Pride

-1-

"And what of us curmudgeons?" Asked the older of the two artists. They had been sitting two booths away from where I had been sitting with a colleague. We had been discussing the upcoming exhibition when we overheard the angry remark.

The boisterous of the two wore all black; a turtleneck sweater, slacks, shinny shoes and a beret that was tilted to the side. His all white beard stood out though his face was red with anger. He had slammed his fish on the table which made all others around him stop their conversations to notice him. This brought over a server that had been chased away with a thunderous look. His companion had looked down and straightened his napkin.

I looked at my colleague and smiled. "What are you getting ready to do?. You have a mischievous look on your face. Where are you going?"

At this last question, I rose from the booth and walked over to the elderly gentlemen. "Forgive me for interrupting, gentlemen."

I gave all of my strength not to sound sarcastic. "My name is Lou. I am a recent transplant from New York. I don't know if you are aware, but I will be hosting an exhibition that will take place at The Art Factory. I'm sure you are aware of the organization being homegrown yourselves. I wanted to extend my personal invitation for either or both of you to participate. Your reputations precede you. I was looking for an opportunity to approach and I thought, 'no time like the present.' The exhibition will encompass sketching, painting, sculpture and photography. The theme-Pride."

"Pride!" The curmudgeon looked alarmed. As I handed both the flyer and one of my business cards to each of them, I tried to read their faces. The companion expressed surprise and delight. While the one in black pointed his nose to the air and made a face akin to disgust at being interrupted.

"Thank you. You are so kind," said the companion.

"I'll expect your decisions for participation by Friday. Hope to hear from you soon. I've invited some of my friends from New York to participate as well as to view the works. Oh, and there may be a critic or two as well. Well, my friend and I have to go. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen."

As I walked back to the booth, I indicated that it was time to go. My friend lead the way out of the restaurant, the bill having already been paid. "What did you do?"

I smiled.

-2-

"Pride! Just what am I supposed to do with that?"

"He left it open to interpretation. Pretty much anything you want, I suppose. Will you be calling to enter?"

"Who is he that he can come to our town and take over the way he did?"

"Clearly he's an artist. Look." The mobile phone is slid over. A web page displays a menu:

- sketches

- acrylics

- ceramics

- metalworks

- jewelry

"Your phone won't allow for viewing."

"To view, you have to pay a small fee. Shall we use your credit card?" The companion knew better not to ask, but he wants to annoy his friend."

"No. His business card suggests that he is stationed downtown. Let's visit the gallery, instead. Did you see the address? Right in the heart of town. He must be paying a pretty penny."

"He may have had success in the world of art."

"I've never heard of him."

"It's a great big beautiful world. Room for everyone."

The photographer gets up in a huff. His companion hurries along after him while stifling a laugh. The gallery is only a few blocks south of where they were dinning. Once there, all that can be seen is the white paper that covered the display windows. The lights are on. Shadows movie about, but when they approach as if to knock at the door, an overwhelming feeling of nausea overtakes the two. They rush to the curb and regurgitate their dinner. Flagging down separate taxis, they hurry home for more vomiting.

-3-

"Pride. What does pride look like. The best, but I'm no Ansel Adams. Take pride, no, I don't want to do anything LGBTQ plus related. Proud papa, nope. Don't have any children. That's all I need is to be accused of pedophilia. Proud Mary, prostitutes? Hmm!"

The photographer spends the better part of the morning trying to figure out how to depict pride in photography. As frustration sets in, the church chimes announce the afternoon. His face is buried in his hands as he leand on his desk in the firehouse that he reconverted into both his home and his studio. He kept the red theme outside. Everyone remembered the firehouse as it was, but few actually ever entered.

Inside bright white walls have dimmed, dust covers everything everywhere except in the small section of the kitchen where he eats and reads. It has been years since he has been involved in the art world. He sits on his laurels.

Two decades ago, he had won an honorable mention in a local magazine. A thirteen year old had beaten him out of a five thousand dollar prize for local artists. He had told himself that he was happy for the boy. Funding for scheduling and such, but it had stung.

"I am better than that," he often tells himself each time that the memory rises to the surface. It doesn't ever help him to feel any better. If anything, it makes him bitter, not that he will ever admit it.

The afternoon comes and goes without any answer.

Had the doorbell rung?

He was revived him from his reverie. The town knew that anymore visiting would be by invitation only. It's been years since he felt the need to invite anyone to his home. Initially, he would with the expectation of impressing all with his artwork. Soon, however, he realized that no one invited was interested in buying his work. Their interest lied in gossip and hearsay.

"Lou!"

-4-

"Please pardon the intrusion. May I come in? I'll only be a moment."

The foyer is immaculate. He keeps it that way for the arrival of packages and so that when passersby look in there would be nothing to reproach. He takes two steps backwards. Lou's smile always looks like there is always something else going on other than the moment at hand. He sighs as he steps into the firehouse.

"I absolutely had to come in person and extend again my invitation for you to participate in the exhibit. Especially when I saw this-" In Lou's left hand is a yellowed newspaper. It had been turned to the arts section. The photographer is looking at his own face. Below was the article written about him twenty years ago. The Local Celebrity and His promising Career, reads the headline. Nothing else had been written about him since.

Seeing this brings to the surface embarrassment and rage. He wonders if Lou is humiliating him. "Where did you find that?"

The question sounds more brusque than intended. He hates that Lou has the upper hand. Control is a must for the old one in any situation. He feels off-balanced.

