When he was in his twenties, my Cousin Bernie fashioned himself quite the ladies man.
Knowing him later on in life after he had married my father’s sister’s daughter, I could easily see him in that way. Not that he was dapper or dashing, but quite the opposite. What I could imagine was him trying, rather comically, to be something he was not. Like the time he took the course in gold prospecting at the local community college.
I was told that he was a great fan of art galleries not because he liked art; he had no feel for it whatsoever. He went because he liked the women there who liked the art. I imagine him all dressed up, shaved and shined, standing in the elevator and seeking out his reflection in the brass. He taps his fingers on the handrail in tempo as each floor glunks by. The doors open onto the fifth floor and Bernie – oh it was Bernard then, you can be certain – followed the track lights through the galleries.
On the far wall was a large, simple work…just four panels colored with an acrylic wash, one in leaf green, one in turquoise, one charcoal gray, one mustard. The coarse paper with the thick deckled edge gave the piece a sensuous skin and the large oak shadowbox frames gave the whole thing weight. It was not meant to mean anything, at least nothing deep. It was all simply about the colors it was and who knows if he even got that from it. He really was not paying it much attention; more important to him was the woman standing in front of it.
She was slim and neat, with narrow hips and heels, and wide shoulders raised as though she was being tickled. Fire engine polish on the nails. Long black hair. She did not seem to notice him at all, not even notice him noticing her, which he was trying to do as visibly as possible. Instead she was wholly focused on the painting. Taking it in, studying it, perhaps even enjoying it.
Her lack of interest in him, not to mention her neat breasts, was irresistible. He stood closer, hoping to be detected, which was absurd, like yawning in a volcano. Never quite sure what to say to start these affairs, he struggled with a few come-ons. You had to be careful about that, he found, or risk insulting or insinuating or even incensing.
He was thinking about all that when she suddenly moved on. He followed her from panting to panting…oh well, you know what I mean...from painting to painting. The still life with all the angles; the portrait of the woman who looked like a moose; the dumb dog on the lawn in gaudy colors. He missed them all; what he wanted to see was himself as one of those compulsive gambolers. He admired the men who had tons of lovers and wanted to be admired in that way too, but somehow these moments kept slipping by. He tried to come across like Don Juan, the great romantic, who believed in oceanic, all-encompassing sexual love, but suspected he was received more like Dr. William Acton, the 19th century author of The Function & Disorders of the Reproductive Organs, who thought that sex led to insanity.
Perhaps a little observation about her jacket – it was tailored to the waist and had a short rounded collar – and how nicely it fit her form? But in that moment when he might have stepped closer and said it, the woman was suddenly joined by a man who slipped his arm around her waist.
He was a blunt fellow, snub like a hedge, with a profile like the typeface on a restroom sign. His hair had been mowed not cut. No subtlety there, in other words, and he was wearing a goodfellas suit with pointy shoes. Bernard had not seen him coming but now he thought he knew him completely. He was the kind of guy’s guy who can quip but not quote, ramrod but not caress, who feels guyish because he can intimidate waiters before they do him. The only culture he had was bacteria.
Good one!
But what was this plug doing with a woman like that?
The affront took on epic proportions in his mind. He thought of all those great men whose greatness depended on the woman who loved them – Dostoyevski’s Anna, Burton’s Isabell, Dante’s Beatrice – and was annoyed that this putsch of a man could be in their company. Then she kissed him and he pinched her chin. More insult. As they walked off to the elevator, Bernie watched the muscles of her calves rolling, her hair swaying. The guy put his hand on her ass and squeezed. She laughed!
Right there in the art gallery!
What could he have been thinking? Bernie thought. This was not the woman for him; she was some kind of arty tart. He looked around for a diversion but there was no one else there. He was alone the paintings he could not get. And for the moment there was nothing to do or prove or make happen or try or doubt or question. It was a relief, like a headache lifting.
Just existing, more or less and now and then, somewhere between here and there.
Sometimes that was good enough.
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