Read Online Yellow Mesquite by John J. Asher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John J. Asher
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saying, “but you owe me near four hundred dollars already.”
Sidney turned on Flagg again, arms flying, “Four hundred dollars? My friend, what is four hundred dollars? I've sold mere pencil sketches for four hundred dollars!”
“Why don't you sell one then.”
“Because first I have to have something to make drawings with!”
“Sorry, Sidney.”
Sidney beat the air. “Well, let me tell you, Flagg, I'm not the first genius to have a difficult time with pea-brained commercialism. And you won't be the first fat merchant to go down in history as a cheap miser and a fool, either!” Sidney's gray beard jutted at Flagg. “And how are you going to like being remembered like that? The man who refused the great Sidney Siegelman credit!”
Flagg shrugged. “Four hundred bucks already.”
“Ye gads! Two miserable dollars.” Sidney pounded on the counter. His bouncing gaze skidded to a stop on Harley again. He blinked like a chicken. His head craned forward and he came flat-footing down the aisle, feet splaying out to either side, paint-splattered cuffs slapping against bare ankles. His arms lifted and his head tilted as if greeting a long-lost friend.
“Aha!” he said. “Another poor artist, I take it. Another fallen comrade on the battlefield of creativity, sucked bloodless by these anal-retentive vampires of commerce, no doubt.”
“ ’Scuse me?”
Sidney stopped directly in front of Harley, craning into his face, hands clasped. “Would you, dear brother in suffering, float a two-dollar loan to a bereaved genius? A disciple of Cézanne and a dedicated devotee to the true light of modernism?”
“The true—”
“A loan, my friend, a loan! I need two bucks to get my paint out of this Babylonian den of materialism and home to my simple but honest studio, my humble place of abode.”
Harley couldn't help but grin.
“Well?” Sidney leaned into Harley's face, rubbing his hands impatiently. His white hair stood up, lines fanned back from the sharp hump of his nose.
“You’re a real artist?'
Sidney's eyes rolled up, his shoulders hunched; he gestured toward the heavens with open palms. “My friend, not only am I a real artist, I'm a great artist, probably the greatest artist you'll ever meet, much less have the opportunity of befriending with a two-buck loan. What do you say?”
“You wouldn't be trying to beat me out of two bucks, would you?” But he was already reaching into his back pocket, taking two dollars from his wallet.
Sidney swelled with pleasure. He sighed. His craggy face went soft, his eyes riveted on Harley and Harley's wallet with gentle affection. “Bless you, my son, bless you. May the muse wrap her legs around you until your balls burst.”
Harley grinned. This was worth two bucks. He picked up his own basket of colors and followed Sidney's jaunty step back into the paint and wallpaper section, where Mr. Flagg stood near the cash register.
Sidney drew himself up before Flagg. “A young man with re spect !”he announced. Flagg smiled dryly. Harley figured they both took him for a sucker, giving two bucks to a raving lunatic. He dumped his own tubes on the counter.
“You really having a show in Switzerland?”
Sidney arched his brows. “Indeed I am, my friend. Indeed I am.” He closed his eyes and smiled dreamily, deep lines breaking pleasantly around his eyes. “Ah. Basil. Now, there's a city for you.”
Harley glanced at the cluster of cans on the counter—several quarts of oil-based house paint. “What kinda work do you do?”
“What kind?” Sidney smiled, head back, looking down his nose. “ Brilliant work. Simply brilliant.”
“You one of those abstract painters? You know, ‘the true light of modernism,’ or whatever it was you said back there?”
“My friend, there is only one kind of art, and that is art .” Sidney was counting his money one more time before laying it on the counter before Flagg.
“What do you mean, ‘art is
Sidney turned on Flagg again, arms flying, “Four hundred dollars? My friend, what is four hundred dollars? I've sold mere pencil sketches for four hundred dollars!”
“Why don't you sell one then.”
“Because first I have to have something to make drawings with!”
“Sorry, Sidney.”
Sidney beat the air. “Well, let me tell you, Flagg, I'm not the first genius to have a difficult time with pea-brained commercialism. And you won't be the first fat merchant to go down in history as a cheap miser and a fool, either!” Sidney's gray beard jutted at Flagg. “And how are you going to like being remembered like that? The man who refused the great Sidney Siegelman credit!”
Flagg shrugged. “Four hundred bucks already.”
“Ye gads! Two miserable dollars.” Sidney pounded on the counter. His bouncing gaze skidded to a stop on Harley again. He blinked like a chicken. His head craned forward and he came flat-footing down the aisle, feet splaying out to either side, paint-splattered cuffs slapping against bare ankles. His arms lifted and his head tilted as if greeting a long-lost friend.
“Aha!” he said. “Another poor artist, I take it. Another fallen comrade on the battlefield of creativity, sucked bloodless by these anal-retentive vampires of commerce, no doubt.”
“ ’Scuse me?”
Sidney stopped directly in front of Harley, craning into his face, hands clasped. “Would you, dear brother in suffering, float a two-dollar loan to a bereaved genius? A disciple of Cézanne and a dedicated devotee to the true light of modernism?”
“The true—”
“A loan, my friend, a loan! I need two bucks to get my paint out of this Babylonian den of materialism and home to my simple but honest studio, my humble place of abode.”
Harley couldn't help but grin.
“Well?” Sidney leaned into Harley's face, rubbing his hands impatiently. His white hair stood up, lines fanned back from the sharp hump of his nose.
“You’re a real artist?'
Sidney's eyes rolled up, his shoulders hunched; he gestured toward the heavens with open palms. “My friend, not only am I a real artist, I'm a great artist, probably the greatest artist you'll ever meet, much less have the opportunity of befriending with a two-buck loan. What do you say?”
“You wouldn't be trying to beat me out of two bucks, would you?” But he was already reaching into his back pocket, taking two dollars from his wallet.
Sidney swelled with pleasure. He sighed. His craggy face went soft, his eyes riveted on Harley and Harley's wallet with gentle affection. “Bless you, my son, bless you. May the muse wrap her legs around you until your balls burst.”
Harley grinned. This was worth two bucks. He picked up his own basket of colors and followed Sidney's jaunty step back into the paint and wallpaper section, where Mr. Flagg stood near the cash register.
Sidney drew himself up before Flagg. “A young man with re spect !”he announced. Flagg smiled dryly. Harley figured they both took him for a sucker, giving two bucks to a raving lunatic. He dumped his own tubes on the counter.
“You really having a show in Switzerland?”
Sidney arched his brows. “Indeed I am, my friend. Indeed I am.” He closed his eyes and smiled dreamily, deep lines breaking pleasantly around his eyes. “Ah. Basil. Now, there's a city for you.”
Harley glanced at the cluster of cans on the counter—several quarts of oil-based house paint. “What kinda work do you do?”
“What kind?” Sidney smiled, head back, looking down his nose. “ Brilliant work. Simply brilliant.”
“You one of those abstract painters? You know, ‘the true light of modernism,’ or whatever it was you said back there?”
“My friend, there is only one kind of art, and that is art .” Sidney was counting his money one more time before laying it on the counter before Flagg.
“What do you mean, ‘art is
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