"The Gorge Road" Chapter 5

 

5. The Maze & the Mural

 

I took a stack M.C. Escher prints to Daniel’s first official session. One of my goals was to gauge how Daniel might react to more trippy stuff (like Dali, on whom I was planning another lesson). But mostly, I was hoping to jump right into the deep end and steer the discussion toward perspective, absurdism and perception of reality. 

“Is art supposed to make your brain hurt?” Daniel quipped good-naturedly, looking at the prints. We had once again settled into the library by a small crackling fire.

“In this case, I think so,” I replied. “A lot of contemporary artists try to invoke a strong emotional response. What’s your reaction? Other than your brain hurts.”

He started to reply, then stopped himself.

“I think maybe it’s a critique of the upper class,” he sniffed, scanning back over Relativity and House of Stairs.  “Or, at least, he seems to be making fun of people who live in large houses.”

“Okay. Good observation,” I said, though I could tell he had another opinion that he was hiding. 

He shrugged. “The designs are kind of cool to look at, but there’s nobody interesting in here.” He gestured toward the faceless humanoids in Relativity, and the parade of identical gnomes dancing down the stairs in Cycle. “I think it’s more compelling when there’s a character in the picture you can actually empathize with.”

“I see what you mean,” I said. “A lot of absurdist work involves depicting human bodies in strange and abnormal ways. Sometimes, this makes them more empathetic. But, in this case, it’s making them into caricatures, and de-humanizing them. That’s why I think your observation is really interesting.”

“Living isolated in big mansions makes people into inhuman fools, without a care for the rest of the world?” Daniel gave a half-smile and gazed at his surroundings.

“Maybe Escher thought that. Who really knows? I certainly don’t think that way.” I glanced from him to the monstrous, Geiger-esque worms in House of Stairs, and decided to change the subject. “But I want to know: What was the first thing you were going to say? I could tell you were holding back something.”

 “Oh… no, it’s stupid.”

“Try me. These sessions are as much about you, as they are about the art.”

“Okay, but don’t laugh. I was thinking about the end of that old movie ‘Labyrinth,’ where Bowie is kind of passively chasing what’s-her-face through his castle, and it’s just this maze of stairs. You can’t tell which way is up, and she never gets anywhere until it all just dissolves.”

“Yes! Jennifer Connelly,” I said, rattling off the name of the actress. “I know exactly what you mean. The set design was directly inspired by Escher -- good catch!” 

I hadn’t necessarily expected the discussion to go in this direction, but luckily I was familiar with the borderline-cult kids’ movie, and could improvise. “What would you say was her character’s primary emotion, in that moment?”

Daniel looked at me carefully before responding. 

“I think she was disoriented but determined at the same time. I mean, that was kind of what she was feeling throughout the whole story. But then, on top of everything else, she’s stuck in this castle with this evil goblin prince. One minute she’s creeped out by him; the next she’s kind of turned on, but she refuses to let it distract her.”

“Do you think Escher was trying to stir up any of those emotions in his works?” I asked.

“I definitely think he was trying to disorient people. But I don’t think he was trying to comment on, like… burgeoning adolescent sexuality, or something.”

“No, we’ll leave that to David Bowie, may he rest,” I chuckled sadly. “But yes: Disorientation and discomfort are strong emotions to feel when looking at art. They kind of drown out anything else you might feel. But, that happens in life. And art is a reflection of life.”

“Yeah, definitely.” Daniel looked over the prints one more time. “These two are probably my favorites. If that matters to you.”

He held up Drowned Cathedral and Encounter.

I gave him an encouraging look, before turning to reach into my satchel. I put the prints away, and pulled out a drawing pad and some pencils.

“I think it’s possible to create an appealing narrative within a perspective piece,” I said. “But, given the dramatic way that Escher chooses to bend perspective, he loses a lot of ability to evoke more nuanced feelings. We’re gonna see if we can do better. Or, at least, do it slightly differently.”

I guided Daniel through the beginnings of a basic perspective sketch (a fairly emotionless, geometric exercise) but had then encouraged him to fill the plane with images that invoked an emotion for him; preferably, a different emotion for each object.

An interesting piece of abstract art started to take shape: A trio of goblins appeared, huddled in one corner of the landscape; my Honda drove down a highway in the center.

At one point, Daniel caught me admiring his work, and smiled at me. I smiled back, which only made him smile more.

