The Muse of Houston Street - Part 2

The Muse of Houston Street
Part 2

Harry Buschman

The weather is fine, the weather is the best part of my day. It should lift my spirits, with the sunshine on my shoulders I should be able to cast off this melancholy and make plans for the future. But I see myself in the window of Max's diner! The sight of me is sobering. I am bent now. My face is unrecognizable, it is a face of a madman. I don't own a mirror and I shave by feel. I harbor the notion that I appear as I used to. Slender. Erect. Alert as a squirrel. "When was the last time you slept between sheets, Backhouse? When did you last ride in a taxicab or find a letter at your door?" A panhandler working the street ahead of me, looks the other way as I approach, He sees I am of no use to him. Maybe he thinks I’ll ask him for money. When beggars avoid you, you can go no lower.

However, the signs bring me $87, in cash. No tax when you pay cash. The rent will be paid this month, but nothing will be put away.

It is good to have nothing left over, my former wife would get every penny of it. Yes, I am under the thumb of her extraordinarily gifted lawyers, and the only way to get even is to be penniless. If I should suddenly find myself in favor with the critics again, if the name "Porter Backhouse" somehow regains its former luster, I will be put through the wringer. Far better to be a beggar – the little I have is mine to keep.

But what will happen to my new painting on the wall back on Houston Street? I think it is better than anything I've done lately, almost as good as the old days when the force was with me. The muse, (bless her heart) would be proud of me. Will it be painted over some day – papered perhaps – or, in the nick of time will some discriminating critic recognize the hand of Porter Backhouse? "Stop! Stop! A miracle!” he might say. “This must be an undiscovered Backhouse. Do you not see the texture, the coloration, the breast outlined against the silken camellias – a woman among women!"

Chipson knows nothing of painting, he is a sculptor. How can an artist destroy a beautiful block of marble by making it look like Gertrude Stein? Gertrude Stein, my ass! It will look more like Gertrude Stein before he starts chipping at it than when he's finished ... I predict it will end up another shrunken head ... I wonder if he's done sweeping up.

Back at Houston Street I notice our windows are open and Chipson's bearded figure can be seen brooding over a block of stone. Even from here I can see the angst within him. The stone is a dirty yellow – the color of laundry soap. I know what he's going through; the first step. The first chip off the old block, so to speak. "What can I do to make it look like Gertrude Stein?"

I don't have a watch, but the clock in Max's lunch room window tells me that Chipson will soon be off to Waldmart’s, and the hovel I call a studio will be mine again.

I enter the studio in a somewhat better frame of mind than when I left. Chipson has done a good job of cleaning up. He sits before the block of marble with a photograph of Gertrude Stein in his lap.

"Chipson, would you appreciate a word of advice?" I ask him.

"From you? You can't be serious, you know from beans about sculpture. Did you get the money for the signs?"

"Yes. You owe me forty dollars for your half of the rent."

"You will have it in the morning. They pay us tonight. What is your word of advice?"

"I thought you didn't want it."

"I don't intend to take it." He holds the picture of Gertrude Stein in front of the block of stone. It is quite similar in shape.

"It's a perfect likeness now, Chipson. If I were you I would put a hat on it and call it done. It will only go downhill from here." He puts the picture down and slides off the stool. Looking at me sideways, he shrugs himself into his coat and walks slowly to the door. I can tell he's trying to think of something clever to say in parting. He pauses at the door and says, "Fuck you Backhouse!"T

"Now I am alone." Such were the words of the melancholy Dane. The building is as empty as a tomb, the Latino girls are gone, so is Mr. Kaplan, Mr. Laguna and Mr. Narghesian. Nothing can be as still as this. I can actually hear the water trickling in the toilet. Is it possible for such quiet in the noisiest city in the world?

Well, first I will have something to eat, then I will continue to work on the wall painting. Even though it's finished I will not stop working on it. I turn on the television set and wait for the black and white image to emerge. The picture is nebulous and the news studio seems to be under water – I jiggle the wire coat hanger and although the picture does not improve, the sound does. What shall I eat? That is the question – all too easily answered – whatever is left from yesterday. I grope around in the darkness of the tiny refrigerator (the light bulb burned out months ago). There, I find two half eaten TV dinners, one halibut, one chipped beef .... an interesting blend of protein. There is an open can of Sprite, undoubtedly flat by now – but all the better for that. I put the half eaten TV dinners in the black hole of the oven and wait for dinner to be served.

As my dinner is warming, the television tells me that crime is down but murders are up – guns will soon be sold that can only be fired by the people who bought them – it is not reassuring. I am so far behind the tempo of the times the little blue ball of the earth grows smaller in my sight and before the morning comes I will be left like an empty six-pack in the cosmic void. The likelihood of improvement is dim as these days grind slowly by. It occurs to me that the game might not be worth playing.

But I know I'll feel better after eating something. I find a soiled dishcloth and gingerly remove my TV dinners, they have a tinny smell, like soup from a can. I think back to the dinners at Lutesce and the Rainbow Room; Jockey Club lunches and brunch at the Waldorf, and my eyes drift around this dark hovel in which I have chosen to spend the rest of my life – "What am I waiting for?"

