We walk through the storage facility halls quickly, noisy footsteps announcing our approach to whoever might be in here with us.
We clip past the rental units lining the hallway, each ceiling-high corrugated metal door pulled closed and sealed by padlock.
"Are these all full?" I ask, pointing as we pass at what appears to be unit "B-12," based on the letters spray-painted on the metal door.
"Nah," Jerry says. "They keep 'em locked even when they're empty, you know, so winos don't come set up house or something."
We take a few more turns in the labyrinth and stop suddenly. Jerry turns to me, looking serious. "Okay," he says.
"What?" I ask, looking around. "This it?"
"Not yet," he says. "But this is a multisensory piece, you know? Pan-experiential?"
"Pan-experiential," I say, pretty sure he made that term up just now.
He catches my expression and gives me a look. "Fine," he says, "you're not an artist. Whatever. I just want to share, okay?"
"Okay," I say. He nods, and then puts his finger to his lips, indicating I should be quiet.
We walk in silence several more feet to a door that looks like all the rest. He pulls a key out of his pocket and as he starts to unlock the padlock, I hear an odd gasping whine coming from inside the unit. Jerry removes the lock and cocks his head to look at me. I hear the noise again, louder. It sounds a little like a large wounded animal, but wrong somehow, like a recording of someone pretending to be a sick horse.
Jerry flings open the door, and as interested as I am at seeing what is inside, I involuntarily close my eyes at the rank odor that spills out of the space. Opening my eyes, I see Jerry by the unit's light switch, gesturing toward something deeper within the space, still in shadow. I squint at the dark shape shifting position and suddenly worry that maybe Jerry is keeping another monkey in here.
There is a click and an overhead light flares on directly over the shape, exposing an exceptionally skinny middle-aged man on all fours staring at me. He's covered in what looks like human hair, but is wearing nothing but a loincloth and a wire brush dangling from the base of his spine.
I hear Jerry cough, and the guy on the floor jerks his head to the side, exposing an ear that is stapled over with a triangular piece of dirty orange felt.
I look over at Jerry, who is nodding at me with eyebrows raised, and then back at the floor-man, whose knees, I notice now, are covered with open scabs.
"This is kind of disturbing," I say, and look back at Jerry.
"Good!" Jerry says, smiling. He looks back at the man approvingly. "I call it The Withered Dog."
The dog man is looking at me with an expression I can't read. Something like a sneer.
My eyes dart to the man's ankle, which looks to be chained to the wall.
"This is voluntary?" I ask.
"It's actually a lot of work," he says, gesturing at the man. "I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to."
"No," I say. "For him. Voluntary for him."
"Oh!" he says. "Yes. Yes, of course. It's a paid position."
"Hm," I noise and take a step back, trying to illustrate to Jerry that I'm ready to leave this place.
Jerry steps with me, still watching the guy. "I'm thinking of, you know, like, submitting it to a gallery."
I make a show of checking my watch. "That'd be...woah...it's 9 already," I say. "I better get going."
"What?" he asks. "Oh! Right. Let me just close up."
Jerry slides the iron door shut, and just before it closes, I see something in the crawling man's expression change.
The hallways fill with the sound of the door shutting and Jerry noisily replacing his lock, but it is clear the man inside has started screaming.
We start to walk away. "Is he..." I start to ask.
"All part of the piece," Jerry says. "Not to worry."
We wind our way out, the Withered Dog's howls diminishing with distance.
"Where did you find that guy?" I ask.
"Book group," he says.
We clip past the rental units lining the hallway, each ceiling-high corrugated metal door pulled closed and sealed by padlock.
"Are these all full?" I ask, pointing as we pass at what appears to be unit "B-12," based on the letters spray-painted on the metal door.
"Nah," Jerry says. "They keep 'em locked even when they're empty, you know, so winos don't come set up house or something."
