Chapter Eleven Lesson Two: Bullshit

I brought the beer the next day. I had to rummage around in dad’s equipment in the garage before I finally found some. I knew I’d die if he ever found out, especially since all that was there for me to take was a case of twenty-four cans, but somehow it seemed worth it. I arrived at Gerard’s place in the early afternoon, my back aching from having to carry the entire case with me concealed in my school backpack to avoid attention. I’m sure I caused enough attention from the way I groaned as I walked, making spazzing movements when I felt like my muscles were being torn off the bones, but I got there in relatively one piece.

“Put the beer in the centre of the floor,” Gerard told me as soon as I had flung the backpack off my aching shoulders onto his couch with a loud ‘oomph’. I barely had time to look around his newly cleaned apartment before he grabbed my bag and opened it up. I was honestly shocked he had cleaned his apartment by himself, considering what a giant mess we had left it in the day before. The new mural was still present, however, and I smiled looking at it, remembering what we had done. I glanced over at Gerard, seeing if he shared the same pride as I did about our previous art lesson, but he just stared down at me, waiting for me to move the beer. He was focusing on the present task we had at hand, and though it hurt to move, I obeyed his orders curious to see what was going to come out of this.

He had cleared his art supplies away over to the side, so that the beer could sit clear in the centre of the whole apartment. There weren’t many art supplies left now, only brushes and broken canvasses. Almost all the paint was gone from our prior experience and I wondered how I was supposed to receive a lesson today, if there was no paint that we could do anything with. But I trusted Gerard, probably more than I should have.

“Come stand here with me,” he instructed, motioning with his hands. His eyes were dark and thinking hard as he stared at the case of beer in the middle of his living space. He was standing by the kitchen, just outside the door. I walked over and stood next to him, waiting. I waited for what seemed like a long time, jamming my hands inside my pockets before he finally spoke.

“Do you know what modern art is, Frank?” he asked with determination. His focus was still on the centerpiece, his brows narrowed in deep thought. I had never seen him like this before; in a perplexed state of deliberation. He was usually so carefree and open, smirking like he knew the answers to everything. He was still that man, he still knew the answers, but he was waiting and thinking, judging to see if I knew those answers.

I didn’t. I had vaguely heard of modern art before, but had no clue how to define it. I remembered going to an art museum when I was in the fourth grade. The trip had been mandatory, or else I probably would have skipped it and taken my chance with the supply teacher that day with Sam. (His parents had not had enough money to let him go then; his dad was having an off period at work, and his mother hadn’t gotten her job yet, so money was tight). My prior experiences with museums before had been less than stellar, images of batty old maids lecturing us on how the homo-sapiens evolved from monkeys and hearing kids snicker in the background. But, when I had entered the fairly small building and its warm light had washed over the array of school children wearing winter jackets and hats, it didn’t seem too bad. There weren’t as many reading and boring lectures; just pictures. I was yelled at a few times for getting to close to some pieces where the paint was so thick it created ridges, but I had managed to stay out of trouble. I vaguely recalled there being a place where modern art had been, but again, back then, the term had no meaning. All I could remember from that room were sculptures made out of garbage and paper that had bullet holes in it. I had even wandered into a room where tape recorders fell from the ceiling and played a different message from each black speaker while a film of a girl in a red dress danced on a white screen. It didn’t make sense to me, and being only nine at the time, scared the living daylights out of me. I thought I had wandered into an alternate universe where things were jumping off the wall. I read too many comic books back then too, so, that didn’t help much. Some other kid who I barely knew ended up having to pull me out of the room and drag me to the yellow school bus, where our teacher was waiting, her lips pursed and arms crossed in front of her chest. And I had suppressed the memory, along with lots of others, until Gerard had resurfaced them.

“Um…” I answered, my voice trailing off as I thought of everything that had happened to me that day at the museum, trying to find a definition for the work I had seen and subsequently scarred me. “Is modern art, like three dimensional?”

Gerard laughed at my definition, letting himself slip away from his thinking stature, but only for a minute. “Sculptures are three dimensional. But they are a far cry from modern art.”

