Read Online Yellow Mesquite by John J. Asher - Free Book Online Page B

art’?”
    Flagg totaled Harley’s bill and he paid out. Flagg had put Sidney's purchases in three cardboard boxes. Sidney took one up under each arm. “Here,” he said to Harley of the third, “bring that along, will you?”  
    Harley dropped his own sack of tubes in the remaining box, took it up and followed.  
    At the door, Sidney turned and drew himself up, smiling broadly at Flagg. “It has been another memorable occasion, Flagg. And indeed, I look forward to our next encounter with relish.”  
    “Bring money.”
    “Ah, the man has the soul of a poet.”
    Harley followed Sidney around the corner to an old ’49 Ford parked in a no-parking zone near a fire hydrant. “What do you mean, ‘art is art’?”  
    “That's it. Art is art.” Sidney opened the rear door and put the boxes in the footwell. “Anything other than art simply isn't art.”
    Harley slid his box in next to Sidney's and took his own bag of paints out. “What's so all-fired brilliant about that?”  
    Sidney stretched, rubbing the small of his back with both hands. “The truth of it. The mere simplicity, that’s what’s brilliant about—” He bent forward suddenly, his gaze fixed on the pavement near the fire hydrant. “Fan tastic !”he breathed.
    Harley stepped back, looking, but he saw nothing other than a big slab of black asphalt patched into the graveled surface. Two asphalt ribbons ran out to a smaller patch.
    “Marvelous,” Sidney said with something like reverence. “Just marvelous.”
    “What is?” Harley looked from Sidney to the asphalt and back.
      “My friend, that is art!”
    “You mean that tar patch?”
    “Reminiscent of Dubuffet. Are you familiar with the work of Jean Dubuffet?”
    In the year Harley had been in Dallas, he’d spent his evenings studying the art magazines, and his weekends browsing the art section of the public libraries. But he wasn’t familiar with this Jean Dubuffet.  
    “Sorry. I don’t know his work.”  
    “Too bad, my friend.”
    “You really think that's art?”  
    Sidney took a piece of chalk from his pocket; then, scrabbling around on hands and knees, he drew a loose rectangle around the patch. “Look at that, my friend. Look. at. that !”He took a small notebook from his pocket; made a quick pencil copy, and scribbled in the margin.
    Harley knelt beside him. “I don't get it.”
    “My friend. First, art is awareness.”
    “How so?”
    “Look at the shapes, the unity, the harmony, the structure and texture.”  
    Harley looked at the patch. “That might be interesting, but it's just accidental. There must be about ten thousand of these in the next ten blocks.”  
    “Ah, yes. That's why I take notes. I have all the locations noted. I intend to dig them all out when I get the proper equipment.”
    Harley stared. “Say what?”
    “A jackhammer, my friend. A jackhammer with a flathead chisel. I've seen city workers cutting up sections like that. I'm going to disguise myself as a worker and lift these right out—zing-o!”
    “You mean…you're gonna dig up the streets…for these patches? And keep them?”
    “Keep them?” Sidney rolled his eyes. “Of course I'm not going to keep them! I'm going to sell them!”
    Harley studied him, then looked again at the chalked-off rectangle. “You really think that's art, huh?”
    “I could live with it.”
    “It is kind of interesting.”
    Sidney stood up, smiling happily. “You afoot?”
    “The bus,” he said.
    “Where do you live?”
    “Over on Gaston. Why?”
    “Hop in. I'll give you a lift.”
    “Uh, that's okay. Thanks anyway.”  
    “Consider it repayment of the loan.”
    “Yeah? I can take the bus for fifteen cents.”
    “But look at the invaluable company. Priceless.”
    Harley gave Sidney another look, then climbed into the front passenger seat with a touch of trepidation. Sidney started the car and pulled out.  
    Sidney said, “So, you dabble in art?”
    “Dabble?”
    Sidney smiled. “Precious