![Who the hell would make a velvet painting of Kenny Rogers?“I might.”I spin around, but the owner of the voice is hidden in the darkness, in a distant corner of the large room. There is no light in the room other than that which illuminates Kenny’s fuzzy likeness.
“Then again, I might not”, he says, stepping out from one shadow and into another. I can hear the familiar scrape of metal against polypropylene.“Are… are you eating pudding?” I ask.The spoon clinks against his teeth as he draws it from his mouth. “No, that was yesterday. I refilled the cup with mayonnaise last night and packed it for lunch.” This time, he scrapes repeatedly, digging every reachable molecule of mayonnaise from the cup. He exhales as the spoon enters his mouth, creating a repulsive acoustic effect. His tongue still wet with mayonnaise, he says, “My mayonnaise isn’t the issue though, is it? [gulp] I believe we were talking about your painting there.”“MY painting?!” I am incredulous, and still a bit put off by the moist smacking of his mayonnaise lubricated words. “I didn’t paint that!”
“No one did,” he explains. My eyes are beginning to adjust and I catch his figure, lit from behind by a faint glow coming through the window. I can tell he has a beard and is wearing an enormous floppy hat and is now licking the spoon.“What?” I ask. I’m becoming hypnotized by the rhythm of his bobbing silhouette, going at the spoon like an old cat bathing itself.“Did you ever stop to think [lick] about where we all came from? [lick] What existed before the big bang? [lick] Was there simply nothing [lick] before there was something? [lick]”
I turn back and look at Kenny. My pupils constrict, shocked by the comparatively bright light. What the hell is this guy talking about? Is he crazy? What does the big bang have to do with a velvet painting of Kenny Rogers? I turn back around and face the darkness.
“That’s right,” he says, now standing only a few feet away from me. My eyes see only black. “Our universe sprang from that painting.”“Get the fu-“, I start, but he interrupts.“FEEL MY BEARD!” he shouts, stepping even closer. My arm rises, responding to him against my will, and my hand grasps his mayonnaise spattered beard. “FEEL ITS POWER!”As though in a dream, I climb into his beard. Like a haunted rainforest on a moonless night, it envelops me and I find myself blindly struggling against its slippery vines. Although I can see nothing, I realize that my flailing arms ARE the vines; that my very being IS the beard; that we are ALL the beard. EVERYTHING is the beard.
My eyes are suddenly flooded with light.“’at’s him, officer! He’s the one’t wahped may-naise all over mah Kinny!”My eyes readjust and at the opposite end of the now brightly lit room I see a morbidly obese woman in the doorway, stooped over a cane. Next to her stands a portly policeman who looks practically svelte by comparison. I turn back to the painting, and see that it is slathered with mayonnaise. My hands and forearms are also entirely covered with a greasy film of egg white and vegetable oil.“C’mon over here, son”, the officer beckons. I scan the room to where I’d first seen the mysterious man in the shadows. The window is wide open, leading to a fire escape. I begin to walk toward it.“Now, son”, the officer starts, but over his words I hear the disembodied voice of the bearded stranger.“Know when to walk away. Know when to run.”](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l14tctWlTa1qbrubho1_500.jpg)
Who the hell would make a velvet painting of Kenny Rogers?
“I might.”
I spin around, but the owner of the voice is hidden in the darkness, in a distant corner of the large room. There is no light in the room other than that which illuminates Kenny’s fuzzy likeness.
“Then again, I might not”, he says, stepping out from one shadow and into another. I can hear the familiar scrape of metal against polypropylene.
“Are… are you eating pudding?” I ask.
The spoon clinks against his teeth as he draws it from his mouth. “No, that was yesterday. I refilled the cup with mayonnaise last night and packed it for lunch.” This time, he scrapes repeatedly, digging every reachable molecule of mayonnaise from the cup. He exhales as the spoon enters his mouth, creating a repulsive acoustic effect. His tongue still wet with mayonnaise, he says, “My mayonnaise isn’t the issue though, is it? [gulp] I believe we were talking about your painting there.”
“MY painting?!” I am incredulous, and still a bit put off by the moist smacking of his mayonnaise lubricated words. “I didn’t paint that!”
“No one did,” he explains. My eyes are beginning to adjust and I catch his figure, lit from behind by a faint glow coming through the window. I can tell he has a beard and is wearing an enormous floppy hat and is now licking the spoon.
“What?” I ask. I’m becoming hypnotized by the rhythm of his bobbing silhouette, going at the spoon like an old cat bathing itself.
“Did you ever stop to think [lick] about where we all came from? [lick] What existed before the big bang? [lick] Was there simply nothing [lick] before there was something? [lick]”
I turn back and look at Kenny. My pupils constrict, shocked by the comparatively bright light. What the hell is this guy talking about? Is he crazy? What does the big bang have to do with a velvet painting of Kenny Rogers? I turn back around and face the darkness.
“That’s right,” he says, now standing only a few feet away from me. My eyes see only black. “Our universe sprang from that painting.”
“Get the fu-“, I start, but he interrupts.
“FEEL MY BEARD!” he shouts, stepping even closer. My arm rises, responding to him against my will, and my hand grasps his mayonnaise spattered beard. “FEEL ITS POWER!”
As though in a dream, I climb into his beard. Like a haunted rainforest on a moonless night, it envelops me and I find myself blindly struggling against its slippery vines. Although I can see nothing, I realize that my flailing arms ARE the vines; that my very being IS the beard; that we are ALL the beard. EVERYTHING is the beard.
My eyes are suddenly flooded with light.
“’at’s him, officer! He’s the one’t wahped may-naise all over mah Kinny!”
My eyes readjust and at the opposite end of the now brightly lit room I see a morbidly obese woman in the doorway, stooped over a cane. Next to her stands a portly policeman who looks practically svelte by comparison. I turn back to the painting, and see that it is slathered with mayonnaise. My hands and forearms are also entirely covered with a greasy film of egg white and vegetable oil.
“C’mon over here, son”, the officer beckons. I scan the room to where I’d first seen the mysterious man in the shadows. The window is wide open, leading to a fire escape. I begin to walk toward it.
“Now, son”, the officer starts, but over his words I hear the disembodied voice of the bearded stranger.
“Know when to walk away. Know when to run.”
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