Memorandum
To: File
From: Frank Flounder
Date: 9/27/01
Subject: At The Stupid Fundraiser
I am at the fundraiser. There is a stage with a large sign above it that says "Art for Orphans." There are many people laughing. Most of them are laughing at things that are not funny, but it is easier to laugh, so they do it. I am laughing too.
Paul spots me. He is drunk.
"What'd you donate?" he says.
"That painting over there," I say.
"The Mona Lisa?"
"That's the one," I say. "Framed it and everything."
"Right on," says Paul. He slugs back a full glass of scotch and stares into the crowd. He begins fidgeting with his wedding band.
"Paul?"
"Yeah?"
"You heard any rumors about Judith—the paralegal?"
Paul looks like he might be sick. Paul started sleeping with Judith a week ago.
"Why?" he says. "What have you heard?"
I pretend to look at Paul like he's crazy. He excuses himself and walks away.
***
The fundraiser is over. The cleaning crew has arrived. I am slumped over in an uncomfortable wooden chair. A member of the staff is slapping my face. I get up, slowly.
As I am about to leave, I notice a large painting of a street in twilight. The street leads to a distant downtown, and in the foreground is an old post office with grand, broken steps, and low yellow lights peeking through the windows. The street is empty, save for a man whose form is smeared in shadow, walking head down toward a clutch of spires sprouting like grass on the horizon.
I steady myself, but the room is spinning, and I hear the distant roar of that downtown place: the click-clock of a pretty woman's shoes and the growl of important men taking international calls. And I am on a street corner, watching for a man coming from Somewhere Else, surfing the bloodstream, and my temples ache.
Back in the ballroom, I stumble over to a table where the marketing director has finished counting up the night's earnings. She is almost ready to go home.
"Who did that painting?" I say. I am leaning on the table so that I do not fall down.
The marketing director smiles in a way that lets me know she is not really smiling.
"I don't know," she says. "It was donated anonymously."
"I want to buy it," I say.
"I'm sorry," she says, "the books are closed."
"I'll give you $10,000," I say.
Her face softens. She knows that I am rich and is considering whether I am serious.
"How generous of you," she says.
I am at the fundraiser. There is a stage with a large sign above it that says "Art for Orphans." There are many people laughing. Most of them are laughing at things that are not funny, but it is easier to laugh, so they do it. I am laughing too.
Paul spots me. He is drunk.
"What'd you donate?" he says.
"That painting over there," I say.
"The Mona Lisa?"
"That's the one," I say. "Framed it and everything."
"Right on," says Paul. He slugs back a full glass of scotch and stares into the crowd. He begins fidgeting with his wedding band.
"Paul?"
"Yeah?"
"You heard any rumors about Judith—the paralegal?"
Paul looks like he might be sick. Paul started sleeping with Judith a week ago.
"Why?" he says. "What have you heard?"
I pretend to look at Paul like he's crazy. He excuses himself and walks away.
***
The fundraiser is over. The cleaning crew has arrived. I am slumped over in an uncomfortable wooden chair. A member of the staff is slapping my face. I get up, slowly.
As I am about to leave, I notice a large painting of a street in twilight. The street leads to a distant downtown, and in the foreground is an old post office with grand, broken steps, and low yellow lights peeking through the windows. The street is empty, save for a man whose form is smeared in shadow, walking head down toward a clutch of spires sprouting like grass on the horizon.
I steady myself, but the room is spinning, and I hear the distant roar of that downtown place: the click-clock of a pretty woman's shoes and the growl of important men taking international calls. And I am on a street corner, watching for a man coming from Somewhere Else, surfing the bloodstream, and my temples ache.
Back in the ballroom, I stumble over to a table where the marketing director has finished counting up the night's earnings. She is almost ready to go home.
"Who did that painting?" I say. I am leaning on the table so that I do not fall down.
The marketing director smiles in a way that lets me know she is not really smiling.
"I don't know," she says. "It was donated anonymously."
"I want to buy it," I say.
"I'm sorry," she says, "the books are closed."
"I'll give you $10,000," I say.
Her face softens. She knows that I am rich and is considering whether I am serious.
"How generous of you," she says.
F.F.
No comments:
Post a Comment