“Oh…” I uttered, feeling my face grow slightly hot from embarrassment. It had been awhile since Gerard had exposed my lack of culture, but I had a feeling he was going to do it today. Feeling somewhat masochistic in my embarrassment, I still dragged an answer to the tip of my tongue. “Modern art is different. It’s weird.” It may not have been the perfect definition, but at least I was being honest.

“It’s bullshit,” Gerard informed me, enunciating the distinct sounds of the swear on his tongue and lips. He turned his head to me and smiled his trademark smirk. His eyes lit up again like they always did. Apparently, we had found the right answer together.

“Bullshit?” I still questioned, unsure of what he was getting at.

“Yes, bullshit!” he answered with enthusiasm, motioning his hands in the air. “Modern art is complete bullshit. It’s not a painting or a picture. It’s not even a sculpture, something fine carved out of clay. It just a mess someone forgot to clean up and decided to call it art instead, finding some symbolism in it so that they didn’t have to find a maid.” He paused, looking at the beer in front of us and then back at me, smiling wide. “It’s bullshit.”

I furrowed my brow, following his staring stance and letting it all sink in. His definition made sense – those apparent sculptures I had seen that day were made out of garbage. They were pointless. Thrown in a frame and given a name. Gerard was right, as always. I looked at the case in front of us however, and found more questions coming to my mind.

“What’s the beer for, then?”

Gerard smiled wide, baring his nicotine stained teeth. He clucked his tongue in excitement from sucking in his breath into his lungs too fast. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, very pleased with my train of thought. But he still didn’t answer my question.

“What do you like better, Frank?” he asked instead, moving away from my side and heading into the kitchen. He went over to his small fridge and pulled out the one bottle of wine he had left. He brought it back over to where I was, thrusting the glass bottle gently into my chest. He gazed over at me, his eyes narrowing as he asked, “Wine or beer?”

I took the bottle from his hands, cupping it from the bottom before it fell on the ground and shattered into a million pieces. I held the chilled item for awhile, its dull weight in my hand, exchanging looks between Gerard and the beer case on the floor. I thought of Gerard’s question. I had no idea which one I liked better. The wine was beginning to grow on me; its taste and texture I began finding myself craving when I was at home, especially during dinner. It was bitter and pungent; a welcome distraction from the things going on around me. I never drank enough to get drunk though, because I didn’t feel like I needed to anymore. And when that thought came into my head, I realized I hadn’t been drunk in weeks. Not since that first day with Gerard and the bucket of paint. I was still drinking, but that was for a different reason. I was drinking Gerard’s wine because he offered it to me; it was what he enjoyed and he wanted to share the experience. And I wanted to have the experience. The wine tasted good, but I never abused it, like I had other alcohol. I had other things and sensations inside Gerard’s place to give me the feeling of being drunk.

I looked over at the case of amber liquid and shook my head. I only used beer to get drunk, its pungent taste never seeming appealing; just the after effect. And the beer reminded me of my father, of Sam and Travis, and of the snot nosed teenagers I had in my school, sneaking out to buy a case every Friday so they too could get drunk and drown their feelings. The wine reminded me of Gerard; his robust appearance, his devilish smirks and the art that he stood for. Before, I had wanted to blend into the case of liquid, be another can in the tightly-packed case of twenty four. But now I wanted to be a bottle; a unique and distinguished liquid, savored and tasted for the sheer sake of it. I didn’t want to be disposed of. I was going to be cherished.

“Wine,” I answered after some deliberation. I looked back at Gerard, only to see him beaming.

“Finally,” he sighed over-dramatically. “I told you it would grow on you. You’re finally developing a higher appeal of interest. You’re growing up.”

I nodded a little, surprised at Gerard’s last sentence. Those words always held such a negative connotation in my mind. If I was growing up, that meant responsibility. It meant decision making and I didn’t know what to decide. I didn’t want to grow up and get stuck in that awful middle section where I wasn’t old enough to die but not young enough to live. I didn’t want to be middle-aged and if I was growing up, then that was one step closer. But for some reason, the way Gerard phrased everything, made the sentence he just said seem like a compliment. And it was. I had changed from wanting to blend in. Now, I wanted to have my own colour; my own identity. I wanted to be a wine bottle while my peers were merely cans in a case. And that act in itself, the sheer recognition of that fact - was growing up. I didn’t even have to do anything per se; it was just changing my mindset. It was a small step, but something to be proud of.

