The Elephant Painting

I am uncharacteristically sober — though high as balls — when I arrive at my boss' office. It's on the third floor of a short stack of bricks in the East End, on the other side of the railway tracks. The elevator fits one and a half people, but it never works so I'm usually out-of-breath by the time I get upstairs. I suspect my boss bribes the superintendent to keep the lift broken; a tactic for weakening those unlucky enough to enter his office. I pause for an extra breath before I push open his frosted glass door.

Martin is uncharacteristically friendly from behind his desk, wishing me a Happy New Year and inquiring about my welfare. Normally he is spewing epithets before I sit down. My footsteps slow as I take a seat across from him, and I look around the office for an explanation. Did he install new carpet? That should put anyone in a chipper mood, but looking down I see it's still stained with coffee, dirt and failure. I examine his shining head. Did he get hair plugs? Nope. I take a seat and stretch around in my chair. There is an oil painting of two elephants on the wall opposite his desk. I have never seen it there before. That must be why he's so jovial.

I don't normally shoot the shit (or anything really) with Martin Coley but with this rare syzygy of his congeniality, my heightened lucidity and the new artwork on his wall, I figure I'll wax loquacious.

Harvey: Hey, is that new? That painting.

Martin: Are you kidding me, Kornbluth? I've had it for years. I was telling you about that painting that last time you were in here. I got when I was in Africa, on safari.  We had a guide named Ken...

Fuck. How high am I? "Rare syzygy?" I really shot myself in the foot this time. Martin has told me this story at least a dozen times. I dumbly start to protest, but it's too late.

Martin: ...so three days in, I'm asking Ken when we're going into the Serengeti. He keeps making lame excuses about his truck, and the heat, blah, blah, blah. I tell him, 'I came to Africa to see an elephant, damn it' but he's hemming and hawing like those fucking Africans do. I insist we head out right there and then...

I'm shifting uncomfortably in my seat. My face is a mixture of helplessness and the visual expression of the question: why are you telling me this story, again? I know the story. He knows I know it. In fact, he reminded that I knew it, which means he now knows that I know that he knows that I know it.

Maybe it's a cultural thing; mind-splitting narrative about collecting art in Africa is simply how people say "hello."

Martin: ...so after the 4x4 breaks down we're forced to walk about four miles in the sun. I couldn't take it. My wife and I are crouching at the base of a Marula tree to get some shade, and our guide gets on the radio, trying to find help. And did I tell you how my wife lost the shoes I got her for her anniversary? I got them in Paris...

As the tale unfolds, it's like figuring out that your parents are taking you to the dentist and not Disneyland. The part about the shoes is the detail I detest most fervently, so it makes sense that it's the part Martin is most fond of recounting. She lost an expensive pair of shoes that he bought for her in Paris. When bought them he had paid for it with an American Express, which he was nervous about using since it had been so close to September 11. That's it. This tangential brooch adds nothing to the tale except an unnecessary and tacked-on sense of gravitas. And length.

As he continues, I slump down in the chair wondering why he called this meeting.

Martin: ...it's called cassava. And next thing you know my wife and I are taking turns vomiting our guts out. I had a fever of 103, but in the heat you can't really tell. I was pretty damn sure we had gotten HIV from one of their toilets. No one believes foreigners when you tell them you're sick. I mean, they were right about it in the end, but that's not really...

Maybe it's an elaborate test: Martin tells me the same story each time, but changes a small detail in hopes that I will notice. Pointing out the flaw means I pass, and as my reward I get to shoot him right between the temples with a revolver or strangle him with fishing line. Thinking about this starts to give me an erection, which is weird, and I'm forced to look away. I turn my head slightly and peer at the painting.

Martin: ...but the doctor wouldn't budge on the price. What a businessman! Now, I don't know what a goat is worth in dollars...

It's a medium-sized painting, no wider than one's arms can reach. It's dusty greens and muddy browns and greys like wet clay. It depicts two adult elephants on the Savannah. The larger one, in the foreground, is kicking up dust as he lumbers across the grasslands. The second one is drinking from a drying lake. The more I stare at the painting, the more it occurs to me that I hate it, so, so much. I turn back and Martin is smiling proudly, as though my five-second glance has added richness and depth to the words falling out of his mouth.

Martin: ...this truck making a delivery of Coca-Cola agrees to take us back to a big city to find a hospital there. They are crazy about Coca-Cola, you know...

My erection is gone and I am sitting motionless and expressionless. I am trying to self-immolate by sheer will alone.

Martin: To be honest, I was glad when the trip came to an end. Though I didn't bag an elephant, there was an art store at the Jo'burg airport —that's what they call Johannesburg — selling that canvas on the wall behind you.

I don't turn around.

Martin: Sure, it isn't an authentic piece of "art", but hey at least it's a story.

Harvey: Huh.

Martin: Anyway Harvey, let's shut up about art already, and get down to brass tacks. I called you here to talk about your output.

Harvey: I know, you asked me to produce more, and I'm producing more. But I'm not going to post five times a day.

Martin: I know this Kornbluth.  I actually need you to post less.

Harvey: What?

I don't normally raise my voice near a sociopath like Martin Coley, but I was actually shocked. This is a man, who has threatened me with violence for not writing enough. Now he wants me to back off?

Harvey: What the fuck are you talking about?

Martin: Well, I'd like to add more video to the site. I mean, we can keep the writing sure, but I was hoping you'd record a video or two. Maybe some stuff of you interviewing people in public places. Like the beach, or a skating rink?

Harvey: Why would I go to the beach? Or a skating rink?

Martin: To get out there and find a real story! Why do you think I went to Africa?

I don't take Martin's suggestion seriously. I slump over and stare at the ground with a hand on my temple. I am at the Jo'burg airport watching Martin. He is exhausted; his sweaty clothes are pasted to his skin and his insides are ravaged by local parasites. He lumbers defeated through the airport, dragging his wife in one hand, and a too-heavy suitcase in the other. I am with him as his eyes land on a painting of two elephants kicking up dust on the Savannah, and he squeezes his wife's hand and the wheels of his suitcase come to a stop.