.... I see something in the darkest corner – something like a long gray coat and a hat hanging on a clothes tree. Strange! I never noticed that before. Wait, I don't have a clothes tree! Must be something of Chipson's. I put my fork down nervously, it clatters as I lay it on the table – there! It moved didn't it? I swear it moved!

It did move! It's edging its way along the wall! "Hold it there, you! This place is bugged you know .... we've got cameras, surveillance cameras! Infrared – latest thing – see in the dark. Cops are on their way now!" It stops and turns, there is a face – a pale face. Jesus! What am I supposed to do?

"I'm sorry, Porter. Sorry. Thought you'd be glad to see me." A man's voice – not a street voice. I'd put it uptown, east side. Graduated Fordham, Columbia – something like that. Certainly not Brooklyn College.

"You looking for me, or Chipson?"

"You're Porter Backhouse, right?"

"Why?"

He carefully removes his hat and shakes his head and his long blond hair falls about his shoulders. "Oh my God, I think – not one of them!"

"It's a rather complicated story, Porter. Wouldn't it be simpler if you just came along with me?"

I think, maybe if I put up a bold front – "I'm not going anywhere with you, buddy. You'll have to drag me outta here."

He walks over to the table and finds another chair. He looks at it with distaste and sits down. "You don't have two matching chairs, you're eating yesterday's – Heaven knows what out of a tin tray with a bent fork – you're drinking from a can, and you would be dragged out of here. I am Hymenaeus, Porter! The agony is over. Finished! Time to come home – three squares – wine at every meal."

"What do you mean finished, I'm not finished!"

"You may not be through, Porter, but you're finished. Nobody's ever through. If you think I'm going to stand in the wings forever waiting for you to call me whenever you've got the urge to paint, forget it."

"You're my muse?"

"That's right, Hymenaeus, God of marriage. We met at the Goldfarb wedding, remember? There's no such thing as a muse of painting, Porter, you should know that. They gave me the job by default. But I've had it with you! I'm calling in my marker."

"I don't believe you! Prove it!"

"You mean like a miracle?"

"Yes, show me a miracle." I move quickly to the light switch, I don't want him pulling any fast ones in the dark. He looks about him and points to Chipson's block of yellow stone on the stand.

"What's that?"

"The man who shares this place with me is a sculptor, he's going to make a head of Gertrude Stein."

"Stein. Yes, I know her well. Sneaks around with that ratty little Alice B.Toklas. Can't stand either of them myself." Before my eyes, there is a shower of rubble on the floor around the stand, and the head of Gertrude Stein suddenly appears where the block of stone stood only a second before. I don't mean a stone replica such as a sculptor might create, but the living breathing head of Gertrude Stein!

"Okay! Okay! That's enough! Put it back the way it was, I believe you!" I suddenly realize this guy's for real. This Hymenaeus fella is gonna take me with him and there isn't much I can do about it. "What's it like," I ask him .... "I mean what's it going to be like where you want me to go?"

"One helluva damn sight better than what you've got here, Porter; and probably a lot better than you deserve." He stood up and looked at his watch. "We should really be getting along. What time does it get light around here?"

"It'll be a lot like being dead, won't it?"

"It'll be exactly like being dead, Porter. But remember, it won't all be gravy. He looks at my painting of Jasmine on the wall and shivers with revulsion. Are you familiar with the ten commandments, Porter? -- "THOU SHALT NOT MAKE UNTO THEE ANY GRAVEN IMAGE OR ANY LIKENESS OF ANYTHING THAT IS IN HEAVEN ABOVE OR THAT IS ON THE EARTH, OR IN THE WATERS UNDER THE EARTH." "You're going to have a lot of explaining to do, Porter, you're no Monet you know. You won't be sitting at the table with the big boys. Think along the lines of Grandma Moses or Andy Warhol."

"Look Hymen-whatever, I'm a lot better than you think I am. I've changed. Look at that painting on the wall – over there across the room. I've got plenty left in me. I'm having what we call a renaissance. I want to stay here, really I do .... please."

With that he shakes his head at me and stands up. He picks up his hat and and slowly brushes it with his sleeve. He seems to be talking to himself. He looks across the room at the head of Gertrude Stein and, as if by magic, it is suddenly a yellowish block of marble again. He looks at my painting on the wall and shivers slightly as though he had seen something that turned his stomach.

"Well, I tried Porter. It was a great offer. You should have jumped at the chance. Now, you're on your own. When the time comes – it'll be in a year or two, by the way, you'll be standing in the chow line without a mess kit." He paused and looked around him, then he muttered more to himself than me, "I'll never understand you people – living like this. Why is your life so precious to you? Your art! Why does it mean so much to you?" He turned on his heel and walked out. I could hear his footsteps on the stair.

That was last night. For a moment or two after he left, I thought I had won a great victory over the unknown, a chance at a new beginning. But now, here, in the cold light of morning I hear the sound of Kaplan's sewing machines again, starting up for the day. I look at my painting on the wall, and maybe it's not as good as I thought it was after all .... maybe there's nothing left. Maybe I missed my one big chance .... Chipson will soon be here and it will start all over again.

The end