Gerard didn’t give out compliments without a second side to things. He rarely even gave out complements. If he told me I was growing up, he meant it in more than one way, some of which I couldn’t figure out just yet. He meant I was changing my view on things, even if it was just my alcoholic consumption. There was something more in his tone though, something I couldn’t comprehend until I looked him in the eyes. Gerard was middle-aged. He was stuck in those middle numbers that meant you were too gray to be either black or white. He was stuck there, but when I looked at him he didn’t seem so despondent and gloomy like all the other middle-aged people I had ever known. He had a light in his eyes and a grin on his face; something that he had managed to keep from his youth. He had distinguished wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and knowledge that I could not begin to fathom from his ageing. Gerard had managed to take all the good things about the middle and make them stand out. He wasn’t gray. He was different shades, all colliding together and making a picture.

Growing old didn’t seem so bad looking at Gerard. He was still a work of art.

“Thanks,” I gushed to Gerard, receiving my compliment the way it was meant to be. He smiled and nodded, looking off to the side. Randomly, he reached around the back of the counter near us and pulled out a baseball bat. He held it in his hands for awhile, shifting the weighted object between his palms and fingers, studying it halfheartedly to get my attention. He already had it.

I was about to ask him what was going on, when he cut me off before I could even start. “You played T-ball when you were younger, right Frank?” he looked over at me, cocking his eyebrow lackadaisically. He held the baseball bat in front of us. “Or something equally trivial with a bat?”

“No,” I answered honestly. I hated baseball. It always dragged on too slowly for me, and I was a hyperactive kid. I needed a sport that had a lot of running in it. Not a lot of sitting on a base and waiting. When I saw his face fall slightly, I chimed in with something that would hopefully cheer him up again. “I played soccer, though.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Close enough,” he shrugged, putting the bat in the centre of my chest. I had put the wine down at this point on the counter so I was able to grip the wooden object tightly in my hands. I shifted my weight on the balls of my feet uneasily as I waited for him to continue.

“What does beer mean to you, Frank?” he asked suddenly, looking forward and thinking again.

“Um,” I stuttered. I could never talk properly in moments like this. It was just too weird being around him, when I knew that he was thinking something else entirely inside his raven tussled head. He had confused me so much by this point, not just today, that I was getting used to my new speech impediment. I couldn’t think of, or imagine any answer I had given him that didn’t begin with this utterance.

“Beer means getting drunk,” I finally stated, but it wasn’t enough. When Gerard urged me for more, I began to think through the thoughts I had before about the amber liquid, and I spilled them to him, knowing he would be proud of my metaphors.

“Beer means being a teenager,” he summarized for me, smiling and nodding at my thoughts. I could tell he was pleased with me, the way his eyes glinted, even if it was only to the side, but unlike his own ego, he didn’t want to inflate mine. He suddenly switched paces, pointing to the bat in front of me. “What does that mean?”

I looked down at the wooden object, my face blank. It meant nothing, really.

“Pretend it’s a soccer ball,” he chimed in, slight retort in his voice. “Humor me.”

“Uh…it means being a kid?” I stated, my voice raising at the end and making it a question. It had been so long since I played sports I could only associate them with being a child and having too much fucking energy for my mother to handle, so she sent me running.

“Good,” he stated. He shifted his own weight, leaning against the wall nonchalantly while I stood straight as board, unable to relax. “The objects in front of you symbolize youth. When you were young, you played sports and got drunk. But you’re growing up, Frank. You don’t play sports and you don’t drink beer. You drink wine and you make art.” He glanced over at me and a grin spread across his thin rosy lips. “Now make art.”

I swallowed hard, gripping the bat so tight my knuckles went white. “We don’t have any paints…” I objected trailing off. He sighed loudly, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t need paints,” he informed me, his voice flat and even. “Smash the beer, Frank.”

“Huh?” My eyes bulged out of my head.

“Smash it,” he encouraged. His eyes widened and he leaned forward, bearing his tiny teeth and long pointy nose. He looked like a rabid animal just then and though it frightened me at first, causing me to recede back, it was exciting at the same time. Gerard was on one of those passionate kicks again, like the day before with the mural.

