CREATIVITY, Bk 1, Chpt 25
LIFE ON THE EDGE
Book 1 is published, chapter 25 (of 34) below. Book 2 is edited. Currently editing Book 3. Both 2 & 3 await layout in Atticus, then publish in KDP. Marketing decisions pending. Next manuscript in sight, but not near. Sigh.
Chapter 25
The Pig Farmer
We hugged after our meal. “Sorry, I can’t stay longer, Dad.” I wasn’t, but it felt rude not to say something. “Just a quick trip to pick up a couple pieces and get back. Lot of work to get ready for my show in November. Assuming it was going to happen.
“That’s okay. It’s always good to see you, Son. Don’t see how JayJay and I can get out to Colorado to see your exhibit, though.”
“No problem. I’ll take photos.”
“Come back soon. Please. Miss having you around.”
I untangled myself from Dad after another hug. He was getting maudlin. As I drove away, I felt the weird vibes of their lives in the Tremont house fall away. Didn’t know what it was about. Didn’t want to know.
Chris was at home, Rich at work. The Line came down easily. Packing it for travel was tedious. Flat black paint on steel scratches easily. I didn’t stay long, wanting to get away from unresolved family emotions and dreaded running into Kim, Chris’s mother, or even hearing about her. Chris was her sweet, non-confrontational self.
I made it to Dolf’s by dinner time. Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, tossed salad, cherry pie, cheap beer, and being welcomed into Dolf and Becky’s hearts soothed my tangled feelings. We played spades until their bedtime. I crashed on the couch at peace with the world, including their deranged cat, Bunny, surprisingly.
Headed to Mt. Carmel the next morning. Found Tim in his half basement office, on the phone. The Box sat on his high, ground level windowsill. Could have spirited it out of his office with a grin and a nod. Greeley and Dee pulled hard at me. She wouldn’t be back for two weeks, however, and seeing Tim was always top shelf. I sat down in the two chair waiting area. The Box sat undisturbed, for now.
Off the phone, he came over. “BC, how in the hell are you?”
I stood up and hugged him before he could sit down. Tim wasn’t much of a hugger, but I didn’t care. “Wonder if I might borrow The Box for a few months.”
“Of course. Happy to lend out from my curated art collection.”
Did he just say? “You been reading the Art Museum Quarterly?” I said, amused.
“Janice got a subscription to some art magazine. Good on the pot reading material. What’re you doing here, anyway? Thought you were in Colorado.”
“I was, am, and will be again.”
“That’s clear as mud.”
“Thanks. College educated fella here.” Tim snorted, I continued. “Making a swing back home to pick up a couple of pieces for my upcoming one man show in the art school gallery.”
“Sounds impressive.”
“Not really. I’m just a productive bastard. Still use the toilet one leg at a time.”
Tim laughed. “Quite an image.”
“Saw Dad. Stayed there one night.”
“How was that?”
“Weird. Nothing else to say. Jan, John, and the kids moved to Denver. Mom, Bill, and Kris are out there, too.”
“Sounds...”
“Sure does. Feel sorry for half of them. Anywhosky, what’re you up to? How’s Janice and your kiddos?”
“Andi is still in diapers. Sweet kid. Thad’s a bit high strung. Janice is fine.”
“And here, office stuff?”
“Work is good. Met a guy named Bud Ernie, who I think can help me get my license.”
“This related to you leaving Champaign early?”
“Yeah. The fifth year of their architecture program is all theoretical crap. I spent the year building houses instead.”
“I remember.”
“Hey, it’s almost beer thirty. Come for dinner. Stay the night, or longer.”
“Did you say, drink dinner?”
“Better pass. The old lady would have a hissy.”
I laughed. “Sounds good.”
Answering machines were available in 1977, but weren’t widely used among my friends and family. I didn’t call ahead to see if someone was home. I went there. My evening with Tim and his family was unplanned. Spur of the moment. Sperm of the moment to those of us addled with testosterone and who liked to play with words.
Early the next morning, I left for St. Louis. Had called ahead this time to make an appointment with Sterritt, the head of the Sculpture Department at the University of Washington. “No Professor, Mr., or first name. Just Sterritt,” the guy in the office told me. I also left a message on Cousin John’s answering machine, which put him on the techie dean’s list of my friends. He was in his first year of law school.
I found the Wash U campus by noon. Sterritt had left a message and directions for me with the secretary. Arrived at the partially decommissioned military base outside of Fenton forty minutes later. Made two wrong turns as I navigated the boonies. Made a third as I wound around the base roads before I found the warehouse sculpture studio. Huge place. No sign, just a small number left of the sliding doors. Tanks might have gone in and out of there. The doors were big enough for most things smaller than a Boeing 747. A guy stepped out for a smoke. I got out of my wagon and asked if I was in the right place.
“Above my pay grade, Mate. I’m Chris. Do you make art?” he stuck out his hand. Not particularly clean, I took it without caring about a little dirt or grease.
Another Chris. This one was a guy with a rascal smile. “Possible. Depends on who is judging. Looking for Sterritt.”
“I hear you. He’s in back.”
“Thanks.” I had just met my new best friend, without realizing it.
The warehouse was cavernous and dark. Pools of light marked work areas. The largest one was back right and full of heavy equipment. As I approached the area, a sturdy older guy in stained coveralls crawled out from under a backhoe. “You Cowling? I’m Sterritt,” he said. Gruff and coarse, he felt like a mechanic, not a sculptor. I disliked him immediately. The shop, though, had promise.
We talked for a short time, then he said, “Get your paperwork straight with the office, and I’ll see you in January.”
“Might be late December.”
“Whatever. I liked your Machine. Be interesting to see what you can do here.”
On the way out, I saw Chris again. I leaned toward him and said, “Anything you can tell me about Sterritt?”
“He’s a pig farmer masquerading as a sculptor. All around asshole.”
I laughed. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good program. The shop is great. St. Louis is cool. Stay away from North St. Louis. You’ll do fine. Sterritt, though, he’s a work with no visible progress.”
Driving back into St. Louis, I made a decision without further evaluation.
Cousin John took me to dinner at Rossino’s in the West End. It was dark and noisy with laughter and conversation. The street-level entrance led to a half below ground basement that stretched on through tables, people, wait staff, twists, turns, and an endless display of memorabilia covering the walls and low ceiling.
We shared a bottle of red wine. I dug into my garlic bread and Chicken Parm, enjoying myself immensely. Sitting across from John, listening to him discuss the ups and downs of his educational journey, I flashed on the loss of not getting to know him, Scott, and Patty, Uncle Bob’s three kids. My father’s inability to build bridges with Ann, his sister in law, and get past his hard feelings of “losing” his younger brother, poisoned our family harmony for decades.
I had met John a few times as kids, but it had been a while. I saw the echo of my uncle in my cousin’s kindness and charm. Absolutely great guy.
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