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The
Life and Daily Death of Sam Mackie
By
Steven Hoadley
Episode
Four - Dave’s Dementia
Dave is a writer. He's also a painter, a homosexual, and a pedophile. That didn't stop me from visiting him. He was insanity and genius and torment all packed into one fat compact body. He rarely showered or brushed his teeth and from the smell of him, neglected his ass as well. It didn't matter to me. I'd hung around much worse for much longer. I could take his odor, his putrid apartment, even the countless stacks of kiddie porn that lay strewn about his place. I could take it all just to watch his madness and hear his mind fire. He was the only man I knew who didn't gut me with his commonness. I liked him.
It was a Wednesday morning and I was supposed to be running errands for Samantha. Tampons, toilet paper, trash bags and beef bullion cubes -- everything that brought Samantha happiness. Dave’s place was out of the way, but I didn't care. His show was worth the price of admission.
"I'm giving up your art, Sam," he declared to me as I walked in. "Paints and pencils and paper and keyboards. Rubbish! Confusion! I threw it all out!"
"Why'd you do that?"
"Come. Let me show you."
I followed him into his back room.
He called it his studio. The stench was overpowering. Paintings, books, magazines and videotapes were stacked high against the walls. As we walked he picked up a small magazine and handed it back to me. I opened it. Inside were grainy black and white photos of children doing things with adults that I had never done with adults. I cringed.
He stopped, turned, and grabbed it from my hand. "Look at this one, Sam."
He leafed to a particularly vicious picture of a very large-cocked man sitting down holding what looked to be a boy no older than five. The man held the child around the torso and was impaling him from underneath. The boy was screaming and obviously in great pain.
"You know, Dave. That really is pretty fucking sick. Christ, what draws you?"
"Sick? Sick? Courage man! That, my friend, takes true mettle. Only the man who knows he's dying can create such an act. People buy insurance and homes and sod and swing sets . . . and why? Ignorance! That's why! Eat, fuck, create and kill -- our true nature. That's what we do, Sam. Think on it. You'll see its truth. Every man is a fag, a cock-lover at heart. Every man wants to suck his own penis. Recycle his own life force. We've all tried it. What society calls pedophilia are just men trying to extend life. Capturing youth through sperm. It's Freudian at its core, but I've thought it through to a far deeper level. I've spent months pouring over my theories and I'm convinced of their validity. I've written volumes on it. Let me show you."
"Not now, okay. Later?"
"Suit yourself. My work will be taught in the world’s greatest institutions of learning long after I'm buried. You'll see."
"But I'll be dead, too."
He ignored me and began again.
"Ever watch yourself jack-off, Sam?"
"Um . . . yes."
"What are you looking at when you're doing it?"
"Uh . . . I don't know. I guess . . . I'm not sure, I. . . ."
"You're looking at your cock and balls, man! You're admiring them. You love them. They are your center, your soul. From where all creativity and creation
stems -- the genitals!"
"What did you want to show me?" I asked. The conversation was disturbing me.
"Let me suck your cock, Sam."
"No thanks. Really. I don't feel like it. I just gave Samantha a good dickin’ before I got here. I'm spent."
"I need to masturbate! I need to do it right now!"
I knew there was no stopping him. I started to leave.
"No!” he yelled. “Stay put! Watch me. Spontaneity. Immediate thought and action. That's where brilliance is born. We smother it when we allow the rational mind to set in. Sit and view!"
I sat on a stool in the corner. Dave stood in front of the mirror, dropped his pants, pulled down his soiled underwear, spit generously on his hand, and began pumping. His dick was tiny, purple, engulfed in fat, and marked with abrasions. I pretended to watch but focused instead on the canvas behind him. He'd painted it about a year previous. It was the stuff most men couldn't create in their dreams. A woman breast-feeding her baby -- simple enough. She was surrounded by violent, slashing images that cried of poverty, hardship, and beatings. Interspersed quietly throughout were impressions of a maternal tenderness. A teapot, mittens and scarves, a blanket. To look at it for long would bring tears. The tragedy of his art, so perfectly illustrated, sat in stark contrast to the short fat human slob jerking off in front of my eyes. My senses were overwhelmed.
Finally, he spasmed and thrust and squirted out little droplets onto the floor. I jerked off a lot, but watching Dave's act would cure me of that, I thought.
He left his pants down, grabbed a towel off the ground, wiped himself off, then motioned me over.
"Look. Tell me what you see," he said.
A large painting leaned against the wall.
"Looks like an abstract type thing."
"But what do you SEE?"
"I see brown paint streaked with water and something else? Can't quite tell what's going on."
"Fecal matter! It's my feces goddamnit!"
"Oh shit," I replied.
"Exactly!"
"Should I ask? What are those streaks in it?"
"Good Lord! You are such a simple beast. Grasp it, Sam!"
"I don’t want to touch it."
"I didn't mean grasp as in feel. My God, man! You're as slow as a bovine! Tell me what it means to you. Understand it!"
The thought of Dave's foulness smeared on canvas distracted me. I thought of its application. I couldn't concentrate.
"Look, Dave. I'm sorry. Nothing's coming. I don't get it."
"You're as blind as a boar! Good Lord God, you cretin! You’re denseness numbs me! It's my urine and my sperm!”
"I'm sorry, I don't. . . ."
"It's absolute purity. Virgin expression. My art comes from me, by me. Never again will I use the limited tools expected of an artist. I was born of dirt, sweat, and semen and I’m filled with urine, feces, and blood. All my art henceforth will come from my body."
Dave was proof that too much time spent alone could be harmful. If the line between genius and madness is a thin one, Dave had it completely erased.
“Pretty interesting shit, Dave . . . I mean, it’s uh, it’s different.”
“Different? Different? Why do I waste my time with such a buffoon! GET OUT! Be on your way before I take a board to you. You’re stupidity defined! I can’t compete with your triteness! OUT!”
He started picking up books and throwing them at me. I made a break for it. Books bounced off my back and whirled past me. I tripped over a stack of filth in the hall, jumped up, made it out the door and onto the lawn. Dave’s screaming could still be heard from the back of the house.
The risk of visiting Dave -- I never knew what level of dementia would greet me when I arrived. It‘s what drew me to him and drove me from him. I loved the eccentrics and the non-conformists of the world, but spending time with them was much like being employed. It took effort and plenty of time off was needed.
I jumped in my Maverick, stuck the column shift into first, and pulled away. Next stop, Henry’s groceries. I had ten bucks on me. With any luck, I’d be able to get everything on Samantha’s grocery list plus a half-pint of bourbon. Henry would have to front me a bit, but I was current with him, so I knew it wouldn’t be a hassle.
I made it to Henry’s without incident. The Maverick was a miracle. It never died.
Henry was behind the counter. “Hey, Henry. How ya doin’?”
“I could complain, but I won’t. How‘s it goin‘ with you, Sam?”
“I just saw the future today.”
“Really. What was it?”
“Shitty, Henry. Pretty fucking shitty.”
Next Month! A New Episode!
The Life and Daily Death of Sam Mackie
And you thought this month was sick and twisted?
Copyright © 2005 Steven Hoadley
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