The lightbulb in the right corner of the vanity mirror flickered on and off. It was the wiring, not the bulb that was faulty; nevertheless, it made it very difficult to pluck and shape eyebrows. Bernard had to lean very close to the mirror and fix his eyes on the exact spot that his tweezers were pulling--he looked past the troublesome bulb.
He was making excellent time with his eyebrows. After a few minutes, he moved on to his moustache, carefully plucking single hairs until it was perfectly trimmed. He squeezed a glob of gel into his hand and ran it through his peppered hair. It was curly, but not gerricurled like most other black men. He took even more care with the hair on his head, adjusting strands, making sure everything was in place. Bernard was rounding out his mid-thirties, but he certainly didn’t want anyone to know. He washed the excess gel off his hands, dropped the towel from his waist onto the floor and strutted into his bedroom, naked. He swung his package back and forth, admiring its moderate size. On the bed was his evening wardrobe, laid out in order of dress.
He preferred the support of standard briefs, but he didn’t like the feel of cotton. He needed satin. It was soft and hugged his buttocks tightly in position. His blouse was off-white and ruffled. Ruffled collar, ruffled sleeves. Bernard slipped it on and buttoned it to the middle of his chest. He shaved the hair regularly, so only a few stubble bumps were exposed on his gingerbread skin. He picked up the nylons that lay on the bed and slipped them on. They were a natural tone and no one but Bernard would know they were there. He only wore them because he didn’t like the feel of bare feet in high heels.
Tonight he was dawning his orange polyester suit. It was a sherbet orange—even the texture looked like ice cream. It had been his mothers. When she died, he inherited everything she owned.
Seven cats, all but two now deceased
A number of gaudy paintings
This orange suit
She donated everything else to Goodwill before she passed. She was a kind woman. A gentle and generous woman. She was all Bernard had then. She was a difficult void to fill, yet he never thought of her anymore. He never cried.
The suit had no visible stitching, and only two breast pockets. Bernard slipped on the pants, tucking in his shirt and pulling them up just above his bellybutton. His thin, wire-rimmed glasses with slightly squared lenses were placed neatly on the bridge of his nose. He reached under his bed and pulled out a pair of black pumps with one inch heals. He slipped them on and then put the final touch on his outfit. The jacket fit him so well—like it had been tailor made for him. He studied himself in the mirror for a few minutes, fiddling with his hair and smoothing out his clothes as much as possible. One final look and he was out the door.
He stepped into the balmy Los Angeles night. Bernard liked to think of himself as an art conisuer. He knew nothing of art history or technique or aesthetic evaluation, but he did know that those types didn’t look at him like he was offensive to everything living. He knew art appreciation was easy to fake, and nearly everyone at the gallery tonight would be faking it with him.
The Hive Gallery hosted an open house once a month where various artists were invited to display their talents. In the front rooms of the gallery, various touring pieces were displayed over couches, vases and cloth plants. A couple of local folk or experimental bands performed in the center room, setting an ambiance of independence and uncertain sophistication. Past the front rooms was the bar where a young woman could serve you a red party cup of five-dollar-a-bottle Robert Mondavi for eight dollars. Past the bar was The Caves.
The Caves was where local artists were invited to paint while an audience wandered, drifting in and out of worlds. The audience was allowed into moments that only the artist is supposed to see: the incomplete, the idea, the draft. Each artist had their own stall, partially enclosed by three walls. The Hive Gallery allowed the artists to decorate their stall in any way necessary to achieve supreme creative conditions. This was Bernard’s favorite night to go to The Hive because it was where beauty and sophistication truly became relative terms.
Bernard turned the corner from Broadway to 2nd Street and made his way to the end of the block. The streets of Downtown were very quiet this late after dark. A few homeless lay, stretched on the sidewalk and benches in sleeping bags. They took no notice of Bernard, which suited him just fine. Despite all the light pouring out from late-night offices, street lamps, 24-hr sushi restaurants, and the like, Los Angeles had a very dark quality about it. The night sky seemed to snuff out any extra light or at least disguise it as more deep, palpable darkness.
There was a short line to get into The Hive. Bernard stood at the end and opened up his handbag to fish out a five-dollar bill. He approached the folding table and handed the twenty-something his five. Another stamped his left hand. A large man wearing a black shirt with the word “SECURITY” screened in white across his chest stopped Bernard and asked to see inside his purse. Bernard complied and after a ten second glance, the large man pointed his thumb to the doorway. Bernard passed through strings of beads hung from the top of the frame and was inside.
