Waltz in Red
In
the novel Outro, Ruby Cohen tells
karaoke hostess Channy about her life as an Off-Broadway actress in New York –
and some of the characters she met along the way.
Three years later, I was
still with Joe’s troupe, Greenstreet Productions, alternating between big roles
and small, fending off anything that smacked of administrative duties. I
displayed my kryptonite competence only when it came to knowing my lines,
arriving punctually and performing with every cell in my body. I did, however,
have an intriguing proposition in my pocket: Joe had invited me to direct one
of the shows for the upcoming season. It was tempting but scary, because I knew
I’d be good at it and I didn’t want anything to come between me and the
audience.
It was late summer, down-time
before the fall opening. I found a flyer for an artists’ collective at a bar
around the corner – a place called Savvy’s. When I walked in, the mood was
positively Beatnik. The garret from Puccini’s Boheme. Andy Hardy putting on a show in the barn.
I swam through the bar crowd
until I reached a wide pit where a funk band was wrapping up “Sex Machine,” a
skinny black guy in a British cap spazzing a James Brown shuffle across the
floor. Then the DJ called up a slam poet, a short, squat guy with a
Fiddler-on-the-Roof beard. He jumped into a piece about trying to eliminate the
excess food from his pantry, and instead winding up in an eating competition
with Death. The rhythm of his words accelerated with a Bolero graduality until
they caught fire and burst into a Ginsbergian inventory of comestibles. People
were falling out of their chairs, probably on purpose.
By the time he was done, a
reggae band had finished setting up, and rolled into a Jimmy Cliff tune. I took
the opportunity to saunter up to the balcony, where a trio of painters were
doing “live works.” A large black woman was pressing broad swipes of acrylic
across a canvas, setting up the strata for a seascape. A baby-faced Puerto
Rican kid scratched at a charcoal portrait: an old drunk leaning against a bar,
wearing a look of utter dejection.
The third guy was older,
mid-thirties, tall, a head of thick black hair with apostrophes of gray. He
looked like he had never made an awkward movement in his life. He was working
on a cartoonish, beatific creature with fan-shaped wings – or petals, I
couldn’t tell. It stood upon a pedestal-like body, wide as a tree trunk. The
background was an intricate network of lines, but looking closely I could see
that it was actually composed of faces, their features melting into the mass:
an Aztec warrior in profile, an amoeba with misplaced Picasso eyes, a robot
alien with a saucer-shaped head.
The man was dipping a
terry-cloth rag into a bowl of raw sienna paint, then scrubbing it into one of
the petals – or wings. He gave me a quick glance, but kept steadily at his
work. For a moment, I felt guilty for distracting him, but of course that’s
what he was there for. And, to answer stupid questions.
“Whatcha doin’?”
He looked up with eyes so
black you could fall right in. “You want the short version or the Encyclopedia
Britannica?”
“Um… I’m gonna go for the
short.”
“We begin with a central
figure: the ruby-throated angelflower. A profoundly positive presence. I filled
in the background with a coterie of beer-coaster creatures, then sort of
macramed them together in order to, in order to… Actually, I have no idea.”
“To make them look like a
crowd?”
He snapped his fingers very
loudly, then stared at them in surprise. “Wow – what’s that about? But yes! A crowd. Out of which rises the angelflower,
like the rare and sudden blossoming of the century plant, erupting from the
desert of the hoi polloi.
“I have this thing about
complicated backgrounds. I get so attached to a project that I hate to see it
end – so all this meticulous stuff helps to extend the work. Right now you’ve
caught me at the final step, which is frankly like a three-year-old with a
coloring book. I like to water down my acrylics, then scrub them in. Gives a
nice solid block of color – but transparent, so it reveals the flaws in the
canvas.”
“Why do you want to reveal
flaws?”
“I like a surface that’s seen
some livin’. This one was a dropcloth. Note the little splatters of black at
the top of the stem. That was an oil change.”
He took another swab at his
bowl and worked a corner of the petal, drawing the paint right up to the thick
black line at its periphery.
