He was only looking
After art school, a couple of buddies and I took off to San Francisco to become famous artists. It would take about six months, we figured, before we were discovered by the Powers-That-Be. We didn't know much about San Francisco except two things: That one photo we'd seen of the city looked nice, and the place had an exotic name that suggested artist colonies and windswept shores. Probably be a lot of art models there, too, beautiful women who'd yearn to pose for us if we weren't too busy accepting awards at the city hall for beautifying the area with our art.
San Francisco wasn't the only place we'd considered. We'd ruled out New York as a destination when we learned it got as cold as a witch's you-know-what up there. Same thing with Chicago.
With about $200 dollars each and a duffle bag full of worn out clothes, we drove to San Francisco in a jacked-up 1970 Firebird. Upon arrival, we actually asked a realtor to help us locate an "artist colony." She didn't know of any colonies, she said. We quickly found an apartment right off Haight-Ashbury streets near the "panhandle."
I landed the first job as a lackey in one of the many downtown art galleries. I'd clean up spilled coffee, as well as packing and shipping pictures that were bought there. Mostly I kicked back in the shipping room in the basement, under San Francisco's streets, smoking cigarettes and scheming how to make it big.
The gallery carried and promoted its own stable of artists, many of whom were said to be famous – and some were said to be contemporaries of Picasso – although my own history books were not so clear on the matter. The gallery didn't need my history books, though. They had their own single-page handout with a bulleted art history on it.
"Now, let's see, Picasso and Monet, they were English, right?" asked a new salesman as he tried not to peek at his flyer.
Being on the main drag in the beautiful downtown, visitors of all stripe walked in breathless, intoxicated by the windy city. Immediately they'd be latched onto by one of the sales people.
And before they knew it, often they'd find themselves back in the viewing room with a painting on the wall and the door closed. The sales folks worked visitors over as thoroughly as detainees in a Bangkok jail.
"Now, you wouldn't object to spending a nickel a day for chewing gum, right? Well sir, that's all the money we're talking about here! (averaged over the span of 112 years).
I hadn't been at the gallery long when the manager asked to come with him. He was a polite gentleman, quite polished. He'd been thinking, he said. I'd been doing a good job, keeping my nose clean. It was time I was given more responsibility as a reward for my good efforts, he said.
"Come down to the basement with me," he whispered.
As we rounded the corner at the bottom of the steps, a wave of odor hit me, a combination of menthol and something like wet chicken feathers. I could hear raspy breathing, too.
"I'd like to see you have more of a leadership role in the gallery," the manager said, stopping me from going around the corner. "One of your new roles will be helping our guests," he said nodding.
I peeked around the corner and saw a giant of a man with white walrus whiskers. He was wrapped in a rotting tweed coat and obviously long gone on drugs or booze. He dog-paddled at the air to stay upright.
He focused on a painting three feet from his face, a small acrylic flower painting, and hissed: "You little piece of trash." He cheeks looked wet.
The manager pulled me back. To his thinking, with my new position, I'd be the obvious choice to take care of a situation such as this one. Perhaps I could help usher our guest upstairs and out the front door, hopefully without a smashed jewelry case or ripped canvas in the process, he said.
"I'm so glad we had this little chat!" he said. "Well, I've got a lunch appointment to get to!" He turned, threw a mock salute and left me alone with the mumbling drunk.
I watched the fellow for a while. Underneath his watery-eyed demeanor lurked a human time bomb, ready to jerk eyeballs out of their sockets and run headlong through a plate glass window. Just one word trigger him. I didn't attempt to usher him out.
I didn't need to.
I had physics on my side. I saw that as he rocked back and forth, he edged forward about a quarter of an inch. It was only a matter of time before he arrived at the door, and the commotion on the street would lure him out.
Nothing stays still in this universe, especially a drunk browsing paintings. Besides, he was only looking.