SELF-PORTRAIT WITH WINE 
I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t.
The name’s Ray Parisi. You may have heard of me, probably not. I’m an artist. I do mostly portraits, with crayons and a pencil eraser. The effect is quite unique. Sometimes I think I might be another Francisco Goya. Other times I think I’m a loser who thinks he’s another Francisco Goya.
Last night I was up until two in the morning doing a self-portrait in front of the dresser mirror, with some wine. Which is another thing about me, I drink too much. But so did a lot of great painters. But so do a lot of winos. Anyway, I went to bed thinking I had something pretty good this time, something pretty damn excellent in fact.
This morning? Not so sure.
It seems like every portrait I do, whether it’s of myself or somebody from a magazine, it ends up looking like some kind of a monster. I never mean it, that’s just the way they always seem to come out. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, you know? I can imagine somebody, some art critic for a major magazine for example, writing something like Parisi has the rare ability to capture the dark essence of his subject, what might be called the Monster Within.
Anyway, I couldn’t decide whether to feel good or bad about last night’s work, and the more I studied it the more hungover I felt, so I finally gave up and got dressed and went out. It was a beautiful morning, the first really nice day of spring, with that smell in the air, that hopeful smell. I started feeling better. I started thinking about doing a monster series. I wouldn’t use the word “monster” though, I’d be very dry about it, just call it Portraits. Let the critics come up with the idea of monsters, you see. Like I said, the air had that hopeful smell.
Then along comes this guy.
If you saw him, you would think okay, great big blustery guy in a blue business suit talking loud on one of those little bitty phones, so what? But the closer he got, the more I felt like I was being canceled out, know what I mean? Like I wasn’t just a nobody but a nothing, like I didn’t even fucking exist. And so, just as he was about to march on by without any sign whatsoever that I was here too—on this sidewalk, on this sunny morning, on this planet, this journey—in order to keep myself from being utterly rubbed out I reached over, grabbed the phone from his hand, and went tearing down the sidewalk.
Sometimes you do things and you can hardly believe you’re doing them.
I told whoever was on the other end what was going on, shouting into the bottom part, saying I had just liberated the phone—that’s the word I used, “liberated”—and was heading down Columbus Avenue, approaching High Street. “Over,” I said, and put it to my ear, then realized that was probably dumb, saying “Over,” but believe it or not I never talked on one of those things before. When you had it up to your ear the bottom part didn’t even reach your mouth, not even close.
“Who is this?” a young-sounding woman said in my ear. “What’s going on?”
“I’m about to cross High Street now!” I shouted, and ran across without even looking, a car braking and honking at me. “That was close,” I told her.
“Would you please identify yourself please?”
“Hang on a second,” I said, Fatfuck still in hot pursuit, calling me names, things I won’t repeat, everyone looking, so I put my head down and ran even harder, and when I looked back again he was all the way at the other end of the block, standing there bent over with his hands on his knees, out of breath, out of shape. Me, I’m in good shape. I stay up practically every night drinking and smoking and I can still outrun anyone out here, especially some lard-ass in a suit and tie. I slowed down to a trot and put the phone to my mouth again. “Hello? Still there?” I said, and put it to my ear.
“Will you kindly tell me who this is please?”
Walking now, I told her my name and a little bit about myself: between jobs at the moment, living in a room on Stevens Avenue—a “garret” I called it—and about my work, about this series I was planning to do, exploring the Monster Within. But that’s not the title, I explained to her. “I’ll leave that to the critics,” I said. “They like titles. They need them. Helps them understand,” and gave a little laugh. I can be charming as hell when I want.
“Where is Mr. Soderstrom?”
“Who?”
“David. The owner of the phone you’re using.”
I told her David was out of the picture. And he was, he was gone. “Probably to his office,” I told her. “Mister Bigshot, right?” She still didn’t seem to fully comprehend what was going on here, so I explained it all over again.
“You stole David’s phone?”
“Mistakes were made on both sides,” I said.
“Right out of his hand?”
“Hey, I’m an artist. I’m pretty deft.”
“I said, you stole David’s phone right out of—”
“I said I’m deft, not deaf.”
We were both quiet then for a moment.
“I don’t believe this,” she said.
“Believe it, honey.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry. What should I call you? I gave you my name. ‘Ray,’ in case you forgot.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Hello?” I said.
“It’s Alice.”
I nodded. “That’s a good name. I like that. ‘Alice.’ Do you feel like you’re in Wonderland, Alice? Talking to the Mad Hatter? I’m kidding. I’m not mad—in the sense of crazy, I mean. Or in the sense of angry, although I do sometimes get angry, especially when I witness man’s inhumanity to man. That always pisses me off. Anyway, listen, might as well go for broke here, I was wondering if you’d be interested in a cup of coffee, Alice.”
“Jesus.”
“On me.”
“You don’t get it, do you.”
“Is this about the phone? Are we back to that?”
“We never left it.”
“Listen, he’s probably got about three or four of them. He strikes me as the type.”
“Type, what type? You don’t even know him.”
“I know he’s a big fat arrogant blowhard, I know that. I don’t like him, Alice. I’m sorry. I don’t know what your connection is, if he’s your boyfriend or what, but I don’t care for the man, in fact I think he’s the worst thing to come along. In fact? I might include him in my monster series. Call it simply Man with Phone. What do you think?”
“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my boss.”
“Ah. Interesting. So. Is he back yet?”
“No.”
