"art?"
“art?”
scene: two men in stylish suits, standing in front of a lovely nude painting at the met.
“you can definitely have too much — you evolve to less anyhow over time.”
“how do you mean?”
“it’s like this — no matter how much you have, you keep coming back to the same handful of pieces, the same few images that speak to you, that evoke something. much of your collection will be transient, but a few pieces are going to stick. you won’t be able to get rid of them.”
“so over time, the other stuff will just seem redundant and you’ll end up ditching it all in favor of the smaller, but more meaningful collection?”
“right — redundant. you’ll get rid of everything you don’t ever look at, and be left with those few serious bits. it’s a value over time thing; how much time have you spent looking at the quality works, versus how much wasted being distracted by the rest?”
“i can totally see that.” nods.
“i mean, collecting as an investment is one thing, but if you’re seriously passionate about the art, the money doesn’t matter as much, if at all.”
“art? oh yeah — art.”
“wait — what did you think i was talking about?”
“er .. porn, actually.”
thinks. nods. “yeah, i can see that too.”
"history"
“why do you keep letting her do this to you?”, she asked.
“i’m building a callus.” we racked. i broke. thirteen left side.
“eventually, repeated exposure hardens, toughens. that’s the theory,” i said, “eleven off the rail—after a while, after so much pressure, so much abrasion, i’ll quit feeling it in all the way to my toes.”
“think that’ll work?” she took the cue after my bank went wide. casual contact. “i mean, maybe you’re just cutting yourself deeper.” two all the way down.
“thought about that,” i said, smiling a smile i didn’t feel, “but scars don’t feel pain either.”
“if you scar your heart deep enough, you might not feel anything for anyone.” her five drew short of the corner.
i too the cue back, lined up on the ten. “right now, i don’t think that’d be a bad thing.” it danced around the pocket, but dropped.
she looked hard at me, “but not everyone’s that selfish, some people actually care sometimes, jack. i mean this latest tragedy, it’s not about you hurting people she cared about, it was about her being inconvenienced by it right?”
“yeah, that’s right.” i’d stopped playing, since it looked like she was getting her rant on.
“what does that tell you? i swear to god, jack, if you had just let me get to know her a little more before you fell head over heels, we could’ve headed this whole thing off.” she started to drawl some when she got mad. it was cute, if loud. “but no, you had to go ‘rushin’ off’, leaving your better judgment—and more importantly my better judgment in the dust. you’re a stupid, stupid, stupid man.”
she paused for a minute, maybe to collect her thoughts, maybe to catch her breath. something whimsical started playing on the jukebox at that particular moment, and completely destroyed the mood. neither she nor i could keep a straight face.
“you done? can i shoot now?” i asked, gesturing with the cue.
“yeah, i guess—but i swear to god, sometimes you’re hard to watch.”
“try living in here. it’s not a good place.” the nine ball fell gracefully into an empty pocket.
“this one’s on you though—you got exactly what you deserved. all this bullshit is because you don’t think.” she smiled; i could tell she’d been waiting to say that for a long time.
“i need you to tell me this? everyone gets what they deserve. that’s rule #2. even me.” i thought a second. “especially me.”
we played on for a little while. i was better, she was less distracted. the jukebox cranked out a lounge-jazz rendition of ‘fever’.
“think she’s done with you yet?” she’d gotten to the eight before me, and was watching me, trying to figure out from where i was looking what the best shot was. that’s what handlers do. watch. handle.
“if she is, she is. i’d pick up the phone if she wanted to talk to me again, you know. once her dander settles. i don’t expect it though.” i pointed, “in the side is where you wanna go, by the way. you could just ask.”
“it’s more fun this way.” she put the eight in, after some hesitation. “seriously, james. walk away. put it down, and walk away.”
“yeah, see ..” i shook my head, smiled to spite myself, “i’m just not good at doing that.”
“oh .. you don’t have to tell me,” she looked hard at me and smiled that certain smile. “go again?”
”’course.” i reached for the rack.
because that’s what handlers do. handle.
