The Dove Keeper

Chapter Eleven - Lesson Two: Bullshit

I brought the beer the next day. I had to rummage around in dad's equipment in the garage before I finally found some. I knew I'd die if he ever found out, especially since all that was there for me to take was a case of twenty-four cans, but somehow it seemed worth it. I arrived at Gerard's place in the early afternoon, my back aching from having to carry the entire case with me concealed in my school backpack to avoid attention. I'm sure I caused enough attention from the way I groaned as I walked, making spazzing movements when I felt like my muscles were being torn off the bones, but I got there in relatively one piece.

"Put the beer in the centre of the floor," Gerard told me as soon as I had flung the backpack off my aching shoulders onto his couch with a loud 'oomph'. I barely had time to look around his newly cleaned apartment before he grabbed my bag and opened it up. I was honestly shocked he had cleaned his apartment by himself, considering what a giant mess we had left it in the day before. The new mural was still present, however, and I smiled looking at it, remembering what we had done. I glanced over at Gerard, seeing if he shared the same pride as I did about our previous art lesson, but he just stared down at me, waiting for me to move the beer. He was focusing on the present task we had at hand, and though it hurt to move, I obeyed his orders curious to see what was going to come out of this.

He had cleared his art supplies away over to the side, so that the beer could sit clear in the centre of the whole apartment. There weren't many art supplies left now, only brushes and broken canvasses. Almost all the paint was gone from our prior experience and I wondered how I was supposed to receive a lesson today, if there was no paint that we could do anything with. But I trusted Gerard, probably more than I should have.

"Come stand here with me," he instructed, motioning with his hands. His eyes were dark and thinking hard as he stared at the case of beer in the middle of his living space. He was standing by the kitchen, just outside the door. I walked over and stood next to him, waiting. I waited for what seemed like a long time, jamming my hands inside my pockets before he finally spoke.

"Do you know what modern art is, Frank?" he asked with determination. His focus was still on the centerpiece, his brows narrowed in deep thought. I had never seen him like this before; in a perplexed state of deliberation. He was usually so carefree and open, smirking like he knew the answers to everything. He was still that man, he still knew the answers, but he was waiting and thinking, judging to see if I knew those answers.

I didn't. I had vaguely heard of modern art before, but had no clue how to define it. I remembered going to an art museum when I was in the fourth grade. The trip had been mandatory, or else I probably would have skipped it and taken my chance with the supply teacher that day with Sam. (His parents had not had enough money to let him go then; his dad was having an off period at work, and his mother hadn't gotten her job yet, so money was tight). My prior experiences with museums before had been less than stellar, images of batty old maids lecturing us on how the homo-sapiens evolved from monkeys and hearing kids snicker in the background. But, when I had entered the fairly small building and its warm light had washed over the array of school children wearing winter jackets and hats, it didn't seem too bad. There weren't as many reading and boring lectures; just pictures. I was yelled at a few times for getting to close to some pieces where the paint was so thick it created ridges, but I had managed to stay out of trouble. I vaguely recalled there being a place where modern art had been, but again, back then, the term had no meaning. All I could remember from that room were sculptures made out of garbage and paper that had bullet holes in it. I had even wandered into a room where tape recorders fell from the ceiling and played a different message from each black speaker while a film of a girl in a red dress danced on a white screen. It didn't make sense to me, and being only nine at the time, scared the living daylights out of me. I thought I had wandered into an alternate universe where things were jumping off the wall. I read too many comic books back then too, so, that didn't help much. Some other kid who I barely knew ended up having to pull me out of the room and drag me to the yellow school bus, where our teacher was waiting, her lips pursed and arms crossed in front of her chest. And I had suppressed the memory, along with lots of others, until Gerard had resurfaced them.