Art Director v. Art Therapist

The Art Director writes "Archivist" on the Archivist's list of the dead. Then he drags the Archivist's body to the line of dead by the far fence. The stench of rot is thick, so powerful that the Art Director buckles and vomits. He runs back to the oak, list in hand. Without much thought, still woozy, he picks up the well-crafted basket, places the list and the golf pencil in the basket, and places the basket on the rosewood table next to the pistols. He sits in a huff at the base of the oak.

The Art Therapist walks across the field from the road. She's a handsome woman in her late 30s, in jeans and a downy jacket, the jacket open showing a loose blouse, a thick turquoise neckless. She walks up to the oak.

Hi, she says.

Hi, he says.

She sits on the grass nearby. You look like you've just been traumatized by something.

Well, he says, I just killed a man.

Oh?

Nice guy, too, which is the real shame.

Do you want to talk it out?

Sure.

I should have brought my paints. I usually work with paint. But we'll talk.

I know who you are, he says. Art therapist.

How did you guess? I look a little hippyish, right?

No. A little.

Why don't you describe a scene for me. With a house, a tree and a person.

Okay, he says. First, there's no house. But there is this huge tree, an ancient oak, with a tremendous canopy, though it looks a little bare at the top.

Great.

And the person is me. And I'm holding a gun, a gun that just went off, and it's smoking. It's a revolver. It looks to me like an old high-caliber calvary revolver. And in front of me is the man I just killed, who asked me if I wouldn't mind writing his name on a list. For posterity or something.

Uh-huh.

And I'm obviously totally alone in that picture. The end.

The Art Therapist nods. Okay, great start, she says. Now how about something fictional? And be sure to include a house this time.

The Art Director repeats the above, including a house.

Perfect, says the Art Therapist.

Thank you. Well, time's up. You can take first pick of the pistols.

The Art Therapist chooses her pistol, the Art Director takes the second. They walk out to the field together. They take their places, fifteen paces apart.

Listen, if I die, do you mind writing "Art Collector" on that list in the basket?

Of course. Is that an occupation?

No. Maybe. It'll throw my copywriter off.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Archivist v. Art Director

When the Art Director - an eager looking man in his early 30s in striped green slacks, pink shirt, silk tie and an expensive suit jacket - when the Art Director arrives from the road the Archivist walks briskly to meet him, occasionally tripping on field stones, holding his broken glasses in place. They meet. The Art Director regards him with ironic distance.

What do you do? asks the Archivist.

The Art Director seems a bit uneasy at being asked. He shrugs. Well, he says, I was a painter. Now I'm writing this comic novel.

Really? A cartoonist?

Well, says the Art Director, I mean - yeah. But not professionally.

What do you do for work?

The Art Director looks off. I'm a creative. I work in advertising, he says.

Advertising? No, says the Archivist. What do you do? Do you have a card?

Is this a duel or an audit?

The Archivist persists.

Here. The Art Director hands the Archivist his card. Senior Assistant Creative Director. That's the official title. I'm an art director.

Perfect, says the Archivist. He takes out his heavily redacted list of the dead. As the two walk to the oak, the Archivist explains his work. He shows the Art Director his list. The Art Director, after they choose their pistols, accompanies the Archivist to the line of corpses along the north fence.

Well, Jesus. I think that's - the actor that's been missing, says the Art Director, pointing to the Actor. He was in SWINGO!

Yes! cries the Archivist. My gosh. The Archivist uses this to arrange the names, sneezing throughout.

After they discuss and debate the possible occupations of the bodies, the list begins taking shape. When they do all they can, they take the field, fifteen paces apart.

If I die, says the Archivist, can you add me to the list?

Of course, says the Art Director, if you'll do the same for me.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.