“Are my lessons always going to involve labyrinths?” he asked quietly. “I mean, if they are, I’m cool with that.”

“What?” I said dumbly, only then realizing the commonality between Monday’s exercise, and this one. “Oh! Good call. I’ll try to mix it up next time, and try not to let my affinity for dumb old puppet movies show through so much.”

Daniel dropped the pencil, and gave me a look of mock disgust.

“Woman, you blaspheme. Speak ill of the immortal cinematic classic that is ‘Labyrinth’ in this house ever again, and I’ll have you thrown into the moat with the alligators.”

I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, or teasing him back.

“Then I shall make shoes out of those alligators, sir.”

“Yeah,” Daniel’s goofy grin reverted to a more genuine smile. “Yeah, I’ll bet you could.”

****

        Shit. Not this again.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

“No sir, thank you.”

“Aw, c’mon. Every woman is either a Jackie or a Marylin, and you’ll never be a Jackie. So why don’t you embrace being a Marylin? At least for now.”

“No, sir. I’d like to leave, please.”

“Now, don’t ‘sir’ me. ‘Sir’ was my father; you’re making me feel old. Where are you off to, in such a hurry?”

His hand was stroking the backside of my thigh, under my skirt, the navy fabric of his jacket sleeve itching. It felt like there were black spiders crawling under my skin.

More blackness was folding down over me, like a giant dark curtain; like a black cloak. I pushed against it, as I always had.

Then, something new happened: The blackness fell away, and I was towering over him. 

“C’mon, honey,” he simpered.

I reached out. His face ripped open in four deep, bloody slashes.

I sat bolt upright in bed. 

His skull… I could see through the torn flesh down to his skull.

Skulls. Need to do a unit on Georgia O’Keefe…

I jotted the idea on a pad of paper on my bedside table, then sank back into the mattress, into a dreamless, silent, and green void.

 

***

 

“C’mon honey! You got this!” Benji crowed.

The man across the craps table was wearing a skull-shaped belt buckle. It leered at me.

Skulls. That’s what I wrote on my bedside pad in my sleep the other night. 

Realizing I was staring at the man’s crotch, I snapped out of it and tossed the dice in my hands.

“Nice, Lexi! Good wrist action there.” Benji snickered as he took another swig of his vodka-Redbull, then continued his over-enthusiastic cheering from my side. 

I had gamely played through a couple hands of Blackjack earlier in the evening, and would’ve been content to call it a night an hour ago. But Benji showed no sign of slowing down, and had nudged me on to noisy slot machines, roulette, and now craps, all the while pushing more tokens into my hands, or proffering his player’s card to the pit boss.

Paying for his prize pony to enter the race, mostly so he can show her off.

Quit being so negative. He’s just trying to show you a good time.

Yeah, but is he going to expect you to show him a good time in return for all this money he’s spending?

At the end of the round, the croupier finished the payout and then turned over; the crowd at the craps table dispersed. Benji leaned in close to me; I caught the whiff of Stoli and taurine that I hadn’t smelled since college.

“Do you wanna hit up the Sports Book next? There’s a middleweight title fight in Vegas tonight; we could watch and put some money on.”

“No, I’m good. Thank you, though. I’m getting a little tired. Are you ready to leave?”

“Are you sure? How about one more round of poker? I’m feeling lucky.”

The Blackjack tables were much more crowded than when we’d left them earlier; the Saturday night crowd had arrived in force. With the precision of a bloodhound, Benji sniffed out two open seats at two different tables with new games starting.

I secretly thanked the stars that we’d be forced to split up. Benji had been hovering over my shoulder the whole evening, taking every opportunity to touch my shoulder, my arm, my waist. I was relieved to finally have a few moments away from him.

I opened my purse so I could grab my credit card and pay for my own way into the game. Much as he had all night, Benji refused to allow it, and reached over and squeezed my clutch closed, laughing at me. The dealer, a terse-looking college-aged Native guy, scanned Benji’s players’ card and motioned for me to sit. Benji rubbed me between the shoulder blades.

“Don’t run off on me, okay gorgeous? Sit and play nice with the other kids while daddy goes to clean house.” He winked at me, then took off in the direction of his table. 

