The Myth of Wile E

The Saga of the Living Statue

The Venice Beach Living Statue was probably the world's foremost Living Statue, although his past was a mystery. His boardwalk coworkers had varying theories about his origins. According to some, he had been apprenticed at the age of three to the foremost fakir in India, where he had learned to use mind over matter against hot coals, poisonous snake bites, and an empty stomach. Other folks claimed he had once been the stock-stillest beefeater at the Tower of London, but had been dismissed for accumulating more pigeon droppings than Nelson's Column. The T-shirt vendor swore that the Living Statue was "an actual cyborg sent back in time, who forgot his recharger and ran out of power." (That theory sounded terribly sad to me.) The bongo player thought the Living Statue had been enchanted by a Gorgon. (But then, the bongo player was often enchanted, himself.)

It was, of course, impossible to confirm any of these theories with the Living Statue community, whose members were notoriously tight-lipped.

No one ever noticed the Living Statue come or go, not even the pre-dawn surfers—but that's surfers for you. The Living Statue's shift started sometime before sunup and ended sometime after sunset, and in all that time he never moved. No one knew where he lived, or where he slept at night. Maybe he had even learned to sleep standing up, with his eyes open. Also, no one had ever seen him eat or drink anything, which is probably how he managed not to use the bathroom all day.

Most of the time, people treated the Living Statue just as they'd treat a real statue; which is to say, they walked right by without noticing him.

Then one day, as a swarm of skaters practiced their stunts nearby, one of them lost control and crashed into the Living Statue. Now, you'd think the impact might have knocked down the Living Statue, but no. The Living Statue had carefully studied enough non-living statues to know that they stood their ground in such situations. So, he didn't budge. The skater ricocheted off him and skidded across the bike path into the sand, landing painfully on his pride. A crowd of onlookers laughed and cheered, probably laughing at the skater and cheering the Living Statue. At least that's what the skater must have thought, because he was mad. "You oughta watch where you're standing!" shouted the skater, who had a faux-hawk the color of a Smurf. The Living Statue never said a word. He just kept staring off into the far distance, as if he were using bionic vision to see all the way to New York.

After that, it became a mission of the skater and his cohorts to "break" the Living Statue. At first they employed pretty standard Living Statue harassment tactics, such as saying "Boo," or mooning him, or pointing behind him and shrieking "Tidal wave!"

When those tactics failed, they tried vandalizing him. They graffitied swears and slogans all over him, inadvertently adding a whole extra layer of realism to the Living Statue. They knocked him over. (He was stuck like that until the bongo player picked him up and set him back on his pedestal.) They stole his clothes. And would you believe, the Living Statue had had the foresight to paint every inch of his skin with metallic paint just in case? Such was his level of preparation, his attention to detail.

The beach police showed up and regarded the unclothed Living Statue. They threatened to haul him off to jail if he didn't cover up. But the Living Statue didn't budge.

The beach police sighed. Had their careers really come to this? Did they really want everyone talking about that day they dragged away some pantsless silver dude? Plus, they were bicycle cops, and the silver guy looked pretty cumbersome.

They decided there might possibly be some question as to whether the unclothed Living Statue was obscene, or whether he was Art. A team of beret-and-turtleneck-wearing Art Experts was called in to assess the situation. The Art Experts declared the Living Statue "nude."

Then a team of stroller-wielding Outrage Experts showed up. The Outrage Experts declared the Living Statue "naked." It was an impasse. The very definitions of art, morality, and whether or not the beach police should have listened to their mothers and become accountants, hung in the balance.

Finally, it was Daddy who solved the problem. He cut out a fig leaf shape from a piece of paper, borrowed some string from the seashell jeweler, and tied the fig leaf G-string onto the Living Statue.

"Whew," said the beach police, and went back to being happily not-accountants, patrolling their bicycle beat in the fresh salty air and warm sun.

Once the Living Statue was no longer indecent, pretty much everyone lost interest in him.

Everyone, that is, except the skater kids.

Switching to enhanced harassment techniques, the skaters set off stink bombs and firecrackers at the Living Statue's feet. They rubbed his metallic skin with poison ivy. And what was considered most scandalous of all: they stole his collection hat, every single day.

But the Living Statue kept right on being a Living Statue, for free. His white elephant would go on being fed, even if it meant he had to go hungry.

Then one day the skater kids came swerving by on a four-person surrey bike. The boardwalk crowd watched in horror, yet in awe, as the skater kids grabbed the Living Statue, tossed him across the rumble seat of the surrey, and pedaled furiously toward the pier, ooga-ooga horn warning everyone out of the way. The Living Statue fell off twice, but his pose never altered, even as he thumped onto the concrete bike path and waited motionlessly to be picked up and carried off again. (That was when Daddy got worried. See, up until then, he didn't really understand. Daddy had always assumed he knew what it meant to have a white elephant, but right then he realized he hadn't grasped it at all.)

The skater kids carted the Living Statue to the Venice fishing pier and heaved him over the railing. It is said that he never screamed, never moved, never even closed his mouth or eyes. Such was the Living Statue's commitment to his art that he remained in character even as he sank beneath the waves.

The skater kids stood there laughing, waiting for the Living Statue to resurface, tread water, and swim to shore, finally cowed. (Well, maybe not cowed, as cows are quite courageous, actually.)

But the skaters' laughter faded to uneasy silence. It became clear that the Living Statue would not save himself. Not at the expense of his white elephant.

By then a lifeguard had come running, but the skater kids dove in first. The skaters found the Living Statue lying on the ocean floor and dragged him up to the surface, passing him off to the lifeguard.

She began CPR, waiting for the Living Statue to cough up water. "No . . . you gotta turn him over," the blue-haired skater kid said, teeth chattering. "You gotta like dump the water out." The lifeguard ignored him, as often happens to people with smurfy hair. "You don't understand," the kid said, tearing up. "He can't cough. I mean—I mean—he won't."

The lifeguard continued to ignore the skaters, so they shoved her away. They grabbed the Living Statue and flipped him over, holding his feet up. He was stiff as a surfboard. A gallon of water flooded from his open mouth, and even some little flopping fish. The Living Statue didn't move then, and he didn't move a few minutes later when he was lifted onto a stretcher and fitted with an oxygen mask. He was still posed exactly as he had been on the boardwalk. But instead of staring off toward New York, he was staring up into the sun.

As the ambulance doors closed, the onlookers who had been watching in stunned silence finally broke into applause. It was by far the greatest performance by a Living Statue that anyone had ever seen.

From then on, the skater kids left the Living Statue alone. In fact, three of them quit skating and were never seen at the boardwalk again. They had seen a white elephant, and it had humbled them. That's the way it goes. Usually.

But the fourth skater kid, the blue-haired skater . . . Well. For some reason, he began skating with a vengeance. Ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day he would skate, conceiving ever-more elaborate and perilous tricks. Chasing . . . something . . . that could never quite be caught.

As for Daddy, he quietly packed up his paper and pens, his paints and pastels. He never went back to the boardwalk. Not that he wouldn't find another use for his art correspondence school credentials. He just knew he would never draw again.