The first room contained a collection of portraits. Small groups of viewers were gathered at various pieces. Bernard began on the left side of the room, briefly studying each, but moving slowly enough to appear to be truly contemplating. Each portrait depicted the full body of the subject, bizarrely dressed in bright feathers, leather and masks standing in front of simple, drab drop cloths. Bernard smiled confidently at them.
The walls of the room formed a perfect square and each holding eight portraits. In the center was a set of walls, which created a smaller square perfectly proportional to the shape of the room. Each face of the inner column held only one portrait. As Bernard turned from the left wall, he suddenly took notice of the center block and wondered why he hadn’t started there. He approached the first painting studying small parts of it at a time.
All at once the whole subject of the painting struck him. The man stood squared straight to the viewer, arms at his sides, yet his posture was slightly effeminate. The hair looked freshly moussed, the imaginary light glinting slightly off of it. The man’s lips were curled slightly at the corner in a seductive smirk, lifting his neatly trimmed moustache. The orange polyester was textured perfectly and the blouse buttoned to the middle of the man’s chest and ruffled playfully on the lapels of the suit. The black pumps were shinning just like his hair.
Bernard stopped breathing for a moment. He felt scared and flattered at the same time. He looked around the room to see if anyone noticed him looking at his reflection in the form of oil on canvas. He moved closer to see if he could make out an artist’s signature, but there was none to be found. He turned and decided to walk the rest of the room. The other portraits matched the same sideshow quality of the ones previous, though each had their own unique character. The painting on each side of the center column, however, was of the same character—in slightly different poses. Bernard stood center between each wall comparing the outer wall subjects to the ones bearing his likeness in the center. He looked hard back and forth at each trying to find the common thread between the center paintings and those on the outer walls.
He became aware that other visitors were beginning to take notice of the resemblance. He pushed his way through a group of them, who didn’t say anything—only watched him as he entered the next room of the gallery.
The room was very dark and confining. It was simply two walls, painted black, forming a narrow hallway. The thick curtains at either end prevented light from escaping into the tunnel. Small display lights illuminated the art, making it appear as though they hung in nothingness. Bernard’s breathing became deep and labored. Only four paintings were displayed in this room: three on the left, one on the right.
He was in every one of them. The first looked familiar, but Bernard did not know what it was called. He was sure he had seen it in a book somewhere. But this was different. Instead of a man in a bowler hat, a black man with shiny curls in an orange suit stood. The apple covering his face was red. The wall separating him from the beach still stood, bleached white by sun and sand and salt; the ocean caught in half swell against the shore. The next painting was much smaller than the others. It was only two feet across by six inches. Bernard knew this one. He took a Renaissance art history course at the community college a few years back in an attempt to improve his conversation. He knew every apostle’s name. He had also read The Da Vinci Code. Everything was exactly like Da Vinci’s monumental masterpiece except that the confused and upset face of Thomas was replaced by a black man’s face with a neatly trimmed moustache and glasses. The scale of the painting made it almost impossible to make out, but Bernard now knew what to look for.
The third painting was on the right side of the room. Bernard did not know it. It was hardly larger than the first painting. Its subject was a table in what looked like the main room of a modest cabin. Bernard had learned enough to know that it was probably sixteenth or seventeenth century, Flemish. On the table was a bowl of fruit, an apple and pear strayed from it. A humble place setting was near the corner and next to it a chicken with a newly broken neck. It looked like it was dead in mid-flight. A hound lay near the fireplace on the right side of the room. Bernard did not see anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed a shadow across the table. He originally thought it was his own. It seemed to be cast by some light source out of frame. As if the light from the opposite wall of the gallery was casting it. Bernard’s shadow reached for an item on the table, but he could not distinguish what. He stepped away, and the shadow remained. It was cold and unwelcoming. It haunted that tiny cabin room.
The final work frightened Bernard more than he had ever been. It looked exactly like a really famous one that Bernard had definitely seen before. He was upset with himself for failing so miserably at this test in art history. Nevertheless, this painting was unmistakable. In place of the iconic bald figure, was a man in a sherbet suit with curly black hair, clutching the sides of his head and letting out a scream so deafening, the sky itself was shaken in the background. This new figure didn’t looked forced; rather it was as if there had never been that allusive ghost in the first place.
Bernard fought his way out of the curtain at the end of the hall. He was bathed in florescent light again.
“Wine or beer?” a young woman’s voice queried.
Bernard snapped around to face a woman in her mid-twenties. She had short, blonde hair and pale, blue eyes. Her face was pretty, but plain. She smiled awkwardly at Bernard.
“We also have a few cocktails. I’m not very good, but I can make a couple things.”
“I—I could use—could I just have some water?”
“Sure, we have Perrier and Evian. I think we might have a couple Aquafinas. They’re not cold though.”