“I can’t stand art that’s too
smooth. If you’re not going to reveal the process at all, then why bother? This
notion of creating perfect, untouched forms is riven with hubris. What are you
doing after the show?”
He said all of this at a
shot, and I wasn’t entirely certain that I’d been asked a question.
“Um, I don’t really know.”
“I have to show you
something.”
I laughed. “Don’t think I’ve
never heard that one before.”
He took my hand and held on
tight, as if we were about to shake on a deal.
“What’s your name?”
“Ruby.”
He smiled. Large, dazzling
teeth. “You see?”
“Ruby-throated,” I said. “As
in fate?”
“As in coincidence – which is
better, and tastier. You are one of
the special ones. You do something creative?”
“So now you’re a psychic?”
He laughed. “Ask the right
question in the right milieu, and your odds are pretty good.”
“Yes,” I said. “Actress.”
“Ah – of course. Lots of personalities
swimming around in there. When you first came up, I thought there was a whole
mob watching me. I’ll be done at midnight. Can I meet you at the bar?”
“What? I can’t watch you?”
“Actually, no. I’d be too
distracted. Along with being one of the special ones, you’re enormously
attractive.”
Picture me as an LP on a
turntable; my needle has just been yanked away. I tried and failed to fight
down a goofy smile.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Scootie.” He shook the hand
I’d forgotten he was holding. “And yes, there’s a story behind that, too. But I
need to get back to my painting.”
He let go, and I drifted
downstairs. I gave some serious thought to leaving – he was entirely too
smooth. But this cool punk band was playing, dressed in big chunks of black and
white fabric, and a beer sounded really good.
Two bands and a standup comic
later, Scootie appeared over my left shoulder, continuing our previous
conversation as if we’d never stopped.
“When I was a baby, I had a
middle ear infection. It messed up my sense of balance, and I took to crawling
sideways, like a crab. So I got my nickname: ‘Scootie’. Have you done any
Beckett?”
I fixed him with a look, and
attempted to restart the conversation in a more normal fashion. “Hi, Scootie.
How ya doin’?”
He blinked. “I’m fine. How
are you?”
“Good! Waiting for Godot.”
You could see that little
tidbit striking a speed-bump in his head – which was exactly my intention.
“Isn’t that…?”
“All-female cast,” I said.
“We thought of calling it Waiting for
Goddess, but we figured we were pushing our luck as it was.”
The bartender raced by,
planted a Heinekin in front of Scootie, spoke the words “Jacks and Queens” and
kept going.
Scootie eyed the label, said
“Ah, Jacks and Queens,” and took a drink. “What did you think of it?” he asked.
“Jacks and Queens?”
“Beckett.”
I did my best to look
thoughtful (I’m sure I did – I had practiced my “thoughtful” look in a mirror
many times). “Irrational. Maddening. Plotless. Ridiculous. I loved it.”
“You ought to love me then.”
“Umm… maybe?” Keep it moving,
keep it moving. “So where do your
figures come from?”
“John Cage.”
“Oh. I thought Cage was a
musician.”
“You thought Da Vinci was a
painter. Music was Cage’s day job. When the moon came out, he was a philosopher.
And the master cartographer of chance operations.”
Scootie took a pen from
behind his ear and flipped over a beer coaster. Then he drew a long line,
vaguely ess-shaped.
“I can’t illustrate worth
shit. Any time I attempt to pull in something from the real world, it goes
through some kind of crippling filter and ends up looking like the work of an
unimaginative toddler. So I go backwards.”
He drew a straight line
through the ess at a slant.
“I keep drawing lines until
something makes itself known.”
A question mark with no
period. Three sides of a square, facing down.
“When I arrive at the point
of identity, I finish the job with universal signifiers: eyes, nose, mouth –
sometimes ears, or hair.”
He gave the question-mark
head a pair of almond-shaped eyes, then angled a mouth-line with a small notch
for a smirk. The nose was already there, a product of the first two lines. The
upside-down square offered a torso; he added long, thin rectangles to imply
arms.
“Sometimes they turn out,
sometimes not. Sometimes they become ruby-throated angelflowers.”
“This one looks French,” I
said. “That smirk might actually be a cigarette.”
