ARTISTE

Usually by 8 a.m. I have started to sharpen my mind, think, try to conjure up a daily new story. Today, however, I was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable desire for a Dunkin’ Donuts chocolate covered do-nut. Prepared to write while I nibbled my treat, I had my writing book and several pens ready to think, to get started. My fingers didn’t want to turn a page. My mind stood still. Not a trace of a story was on ‘hold.’ I ordered a coffee re-fill and a glazed donut, ate at a snail’s pace. Nada.

My fake Rolex watch told me not to dicker around, go to the park, sit a while, watch the squirrels, and something will come to me. What the hell, I told myself, go for the short ride to Westmore. With the lot almost empty and my choice of benches, I chose the closest green, worn wooden one, bedecked with carved initials on every slat, even on the back rest. My ass sat down on LS, GD and a swastika. Empty pages of my book opened in the breeze as I stared blankly at the trees.

Come on, Man, think, think! Empty holes bored into my skull. Ah, hope was on the way. A tall, gray haired man pushing a wheel barrow walked slowly towards me. As he drew closer I realized his load was wet cement. Around his waist was a rope that held a trowel. He passed me and stopped near a pile of bricks and a hand written notice, ‘Public facility under construction. No trespassing.’ A tiny spark twinged my mind but not enough to start words flowing.

As if the bricks were feathers I felt them encircling my legs, my brain, sealing away forever unwritten words. My body was working. I could walk a little, talk a little but still not think. ‘Hey, Old Man, what are you doing? Are you a Gestapo agent? Are you going to put me in an oven?’ He only grunted. I watched him build a square block, motion to me to come close. This might turn into a story yet so I closed the empty space between us. His bony hand, long fingers with broken, dirty nails, patted the brick block. With his eyes he told me to sit on it. Without trying to think, I sat down. The old man showed me what to do, bend my right arm slightly, put my hand on the edge of my seat. Using motions, I was to lean forward, put my left hand on my forehead as if I were deep in thought. The wheel barrow moved closer to me. Oddly the cement was still wet. He ploughed up a trowel full and quickly, deftly, while I sat as still as if I were already in rigor mortis, covered me to my brow. The problem intensified. I could not think my way out of my position and now I couldn’t move or see. A blank blackness descended. Near my right bent knee I felt a scratching in the cement. Backwards he had etched his name, ‘Rodin.’ Loud enough for me to still hear, I picked out a few words. ‘Now you have time. Think, think, forever,’ followed by the clattering of the wheelbarrow moving away.

A squirrel ran across my foot, startled me awake. I jumped up from the initialed bench, particularly noticed the swastika, sat down again, opened my book and started to write this bizarre story.