Trying not to roll my eyes too noticeably, I squeezed into the remaining empty seat, and glanced around the table at the other players. Most were busy, either silencing their phones, or chatting with companions. One noticeable exception was the dealer, who seemed to be sizing me up. I noticed his nose was wrinkling. I gave him a small smile, and then stared awkwardly down at the table, waiting for my cards to start sliding into view.

They never came. 

After a minute, I glanced back up at the dealer. He was dealing cards to everyone but me. He noticed my confused look, and stopped dealing.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “I need to take this back down to a nine-hand game. I’ll refund your friend’s card now.” He punched a few buttons into the small tabletop computer at his elbow.

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered, feeling like I’d missed something. “Is there a problem?”

“I just can’t deal you in.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, but it’s your smell.”

“My smell?”

“Yeah, it’s just your..” he shrugged, looking for a word.  “…. essence, I guess. Nothing personal, we just can’t both stay at the table. And I have to stay so I can deal the game for all these nice folks.” He nodded around the table. “If you want to step over to the bar by the mural wall, my friend Teia is bartending. She’ll be happy to get you a free drink.”

I was dumbfounded. I’d never been kicked out of a bar, much less kicked off a poker table. Perhaps I had broken some sort of player’s etiquette rule, or I’d somehow forgotten to put on deodorant that afternoon.

“Of course. I’m sorry,” I mumbled to the players next to me, too embarrassed to demand further explanation. I pushed back from the table and scuttled away to the bar. Unsure of what else to do, I tried to inconspicuously sniff my armpits as I settled onto a barstool. If there was a trace of body odor, I couldn’t detect it. 

As if in response to my confusion, the Blackjack pit boss suddenly appeared at my shoulder. The lines in his face seemed fainter under the bright lights over the bar, and his long black hair gleamed out from its tidy braid. The bronze nameplate on his breast was stamped with the name Hector Lightfoot.

“Teia,” he called firmly, but not unkindly, to the bartendress. “Would you please bring the lady whatever she would like, on the house?” He turned to me with a tight-lipped smile. “What will you have?” 

“Ginger beer is fine, thank you” I said quietly. “I think maybe I’ve been misbehaving somehow -- must’ve really misread a social situation. So I probably don’t need to have any alcohol.” 

Mr. Lightfoot shook his head.

“There’s no misbehavior on your part. I noticed that one of my dealers asked you to leave his table, and I want to apologize for his bad manners. I assure you, you’re not at fault. Lucas is very sensitive to certain smells – perfumes, body lotions -- but that doesn’t excuse his rudeness. I made sure your friend’s player card was refunded, and I’d like to seat you at another table for a free game, if you’d like.”

“No, that’s okay,” I sighed, trying to shake off the confrontation. “Thank you, but I’m actually not much of a gambler. Coming here was my date’s idea. Though I have to admit, this is probably the most uniquely-decorated casino I’ve ever been in.” I nodded to the mural on the wall behind me.

“Glad to hear you’re at least enjoying the artwork,” Hector nodded, as Teia set the glass of ginger beer in front of me. “Most people are drawn to the lobby sculpture – it photographs well. But I prefer this myself. It’s a bit more…. Local. Authentic.”

“I like it too. It seems very mysterious.”

The mural was done mostly in dark and brooding colors, but featured a ceremonial fire in the center, which filled the piece with stark shadows cast by the figures dancing near the flame. The style was a combination of realism (the fir trees and mountainous background looked like a classical oil landscape) and a more two-dimensional, almost hieroglyphic style for the human characters near the fire. 

“Oh, I agree,” Hector said. “What’s mysterious to me is that the figures are so preoccupied with the fire. From the stories that I grew up hearing, the Snoqualish people of this time period would have been more concerned with the full moon.” He pointed to the white disc gleaming through wisps of clouds. 

“I have to admit, I’m pretty ignorant about Snoqualish culture.”

Hector shrugged. “Most people are. We’re not a massive nation like the Cherokee or Navajo, and we’re not movie-famous like the Quileute. None of us even speak the old language anymore. The last man who knew it, died a few years back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Help me understand: what’s significant about the moon in the mural?”

“Well, the Snoqualish people saw fire as a tool; a gift from the spirits that could be controlled if you were respectful. But the moon was a supernatural force, not of this earth, and not controllable. They believed that mischievous spirits were most likely to walk the earth on nights when the moon was full.”

“Like Raven?” I asked, casting back to what little I knew of Native American legends.

