive he had bought his way into the art community. His sculptures were dull and unimaginative. As grey as the stone from which they were cut. They lacked spark. Maybe he paid off an employee of Wits' End to switch the original framework, which had been meticulously selected by Archie himself, to this mangled configuration of revolting horror. Why was someone gunning for him?
As he stood contemplating this atrocity, Gabriella Soleil began to approach, wearing an off-white vintage gown gracefully flowing in ruffled layers to mid thigh, reminiscent of the flapper era, a round silver pendant adorning her elegant décolletage, surrounded by several strands of silver and other-colored pearl-shaped balls which hung around her neck and on down, as surely many men's kisses had dreamt of lingering. Her lips were crimsoned to perfection in an almost smile, cheekbones blushed just enough to suggest attraction, smoky eyes of starlight radiance glistening under the fluorescent bulbs above, and lovely platinum hair pulled up and away to reveal the rest of her angelic expression. Like most men in Gabriella's presence, Archie longed to be with such a stunning vision of loveliness and to be blessed with the chance to caress her soft lactic skin, but unlike the others before him, his thoughts were purely innocent in nature. When her graceful catwalk glide finally managed to escape the wolves' glaring lust, she was standing only a few short inches away from him, where he could easily imagine the warm whisper of her breath against his frozen features and the electricity of Gabriella's tongue softly moistening her lips, as they all but touch his in a momentary daydream. The sweet smell of her Coco Chanel Parfum filling the air and Archie's nostrils a moment before she speaks.
"You must be the great Archibald Winnifeather. I saw The Child on display last month at Rothman's . . . between you and I, I think you're the most gifted painter in this room. The way you interpret life onto canvas is just amazing."
What seemed amazing to Archie was Gabriella Soleil standing before him and speaking so highly of his work. He was in awe of her beauty and talent, hardly able to contain the joy filling his fast-beating heart as it pounded within his chest, seeming as if it might just beat right on out through the skin and splatter blood all over her pretty dress, yet he somehow managed to choke out a reply.
"Thank you, but please . . . call me Archie. I can't stand the sound of Archibald . . . it sounds so unbearably pompous."
"Alright, Archie . . . my name is Gabriella, but you can call me Gabbie. That's how all my friends refer to me."
Of course he already knew who she was. Everyone did. He was happy though at the thought of becoming friends.
"What do you think of that Vincent Sumner? If you ask me, he's trying to pass off his stuff as abstract expressionism genius, when it's really just tired old drab. You can tell the difference between someone who's evolved beyond, say . . . something like Water Figure to something new and fresh and dancing like Pollock achieved . . . and someone who just throws paint without the precision or premeditated craft needed for such an endeavor. Don't you think? There's no way his work will ever stand up next to Noland or Rothko."
"I agree completely." Archie said.
And I think you're beautiful. Archie thought.
Continuing their discussion, Archie's focus once again turns to the unsettling crack just over Gabriella's left shoulder. All his hard work had been for nothing. Surely his painting would never sell under such cruel circumstances, not that this was important to Archie, but how would anyone be expected to concentrate on his art or its higher meaning with that atrocious distraction looming over them, sucking out their souls, and still taunting Archie? How could they meditate on life, when the crack would drive them to nightmares of falling endlessly into an eternal abyss or slipping from the stubborn mule which carries them down the narrow trail of reality?
Archie began to notice the whites of their eyes and the black holes which sat between them, now devoid of color, shifting in his direction. All of them: those pupils of high art and pupils of iris, though refusing to let the light pass on through to their retinas, staring daggers with mouths turning slightly upwards in smirky mocking silent laughter. He could almost feel his flesh bubbling from the bone, strung up over that pit like a pig, the cannibals dancing circles around him, chanting tribesmen of sardonic song, spears at the ready and waiting for his last whimper. Each and every one of them against him.
It will have all been for nothing.
His mind wanders further . . . melancholy drifts breaking down his spirit. The panic building upon each passing second, until realizing Gabriella was still talking to him, his mind lost in the fog.
" . . . so I came to the conclusion it was a worthless effort. What do you think?" she asked.
Not knowing what else to say, he spit out the first thing that came to him.
"I think we should get out of here . . . I can't stand crowds. Would you like to join me at my apartment for coffee?"
What a daring question from such an awkward outsider. How could those words have managed to find their way out? Had the wine been too much for him? Was the composure he fought to keep finally gone? He felt it coming. Soon he'd be crushed by the junkyard compactor slowly closing in on him, as Gabriella politely refused his invitation. Not even in the most romantic of his momentary daydreams would she agree to this venture. However, this was not one of his dreams.
