not. She's one of the most reserved people I know." "Did she go to the wedding?" "Oh, sure. But we didn't resolve anything." "Did she spend the night?" "Yes, because we just let it go. We chickened out. I started taking plates and glasses out to the kitchen, and when I came back she was standing over her suitcase, pulling on her jeans. I was shaking inside, walking stiff, like a puppet. I said, 'So you're going home?' She said, 'Yeah.' She didn't look at me, but I could tell by her voice she was crying. And that did it, that just killed me. Because she never cries. So we both started crying, and I told her I wanted her to come to my wedding, and she said she wanted to come, and that was sort of the end of it. But we didn't make up, not really, and neither of us ever apologized. We just went to bed. Or passed out, in my case. I took some pills and went to sleep, just-got out of there.
"The wedding-God, the -wedding was horrible. I woke up with a headache that lasted for three days. I could see the little scratch on her neck above the collar of her maid-of-honor suit, and every time I saw it I'd sink down into this black hole of depression. Lee and Isabel were the bridesmaids, and it only took them about thirty seconds to realize something was wrong between us. Emma and I stayed mad at each other for three months." "But you reconciled." "Yes. Finally. I wish I'd known you then," I said, and Eric smiled.
"How did it come about? The reconciliation." "Oh, well . . . I can't tell you that. It's Emma's story, not mine. Another calamity involving a man, but that's all I can say. But it was her man that time, not mine." Eric couldn't stop shaking his head. "How did you feel when she told you Curtis was manipulative and -what was it? Manipulative and-" "She called him a sociopath, Eric, that's what she called him, and how do you think I felt? It was like a stab in my heart. These are the two people in the world I love most, and I can't stand it that they hate each other. But he doesn't hate her, and that makes it even worse. He never says anything bad about her, he never has." "Do you think so? Rudy, do you really think Curtis likes Emma?" - - I said, "The only good thing about my wedding was, we finally got to meet Lee's boyfriend. Although he wasn't her boyfriend yet, it was their first date. 'Henry the plumber' we'd been calling him. We were dying to meet him, because you know Lee, the original Jewish American princess, and she was absolutely in lust with this man who was installing heating ducts and copper wiring in her basement. But we all ended up falling in love with him, and so did she, and nine months later she married him." And that was the end of our fifty minutes. Emma.
What do you do when you look at a piece of modern art and it looks like nothing at all, your mind goes blank, and you can't even think of a joke or something smart-mouthed to say about it if you happen to be viewing it with a pal, and all you can think is, Either I'm crazy or you are,- Mr. Big Shot Artist, and since you've got this exhibit in a real building and all these people are standing around contemplating your stuff and saying intelligent things about it, it must be me? Well, what do you do? - What I do is get out as fast as I can without saying much of anything, and I also try to drink as much of the cheap white wine as I can if it's an opening, so at least the night isn't a total loss, and plus I find I have a lot more to say about the artist's oeuvre if I am, how shall I say, slightly oiled.
But these solutions don't apply if you're in his studio with the artiste himself, and it's just you, him, and his work. And say his work mystifies you; it might be priceless, it might be dreck, you don't have a clue. And say you're supposed to be doing a serious, paid, legitimate piece on the artist for the major newspaper that employs you, and, oh yeah, you also have this painful, yearning, lusiful attraction to the artist's body, not to mention a helpless and
"The wedding-God, the -wedding was horrible. I woke up with a headache that lasted for three days. I could see the little scratch on her neck above the collar of her maid-of-honor suit, and every time I saw it I'd sink down into this black hole of depression. Lee and Isabel were the bridesmaids, and it only took them about thirty seconds to realize something was wrong between us. Emma and I stayed mad at each other for three months." "But you reconciled." "Yes. Finally. I wish I'd known you then," I said, and Eric smiled.
"How did it come about? The reconciliation." "Oh, well . . . I can't tell you that. It's Emma's story, not mine. Another calamity involving a man, but that's all I can say. But it was her man that time, not mine." Eric couldn't stop shaking his head. "How did you feel when she told you Curtis was manipulative and -what was it? Manipulative and-" "She called him a sociopath, Eric, that's what she called him, and how do you think I felt? It was like a stab in my heart. These are the two people in the world I love most, and I can't stand it that they hate each other. But he doesn't hate her, and that makes it even worse. He never says anything bad about her, he never has." "Do you think so? Rudy, do you really think Curtis likes Emma?" - - I said, "The only good thing about my wedding was, we finally got to meet Lee's boyfriend. Although he wasn't her boyfriend yet, it was their first date. 'Henry the plumber' we'd been calling him. We were dying to meet him, because you know Lee, the original Jewish American princess, and she was absolutely in lust with this man who was installing heating ducts and copper wiring in her basement. But we all ended up falling in love with him, and so did she, and nine months later she married him." And that was the end of our fifty minutes. Emma.
What do you do when you look at a piece of modern art and it looks like nothing at all, your mind goes blank, and you can't even think of a joke or something smart-mouthed to say about it if you happen to be viewing it with a pal, and all you can think is, Either I'm crazy or you are,- Mr. Big Shot Artist, and since you've got this exhibit in a real building and all these people are standing around contemplating your stuff and saying intelligent things about it, it must be me? Well, what do you do? - What I do is get out as fast as I can without saying much of anything, and I also try to drink as much of the cheap white wine as I can if it's an opening, so at least the night isn't a total loss, and plus I find I have a lot more to say about the artist's oeuvre if I am, how shall I say, slightly oiled.
But these solutions don't apply if you're in his studio with the artiste himself, and it's just you, him, and his work. And say his work mystifies you; it might be priceless, it might be dreck, you don't have a clue. And say you're supposed to be doing a serious, paid, legitimate piece on the artist for the major newspaper that employs you, and, oh yeah, you also have this painful, yearning, lusiful attraction to the artist's body, not to mention a helpless and
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