“Perhaps, but Raven normally has good intentions. The Snoqualish feared other spirits, ones that were less than benevolent, and didn’t have a shape. Or had many shapes.”

“But not cougars?” I raised an eyebrow, sardonically thinking of my parking lot encounter the weekend before. 

“Cougars are certainly fearsome, but they’re solitary creatures. The ancient Snoqualish feared other pack animals; almost like they would fear a rival tribe. The threat is in their numbers.”

“It’s understandable. There’s power in community.” 

Too bad I don’t really have one. 

Sarah and Deon are there for you.

Yeah, but the expectation to date Benji seems to have come with the package deal.

“Indeed,” agreed Hector. “The Snoqualish feared that malevolent spirits would band together to infiltrate the village during a full moon, and take it over from the inside.”

“Maybe the fire is there to scare them away?” I theorized, motioning at the mural.

“Perhaps,” mused Hector, looking over my shoulder. “But I’m betting they knew that fiery defenses could only do so much, for so long, against forces of nature.”

I suspected he needed to get back to work, so I nodded without response. Then a meaty hand landed on my shoulder, and I jumped, before realizing who had approached and caused Hector to wrap up our conversation.

“Well, my luck has run out for the night,” Benji grunted at me. “I gotta say, I normally last a lot longer than this.” He winked at me salaciously. “But I leave you alone for two seconds, and you head off to the bar to get drinks from someone else. House always wins, right boss?” he grinned a ‘get lost’ smirk at Lightfoot.

 “Um… thank you,” I said to Hector, reaching out to shake his hand. “For the ginger beer, and for the information about your tribe. And the artwork.”

“You’re welcome,” Hector shrugged, releasing my hand. “It’s just a silly ghost story, really. You folks have a nice night.” He shook Benji’s hand, and then walked back toward the Blackjack tables.

“Jeez. Don’t tell me the creepy old Indian guy was seriously pretending to know things about art as an excuse to flirt with you,” Benji said, squinting at the painting.  “Ooh, hey. That reminds me. We should go get a photo of you and me in front of the chili statue in the lobby.”

“The what?”

“The chili statue. That big, bong-looking glass thing we saw on the way in. You said it was chili.”

“…. oh. You mean the Chihuly. The one that’s on loan from the museum in Seattle.”

“Yeah, the chili-hooey. That’s what I said. Dunno what makes it look like chili, but it’ll look cool on Instagram.”

I had summarized the work of the prolific glass sculptor to him earlier, when we entered the casino. This confirmed my suspicion that he hadn’t really been listening to me, from the start of the date.

“Um, yeah. Sure. Let’s get a photo, and then we can hit the road. I can drive, if you want. I know you’ve had a few.”

“Lexi, Lexi.” He draped an arm over my shoulders. I resisted the urge to squirm out from underneath it, and instead used my position to steer us both back toward the main doors. “I don’t know the kinds of pansy-boys you might have dated before, but I’m a grown man, capable of holding his liquor. And I don’t sit in the passenger seat of my own truck. I’d have my Man-Card revoked.”

Dear God. Does he also use antlers in all of his decorating?

“Okay, I guess,” I said. “But if you get pulled over and I get questioned about how many drinks you’ve had, just don’t expect me to lie for you, okay?”

“Aw, c’mon, honey,” he teased, rubbing my bare shoulder. “We’re in this together; I’m Clyde and you’re my Bonnie.” He drained his drink and put the glass in the basin of a water fountain. I glanced around, embarrassed. 

“But seriously, I’m not gonna get pulled over. I mean, look at me. If we were rollin’ a Caddy, blasting ghetto gangsta-rap or whatever— it’d be different. But I’m not stupid.”

God help me. 

We’d reached the lobby. Benji backed up against the sculpture display, pulled out his phone, and wrapped one arm behind my back, his palm latching onto my hip.

“All right, boo-thing. Bring it in, bring it in…” He pressed his cheek to mine and held up the phone.

“Boo-thing?” I muttered, right as the flash went off. Then he turned and planted a sloppy kiss on my temple. I heard the camera app click repeatedly.

I just want this night to be over.

Benji lowered the phone, but maintained his grip on me. He thumbed back through the photos.

       “Hot damn, we make a cute couple. Well, except in that one. You’re making a weird face. Are you camera-shy? Oh my god, you’re camera-shy! You are too cute. Honestly, it’s so hot when girls are shy. I love it when y’all are just cute and shy and quiet and—” he stopped short in his rambling.