Scootie smiled, initialed the
coaster SJ and handed it to me.
“Here. Might be worth a
dollar someday.”
He had a loft (of course he had a loft). It was pretty
bare of furniture, and instead of a rug he had a canvas dropcloth, ten foot
square, nailed to the floor. Affixed to the far wall was a canvas, five feet
tall, three wide. It appeared to contain a swarm of mosquitoes, but closer
inspection revealed words, hundreds of them, written with a black marker. I saw
libretto, 1967, and Sutherland.
“What the hell is going on
here?”
“Chance operations,” he said.
“The human mind craves organization – and that’s the problem. I was in a choir
once, singing a piece that called for white noise, within a certain range of
pitches. Inevitably, we would gravitate toward consonance – toward chords. So
we had to spend a half-hour assigning individual pitches to individual singers.
There were some who hated that piece, but I thought it was the most beautifully
constructed chaos I’d ever heard.
“The thing is, in order to
achieve true randomness, you have to set up some ground rules beforehand. In
this case, I determined to take the New
Grove Book of Opera – all 687 pages – and extract the first word from each
page. On the canvas, I depended on my natural ability to shuffle, beginning
with any available white space and not caring if it ran roughshod over other
words. I wanted a virtual windstorm of verbiage. Unbeknownst to you, I have
already pencilled in the central figure, and will now bring him into being.
Please – sit.”
He handed me a cushion, and I
sat on the floor, cross-legged. He produced a small housepainting brush, dipped
it into a jar of black paint and drew a rough line over the canvas. He began
with two lines that started at the top center and extended outward. He drew a
vee from one shoulder to another, trailing into a shape that resembled a tie.
At either side of the X, he affixed the same almond eyes as his coaster
creature, then a wide, flat oval for a mouth, vaguely merry. He stood back for
a moment, then dipped the brush, took the tips of the X and extended them to
the upper corners. He took a last look, notched a pocket on either side of the
tie, then tossed the brush over his shoulder. It landed on the dropcloth with a
splat. Then he knelt behind me, gripped my shoulders and said, “So. What is
he?”
I took a few moments to
study.
“The Creature from the Black
Lagoon in a business suit.”
“Or a suit for the opera,”
said Scootie.
“But those antennae…?”
“Yes! That popped in just
now.”
“Like a cockroach. A giant
impresario cockroach, off to the opera.”
“Luciano Cucaracchi,” he
said.
I let out a burst of
laughter, like a sneeze. “Okay.”
“Hey, I don’t make up the
names. They just come in on the satellite dish. Now, take off your shoes.”
There was my decision point.
A girl doesn’t take off her shoes just for anyone.
So I did. Scootie disappeared
and came back with a pair of square plastic tubs. In one he poured red paint,
in the other black.
“It’s just like roullette.
Pick a color.”
I stood up and gave them a
study. “Dare I ask why?”
“Ask yourself this question:
what color do I want my feet to be for the next week?”
“You’re nuts.”
“We’ve established that. Now
pick.”
“Red. Of course.”
“Communist!”
“Vampire!”
“Go ahead. Do the
Hokey-Pokey.”
I knew if I thought about it,
I wouldn’t, so I didn’t think about it. I don’t need to tell you how it felt,
because you know how it felt. Scootie pushed a button on his stereo and
conjured a waltz – that soprano from Boheme,
in the café. He rolled his trousers to his knees, planted himself in the black,
then left a trail of dance-instruction footprints on his way to the center of
the dropcloth. He raised his hands; I stepped forward and took them.
And he could waltz (of course
he could waltz). And of course I
could waltz – I was a performer. We stopped at regular intervals to reload our
feet. After that came Sinatra, “Saturday Night is the Loneliest Night of the
Week,” and we switched to swing. Scootie’s lead was perfect, all the signals
there in his big hands, twirling me one way, wrapping me the other. At the
ending, he dipped me so deeply that, the next morning, I found streaks of red and
black in my hair.
Scootie pulled me to my feet,
kissed my hands and said, “We’re done.”
I stood on red tip-toes,
kissed him on the neck and said, “Not hardly.”
Photo by MJV
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