Chapter 50 – Sidecars on the Porch
So like I said, there we were on the porch drinking Sidecars. During the walk around the grounds we’d talked history, or I had, and ethics, he had, and now we were talking art. He said abstract art was great because it was spiritual, and I said abstract art wasn’t great because there’s no such thing as spirits. I said I like some abstract art because looking at it makes me feel good, but that comes from aesthetics, not spirits. I said only representational art is great because only it can carry stories and meaning about real life, which ain’t spiritual, real life is stuff like economics and politics and environmentalism. Those are the things that great art speaks to.
He said, “You telling me Pollock isn’t spiritual?”
“You telling me Pollock tells stories that people can understand rationally? Or do people look at his stuff, get an interesting feeling, and then aggrandize it to make themselves seem special; better than others?”
“I’m saying people say they feel spiritual.”
“That’s like saying you saw an alien spaceship, or a ghost. What’s it do to make the world a better place?”
“Let me ask you this: how many people would believe you if you told them your dog talks to you? Huh? Who’s Smarty now?”
“But you heard him.”
“The point is, maybe you just haven’t been with the right people yet. Maybe some of them have seen an alien spaceship or a ghost.” Such a superior look on his face. "And how about music? What's representational there? You telling me Beethoven isn't great art?"
His face, now so repugnant; he had me there. Plus Gwendy in the painting. Maybe I had better rethink my position on abstract art. To distract him from my philosophical dilemma and to get his face back to its normal libido enhancing handsomeness I said, “How about each drink we switch. This one I drink on the rocks and you drink yours straight up?”
He was such a pushover, acquiescing right away, also happy to get back to less intellectual things, back to his hopes of my Plato taking a dive and him upgrading from the VP suite to the Presidential. The porch faced west and the sun was going down beyond the slowly rolling river. As the top of the solar disk dipped below the horizon, the last of the second Sidecars dipped below our throats. I heard a sound come from him, looked, realized it was him smacking his lips like the dog did when he'd finished the plate of meatloaf. He said, "That was one of the best cocktails I've ever had." I thought, 'That's good reason to smack your lips like a dog?' but I didn't say anything because his face was back to being Steve McQueenish, in spades, and no one's perfect.
He turned to look at me, first one side then the other, I knew he was trying to see if my P was still on duty or if I'd given him the brush off. From my face he knew I hadn't, at least not yet, got up and went inside to the bar, got us two more, me back to straight up and him rocks. He said, "What's this about Robert Redford and this place?"
Legend of Bagger Vance. Good movie about golf, about Bobby Jones and an unknown that challenges him. Redford directed, and did a scene in the dining room here. He didn't like the color of the walls and made the hotel paint them, and then of course they had to re-upholster all the chairs and hang new drapes to go with the new color, cost them a fortune. When you're Robert Redford you get to do that stuff. Some people criticized the movie because Will Smith was a caddie, said it stereotyped him, but I think that's a bunch of shit."
Tommy said, "That's the first time I've heard you swear."
"Coupla stiff drinks, I lose all control."
"That's encouraging."
"The pressure's on you, boy, you and your oath. I've got it relatively easy."
"You still have your gun in your purse?" I nodded. "So the Georgia state police arrive, drive around the parking lot and see the yellow bomb, come up here looking for us, what are you going to do? Hand 'em your purse with the weapon in it?"
I took a long pull of the elixir and said, "Try to sweet talk them."
"You think that'll work?"
"No."
"Well?"
I looked him in the eye and said, "Roger and I have a motto we live by: you wanna play, you gotta pay. You should know that by now."
"You mean you're ready to go to jail?"
Now we were getting down to it. I said, "We're very judicious in our risk-taking, but we know there are no guarantees. So far, so good."
"You think you have this shooting thing figured out?" I nodded, Yes. "That the first person you've shot?" I nodded, No. He paused now, hiding a little in the growing darkness on the porch, the lights of the dining room visible down the long side of the hotel, looking inviting, the dining room with the Robert Redford walls. The details of his face were hidden when he said, "You have the other thing figured out?"
"What other thing, Tommy?"
"Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn Bedgewood. That thing."
"Yes."
"You know what I mean?"
"Yes."
"How're you figuring it?"
"You."
"What about me?"
Now I paused, judging the commitment, exercising the judiciousness I just had mentioned, taking a sip, knowing my intuition about it was right. "You're not going back to New York."
"What?" he said. I didn't say anything. "What do you mean?" I didn't say anything. "I live in New York." I didn't say anything. He sat on the edge of his chair, facing me; I faced straight ahead to the river and the departed sun. "Gwenny, say something."
"I'm hungry. Take me into Robert's room and buy me a steak."