“Holy shit, you’re doing it again!”

“Doing what?” I sighed, not making an effort to mask my indifference. 

“Your eyes are doing that thing again. I knew it! I knew you wore colored contacts. The flash must’ve picked them up in this one angle.” He thrust his phone in front of my face.

I squinted at the screen, and started. Standing next to Benji was someone who didn’t look like me at all. Her eyes glowed yellow-white as they glared out of the frame, as if she were staring into a night vision camera.

Calm down. The flash blurred the light reflecting off your eyes because he can’t hold the phone still. Except he’s too dumb – or buzzed -- to realize.

Run with it. Hell, use it to your advantage.

“Yeah… yeah, you caught me,” I fumbled. “I do wear contacts. I mean, I wore them tonight, and at the office party. I normally have to wear these really thick glasses.”

“You wear glasses?” Benji’s hand dropped from my body.

“Yeah, they’re super-ugly.” I edged across the lobby toward the coat check. “I’m sorry. I figured with enough makeup, I could convince you I was hot. But I guess I’m just kind of a fake.”

“Oh, no way, girl. I got you figured out.” Benji slapped our coat check tickets down on the counter, then gave me his best come-hither gaze. “I got a gift with people, I’m good at seeing them for who they really are. You’re the real deal. I bet glasses are hot on you. Kind of like the sexy-secretary type of look.”

“I thought you just said I was ‘the real deal,’ not some sexy-secretary fantasy. You’re not making any sense.” I dug in my purse for some small bills, and handed them to the attendant once he produced my jacket. I grabbed it quickly and marched for the door, afraid Benji would try to help me with my coat as an excuse to touch me again.

“What’d you give him your money for?” he asked, catching up to me. 

“I just.. I normally tip coat-check staff. You know, kind of like how you tip a valet driver?”

“Pssh, no. I never do that. They’re getting paid.”

I think I’m gonna pretend to fall asleep in the truck. I don’t think I can hold a conversation with him for the whole drive back.

He probably won’t even notice, and will just keep talking.

We’d reached the front doors. I made to walk straight through them, but Benji scrambled to jump ahead of me. He shouldered through the door and held it open with his body, rather than standing behind it and holding it by the handle. 

I would not have noticed or minded, except that his position forced me to brush up against him. 

“Thank you,” I muttered.

“Of course! I was raised to be a gentleman.” He winked and wound my arm through his, and started to tug me toward the parking structure.

“Oh…thank you. I know the heels are kind of tall,” I referenced my shoes, “but I’m doing okay. You really don’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I want to.”

I sighed. Part of this was my fault. I’d agreed to strand myself half an hour away from Willamette Falls, with Benji as my only viable way back. I couldn’t just firmly say, “No, thank you, have a nice night” and walk away. Whatever I said, I had to deal with any hurt pride or anger it produced for the rest of the journey home. It wasn’t really worth it. It wasn’t like he was groping me.

Not yet. He may keep going because he thinks you’re okay with it. You should speak up for yourself; men don’t pay attention to body language.

He has yet to really listen to anything I say.

So just tell him straight-out that you’re not feeling a physical connection, and you would appreciate it if he gave you your space. If he gets his underwear in a twist about it, that’s his problem, not yours.

I’d convinced myself to do it, and was just about to open my mouth, when Benji spoke first.

“Are you okay? You seem kind of distracted.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I lost my nerve, but let go of this arm and rubbed my temples. “I’m just thinking about…”

About the weirdness with that poker dealer, and how much I don’t want to be around you.

 “.. the work I still have to get done before Monday.” 

It wasn’t a total lie, and it was a good chance to steer the subject away from the idea of Benji as my potential boyfriend. The problem was that I didn’t feel like explaining any more, about my work or anything else. Benji was already friends with Sarah and Deon; I didn’t want him bleeding into any more areas of my life than necessary, especially given that I would inevitably have to reject his affections.

I didn’t want to tell him anything about the world I’d twice disappeared into over the last week; the gothic mansion in the misty Gorge, with a presence of its own that was too quiet and too loud at the same time. The too-beautiful, too-gracious couple, and their smart but sick son with his earnest smile, his warm voice and his careful hands holding my pencils. It was all starting to feel like a strange, secret part of my life that I wanted to keep all to myself. I was only starting to realize how much I needed the escape it provided.