We take a few more turns in the labyrinth and stop suddenly. Jerry turns to me, looking serious. "Okay," he says.
"What?" I ask, looking around. "This it?"
"Not yet," he says. "But this is a multisensory piece, you know? Pan-experiential?"
"Pan-experiential," I say, pretty sure he made that term up just now.
He catches my expression and gives me a look. "Fine," he says, "you're not an artist. Whatever. I just want to share, okay?"
"Okay," I say. He nods, and then puts his finger to his lips, indicating I should be quiet.
We walk in silence several more feet to a door that looks like all the rest. He pulls a key out of his pocket and as he starts to unlock the padlock, I hear an odd gasping whine coming from inside the unit. Jerry removes the lock and cocks his head to look at me. I hear the noise again, louder. It sounds a little like a large wounded animal, but wrong somehow, like a recording of someone pretending to be a sick horse.
Jerry flings open the door, and as interested as I am at seeing what is inside, I involuntarily close my eyes at the rank odor that spills out of the space. Opening my eyes, I see Jerry by the unit's light switch, gesturing toward something deeper within the space, still in shadow. I squint at the dark shape shifting position and suddenly worry that maybe Jerry is keeping another monkey in here.
There is a click and an overhead light flares on directly over the shape, exposing an exceptionally skinny middle-aged man on all fours staring at me. He's covered in what looks like human hair, but is wearing nothing but a loincloth and a wire brush dangling from the base of his spine.
I hear Jerry cough, and the guy on the floor jerks his head to the side, exposing an ear that is stapled over with a triangular piece of dirty orange felt.
I look over at Jerry, who is nodding at me with eyebrows raised, and then back at the floor-man, whose knees, I notice now, are covered with open scabs.
"This is kind of disturbing," I say, and look back at Jerry.
"Good!" Jerry says, smiling. He looks back at the man approvingly. "I call it The Withered Dog."
The dog man is looking at me with an expression I can't read. Something like a sneer.
My eyes dart to the man's ankle, which looks to be chained to the wall.
"This is voluntary?" I ask.
"It's actually a lot of work," he says, gesturing at the man. "I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to."
"No," I say. "For him. Voluntary for him."
"Oh!" he says. "Yes. Yes, of course. It's a paid position."
"Hm," I noise and take a step back, trying to illustrate to Jerry that I'm ready to leave this place.
Jerry steps with me, still watching the guy. "I'm thinking of, you know, like, submitting it to a gallery."
I make a show of checking my watch. "That'd be...woah...it's 9 already," I say. "I better get going."
"What?" he asks. "Oh! Right. Let me just close up."
Jerry slides the iron door shut, and just before it closes, I see something in the crawling man's expression change.
The hallways fill with the sound of the door shutting and Jerry noisily replacing his lock, but it is clear the man inside has started screaming.
We start to walk away. "Is he..." I start to ask.
"All part of the piece," Jerry says. "Not to worry."
We wind our way out, the Withered Dog's howls diminishing with distance.
"Where did you find that guy?" I ask.
"Book group," he says.
You're on time this week!
Here's another O_O to add to your (growing) collection.
Posted by: Q | September 25, 2007 at 04:19 PM
Dude, that was like a macro-story.
I liked it.
Posted by: Gretchen | September 25, 2007 at 05:21 PM
Q we must remember that, however odd, Dean does have a life. He is not a robot that always posts at exactly the same time.
And I would just like to put in that he has a very nice singing voice.
Posted by: Enna Isilee | September 28, 2007 at 11:15 AM
I know, I was just teasing him. Even though I probably have no right to. I'm sorry if I offend you.
Posted by: Q | October 02, 2007 at 01:53 PM
Q, you certainly didn't offend ME, you should know that. But if you were talking to Dean...
Posted by: Enna Isilee | October 02, 2007 at 07:16 PM
Perfect last words. Thanks.
Posted by: Stubby LaRue | October 04, 2007 at 09:14 AM