“Uh...I guess a, uh...” Bernard was breathing heavily, like he had just sprinted to the bar from the street. “Evian is fine. How much, five?”
“Nope,” she said excitedly, “Only three.” She held her arm straight, displaying three fingers.
Bernard reached into his handbag and pulled out three crisp one dollar bills. He handed the young woman the money and received the sweaty twelve-ounce bottle.
“I like your purse,” she said.
Bernard looked around him as if he thought she was speaking to someone else. He then noticed the handbag he was still holding.
“Oh—Thank you.”
“Enjoying the exhibit tonight?”
“Have you seen it?” he said trying to sound casual.
“Me? Oh no. This is just a job. You know, just tryin’ to make a buck.” She put her hand on an empty Red Vines bin, the kind you get from Costco. Over the label, the word “TIPS” was written in Sharpie. It had a handful of coins, mostly pennies and nickels, and two bills. Bernard met her eyes and she suddenly looked very ashamed of herself. He dug back in his handbag, pulled out another dollar, and placed it in the jar.
“Oh you didn’t have to,” she said.
“It’s not a problem,” Bernard said, removing the cap from his water bottle. Raising it to her, he said, “To the best water slinger in town.”
She bowed to him. Bernard turned to enter The Caves.
“I’ve never understood what spurs people on,” she said suddenly to him. “I mean to make it back here. It seems like it’d be easy to just get lost in the moments of the front. With the music and all. I don’t get to see many people come back here I guess.” Bernard stopped to listen out of courtesy. “What made you come back here? If I may be so bold.”
He still had the water bottle tilted to his lips but responded without thought.
“I’m curious.” He was trying not to look surprised by his own answer.
“Everyone is I suppose. Enjoy your curiosity then.”
Bernard raised his bottle to her again and walked through the next curtain.
The Caves always looked like they were under construction. Seven shrines to developing art. Three on each side and one at the end dedicated to the featured artist of the night. Bernard felt much better after his imported water, but the memory of the previous galleries was still fresh and he dreaded what awaited him.
At the same time, he already knew what he was going to see. He kept trying to force himself to just accept it. He ran over options in his head. He could run through and then back out before any of the artists noticed they were painting him. He could also walk through as if they weren’t painting him at all—only someone that bared a striking resemblance. He could just deny it all together. Yes, that would do nicely.
Bernard strolled almost melodramatically to the first stall. He let out a small shriek. The woman sat on a stool, her back to the aisle, the canvas in front of her. Bernard’s likeness was on all fours, naked, with a spiked collar around his neck. His tongue, long and red, was hanging out of sharp teeth. He was placed on grass near a shady tree. Other dogs frolicked in the background. The woman jumped at Bernard’s outburst.
“Excuse me,” she said in her kindest voice, “that is not appropriate. If you are offended by my expression, you certainly have no business being here.” Bernard nodded and moved on. He decided to walk briskly through the stalls. A fair compromise.
He saw himself with a pipe in his mouth sitting in a velvet armchair; as a cowboy leaning against an old post fence; in the shape of an airplane, his arms spread and wide; dressed as a clown standing with the spotlight on him in the center ring. He was running by the end. It seemed as if the room had been extended at least a mile, the stalls spread out further and further.
When he arrived near the final artist, he stopped and stood to observe. The man was sitting on his knees in front of an enormous, white canvas. Bernard approached him slowly and stopped next to but slightly behind the man.
“I’m stumped,” the artist announced suddenly.
Bernard stood silent. His breathing began to settle.
“I’m envisioning a man,” the artist continued, “but I can’t see him. He’s—he’s formless somehow.”
Bernard took another gulp of water. He told himself he should leave, yet he was compelled to listen.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the artist mused, “You’re the first one to make it back here.” He turned to face Bernard. “I suppose the seven of us were unable to create any magic tonight.”
Bernard suddenly felt his face become very hot.
“It just so happens that I am full of magic!” he retorted. Without waiting for a response Bernard turned and walked out of The Caves, stripping off his jacket and leaving it at the entrance.
“How was it?” the young woman behind the bar asked.
“Magical,” Bernard replied. He removed his shirt and set it on the end of the bar.
“You look like a changed man,” she sang out, “Hope to see you again soon!”
He left his shoes in the dark hallway, along with his empty handbag. He clutched his California Identification Card and the few bills he had left in his hand. In the main room, he took off his pants and nylons. Hardly anyone was left in the gallery, and no one took any notice. When he reached the entrance to The Hive, he removed his satin briefs and walked past the security guard and the money table. Once outside, Bernard turned his walk into a run. The balmy Los Angeles night felt good on his skin. Bernard ran down the street toward his apartment, running toward himself.
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