“Smash it now!” he leaped forward slightly, still in that animalistic stance, scaring the shit out of me. He chanted the phrase over and over again, leaping forward a little each time. I walked back, scared and encouraged by his words and actions. Before I knew it, my foot hit the case of beer, causing it to clank loudly.

“Do it now, Frank,” he ordered me, his voice dripping with determination. His eyes were wide and he nodded his head voraciously. “Pretend it’s your father. Pretend it’s your friends who never call. It’s your youth Frank. It’s shitty. Get rid of it.”

My mouth fell open slightly, his words having an effect on me. They struck a chord, making my insides fumble and snap, relishing in the sudden anger that coursed through me. I looked at the beer and saw all of my shitty childhood memories. The people who beat me up in elementary school, my dad and his guitar with broken dreams, my days of over consumption to forget my past; I saw it all. And as I brought down the bat to the tawny bottles, I felt myself crack inside with the glass. But my cracking wasn’t damaging; it was uplifting. As the beer fizzled and bubbled all over Gerard’s floors I felt myself spill out and over too. My creativity and my mind began to run again with thoughts that went by so numerous and so fast I thought I was going insane. I kept smashing the bottles, again and again not caring if it was a waste. I was getting out anger and aggression and replacing it with something else. I was inspired, and with Gerard’s calls in the background cheering me on, telling me this was the only way I could grow up, kept me inspired. I wanted to grow up then. I wanted to be like him.

And I wasn’t afraid.

“Fuck!” I gasped, throwing the bat down on the pile of broken glass and vile liquid like a dead weight. I stepped back from my sudden outburst, panting hard. I felt my nostrils flare, taking in as much beer-ridden air as I could in order to make life itself possible again. The room smelt fucking awful; like one of those all-night teenage parties with sex, booze and a whole lot of mistakes rolled together in one rite of passage. I hated those parties, only ever having been two maybe two in my entire life. However, as I looked around at the shards of dark glass and vile liquid, bubbling together in a stench of youth, I could not have been happier. Those parties were gone now, and so was my fucking teenage existence. I had smashed all I could smash. I was done now, my heart pounding a mile a minute, endorphins running through my system like oxygen. It felt fucking amazing.

I suddenly became aware of Gerard standing next to me, a wide grin on his face proud of mine and his accomplishment. He placed an arm on my shoulder again, this time not as heavy. “Good job, Frank,” he cooed in my ear as I felt my insides swell and flutter. We stayed like that awhile, his hand on me and my chest rising and falling so fast I thought my ribs were going to break until he disturbed the silence yet again.

“You’ve just made modern art,” he stated soundly.

“What?” I questioned, my confusion creeping its way back to my system. I was still inspired and happy, but Gerard’s words threw me off. “I thought you hated modern art?”

“Artists don’t hate, Frank,” he told me. Anytime he used my name like that, I always felt like he was talking down to me when really, he was talking at my level, directly to me, using my name so I would remember the last word he said.

“What do they do then?” I probed. I looked at what we had done and realized in the true sense that it was modern art. A big mess that we had decided not to clean up, and give significance to instead. It was beautiful, but my opinion contrasted with everything Gerard had just said.

“Artists find flaws in the things we love,” he answered solidly and sincerely. “It’s what we do to keep ourselves grounded.” He looked down at me from the few more inches of height he possessed and gave me a smile. It was pure and innocent; not condescending at all.

“I thought modern art was bullshit, though?” I asked again, probing out for more details.

“You’re forgetting something very key,” he chuckled, “I like bullshit.” His smile still present, he brushed the hair out of his face with a quick head snap. He looked down at me again, his eyes so deep they went straight through my skin. “Why do you think I keep you around?”

I laughed, despite his obvious insult to me. I was not offended by it, and in fact I searched my own mind, finding some of the words he had spoken to me only days earlier and using them against him.

“I thought you kept me around for my imperfections?” I retorted, bringing to mind the day with Vivian all over again. He grinned, taken aback a little at what I had just said and done. Two could play at this game and it had taken me this long to realize he had always been inviting me to play, right along side him.

“Good boy,” he said, bringing me closer with his arm. I felt warm in the embrace, and for a moment, was distracted by something else other than the putrid smell in the room. “Now you really are learning.”

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 553