Pure Cosmos Club by Matthew Binder

Author:Matthew Binder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stalking Horse Press
Published: 2023-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 23

IT’S PRE-DAWN in the studio. Winston sleeps against the wall, an empty bottle of port between his legs. My back is sore from my lumpy bed. Blanche will awaken soon, and I’ll have to do my dead-man’s game. I check my horoscope in the pages of an old magazine. “True and false are merging into one.” I sketch a drawing of three birds on a branch.

I’ve never found much to inspire me in the natural world. Even John Constable’s most celebrated landscapes leave me cold as an ex-wife’s heart. But there’s something in this avian rendering that piques me on. By the time Blanche wakes up, I’ve painted two of the birds exquisitely. Not even Matisse ever demonstrated such a command of palette. I set down my brush and strike the most somber pose I can. Just as Blanche begins to yelp, Danny bursts through the door.

“This is no time to make a game of your mortality,” he shouts. “Inès needs more cat bags!”

I jump up and straighten my jacket. Danny sees my work-in-progress and strokes the reddish goatee he’s growing.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he says. “While this still isn’t very good, I will say it’s interesting. Why you chose to paint two of the birds while leaving the third incomplete can only symbolize our sadly imperfect society. That was my first thought, at any rate. Then it struck me that the unpainted bird represents something far more tragic: a woman who’s besmirched her own beauty to avoid the undesired attention of common men.”

“That is interesting,” I say.

“I’m not finished.” Winston has risen from his port-induced stupor and begun to sweep. “The real problem lies in that—how should I say this?—for whatever reason, you are bereft of the emotional sophistication a man needs truly to understand the female plight. What you’ve created here is a graphic autobiography. The unpainted bird reminds us there will always be those who are made to suffer. In short,” Danny concludes with a sniff, “this is nothing more than self-pitying dribble.”

Winston pauses in his work to smile sympathetically.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Danny says.

“This painting isn’t a geometry proof in need of explanation. And anyway, you didn’t come here so early to engage in futile dialectics. What do you want?”

“There’s a man up in Poughkeepsie,” Danny says, “one of the great cat hoarders of our time. Every year, Animal Control raids his place to put his cats in shelters, and every year he gathers a new clowder. My contact at Animal Control tells me their latest raid is scheduled for this week.”

“You want me to buy this man’s cats so you can slaughter them for your bags?”

“All of my bags will be cruelty-free, Paul. The busy stretch of highway around this man’s lair is a road-kill mecca. On any given day, there are dozens of dead cats. Each year after their raid, Animal Control cleans the streets, as well. I’ve rented you a van so you can go up there to gather as many dead cats as you can before they get there.

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