Art Therapist v. Artist

The Art Therapist writes "Art Collector" on the Archivist's list of the dead. She puts the list and the golf pencil back into the well-crafted basket.

From the edge of the forest the bracken parts. An older, well-dressed man emerges. He gently wipes the bark and dried leaves from his overcoat. He carefully straddles the fence, crosses, and walks to the oak. He's tall. His face angular, handsome. His bearing noble, elegant, indifferent.

Good morning, he says.

Hi, says the Art Therapist.

He takes a cigar from beneath his coat, a box of matches from his shirt pocket. She sees the glint of silver cufflinks. His coat is black, of a bespoke but forgotten style, his shirt white, tie black and thin tucked under the waist of his wool sans-a-belt slacks. He lights the cigar masterfully, his cheeks puckering. The rhythmic draw. Pweh, pweh, pweh.

Have you seen the overpasses of Los Angeles? he asks, waving out the match.

Yeah, she says.

Exceptional. Don't you think?

I guess they are, sure.

If you will excuse a short digression? -

No, please, go on.

I find them exceptional because they differ so little from the overpasses of any other American city.

How were you expecting them to be different?

I wasn't. I was expecting Los Angeles to differ.

It didn't?

No, it did.

You didn't like it?

On the contrary, I loved it.

Just not the overpasses.

Yes, exactly.

He politely offers that they prepare a fight to the death.

Oh, of course, thank you, she says.

He gestures toward the pistols, graciously offering her the first pick. She chooses her pistol, he takes the second. They walk to the field and stand fifteen paces apart.

He holds the cigar in his mouth, twisting slightly, smoke dancing from thin lips.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

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.