Drug of Choice

“Who?”

“Sharon. She always comes late, so to speak.” He gave a gurgling chuckle that seemed to well up from his intestines. “You interested in art?”

In the corner, a girl wore day-glo bodypaint and nothing else. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m an artist. I’ll show you some of my stuff. Do you like that particular piece?”

“What piece?” He looked away from the girl, back to O’Hara.

“Judy,” O’Hara said. “Did her this afternoon. A particularly effective composition, I believe. I like the colors and lines.”

“Yes,” Clark said.

“That particular work of art is for sale,” O’Hara said. “Two hundred dollars. A night. Come along, and I’ll show you some of my other things.”

They pushed through the crowd until they came to a corner of the cabin. There they paused before a square block of wood, into which was set a four-foot piece of round doweling, with a pointed tip. On the doweling was a sign which said, “HOSTILITY.”

O’Hara beamed proudly. “How do you like it?”

“Remarkable,” Clark said, taking a sip of Scotch.

“I’m very pleased with it. Came to me in a burst, a pure flash of inspiration. I was sleeping at the time, and jumped right up and built it.”

“Very interesting.”

“It’s entitled, ‘Hostility on Your Part.’ That’s because it’s supposed to represent a phallus. Did you get that? Some people don’t, right off.”

Clark smiled.

“I think it’s pretty funny, myself,” O’Hara said, and laughed.

Clark laughed.

“Love a man with a sense of humor,” O’Hara said. “Come on.”

In another part of the room was a small wooden statue of a beaver. It was quite carefully and accurately made.

“Like it?”

“Very good.”

“I call it ‘The Ultimate Beaver.’”

O’Hara slapped his thigh, roared, and spilled his drink. Clark dutifully laughed.

“You can see the kind of a mind I have,” O’Hara said, “but what the hell. I love my work. Come on.”

Shortly, they came to a painting of a hamburger, rendered accurate in every detail. Catsup was oozing out of the sides of the bun. O’Hara paused to look critically at the painting for several minutes.

“Now then,” he said, “this is a major work. Major.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps you can help me with it.”

“I’ll try.”

“I finished this a year ago, and I haven’t been able to decide on a title. No title, no money. Who’d buy a hamburger without a title?”

“Ummm.”

“My first thought was ‘Eat Me’, but that seemed a little obvious, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Obvious.”

“So then I thought of ‘Meat Between Your Buns’, but that seemed a little gross.”

“Gross,” Clark nodded.

“You realize, of course, that my subject, my life’s work, is filth. The future of pop art is filth and pornography. I’m trying to satirize pornography in my creations. See?”

“Yes.”

“So if the title isn’t good, it doesn’t go. Listen, I’ll tell you something. My first important piece, the one that brought me into the big time, was a thing I sold to some producer. It was an ordinary household fan, spray-painted shocking pink. You know what I called it?”

Clark shook his head, afraid to guess.

“‘Blowjob’,” O’Hara announced in triumph. “That’s what I called it, and it went for a thousand dollars. I had lots of offers for it. A great success. And now look at me.” He waved his hand around the yacht. “I have money, women, fame and fortune.”

“I can see that.”

O’Hara leaned close, and looked steadily at Clark. “Yeah, but I’ll tell you. Man to man: I’m not happy.”

“No?”

“It’s true. I was happier when I was working as a garage mechanic, and dreaming of making it big. Now… success seems empty to me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Clark said.

“It’s the price of creativity,” O’Hara said, and wandered off.

“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” the man said. “If I say so myself. You know how it happened?”

“No,” Clark said. He had begun speaking to the man a few minutes before; he had introduced himself as Johnny Kane. He was very drunk.

“Well, it was a beautiful spring day, and I was sitting in my office, thinking about the account. We needed a fresh approach, but we were limited. I mean, there are things you just can’t say, and the public is sensitive. You can’t have somebody say, ‘My hemorrhoids were killing me, until I switched to X,’ and you can’t say, ‘Boy, did I ever have trouble with cramps and farting until I discovered Y.’ I’m talking about the tracts, now.”

“I see,” Clark said.

“So I was thinking, what do you say? What can you say? And then I realized that this was deep down distress, nothing shallow, but deep down distress, in the lower tract. For that deep down pain and discomfort in the lower tract, take the one medication that doctors recommend for their own—”

“Hello, darling,” a voice whispered in his ear. He turned: Sharon was wearing a crochet dress over a bodystocking, and a calm smile. She looked directly at him.

“I hear there’s a great view from the bridge,” she said.

“Is there?”

“You mustn’t miss it,” she said.

She took his arm and they moved through the crowd, then up a narrow stairs. She went first; he followed.

“Stop looking at my legs,” she said, as they went up.

“Be careful,” he said, “or I’ll bite your ankle.”

She stopped.