The Tears of Things

I Met A Toad The Other Day, Oh Boy

by Jerome du Bois

This is a post about manners, and the lack thereof, and if it causes us more problems in this town -- tough tamales, what's new. I will not have my wife disrespected.

The other day a major gallery owner was giving us a tour of his gallery, and Catherine and I ran into someone from my past. I did not remember him, and said so, over and over, but he turned the whole chance encounter into the necessity of me recognizing that he and I were connected with something long, long ago -- something old and, as I tried to make obvious to this thickhead, dead and buried, but that wasn't good enough for him.

His name is Ernest McIntyre and he's one of the so-called art people in this town. For example, he runs the @Central Gallery at the Burton Barr Central Library, he lectures, and he often authors vapid columns about art for the local section of Monday's Arizona Republic. He also has the presence and manners of a toad.

I've lived in this city over thirty years; I've had a life. Now here I am, at 55, standing proudly beside my wife Catherine King, a man clearly in love with the dream who finally came true after many hard years: a strikingly beautiful, confident and stately woman, her long hair a silver cloud, even now wearing brand-new slim jeans, gold pumps, a gold lamé clutch purse so killer we call it "The Bullet," an elaborately-embroidered Paris Paris top, and an Escada bolero thickly encrusted with gold crowns, jeweled coaches, and multicolored sceptres. She looks like ten million dolllars. And she's discussing business with the gallery owner.

In fact, with her flower photography, she has just become part of the art business.

But old Ernie, who looks like Jabba the Hutt's only slightly slimmer brother -- who was the foolish scientist who said gravity is never repulsive? -- after a perfunctory greeting, ignores her completely, turning to me, plowing forward, "Don't you remember me? Your name's Jerome du Bois, right? Don't you remember? I'm trying to --"

"I don't remember," I'm saying, backing away, trying to be diplomatic. And this went on, him nagging us through a couple of rooms, even while the gallery owner is trying to move us on further with the tour, here's Ernie, dragging his fat ass along behind us like some odious slug, picking picking picking at the past like a scab, and then suddenly shouting out the name of my ex-wife -- "Yeah, Jerome and ____, remember?"

Well, sure, I remembered her, you stack of whale shit! I thought and should have said but didn't. Why? Manners. Do you see who's standing beside me, Ernie? It isn't the woman you just mentioned, is it? Have you no manners? Have you no respect?

Ernest McIntyre didn't care. He is not a decent man. His curiosity, his stunted, snuffling self-centeredness, digging like a starving pig after some elusive truffle, trumped any consideration of manners, respect, or even the existence of other human beings at that moment. Only his grubbing hunger mattered. And this is one of the people the city turns to when it comes to promoting art.

Stay away from us, Ernie the Slug. If I ever see you again, I will not be at all polite.

[comments are open for a while]

[Update 11/09/04: Just received three filthy comments from Ernest McIntyre, from two different email addresses. Just childish insults. This is why I usually don't carry comments. I deleted them.]

Posted by Jerome at November 7, 2004 03:40 PM | TrackBack