Taking Archie's hand, Gabriella places hers gently inside, before giving it a little squeeze and smiling up at him. The two then make their way out of the gallery and onto the cold winter sidewalk, strolling along together under the bright streetlamps, neon lettering, and giant yellow moon reflecting overhead. They pass lonely mannequins standing patiently in storefront windows and dismal barstools barely holding the drunks above and empty neighborhood cafes, absent of haunted wild-eyed poets breathing out espresso ghosts, the steam from their cups evaporating into the blurry scarlet of the crosswalk they approach.
Standing there waiting on the green, Archie stares into the calming blue pools staring back at him, seeming to examine her every thought and emotion revolving around his flustered being, before finally understanding each as if they were his own.
"You're not like those people Gabbie. I see your heart . . . and it's genuine."
She leans in, letting her lips touch his ever so softly and again she smiles. And it is perfect. The light changes and they cross the street to a hill-slanted and weather-worn building, grey and white chip paint peeling back, even as they continue on in and up stairway to Apartment #33, where Archie presents a single misshapen key (bent over time from a faulty lock) from his right pants pocket, faithfully, unlocking the deadbolt and swinging open the door to reveal off-white walls shifted and settled over the past 80 or so odd years, covered in half-finished pencil sketches, seven-inch thick painted canvas masterpieces, tacked up magazine and newspaper articles, tiny yellow squares of stuck notes and poems, the floors scattered with unfinished works of all types concealing the hardwood beneath. A small radio (always on and currently playing Thelonious Monk's Genius Of Modern Music, Volume 1) sits atop an overflowing bookshelf weighted down by all the greats of another generation . . . one even-in-this-mess-out-of-place broken television set sits with GOD scrawled across its screen in a painstaking mix of acrylics including phthalocyanine and other much lighter blues to appear electric in color . . . and a five-legged crooked coffee table is purposefully placed unparallel to the unnervingly normal black leather sofa next to it. Gabriella scans the room, astonished at what she is witness to, but doesn't find Archie to be unusual. In fact, she adores what to her is just another part of his quirky brilliance.
"Please, have a seat . . . I'll put the coffee on."
Gabriella sits down with her back against the sofa's arm, stretching out her long legs and resting her head on the cushion to her right. Suddenly, she feels very tired.
In the kitchen Archie places a new filter in the coffee maker, adds three large scoops of grounds, and pours in a pot of water. He then gathers two coffee cups, two spoons, a jar of sugar, and a metallic creamer and sets them all on the counter. Watching the brown liquid slowly drip, he recalls the events that had come to pass this evening, though no longer consumed by the perplexing anxiety of the crack . . . the promise of a better life filling his thoughts and leaving his mind at ease: an infant-like-first-thought-momentary-bliss that he couldn't allow to fade.
With the coffee ready, he walks back to the couch to find Gabriella sleeping soundly slightly smiling, as beautiful as a child. She looks happy and safe. Without waking her, he throws a blanket over her bless-ed fetal body and picks up a scrap of paper from the floor, jotting down a few words, before folding it neatly in half with finger-pressing creases and placing it next to her.
In the corner of the room lies a lanky twenty-five year old man: cerulean eyes unblinking, pale body motionless, chest no longer moving in or out, heart failing to beat . . . quiet. The sticker on the left side of his jacket reads: MY NAME IS . . . ARCHIE.
Gabriella awakens to the sun's golden rays creeping up over the morning earth and on through the large window in back, shining brightly and warming her body. It takes her a moment to remember where she had ended up the previous evening, as she begins straightening out the wrinkles from her dress and re-crimsoning her lips and fixing her sleep-tousled hair in an attempt to make herself appear a bit more presentable. Soon, she is once again aware of her surroundings and feels awful for drifting off before having had the opportunity to become better acquainted with Archie. It is only then that she notices the piece of paper left beside her and unfolds it, reading the words written in red crayon.
Thank you for a perfect moment and the chance at a new beginning. I'm sorry I had to leave so suddenly.
The next day, Veronica Deville, a well-to-do socialite in the upper class who's who, comes into Wits' End with the sole purpose of buying The Child, on a tip from Oliver Langley that its value is about to skyrocket and she will surely double her investment next fall by selling at Sotheby's. He hadn't told her why, but after seeing the painting for herself, she knows she simply must have it.
"What about that crack in the frame?" she asks the gallery's curator.
"I don't know how I could have overlooked that. I'll have it reframed at once and send it along to you just as soon as it's finished."
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