machines that were created for nothing but. And it all had to be viewed through the lens of its eventual use, the performance, big loud vortex into which it would be thrown to scratch and batter its own way out; or deeper in. Bibi called it tanzplagen, literally "plague dance" though she chose to translate it as "torture dance": "It's not like anything anyone's done before, all that pretentious performance art shit, like Jimmy Castro, or those jerks in Boston with their Projekt Skullpture. Or Antique Chorines, although they can be funny, sometimes."
Tess, amused, "Come on, Bibi, we steal, too," but Bibi's passionate denying headshake, no no no, this was different, different at its heart. Unable to articulate, erupting at last into gestures, nails hooked in the air and "It's where you are when all that other shit runs out, when it leaves you. When it turns out to be too weak. "
"I build," slowly, "with the metal there is. I don't demand a new kind of metal for every piece I make."
Now, driving back from the scrapyard, the radio on loud and remembering that talk, remembering Bibi's clawing hands. Thinking of the hole in her neck. Soon the new performance, bigger and better and louder, at least they were agreed on that. Bibi called it hardball evolution; to Tess it was just the expected lengthening of the stick, you always needed a bigger stick. And there was that to it that was just plain fun, the hard-work fun of trying to see just how well you could build, to set your own limits and then surpass them. Her boundaries now were further; she was learning the new way to see.
The service entrance was on the building's west side: easiest to unload straight onto the elevator. Pulling up and almost onto a kid, busy with some kind of tool and he tried to run as soon as he saw her. Out the car window in one swooping jump and she slapped him breathless against the wall with her scrapyard bag, jumbled plastic and metal thumping his meatless belly: "Hey! Hold it-I said hold it!" and taking the tool from him: a slim-jim, a jimmy bar.
"You want to break into my place?" Holding the bar in front of his eyes, oh he was young, sixteen or maybe not even that. "I ought to make you eat this, you little shit." An inexpert job, all he had managed to do was scratch the metal jamb. She stuffed the bar into her bag, pushed him backward with one stiff hand; he did not resist her, grimy jeans, bare toes sticking out of ragged Keds, a tangle of bones and dirty hair.
"Out," pointing back to the street, turning her back to him; she was ready for him to jump her but he did nothing, only stood where she had pushed him; watching. Opening the service door just wide enough to back in, in the car and he said, "I'll help you unload, if you want." She did not answer. "I saw the show," he said.
He saw the show. "You did, huh," and his smile, his teeth were terrible. "Why were you trying to break into my house?"
Shrugging, staring down in that adolescent embarrassment as evident as heat. "I just, I wanted to see the stuff again. I wasn't going to take anything."
Tess revved the engine slightly. "Come back tomorrow," she said. "I have to work now."
And he did. Outside the service entrance at the same particular time, a cloudy noon and Jerome, he said his name was Jerome, he would not tell his age. Bright and nervous and tactless, fumbling metal savant who stopped grail-still when he saw Tess's worktable, her books and tools: "All this is yours?"
"A friend lives here with me, but the tools and stuff, yeah, they're mine." He was still beside the doorway, shifting foot to foot, those big dirty toes sticking stranded from his sneakers. "Go on, you can look at it if you want. Just don't break anything."
He didn't stay long, that day, left Tess working but he came back the next day, to touch the tools, to sit silent with the sculpture, touching it, too. On his third
Tess, amused, "Come on, Bibi, we steal, too," but Bibi's passionate denying headshake, no no no, this was different, different at its heart. Unable to articulate, erupting at last into gestures, nails hooked in the air and "It's where you are when all that other shit runs out, when it leaves you. When it turns out to be too weak. "
"I build," slowly, "with the metal there is. I don't demand a new kind of metal for every piece I make."
Now, driving back from the scrapyard, the radio on loud and remembering that talk, remembering Bibi's clawing hands. Thinking of the hole in her neck. Soon the new performance, bigger and better and louder, at least they were agreed on that. Bibi called it hardball evolution; to Tess it was just the expected lengthening of the stick, you always needed a bigger stick. And there was that to it that was just plain fun, the hard-work fun of trying to see just how well you could build, to set your own limits and then surpass them. Her boundaries now were further; she was learning the new way to see.
The service entrance was on the building's west side: easiest to unload straight onto the elevator. Pulling up and almost onto a kid, busy with some kind of tool and he tried to run as soon as he saw her. Out the car window in one swooping jump and she slapped him breathless against the wall with her scrapyard bag, jumbled plastic and metal thumping his meatless belly: "Hey! Hold it-I said hold it!" and taking the tool from him: a slim-jim, a jimmy bar.
"You want to break into my place?" Holding the bar in front of his eyes, oh he was young, sixteen or maybe not even that. "I ought to make you eat this, you little shit." An inexpert job, all he had managed to do was scratch the metal jamb. She stuffed the bar into her bag, pushed him backward with one stiff hand; he did not resist her, grimy jeans, bare toes sticking out of ragged Keds, a tangle of bones and dirty hair.
"Out," pointing back to the street, turning her back to him; she was ready for him to jump her but he did nothing, only stood where she had pushed him; watching. Opening the service door just wide enough to back in, in the car and he said, "I'll help you unload, if you want." She did not answer. "I saw the show," he said.
He saw the show. "You did, huh," and his smile, his teeth were terrible. "Why were you trying to break into my house?"
Shrugging, staring down in that adolescent embarrassment as evident as heat. "I just, I wanted to see the stuff again. I wasn't going to take anything."
Tess revved the engine slightly. "Come back tomorrow," she said. "I have to work now."
And he did. Outside the service entrance at the same particular time, a cloudy noon and Jerome, he said his name was Jerome, he would not tell his age. Bright and nervous and tactless, fumbling metal savant who stopped grail-still when he saw Tess's worktable, her books and tools: "All this is yours?"
"A friend lives here with me, but the tools and stuff, yeah, they're mine." He was still beside the doorway, shifting foot to foot, those big dirty toes sticking stranded from his sneakers. "Go on, you can look at it if you want. Just don't break anything."
He didn't stay long, that day, left Tess working but he came back the next day, to touch the tools, to sit silent with the sculpture, touching it, too. On his third
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