socket, if need be. But some
fresh element in his son's bearing steered him off this course of action.
"I know what you're trying to prove, but it's all a bit silly."
"Compared
to what," said Paul, "that art show Mom dragged us to?"
"Oh,
what are you bringing up that nightmare for?"
"It's
the sort of thing I think about out here. Ridiculous stuff."
A
few months previous they'd attended a conceptual art exhibit at his mother's
request—the artist, Naveed, was the son of his mother's Pilates instructor. The
opening gala was a black-tie affair at a downtown gallery; the exhibit was
tided "The Commercialization of Waste." A huge vaulted chamber
displayed various bodily wastes. Milk jugs filled with excrement. Jars of piss
on marble colonnades. Egg cartons full of toenail clippings. A salt shaker full
of cayenne pepper flakes—in actuality, scabs. Naveed was dressed in flannel
jammies, the sort kids wear with the sewn-on booties. He made sure to clarify
that every ounce of waste had been produced by his own body. The smell was
ungodly. Everyone must have been thinking the same thing: Sperm in Ziploc bags and turds in milk jugs—this is art? Paul and his folks had left
without a word.
"What
I'm trying to say is," said Jack, "this environment doesn't suit
you." He lowered his voice, as though fearful the vines were bugged.
"What if someone sees you—a potential investor?"
Paul
razored a grape cluster free and dropped it into his bucket. "No, I'll
stay. This is real life, right? This is good for me."
"Vitamins
are good for you. High colonics are good for you. This is idiotic."
But
Paul felt better than he had in years. Up before dawn, ten hours of
backbreaking field labor, collapse into an oblivious, dreamless sleep. The air
was so cold and the labor so demanding that its effect was to flatten out his
mind. Hours would pass without a single concrete thought: just empty, static
wind gusting and swirling through his head, snatches of songs repeating
themselves in an endless loop. The seething anger that so often manifested
itself in other forms—as cold nausea, as nameless dread—was, if not erased, at
least temporarily buried under the weight of physical exhaustion.
Jack
grabbed the bucket at his son's waist and shook it violently. "I was out
here when you were a baby," he said. "It was not good. It was miserable and torturous but it needed to be done so's I could get
that." He pointed at the winery. "A means to an end."
"But
you turned out all right, didn't you? Who's to say those days weren't the
reason?"
Jack
picked up a clod of earth and crushed it between his fingers. "Y'know, I
said to myself, Let him go. I said, He'll come around. But you're out here all
day and I may as well be living with a phantom for all I see you around the
house. Your mother's worried sick—"
"Is
she really?" Paul hadn't spoken more than two words to his mother in days;
he wasn't altogether sure how she'd taken to his new endeavor.
"Sure
she is," Jack said. "We're all worried. And I don't get it. Some
shitkicker beat you up. Big deal. I never told you this, but I took a shit-
kicking for a gas-n-dash years ago. This pump jockey whapped me over the head
with a squeegee and had me seeing stars. Then he dragged me out behind the
lifts and put the boots to me. I was in such bad shape he had to let me go: the
cops would've booked me on attempted robbery, but I would've made damn sure he
got booked for assault."
Paul
laughed. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Why
the hell would I? It's not my habit to go around telling stories that cast me
in an unfavorable light."
Jack
looked at his son. In truth, the kid looked pretty good. He'd shed a few pounds
and packed muscle onto his legs and shoulders; in all, he looked more like the
son he'd imagined. Perhaps getting the stuffing knocked out of him had done him
some good. Still, it was as if he'd taken a step down the evolutionary
ladder—become stronger, harder even, but less cultured. Even now
fresh element in his son's bearing steered him off this course of action.
"I know what you're trying to prove, but it's all a bit silly."
"Compared
to what," said Paul, "that art show Mom dragged us to?"
"Oh,
what are you bringing up that nightmare for?"
"It's
the sort of thing I think about out here. Ridiculous stuff."
A
few months previous they'd attended a conceptual art exhibit at his mother's
request—the artist, Naveed, was the son of his mother's Pilates instructor. The
opening gala was a black-tie affair at a downtown gallery; the exhibit was
tided "The Commercialization of Waste." A huge vaulted chamber
displayed various bodily wastes. Milk jugs filled with excrement. Jars of piss
on marble colonnades. Egg cartons full of toenail clippings. A salt shaker full
of cayenne pepper flakes—in actuality, scabs. Naveed was dressed in flannel
jammies, the sort kids wear with the sewn-on booties. He made sure to clarify
that every ounce of waste had been produced by his own body. The smell was
ungodly. Everyone must have been thinking the same thing: Sperm in Ziploc bags and turds in milk jugs—this is art? Paul and his folks had left
without a word.
"What
I'm trying to say is," said Jack, "this environment doesn't suit
you." He lowered his voice, as though fearful the vines were bugged.
"What if someone sees you—a potential investor?"
Paul
razored a grape cluster free and dropped it into his bucket. "No, I'll
stay. This is real life, right? This is good for me."
"Vitamins
are good for you. High colonics are good for you. This is idiotic."
But
Paul felt better than he had in years. Up before dawn, ten hours of
backbreaking field labor, collapse into an oblivious, dreamless sleep. The air
was so cold and the labor so demanding that its effect was to flatten out his
mind. Hours would pass without a single concrete thought: just empty, static
wind gusting and swirling through his head, snatches of songs repeating
themselves in an endless loop. The seething anger that so often manifested
itself in other forms—as cold nausea, as nameless dread—was, if not erased, at
least temporarily buried under the weight of physical exhaustion.
Jack
grabbed the bucket at his son's waist and shook it violently. "I was out
here when you were a baby," he said. "It was not good. It was miserable and torturous but it needed to be done so's I could get
that." He pointed at the winery. "A means to an end."
"But
you turned out all right, didn't you? Who's to say those days weren't the
reason?"
Jack
picked up a clod of earth and crushed it between his fingers. "Y'know, I
said to myself, Let him go. I said, He'll come around. But you're out here all
day and I may as well be living with a phantom for all I see you around the
house. Your mother's worried sick—"
"Is
she really?" Paul hadn't spoken more than two words to his mother in days;
he wasn't altogether sure how she'd taken to his new endeavor.
"Sure
she is," Jack said. "We're all worried. And I don't get it. Some
shitkicker beat you up. Big deal. I never told you this, but I took a shit-
kicking for a gas-n-dash years ago. This pump jockey whapped me over the head
with a squeegee and had me seeing stars. Then he dragged me out behind the
lifts and put the boots to me. I was in such bad shape he had to let me go: the
cops would've booked me on attempted robbery, but I would've made damn sure he
got booked for assault."
Paul
laughed. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
"Why
the hell would I? It's not my habit to go around telling stories that cast me
in an unfavorable light."
Jack
looked at his son. In truth, the kid looked pretty good. He'd shed a few pounds
and packed muscle onto his legs and shoulders; in all, he looked more like the
son he'd imagined. Perhaps getting the stuffing knocked out of him had done him
some good. Still, it was as if he'd taken a step down the evolutionary
ladder—become stronger, harder even, but less cultured. Even now
Similar Books
