Free There Must Be Some Mistake by Frederick Barthelme Page A

interaction through a shopwindow on Madison Avenue with a very attractive actress whose black push-up brassiere was very much in evidence as she shopped for blouses. This involved pointing and other gestures.”
    â€œWell done!” Chantal said. “You were scoring at every turn.”
    â€œAnd then there was the thing with Paul McCartney,” I said.
    â€œOh, ick,” she said. “Don’t tell me.”
    I explained that I felt odd about adopting this conflicted mode of interaction on the street but concluded it was better than slinking along in silent admiration of the celebrities that forever patrolled the town. This approach/avoidance, always making jest of the celebrities, fit exactly my view of myself as a coward, fleeing genuine expression of feeling, contact, intimacy, even friendship. Why must I jeer at them? Why must I make them the butt of my private jokes, jokes I was sure no one else would find humorous in the slightest?
    â€œI wondered,” I said to Chantal, “how I could become a famous artist in New York if I was always making embarrassing public jokes about the kinds of people New York was so proud of.”
    â€œAnd you determined then and there to stop such displays as unbecoming a young man with goals,” she said. “Yes?”
    â€œExactly,” I said. “I lived for several years with a young woman named Candy Roberts, a manager from another gallery, and continued showing in various exhibitions such that my name was always linked in articles about indie art with the other unheard-of people. What was clear was that New York was, for practical purposes, a small town, and the art world was tiny, powerful, and well financed. The world that I had imagined from reading art magazines was real, but more maquette than full-size sculpture.”
    At this point the fruit arrived at the table. It looked like Del Monte Mixed Fruit. We stared at it for a few moments. “It’s, uh, fruit,” Chantal said.
    â€œYes. I think so,” I said.
    There were two bowls of the fruit, one for each of us.
    â€œIf we only had some Oreos,” she said.
    â€œExactly.”
    She fetched up her spoon and moved on the fruit. “Continue,” she said, munching delicately.
    â€œI got tired. Eventually I was asked to write a piece about the new art for a magazine, and at about fifteen thousand words I ran out of steam.”
    â€œThank heavens,” she said.
    â€œThat was the beginning of the end. Within weeks I discovered that Candy Roberts was sleeping with my old friend Zin Wang, and within days of that Candy and I agreed to terminate our arrangement. In short order I quit my job, packed my belongings, and left. One was surprised at the relief one felt looking from the bridge en route to La Guardia back at the city skyline in the lowering evening light. Knowing one would not return.”
    â€œThe end of an era,” Chantal said.
    â€œI talked my way into a job at a junior college in Houston. Later I met my first wife, Lucy, at a store where I’d taken my boots to be repaired. She was a folksinger with a lovely voice. We went to clubs; she sang. We entered that world, by good fortune produced Morgan, enjoyed life. I changed schools a few times, swapping up to universities, and I began showing work at Houston galleries, again. Notoriety, again, but no sales. The locals were still walking with knuckles firmly in the dirt. I talked the dean into letting me take a graduate degree with a minimum of hassle, giving me credit for time served, as it were, and made a side deal working with Point Blank. So things were going well, and I figured we were set.”
    â€œNot to be, I guess,” she said.
    â€œLucy got sick and died. Bang. Six months door to door. I’d heard of it happening, but it was something to watch up close. We’d been married seven years when she died. Six and a half were splendid.”
    Chantal gave up on the fruit.