Gleesinger’s Book Release Soirée

from the Orange Painting series of stories

I am a dancer, not a caterer. So what am I doing bouncing along in a catering van, with my black wait-staff suit stuffed in a garment bag, on the way to the Gleesinger’s Book Release Soirée?

That’s a long, yet not atypical, story. Short version: I need to eat and pay rent on the Chelsea apartment I share with a playwright, a poet, and a singer, all in the early stages of their careers — in other words: a word processor, a waiter, and a bicycle messenger.

***

We were lugging in our stuff when a man I correctly surmised was Mr. Gleesinger greeted us, “Great, the setup crew, early enough to hang this painting.”

The boss took one look at a big orange painting leaning against a big orange couch and shook his head. “Nope, not what we do. We set up. We make food. We serve food, drinks. Clean up. Anyway, a painting that big, you’re gonna need a professional to get it done right.”

“It needn’t be right, it just has to hang on the freaking wall.”

“Sorry, but if anything happens our insurance won’t cover–”

Mr. Gleesinger held up three one-hundred dollar bills. “One for each of you. Will this cover it?”

“Which way does the painting go?”

“Up and down to cover that section of the wallpaper that is not faded.”

“Vertical, I got that,” said the boss, “but which end up?”

“Whichever,” said Mr. Gleesinger.

***

The rest of our crew arrived at seven. I freshened up and put on my suit. Besides set-up and clean-up I work with the wait staff, undercover. My real task is to stay close to the hosts to help them out of embarrassing situations.

Around eight the first guests began to trickle in.

I was hovering nearby when tall blonde woman in a baby blue silk dress approached Mrs. Gleesinger. “Merry, my dear,” she gushed, “you look absolutely gorgeous. That gown becomes you, makes your eyes pop, and this is such a lovely home. Did you—”

“Thank you. Thank you, so very much,” said Mrs. Gleesinger. So good to see you, uh...”

I sensed that Mrs. Gleesinger did not know woman’s name, so I stepped in and offered the woman one of our most popular hors d’oeuvres, truffle delights.

“Thank you. They look scrumptious.”

Mrs. Gleesinger used the interruption to waggle her fingers at somebody across the room, and escaped.

A little later I was keeping my eye on Mr. Gleesinger when a man, underdressed for the occasion, nodded his head at the orange painting. “Happ, old buddy, is that a new acquisition up there?”

“It is. Like it?”

“Well, it’s orange. I’ll say that. Might I inquire as to the price?”

I swooped in with a glass of champagne.

***

I had a hunch the party was not a huge success. The guests weren’t talking about the Gleesinger’s new book, or looking at copies of the book strewn about. They were looking at, talking about, and making fun of the orange painting. My favorite guest exchange: “Makes me want to throw something.” “Makes me want to throw up.”

My hunch was confirmed during cleanup when Mr. Gleesinger told us to, “Get that fucking painting off the wall and put it on the curb with the rest of the garbage.”

Garbage Pickup, The Next Day

Ben turns the truck onto the last block on their route, a street of multi-million dollar townhouses, and as if Charlie hasn’t heard the same set-up three times a week for the year they’ve been on the job, Ben says, “If I were filthy rich, last thing I’d want is my own house. Nope. Not me. I’d get a penthouse on the fiftieth floor with views as far as you can see on all four sides. There’d be a doorman, a gym, a swimming pool on the roof, and a wine cellar, and a—”

This is the part where Charlie interrupts to ask, “Since when do you drink wine?”

“Since never,” says Ben, “not until I move into the penthouse.”

“Ha, ha, not so ha. The set-up is still too long. We really gotta do open mics, get audience reaction.”

“Whoa,” says Ben. “Check that out. Up ahead. What is it?”

“Well, it’s big and it’s orange, that’s for sure.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a painting.”

“Yeah, but of what?”

“Nothing. Just orange. Bright orange. With traces of black.”

“Could be a Picasso, except I don’t see three noses. That’s what he got famous for.”

“Hey, that’s a good line. We could work that into our act.”

“You’re right. The line has possibility.”

They look on the back for a signature.

“A scribble,” says Charlie. “I think it starts with an S, but that’s all I can make out.”

“If it came out of one of these houses it might be worth something.”

“Nah. I’m thinking a wannabe artist, got forced out of their loft, left the painting here, and got in a band. That’s what they all do, sooner or later. So I hear.”

“Or, like us, become sanitation workers until we get our big break. Seriously, consider doing open mics.”

“Soon. But first we gotta figure out what to call ourselves. Our names have no pizzazz.”

“What do you wanna do with the painting?”

“It’s on the curb, right? Therefore it is garbage. We grind it.”

The truck screeches as it squishes and chomps the painting. The wood stretchers sound like bones cracking.

A Word From The Orange Painting

You humans didn’t like me, but I got the whole ball rolling, or if you prefer, I was the inciting incident. Anyway, I am now headed to a landfill where I will decompose. Much, much later my molecules and atoms and teeny tiny whatever particles will reassemble into something else unless by that time you humans have managed to totally annihilate the planet. If you’ve only self-extinguished whatever I turn into will be happy to hang out with cockroaches and tardigrades, a welcome change from you inhumane humans.

__________

Gleesinger’s Book Release Soirée is part of the Orange Painting collection.