Free The Zoo by Jamie Mollart Page B

whistles?’
    He walks over to one of the paintings behind us and examines the painting closely.
    â€˜Yes, look, a dog whistle.’
    I join him. He’s right. In the bottom of the painting, scratched into the thick oil painting is a tiny dog whistle. We return to the original painting.
    â€˜And this, I think, is supposed to suggest that we, the viewers, are responsible for the consequences shown in the painting. This here is a nod to the fourth wall.’
    I think he’s right again.
    â€˜You really get these?’
    â€˜Yeah, I guess so. Seems fairly obvious. You not?’
    â€˜No. And I know the artist.’
    I go back to the bar. They’re out of red so I grab a glass of white. This time it’s too warm and cheap. Work my way around the paintings. The Aussie could be right. They appear to be about noise. There is lots of reference to white noise. Some satellites. One looks like the inside of an ear. One has a childlike drawing of someone holding their hands over their ear to block out sound. A loudhailer. Two paintings are connected by a telephone cord. They are created using lots of media, some virtually collages. I find one with a picture of us all at university. ‘Bitch,’ I say under my breath. I look young and happy with my arm around Sally. I move closer and see that she has drawn little stitch marks across all of our mouths. I’m wearing a Levellers t-shirt.
    Another glass of wine and I meet up with Sally at the dog whistle picture.
    â€˜What do you think?’ she asks. I steal a Twiglet off her paper plate.
    â€˜Don’t tell Lou this, but they’re actually pretty good.’
    â€˜Fucking hell. Are you going all soft in your old age?’
    â€˜I think I’m a bit drunk.’
    â€˜They’ve invited us back to their house for a party. That okay?’
    â€˜Is there going to be more drink there?’
    â€˜I would expect so.’
    â€˜Drugs?’
    â€˜Fair possibility.’
    â€˜Can we make out in the kitchen?’
    â€˜Depends how drunk I get.’
    I hand her my glass of wine.
    Â 
    The party turns out to be about 20 or so people that I don’t know. We are in the lounge, the lights are low, the room is full of the sweet smell of incense. I keep looking at the bongos in the corner and wondering whether I should hide them. A group of people are talking about how the government is cutting funding and how artists are having to pay the price for capitalist greed and I know they’re right, I know it’s true, but I’m still having to bite my tongue.
    My glass is empty. I push myself up from the floor, slightly light-headed, and stroll into the kitchen. Pour myself a generous measure of vodka. Add some lemonade. And then some more vodka. I’m scrabbling in my pocket for cigarettes when Lou and Sally join me. Sally is drunk, her cheeks flushed. When I pull the crushed pack of fags out I feel a lump in my lighter pocket.
    â€˜No way,’ I wave the bag of coke in front of Sally’s face, ‘I forgot about this. Shall we?’
    â€˜Don’t mind if I do.’
    â€˜Still on the yuppie drug of choice then, James?’ says Lou.
    â€˜You won’t be wanting any then?’
    â€˜Ah, I didn’t say that.’
    â€˜Didn’t think so.’
    I curve three big lines on the work surface.
    â€˜Where’s Dan?’
    â€˜He’s about somewhere. He won’t want any.’
    â€˜Anyway, Lou. I’m doing this to help the poor Colombian farmers. Think of it as an act of benevolence.’
    â€˜Helping the people who make baby laxative more like.’
    I hand a rolled up twenty to Sally. It takes her two snorts to get the whole line up her nose. She grimaces and rubs at her nostril.
    â€˜Speaking of poor farmers, Sally tells me you’ve got a new client.’
    â€˜Yep.’
    â€˜You do know what they’re doing in Nghosa, don’t you?’ says Lou, taking the note from