“So you must be, what, at your desk?”
“Amazing.”
“You’re prob’ly like a, what, a secretary or something?”
“Administrative assistant.”
“So, what were you talking about, the two of you, before I so rudely interrupted. Anything interesting?”
“God,” she said.
“You mean like does He exist or is this all just a cosmic accident—that what you mean?”
“I mean God as in ‘God, get a life, will you?’”
That hurt. That really did. I stopped walking. I let my hand drop. I stood there looking around. As usual, everyone was on their way somewhere, except for me. Sometimes that makes me feel superior, like they’re all just a bunch of robots and I’m the only one with an actual human soul. Other times it makes me feel adrift, you know? Like I got no direction, no purpose. That’s how I felt right now. And panicky. I’ll be thirty-five years old next month and look at me.
I started walking fast, towards this bar on State Street, called The Wit’s End, good name for it. I had enough on me for three beers and I could probably talk my way to a fourth. I almost forgot about Alice, then I heard her voice in my hand going, “Hello? Hello?”
I put it up to my mouth again. “Listen,” I told her, “I have to go. I have to be somewhere, okay? I’m sorry. It was nice talking to you, Alice.”
I was trying to figure out which button to press to hang up but I could hear Alice yelling, “Wait! Don’t get off! Hello? Hello?”
“Right here,” I told her. “What’s the matter?”
“Um, look,” she said, “I’m going to put you on hold for a second, okay? Just for a second.”
“I’m kind of in a hurry here, Alice.”
“You can keep walking. I’ll just be a second, okay? Roy?”
“The name’s Ray. Ray Parisi.”
“I’ll be right back, Ray. So don’t hang up.”
“Why not?”
“Well . . . because. I want to talk to you some more.”
“Get to know you better. I thought we were hitting it off, didn’t you?”
“You told me to get a life, Alice.”
“I was joking. That’s what I do when I like someone, I kid around like that.”
“It hurt my feelings.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Made me feel like a . . . you know . . .”
“A loser, right.”
“I’m not a loser, Alice.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“I told you about that series I was planning, right? About the Monster Within?”
“Sounds like a plan to me, Roy.”
“Ray.”
“Listen, hang on, okay? I’ll be right back. Okay?”
I told her I’d wait.
Music came on, violins playing “Somewhere My Love.” As I walked along I sang quietly, “Somewhere, my love, there will be birds to sing. Somewhere, my love, there will be birds to sing. Somewhere, my love—”
“Hi. Still there?”
“That was quick.”
“I told you.”
“What did you have, another call?”
“That’s it.”
“Hey, I know how it is. Used to work in an office myself, wore a tie, the whole bit. Couldn’t take it, Alice. Couldn’t play the game. Know what I mean, the game?”
“Right. Hey, listen—”
“In fact? I might as well tell you right now before we go any further: as I mentioned, I’m an artist. And you know what that means? I’m out there. On the edge, Alice. Know what I’m saying?”
“The edge, right.”
“So if that’s a little too scary, if somebody in a suit and tie, somebody safe—somebody like David, for example—is more your type, well, we should probably forget about it right now before somebody gets hurt. Understand what I’m trying to say?”
“You mentioned a cup of coffee?”
I looked straight up at the blue, blue sky. “I believe I did. As a matter of fact I believe I did.”
We decided on the Starbucks a couple blocks from where I was, along High Street. She told me she’d be there in fifteen minutes. I told her I’d be outside by the door, in a dark blue beret.
“All right,” she said, “about fifteen—”
“Hey, Alice?”
“What.”
“This is pretty great, huh?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Y’know?” I said.
“Okay, bye,” she said, and hung up.
I found the off button.
I’ll tell you something: you never know. When you get up in the morning, you just never know.
I stood outside the Starbucks entrance, enjoying the fact that I wasn’t just standing there watching the people go by but was actually waiting for one of them, a young lady named Alice, possibly approaching right here in a yellow dress, merrily swinging her bare brown arms.
She swung on by.
Or hey, what about this one? Long and lanky. Oh, snake woman . . .
She slithered on by.
Or this one here. Oh, that would be nice, to rest my head on those. Rest my weary head . . .
She bounced on by.
The phone rang.
I looked at it in my hand. It rang again. I pressed a button. It rang again. I pressed another one. I heard a man’s voice saying, “Hello? Hello?”
I spoke into it. “Yeah. Ray Parisi here.”
“Who?”
“Ray Parisi. What do you need?”
“I . . . think I may have dialed the wrong—”
“Who you looking for?”
“Dave. Dave Soderstrom?”
“He’s not here right now.”
“Oh. I thought this was his cell number.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
“This is his cell phone, right?”
“Like I said.”
“Well, can I leave a message for him?”
“Uhhh, negative.”
“Who is this?”
“Already told you. Now, look. I don’t want to be rude but I’m meeting someone here, a young lady, okay? And she’s, well, she’s pretty special, put it that way, all right? Enough said?”
“I still don’t quite understand . . .”
“Hey,” I told him, “don’t even try. It’s all a mystery, the whole journey, the whole—wait a second, hold on.”
Dave was marching up.
I stepped backwards, holding out the phone: “It’s for you.”
He snatched it out of my hand and spoke into it: “Hang on.” Then he told me, “C’mere, you. C’mere.”
But I was in a hurry and ran off. I wanted to get back to my garret. I had a fresh idea for my monster series. I would call it, simply, Alice.