"I love antiquing." The comment feels like a slap in the face.

"While looking for furniture with which to fill my apartment, I came across old photographs and newspapers. I was looking for something to hang on my walls and saw you! Would you do me the honor of joining the exhibition? It would add the credibility that I need for a successful event. Please say that you'll join. At the very least, may I have your autograph?" A smile spreads across Lou's face against his better judgement.

Lou pushes the paper and a pen into the photographer's hand. Through compulsion, without barely a thought of resistance, the newspaper is signed. "Of course. Of course, I will lend a hand towards the success of your project. It would be a great pleasure."

With the most authentic sincerity Lou responds with, "I can assure you, the pleasure is all mine."

Lou's smile and his stare hold the photographer in place. The old man could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. His breath catches.

"I'll leave you to your creativity. Thank you so much for your kindness. See you soon."

Brown-hazel eyes hold the curmudgeon in place. His heartbeat speeds, slamming into his chest. His breath bursts out of him. This is when he realizes that he is standing alone in his foyer.

When had Lou left? The door had been closed. Through the window he could see that the sun is setting. He wonders how long he has been standing there. A sense of foreboding clings to him from head to toe. He berates himself. "Oh, what in hell is wrong with me?"

-5-

"What am I going to do? I've committed myself to join as an artist. I cannot back down now. I've been all over town trying to capture just the right imagine, but nothing seems right. Not even the work that I have in my collection fits the brief. What am I going to do?"

He is speaking to his friend, back at the restaurant where all of this began. His friend leans forward and with a low voice says, "You're drawing attention to yourself. Lower your voice. Unless you want to give the gossips and the busy-bodies fodder for their stories."

"Calm down. Look, for the weekend, I'm going to my country home. Join me. It may help to clear your mind, give you perspective. At the very least, you will be rested when you return. Besides, who knows if the image that you're looking for is out there, instead of here in town. What do you say? Will you join me this weekend?"

It did not take much convincing for the old man to agree. He had been highly stressed trying to save face. Not only his peers would be at the event, but it had been open to the entire town. That first night would be free admission for all. Later during the week would be interviews of the artists and smaller private affairs for those interested in conversations and auctions. These smaller get togethers would be the paid events for art afficionados and the like.

The old man thought about the interview and other conversations that he would have. A perfect time to talk about the firehouse and perhaps future events of his own. Before he had time to notice, they had arrived at the country home. It was midnight. He went directly to bed.

The very next morning he is excited to begin his day. He loves the fact that the rooster outside the window woke him. He dresses and goes for a walk with his camera before even checking to see if his friend was up.

The rooster prances about like the king of his realm. How nonchalantly he parades without a single care of who or what is near. The photographer follows him around, amazed at the audacity being displayed. He takes photo after photo of this prideful creature. Neither the rooster, nor the old man takes the time to notice the black New Foundland with her puppies. The rooster walks too closely to one of the pups and begins to peck at it. The photographer is in his element documenting this fowl's effrontery. In a blink of an eye, the rooster is decapitated by the mother protecting her young. The cadaver walks for a few more steps before falling to the side. The photographer never misses a moment.

Fortunately for him, he had used a zoom lens. He was safe from becoming a victim himself. He walks back to the house like a man walking in his sleep.

"You're up early! Did you enjoy your walk?"

"I made a mistake. I can't do the exhibit."

"What? What's happened? What's wrong."

"If I get involved, I will die!"

"What are you saying? Get a hold of yourself. Where is this all coming from?"

The old man relates everything that he had witnessed while on his walk. He is so agitated that the trip is cut short. Before the evening fell, they were back in town.

At the firehouse, the old man sits in the dark living room. He had walked away from the car without looking back. His luggage lay in the foyer, forgotten. He still wears his coat, beret and gloves. His thoughts are preoccupied with how to back out of the exhibit. The doorbell rings.

-6-

Who is that? I didn't make any plans with anyone. There should be no one there. Probably someone needing directions. I'm ignoring you. Find someone else to bother.

He gets up, determined to go upstairs to bed. The doorbell rings again. His heart begins to pound against chest.

What is this? Can't the cretin take a hint? I will not open.

Through the door, the old man yells, "Find someone else to bother!"

He begins to climb the stairs that lead to the next level. He is determined to get to bed. At the top of the stairs, just before putting his foot on the runner in the hallway, a rooster calls out. The shock of the noise hits him as if he has been struck by lightning. Loosing his balance, he falls backwards. There is no pain. Only the sound of his body as it tumbles down the stairs, then, simultaneously, the sound of the loud thud and the crack of bone as it break.

After orienting himself, he stands up. The bell rings. His anger gets the better of him and he stomps to the door. He is so infuriated that he doesn't notice that his stomping was only in his mind. After a couple of tries at the doorknob, he realizes that his hand goes through it. Stepping back, he stares incredulously at the door.

Lou steps through.

"You! You have not my permission to come into my house. Get out!"

"You gave me permission when you gave me your autograph."

"What? What are you saying? I'm not in the mood for your jokes."

"None was intended. I've been waiting for you these past six decades. It's time. Come."

"I'm going nowhere with you!"

"Ah, I see. You have yet to assess your reality. Your pride has been the cause of your fall from grace. Each time that you belittled someone to make yourself look better, it has been counted against you. Now, look over your shoulder to the base of the staircase. Go on."

The old man half turns. He notices his body crumpled on the floor. His blank face looking at the ceiling while his body is turned to the floor. He had snapped his neck.

"Come with me..."